University of Virginia Library

5. PART V.

1. CHAPTER I.

Never had Emily experienced such loneliness,
such utter desolation, as she did after the disappearance
of Hetty, as recorded in a previous
chapter. On her she fancied now hung her destiny,
life or death. Would she succeed? The
very thought of a failure made her shudder with
horror. She had felt lonely and desolate while
Hetty was with her, but now she felt doubly so.
Then at least she was in the presence of a human
being—one of her own sex—but now she was
alone,—alone, too, in a wild, mountainous region;
not only far from friends, but, for aught she
knew to the contrary, far from civilization, with
a dark and awful cloud resting upon her mental
sight, and weighing down her spirits. She threw
herself upon her pallet and tried to be composed;
but she only rolled to and fro with the more feverish
anxiety. She tried to hope for the best, and
in her imagination draw bright pictures of the
future; but dark, shadowy forms, like evil phantoms,
would come between, and the sunny spots
go out in gloom. Thus hour on hour went by—
each increasing, rather than diminishing, her soul-torturing
anxiety—while night crept gradually
on, to add its horrors, until Emily felt herself
drawn to the very verge of despair. At last, some
two hours later, she heard steps approaching; and
then she could almost hear too the beatings of
her own heart, so wildly it palpitated. Were
they steps of friend or foe? A few moments
served to decide; for the voice of him she feared-too
soon heard—was of itself sufficient to announce
the worst. John Webber had entered.

“How is this, Hetty?” said he, pausing in the
doorway: “No light!—what means it?”

“Hetty is not here,” replied Emily, in a faltering
voice; “but I am anxiously looking for her
return.”

“Ha! has she been long gone?” enquired John,
as a suspicion of the cause of her absence flitted
through his mind.

“She has been gone some minutes,” answered
Emily, without adding the whole truth, that those
minutes had already run into hours; but she
knew, for Hetty's safety and her own, it was necessary
to dissemble somewhat—though she
would not have been guilty of a direct falsehood,
even to have prevented the worst.

“I will teach her better when she returns,”
said John, angrily, proceeding to the table and
striking a light. “'Tis as well though, perhaps,”
he added, a few moments after, “for our conversation
will not require the ears of a third. You
remember, I presume, the conditions imposed,
when last I quitted you?”

“Too well I remember them,” answered Emily,
in a trembling voice.

“Well, I have come for my answer!”

“But give me more time, John, to deliberate!”

“Time! good heavens! how much time do
you women require to answer a simple question?”

“But I have been so distracted since you left,
that my mind could settle steadily upon nothing.”

“Settle it now, then! You have only to decide
whether you will be mine by your own free
will or no. Mine I have said you must be!—but
of course I prefer your free consent. Upon this
point, Emily, I am determined; and to show you
something of the strength of my determination,
I now swear to you, that I would sacrifice every
living thing that should stand in my way—ay,
even my soul's salvation—rather than be foiled in
my purpose. Emily, I am a desperate man, and
I beg of you, for your own sake, force me not to
extremes!”

“I cannot answer you now, John,” said Emily,
anxious to prolong the time as much as possible,
in the hope of receiving assistance: “Give
me till to-morrow.”

“And to-morrow you will say, give me till to-morrow,”
returned John, “and so forth, and so
on, until you by some means effect your escape.
No, by heavens, girl, this shall not be!—your answer
must be now!” and John grasped her by the
arm, and gazed upon her with a wicked look.

“Let go your hold, sir!” cried Emily, her indignation
fully aroused at this; and springing from
a sitting posture to her feet, she threw off his
grasp. “Shame on you!” continued she, with a
flashing eye; “shame on you, for a villain and
coward! Brave deeds these, truly, for a man of
your strength, to attack an unprotected female!
Go, get you hence, and repent of your acts! Go,
go, for shame on you, go!”

“When you have done,” hissed John, through
his clenched teeth, his face livid with passion,
“when you have done, girl, let me know your
decision!”

“You will have it, then!” replied Emily, firmly,
fixing her eye unquailingly upon his. “Then
hear me! Ere I would wed you, I would suffer
my limbs to be torn from me one by one! Rather
than embrace you, I would go into some old charnel
house, and clasp to my bosom the loathsome
tenant of a half century! Sooner than endure
your hateful presence, I would seek the wildest
spot on these mountains, and make my bed with
serpents! You are answered.”

Astonishment and rage for a time kept John
silent; and after a moment's pause, Emily went
on.

“I have entreated you in vain to restore me to
my friends and home. You have mocked me by

your replies of cowardly threats. You have
sought to intimidate me; but know, sir, I have a
spirit, when roused, as unbending as your own!
Now hear me! Let me go in peace, and the past
shall be forgotten, and with this adventure your
name shall never be coupled. Place but your
hand upon me, with foul intent, and if I escape,
I will expose, and bring you to that justice
you deserve for your crimes!”

“Brave girl!” cried John, bursting into a wild,
fiendish laugh, that in spite of her, made Emily's
blood run cold, and her heart seem to shrink within
her. “You talk well, girl, well; but do you
know”—and again that awful smile lingered
upon his features—“do you know, my pretty
one, that I think you will never escape to put
your threat in execution. You think, then,
that my threats were made to intimidate you?
Ha, ha, ha! I said you did not know me!
Let me see: You said ere you would wed me,
you would be torn limb from limb. Ha, ha,
ha!—that was well said—very well. Again:
Rather than embrace me, you would clasp to
your innocent bosom some mouldy tenant of a
charnel house—ha, ha, ha! Once more: Sooner
than endure my hateful presence, you would
make a bed among serpents. So, so—ha, ha!—
all very good in theory; but I presume you were
somewhat excited when you spoke, and did not
think of putting them in practice. And then
your spirit, when roused, is as unbending as my
own. Ha, ha, ha! Well, well, we shall see. If
it prove so, girl, there will be rare sport—rare
sport. But why do you tremble so? Why do
you look so pale? Is this the unbending spirit of
the one who boasts so boldly about dying? I
trust you will not falter now. I would not have
you for the world. Why this is not even a commeneement.
Now, girl, you must know that I
care as little about life as yourself. Why should
I seek to prolong existence?—it will be death at
last; and it is, besides, sweet to die to get revenge;
and it will be doubly sweet to die in your sweet
company, girl!”

“Great God!” gasped Emily, sinking with
fright upon a bench, as, having listened to the
words of John, she marked the awful light in his
dark, snake-like eyes. “What fearful utterances
are these?”

“I was simply talking about dying,” answered
John; “and thinking how pleasantly we could die
together. I regret, on your account, there is no
charnel house near, so that you could have the
pleasure of hugging a corpse; but as to the snakes,
I think you can be well accommodated in these
mountains!”

“For God-sake speak the worst! what do you
mean?” shrieked Emily, who felt the expressions
of John were dethroning her reason.

“Why simply this,” replied John. “You have
decided to put me to extremes. Extremes with
me go far—farther, perhaps, than with many
others—for they are bounded only by death. I
had you stolen and brought hither, it is true; but
no violence was offered you. All I required of
you, to regain your liberty, was merely a pledge,
to the effect that you would be mine at the altar.
This I am sure was honorable, though you saw
proper to think otherwise. Well, I waited patiently
for your answer, and at length received it
in the negative. In that answer you decided the
fates of both. It now remains for me to fulfil
my oath; which was, you remember, that you
should be mine; whereby I implicitly meant you
should be mine unto death. Were I to dishonor
and leave you here, you would escape and inform
on me. Were I to murder you, doubtless it
would leak out, and I should, sooner or later,
have to suffer the consequence. Therefore, be it
known to you, my dear girl, that as I have resolved
upon what the world would term your dishonor
and death, I have concluded also to die
with you; and as you think a nest of serpents
an agreeable place of rest, compared to my hateful
presence, why I have concluded to find one,
and rest there with you, until death shall rid us
of each other, or bind us more strongly together
in another state.”

Emily gasped for breath, and placed her hands
before her eyes, as if to shut out the horrid sight
imagination had already conjured up.

“To show you I am in earnest,” continued
John, “my first act shall be one of justice to a
certain rich English gentleman, now probably
living in splendor in England. These papers,
dearest”—and John drew forth the roll he had received
from the Jew—“these papers speak of you
expressly, tell who you are, who were your parents,
and how you came to be stolen away from
England and brought to this country. They are
very interesting documents to peruse, I assure
you, and are signed by the gentleman who had
the honor of conducting you over here, and leaving
you at my father's, some fifteen years ago.
They speak well of you, and seem to insinuate
your birth is noble. Had you consented to marry
me, I should have taken great pleasure in reading
them to you; but as matters now stand, I do not
like to waste the time; besides, as you and I are not
long for this world, it were better not to set our
minds too much upon worldly things; therefore
you will excuse me for putting such temptations
out of the way;” and as he concluded, John deliberately
tore the papers into a thousand pieces,
and cast the fragments upon the ground.

“Oh God! John, wherefore this torture?”
groaned Emily, in an agony of mind almost insupportable.
“Why not murder me at once—
for death to this is a thousand times preferable!”

“Do you think so? Well, come then and let
us seek it!” and approaching, John grasped her
by the arm. “Let us forth, girl, ere Hetty's return,
into these wild woods; and if we are not
devoured by wild beasts ere morning, we will in
company, on the morrow, seek out a reptile nest,
and there die quietly together. Come, girl,
come!” and quick as thought John raised her in
his arms. Emily uttered one wild, thrilling
scream, and fainted away. “Screams, girl, will
avail you nothing here,” said John, with another
fiendish laugh. As he spoke, he started, and Emily
slid from his embrace to the ground, in a state
of insensibility. A deep voice sounded in his
ear:

“Ho! villain and traitor!” and the next moment
a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder, sent
him reeling to the farther side of the apartment.
“So, sir, then you are caught in the act!”

John looked up in astonishment and rage, and
saw before him the powerful and commanding
form of Ronald Bonardi. By his side stood the
lieutenant, and between himself and the door,
five more of the band, all powerful men, all well
armed, with pistols and hunting knives in their
hands. John ran his dark eye rapidly over the
group, and for a moment seemed to waver—but
his resolution was quickly taken. His first impulse
was to shoot down Bonardi, and trust the

rest to chance. A second thought altered his
purpose. Resistance now would be followed by
instant death—duplicity might save him; and although
but a few minutes before he had seemed so
willing to die, yet now he felt differently; and had
it been necessary, would even have stooped to beg
his life, were it only to get revenge. As we have
said, John's resolution was quickly taken; and
that resolution was to effect by duplicity what
he could not by resistance. In a moment all
traces of anger had passed from his features, and
in a calm voice he said:

“Captain, you have surprised me; and to you,
and these gentlemen, I yield myself a prisoner.—
Circumstances, I will admit, are against me; but
all I ask is a fair trial, and no violence. You have
disturbed me in an affair of love; and who of you,
gentlemen, has not at sometime had one of his
own. I know our laws, captain, and am willing
to abide by them. Let this lady bear witness, and
I am content. I crave only justice.”

“And that, John Webber, you shall have,” replied
Ronald, sternly. “Justice you shall have—
be it liberty or death. On the evidence of this
lady, and another, shall rest your fate. Have you
any thing further?”

“Only, most noble captain, that I may be treated
as an honorable prisoner.”

“Be it so. Piketon, you will conduct him,
guarded by these men, to the cave, and there
await me. Unless he offer resistance, touch him
not. Should he do so, shoot him on the spot!”

“Beware on him, beware on him!” cried Hetty,
rushing in, who thus far had deemed it the most
prudent to remain without.

“Silence, woman!” exclaimed Bonardi, sternly:
“But one commands here! Piketon, conduct him
hence!”

“Ha! treachery, treachery!” ejaculated John,
mentally. “Fool,—fool that I was to trust in
woman!” and surrounded by Piketon, and his
five followers, he disappeared through the doorway.

“Poor girl! she has fainted,” said Ronald, turning
to Emily, who still lay upon the ground; and
carefully raising her in his arms, he laid her gently
upon the rude bed. “Hetty, bring the light
hither, and some water, quick!” Hetty instantly
obeyed, and as the light gleamed full upon her
fair, pale, marble-like features, Ronald started,
and his brow became clouded. “Ha!” exclaimed
he; “that face—so like! I must think my suspicions
correct. Hetty, sprinkle the water on her
face. There, there, that is sufficient. See! she
revives. How is she called, Hetty?”

“She's called Emily Nevance,” answered Hetty;
“but I hearn John Webber say as how that warn't
her name, and that she were a great lady.”

“By heavens! 'tis so. How strange—how
strange, that we should meet thus, for the first
time! Look to her—look to her!” and Ronald
turned away, and walked to and fro the apartment
in much agitation.

In the meantime Emily revived, opened her
eyes with a shudder, and fastened them upon
Hetty, who was bending over her with a compassionate
look. For a moment Emily seemed
bewildered; and then, with a scream of joy, she
sprang up and clasped Hetty around the neck,
crying, “God bless you, Hetty! God bless you!
You have saved me, good woman, you have
saved me from a fate a thousand times worse than
death!” and overcome by her feelings, she sunk
back completely exhausted.

“'Taint me that's done it, gal; it's him!” and
Hetty pointed to Ronald, who was still pacing to
and fro.

“But how, Hetty?” enquired Emily, as soon as
she could recover strength to speak. “I remember
nothing. Where is John Webber?”

“O, they've took him away—they've got him
—”

At this moment came the sharp report of
two pistols, followed instantly by two distinct
cries of distress, and then, in quick succession,
several other sharp reports, and louder cries of a
different nature. Emily sprang up and grasped
Hetty in terror, while Ronald bounded to the
door, and rushed forth down the hill.

“What ho!” he shouted. “Piketon, what ho!”
A couple of minutes and he was joined by his
lieutenant, who came running to him out of
breath.

“What means this, Piketon?—has he dared to resist?”

“He has escaped, captain!”

“Escaped!” echoed Bonardi, in astonishment,
grasping the other by the arm.

“Ay, captain; he shot down the two guards
nearest him and fled. We fired several shots after
him, but unluckily all missed.”

“What ho! men,” shouted Ronald, at the top
of his lungs; “fifty guineas to him who takes John
Webber. ere morning, dead or alive!”

“The offer is in vain, captain,” said the lieutenant.

“How, vain?”

“We are all on foot. His horse it seems was
in waiting below, which he reached in advance of
us, and mounted ere we came up. Ere we can
get to our horses, he will have full twenty miles
between us.”

“Oh, the treacherous villain!” ejaculated Bonardi,
with a terrible oath. “He will betray, and
have the country roused up against us! But by
my mother's soul, he shall not escape punishment
—even should it cost me my own life! Piketon,
he should have been disarmed!”

“True, captain.”

“It was a foolish oversight in me. Well, well,
experience is a good teacher. The smooth-tongued
hypocrite! I did not think he would
venture to resist—least of all, escape. Well, well,
it is useless whining now. Call in your men,
Piketon, and look to your wounded comrades.—
When done, report matters, and I will give you
farther orders. So, so—dark deeds thicken;”
and with his hand pressed upon his temples, Ronald
slowly retraced his steps up the hill, while
Piketon sounded the recall, by applying a piece
of ivory to his lips, that gave out a shrill whistle;
and being shortly joined by three of his party,
proceeded to look after the two who were wounded.
In the meantime Ronald had returned and
entered the apartment where were Emily and Hetty,
both pale and much frightened.

“Be not alarmed,” said he, in a mild tone; “no
harm shall come to you.”

“What has happened, kind sir?” enquired Emily,
anxiously.

“John Webber has escaped, after shooting two
of my men,” answered Ronald, biting his nether
lip.

“I knowed it, I knowed it!” cried Hetty.—
“He's the greatest villain as ever run! I told you
beware on him!”

“And I should have heeded your warning,” returned
Ronald; “but it is useless to repent it now.”

“You have much to fear from him,” said Emily,
respeetfully.

“So I doubt not; and you, Emily—for such I
am told is your name—have had much to fear,”
rejoined Ronald, approaching her.

“Kind sir,” returned Emily, casting upon him
a grateful look, and shuddering at the thought of
her late narrow escape, “to you, and this good
woman, I owe my life—ay, more than life—and
I lack for words to express to you both the deep
thanks I feel;” and her eyes filled with tears.

“Your look, Emily, is thanks sufficient,” replied
Ronald, affected by her earnest manner. “In
my heart I already feel more than repaid for what
little I have done; and besides, there is another
chord touched, Emily, that you dream not of. I
regret that it is impossible for me to restore you
to your anxious friends, immediately—and to one,
the dearest friend of all—but I will do so as soon
as practicable. In the meantime I beg of you to
put yourself under my guidance, and accept of
my hospitality. My wife will be delighted to
serve you.”

“You are then, married?” said Emily.

“I am,” replied Ronald, sadly, “to a lovely being,
far too good and gentle for one like me, and
of my calling. But let that pass; you shall see
her and judge for yourself. I presume Hetty has
already informed you who I am. Doubtless my
name is familiar to your ear, coupled with every
thing that is wicked and base?”

“I have heard somewhat of you that should
have been otherwise,” answered Emily; “though
I have also heard of many acts of your generosity,
which go to prove you possess, notwithstanding,
a kind heart.”

“Thank you!” returned Ronald, deeply affected.
“I am a man of circumstances, Emily, and
circumstances have made me what I am. You
little dream how closely you are connected with
those circumstances.”

“Me!” exclaimed Emily, in astonishment.

“Ay! but let it pass now. Anon I will explain
all. As in coming here, and by what will follow,
I have in a measure placed myself and others—or
at least the secret of our existence and rendezvous
—in your power, you will, I trust, think nothing
hard of me, if I exact from you a sacred pledge,
that what you have learned, seen and heard, or
shall learn, see and hear, you will never—under
any circumstances whatever—divulge while I am
living.”

“To this most solemnly I pledge me,” returned
Emily, “and call God to witness the vow! What
you have done, has been to save me from an awful
fate; and were I to take advantage of this against
you, I should truly be the most ungrateful of my
sex—ay, unworthy the name of woman. You
have nothing to fear from me, kind sir.”

“Enough, enough!—your simple word is enough
—I ask nothing further. And now, so soon as
my lieutenant returns, you will with me to the
cave. But, ha! what have we here, torn into so
many fragments?” added he, enquiringly, as his
eye fell upon the papers destroyed by John a few
minutes before.

“Alas! sir, I suppose them to be proofs of my
parentage,” answered Emily, sadly.

“And this too was the work of John Webber?”

“It was.”

“The villain! But we shall meet again, ere
long; and then there will be a reckoning—a
squaring of accounts,” said Ronald, with quivering
lips, while a dark shade rested on his counte
nance. “Do you know what was written thereon?”

“I do not.”

“Did he mention the names of your parents?”

“He did not; and said unless I would consent
to marry him, I should never learn them.”

“In that he was mistaken—for I will inform
you.”

“You, sir!” exclaimed Emily, starting in surprise.

“Ay! yet hold a moment! Possibly I may
myself be mistaken;” and gathering up several
of the pieces, Ronald examined them by the light
a few moments, attentively. “Yes, yes,” continued
he, at length; “I am right; my suspicions
were correct.”

“Oh then, sir,” cried Emily, breathlessly, “I
beseech you inform me!”

“I will. You are the legitimate daughter, only
living child, and truly legal heir of—”

“Fenton is dead!” cried Piketon, at this moment
rushing in and interrupting him.

“Dead!” echoed Bonardi, staggering back.

“Ay, captain. Webber's ball entered the left
breast, near the heart, and he has just this moment
expired.”

“A thousand curses on the villain! And the
other?”

“Is not mortally wounded. His shoulder-blade
is broken.”

Bonardi pressed his hands hard against his temples,
and tried to look calm; but there came, notwithstanding,
a dark and terrible expression upon
his features.

“This, Piketon,” said he, at length, in a deep,
heavy voice, “is too much—too much! You will
return and see to the burial of Fenton, poor fellow,
and that the other is well attended to. Better
leave him at Mosley's, as he is something of a
surgeon himself. As soon as all is complete, meet
me at the cave, with as many of our band as you
can easily collect. Webber must be punished!—
Send hither Kelly.”

“Ay, captain!”

As Piketon departed, Bonardi strode to and fro
the apartment, in great agitation, until the arrival
of Kelly, when turning to Emily, he said:

“Pardon me, Emily, I am too much agitated,
just at present, to continue the subject on which
we were speaking. I will resume it anon, and tell
you all. If you are ready now, we will hence as
soon as possible. I regret my gallant steed is not
with me, as I fear the distance will fatigue you—it
being some seven miles, and for the most part over
a rough country.”

“Thank you,” returned Emily, “for the generous
regard you are pleased to express in my behalf;
but I doubt not I can easily walk it; I have
sometimes done as much, and felt it not.”

“We will then set forth. Kelly, you will accompany
us;” and in a few minutes the party were
on their way to the cave.

Emily, however, had counted too strongly on
her own powers; for worn out with excitement,
and weakened by loss of rest and food, she soon
found her limbs failing her; and ere they had
reached a mile, she sunk down completely exhausted.
Ronald immediately raised her in his arms,
without apparent effort, and the party again proceeded.
Kelly occasionally relieved him, and in
this manner they reached their destination, in
something over two hours from their time of starting.

The sentinel looked much surprised, on seeing

Ronald descend the ladder with a lady in his arms,
but as it was no business of his, he made no remark.
As he entered the Chieftain's Chamber,
Inez and Cyntha were no less surprised; nor was
their surprise lessened by the manner of Ronald,
who was laboring under great mental excitement.
Placing Emily carefully upon one of the sofas, he
turned abruptly to his wife, and said:

“Inez, as you love me, look well to this lady;
for she has been foully dealt with, and has need of
your most tender care.”

Inez looked at him steadily a moment, and her
features assumed a strange expression. Ronald
noticed it, and immediately added:

“Nay, love, no jealousy. This woman will explain
all;” and he turned to Hetty, who, having
followed him in, now stood gazing around upon
the splendor of the apartment, with a surprised
and bewildered look.

“O yes,” returned Hetty, who had heard the allusion
to herself; “I'll tell this ar' beautiful lady
all as I knows.”

“But why, dear Ronald, do you leave me?” enquired
Inez, sadly, as he turned to depart.

“I have weighty matters to which I must attend
immediately,” answered Ronald, drawing her
fondly to him, and pressing his lips to hers. “Be
not uneasy, dear Inez, I shall pass the night in
the Outer Cave. But look to that young lady,
for she is faint and sick;” and as Inez turned to
Emily, Ronald withdrew, and closed the stone
door behind him.

When in the larger cave, and with the exception
of the sentinel entirely alone, Bonardi paced
to and fro in an excited mood, while the muscles
of his face underwent various changes, and his
hands clenched and unclenched, as one in deep
agony of mind. In this manner he continued
some hour and a half, when he was interrupted by
the arrival of Piketon, with some twenty of the
band, whom he had found in the Retreat, as it was
called—a kind of hostlery, some half mile distant,
kept by one of the party, where, on the nights of
their meetings, the members who had ridden from
a distance, generally left their horses to be fed, and
not unfrequently spent the night themselves, in
drinking, card playing, and the like; and where
the sentinels boarded and slept, and, when not on
duty, could generally be found. This Retreat
was kept by one Mosley, who was the one designated
by Bonardi, in his directions to Piketon concerning
leaving his wounded comrade. The Hollow,
where Bonardi had found Piketon, and the
five who accompanied him, was another place of a
similar character, some half mile farther on.

“Captain,” said Piketon, approaching Bonardi,
“I have obeyed your orders.”

“'Tis well. Do these fellows know what has
taken place?”

“They know that John Webber has proved
treacherous, and shot Fenton and Allen.”

“And what say they?”

“They have but one voice: `Death to the traitor!”'

“Ay, and by — he shall not escape it!” cried
Bonardi, fiercely, uttering an oath. “To-morrow
he or I must die!”

“I trust not you, captain.”

“I do not know,” said Ronald, gravely. “A
something tells me I am not long for this world.—
It may be only a foolish fancy—but let it pass.—
At dawn to-morrow we must mount and follow
him. Doubtless we shall find him at his father's.
No matter where, however, when found he must
die! I hope we may meet him ere he has betrayed
us fully, but I fear not. Ten of these fellows
must remain here, to guard the cave—the others
will with us. You will divide them, and leave
the truest and most courageous here. How now!
what means this?” This last remark was occasioned
by the sudden appearance of a new comer,
who, having descended the ladder, approached Bonardi
direct. “What news, Ellis?”

“The steamer leaves to-morrow, captain, between
the hours of five and seven in the evening.”

“Indeed! Are you sure, Ellis?”

“I had it from the officers of the boat.”

“So soon! this is unlucky. When got you the
information?”

“At noon of yesterday. I started out of St. Louis
late last night, and have scarcely been out of my
saddle since. I have fatigued two horses, and am
now rather fatigued myself.”

“You have done well, Ellis, for 'tis a hard ride—
a very hard ride. To-morrow night—how unlucky!
What could have induced them to alter
their time?—for when I saw them, they positively
asserted they would not leave within a week.—
Piketon, what can be done? It is almost impossible
for us to reach the rendezvous in time—certainly
we cannot without a relay. How unlucky
this news did not arrive sooner, ere the meeting
had broken up! Well, well, we must do our best
under the circumstances. For the present we
must let Webber pass—at least this other business
must be attended to first. Ellis, have the
small boats been dropped down to old Davids?”

“Ay, captain, that was done last night.”

“'Tis well. Piketon, leave ten men here to
guard the cave, withdraw the others, and have them
mount and singly ride for the rendezvous. Tell
them they must reach there ere sunset to-morrow,
or the prize will be lost. By going singly,
and separate routes, they will be enabled to get
relays among the settlers, without exciting suspicion.
'Tis a long fatiguing ride of a hundred
miles, and I do not count on our band being there
in full—still I trust there will be enough to capture
the money. You had better yourself give
the signal, as soon as possible. Doubtless you
will be enabled to overtake some of the band on
their way home. In every case, tell them they
must reach there ere sunset to-morrow! Where
is Hendrick?”

“He has gone with four comrades to arrest Saxton
and Niles, who I have learned are in this vicinity.”

“Right! Tell the men that remain, to have
both strictly guarded when brought hither. And
now to spend an hour with Inez, and then for
action. I have a noble steed at the Retreat, and
relays on the route, so that doubtless I shall be
there in advance of you all. By the by, tell those
who remain here as guards, that if we are successful,
they shall share equally with us. And now,
Piketon, speed! speed! for there is not a moment
to be lost!” saying which, Bonardi turned abruptly
on his heel, and entered the Inner Cave;
while the lieutenant, with great rapidity and precision,
set about obeying his commands.

2. CHAPTER II.

In something less than an hour from the close

of the events detailed in the preceding chapter, a
single horseman was riding swiftly through that
range of country lying between the Osage and
the great “Father of Waters”—as it is sometimes
called—and extending south of the Missouri some
thirty miles. Ever and anon this horseman would
pause beside some peace-looking cottage, and
sound three clear distinct blasts on a bugle; and
then a dark figure or two would be seen to glide
forth from his covert, a few hurried words would
be said in a low voice; and then again the single
horseman would dash on, as though riding for
life, while shortly after, from the place he had just
quitted, another horseman—sometimes two or
three—would ride forth with speed, as though in
hot pursuit of the one who had gone before.

When the grey dawn of morning had begun to
trace the outline of hills, and trees, and streams,
in a soft, hazy relief, it revealed too the dim outline
of that same horseman, far to the eastward
of where he had been seen at the hour of midnight,
still speeding on as before, yet ever and
anon pausing to sound three musical blasts on a
bugle, which he bore in his hand. As the sun
rose in beauty over the eastern hills, and poured
his gentle rays into deep green woods, into pleasant
valleys, on to sparkling streams, they occasionally
cast back the shadow of that horseman,
still speeding on, and the shadows too of various
other horsemen—some directly in his trail, some
in different points of compass from him—all
speeding eastward. As the day wore on, he was
seen mounted on a different horse, still urging on
the noble animal, which at every step and bound
neared him to the great Mississippi. When the
sun had far declined toward the western horizon,
that horseman drew rein beside an old hovel,
which stood on the west bank of the great river,
and but a short time since inhabited by old David
the Jew. Scarcely had he paused, when a tall
figure darted out of the hovel, and Ronald Bonardi
stood beside him.

“Welcome, Piketon, welcome!” cried the latter,
joyfully. “I feared you would be too late. I
said I should be here before you; but your task
has been much the hardest, as I can perceive by
your wearied looks; and your horse too hangs his
head sadly, and drips water like rain. But what
news of the others? Will the main body of them
be here in time?”

“I trust it will, captain. They cannot be far
behind.”

“By the way, Piketon, ten of them have already
arrived, and are concealed—horses and all—
in the bushes just below here. As the boat leaves
St. Louis at an hour so late, I think this will be
our best point of attack; and by heavens! since
we are here, the attack shall be made, whether
the others arrive or not. But come, go in, go in
and refresh yourself. You will find wine and
food on the table; for the one who came down
with the small boats, had the good foresight to
provide both, as well as plenty of grain for the
horses. Go in, Piketon, while I lead your horse
into the covert below, when I will immediately
join you.”

“Thank you, captain! I feel that wine and
food are every thing to me now;” and Piketon
entered the hovel. In a few minutes Bonardi
was with him.

“I hear the tramp of more horses,” said the
latter, as he entered, “so that doubtless our party
will soon be increased; and in fact it needs be
soon, to be of any service to us, for the sun al
ready dips in the trees of the western mountains,
and the boat will probably pass here at early dark,
though I hope not till a later hour. Hark! they
come;” and Bonardi turned back to the door, just
as three horseman rode up from different points
of compass—their horses dripping water, and
themselves looking much fatigued.

Scarcely had Bonardi given them directions
how to dispose of themselves, when up rode two
more—and then another, and another. In fact
they were now gathering fast; and in less time
than an hour, the party of twelve had swelled to
upwards of forty, all strong and well armed men.
The sun, in the meantime, had gone down, and
grey twilight was already deepening into night,
when Bonardi, thinking that longer delay might
prove fatal to his design, now ordered his men to
take up their positions, and be in readiness for action.
Some five or six boats, lying concealed in
the water below, were instantly manned, while
four of the party were stationed above, at different
points, as look-outs or sentinels, ready to give
warning in case of danger, and likewise directions
to the new comers, as fast as they should arrive,
which they were continually doing. Three others
were to hail the steamer, and, should she send out
a small boat, which was probable, six more were
to be in attendance to seize and gag the oarsmen.
In fact the attack was to be made precisely according
to the plan given out by Bonardi, as detailed
in a previous chapter.

Having seen his men disposed of according to
his directions, Bonardi went to each of the sentinels,
and charged them to be vigilant, as it was
not impossible that Webber, in a spirit of revenge,
had already blown the scheme, and, by being
sharply on the look-out, been enabled to learn
of their sudden movements, the time of the steamer's
departure, and also to collect a force sufficient
to attack them. Should they see or hear any
thing they might judge indicative of danger,
without being positive, they were to give the signal
by a shrill whistle—if positive, by discharging
a pistol. In case of an attack, they were to fight
in any manner they might see proper; but in case
they heard a blast from the bugle, they were to
make their way, quickly as possible, to the spot
whence it proceeded. Having given these directions
to the sentinels, Bonardi repaired to the
members whose duty it was to act on land—told
them his suspicions—his orders to the sentinels regarding
signals, and an attack—the latter of which
referred equally to themselves. This done, he returned
to the boats, repeated all he had said, and
took his station in one of them, ready to lead
them on when the proper moment should arrive.

All now gradually sunk into deep silence, for
each one of that band of outlaws was busy with
thoughts of his own. They were awaiting, under
cover of darkness, to make an attack, where, in all
probability, more or less lives would be lost; and
doubtless many a one felt a secret foreboding that
this might be his last night on earth. Although
Bonardi, after giving his orders, said nothing, yet
he appeared very restless, and seemed greatly disturbed
by some inward trouble. In this manner
passed some fifteen minutes, when he leaped suddenly
ashore, and merely saying he would be
with them again presently, strode directly up the
hill, and entered the hovel. Here he found a bottle,
which he applied to his lips, and, judging by
the time he held it there, drank much. He then
returned to the boats with a heavy step.

“Strange,” said he, as he approached, “that I

hear nothing of her! Piketon, it is possible Ellis
may have been mistaken in the time.”

“It is possible, captain,” answered Piketon,
“though but now I fancied I heard her.”

“Hark!” exclaimed Bonardi, suddenly. “You
are right, Piketon, you are right; by heavens she
comes! Be ready, men, be ready—then be silent!”

A few minutes fully confirmed the approach of
a steamer; for although not in sight, yet the puffing
sound produced by the escape of steam, was
clearly audible to the anxious listeners. Ere she
rounded the point just above, it became evident
by the change of sound, that she was effecting a
landing; but presently she was again in motion;
and then on she came, like some terrific monster,
with great red eyes of fire, and smoke and flame
issuing from its nostrils. On, on she came, bearing
down apparently directly towards those dark
spirits, who were impatiently waiting their time
for action. Soon she was within speaking distance,
when she was immediately hailed from the
shore, which was answered by the ringing of a
bell. The steam was next thrown off, and she
commenced rounding to, apparently with much
difficulty.

“We cannot land,” said a voice from on board,
“and our boat has been stove. If you have no
boat, we shall be obliged to leave you.”

“Ha! this looks suspicious!” ejaculated Ronald,
mentally. “But the trial must be made. Quick,
Jeffrey,” cried he, leaping ashore, and running
up to the group of three, who stood as though
awaiting further orders, “cry back there is a boat
here, and a man who will row you to them! and
then hie to it, and do not forget your instructions.
You,” continued he, turning to another group of
twelve, standing a few feet distant, six of whom
had but lately arrived, “will remain here to cover
us. I am suspicious, from various slight causes,
that we shall be attacked. If we are, fight, men,
fight like devils, and we will soon join you!”—
Saying this in a low, rapid tone, Bonardi hurried
back and sprang into his boat.

In the meantime, Jeffrey had done the captain's
bidding, with great rapidity, and was even now,
with his two comrades, shoving off from the shore.
It was by this time so dark, that a small boat on
the water could be seen only at a short distance,
save when it crossed the lights gleaming out from
the larger one; consequently the other boats remained
in close obscurity. Scarcely a minute
elapsed, ere a boat, containing three individuals,
was seen crossing the bow of the steamer.

“Stand to your oars, men!” said Bonardi, rapidly.
“You will hear the signal in a moment; and
then, as you love money, forget not to row! Ha!
there it is!” As he spoke, there came several reports
of firearms, and the next instant five boats
shot out into the stream, with lightning rapidity.
But a few seconds elapsed ere they were alongside
the steamer, when, just as Bonardi was on
the point of leaping aboard, the engineer suddenly
let on a full head of steam, the wheels turned
quickly, the boat shot forwad instantly, crushing
one of the smaller ones, and at the same time a
murderous fire was directed among the bandits,
from a hitherto concealed enemy, doing terrible
execution. Several of them sprang up and fell
back dead, against their comrades, or into the
water, while others sank down wounded, amid
shrieks, groans, and direful imprecations. To add
to the consternation and horror of Ronald and his
men, the pistols of the sentinels on the hill were
now heard in quick succession, followed by a roar
of musketry, rapid discharge of pistols, fierce
yells and groans, and the noise of a hand-to-hand
combat. By the light of the discharges, Ronald
saw the men he had left on shore, hemmed in by
overwhelming numbers, fighting desperately.

“By all the holy saints!” cried he, “we are betrayed!
To shore! To horse!”

Scarcely were the words uttered, ere every
boat seemed almost to leap from the water—so
powerfully were the oars applied by desperate
men. But a landing was not to be effected without
trouble. As the boats touched the shore, a
party in waiting poured a destructive fire among
them, and numbers fell.

“Onward!” shouted Bonardi; and leaping on to
the bank, pistols in hand, he shot down the two
nearest him—dashed out the brains of a third with
one of his discharged weapons—seized the fourth
as though he were a child, and threw him over his
head into the Mississippi—drew his knife, and
literally cut his way through them, unharmed,
followed by Piketon, and some twenty of his
band—all fighting like fiends, neither giving nor
asking quarter.

“Sound the bugle, and to horse!” shouted Bonardi.

Instantly a loud, clear blast, rang out upon the
air; and following their brave leader, the bandits
rushed down the stream some thirty yards, to
where their horses stood in waiting—not having
as yet been discovered by the attacking party.—
Bounding into their saddles, with the agility of
men well trained to horsemanship, with their
knives still in their hands, reeking with blood,
they cut the reins that attached them to the small
trees of the thicket, in which they were concealed,
and, plunging their spurs into their sides, rode
wildly out, with a fierce yell of triumph, just as
their pursuers were coming up.

“Charge, comrades, charge!” again shouted, in
thunder tones, the voice of Bonardi. “Down in
your saddles, and knives to their hearts!”

Never was a terrible order obeyed more rapidly.
At the word, each wheeled into a line with his
leader—threw himself forward, until his head
touched his horse's neck—extended his arm, until
the blade of his knife reached beyond the nostrils
of the animal he rode—and then, like a sweeping
avalanche, the whole party spurred down upon the
main body of their opponents, whom they stabbed
and rode over, with a havoc that, in honorable
warfare, would have rendered the charge immortal.
But all was in vain. The bandits had
been surprised and taken at too great a disadvantage
to themselves, by nearly double their numbers,
to cope successfully with their adversaries
now; and the more so, as the latter had discovered
the remaining horses, and were already mounting
them. In the charge just made, five more of his
party had gone down; so that out of all his stout,
hardy followers, Bonardi found, on sounding the
bugle again, only some fifteen who answered to
the summons. The remainder he supposed either
killed, wounded, or taken prisoners, as the firing
and noise of combat had ceased.

“We are lost!” said he, sadly, reining in his
horse, some hundred yards from the scene of action.
“Comrades, our day is over. All that men
could do, under the circumstances, we have done.
You, comrades, have fought like men—most
bravely—but, alas! to what avail? Oh, treachery,
treachery! But, comrades, you may yet escape.
If you wish to go, I give you freedom.—

For myself, I shall back to the cave, and, if necessary,
die defending it. My time I feel is near.—
Forty brave fellows—all lost—all lost! Oh God,
what a thought! What say you, comrades; will
you leave or follow me?”

“Follow, to the death!” shouted all.

“'Tis well. Let us away then, ere these hell-hounds
get too close upon our track; for they
have mounted our own horses, and are now on the
move. Ha!—the steamer—look! Great God,
what a sight!”

What a sight indeed! for just as Bonardi spoke,
there came a tremendous explosion, and the heads,
legs and arms of some fifty human beings—but a
moment before in all the vigor and passion of life
—were now hissing and whizzing through the air,
in every direction, while shrieks and groans were
heard, of the most agonizing description. To
add to the awful spectacle, the boat immediately
took fire, and lay perfectly unmanageable—floating
down with the current—while some few, who
had escaped the explosion, could be seen running
to and fro, calling for help, or plunging into the
watery element, and thus avoiding one terrible
death only to meet with another. The light from
the burning wreck now gleamed across the dark,
rolling waters of the Mississippi, upon the banks
and trees, with a sickly effect—displaying the outlines
of a hundred dark figures, on foot and on
horse, some standing, some running to the small
boats, and pushing out from the shore, to the assistance
of their fellow creatures, while others
were lying scattered here and there on the ground,
mangled and bloody, dying and dead. It was a
sight to be seen but once; but once seen, never to
be forgotten. Had we time and space, we might
call up the picture to the reader's eye far more
vividly; but it would only be a sad, heart rending,
bloody picture—and 'twere better that it pass.

“So,” said Ronald, musingly, gazing upon the
scene, with a melancholy air: “So, then; in attempting
our destruction, they have sent themselves
to eternity. Well, one God sees all—overrules
all—orders all—at least my mother taught me
so when a child Oh, that I were a child again!”
and he drew his hand across his eyes, and turned
his head away. Suddenly he started, and the whole
aspect of his features changed, from the sad and
mild, to the fierce and terrible. “Look!” cried he,
rising in his stirrups, and grasping the arm of Piketon,
who was sitting his horse along side him.—
“Look! Piketon—look! comrades—yonder, yonder!
Gods! do you see nothing?”

“I see nothing but men on horseback, quietly
gazing on the burning vessel,” answered Piketon.

“But one of those—a tall figure—a little separated
from the rest—is the accursed traitor, John
Webber!” hissed Ronald, rapidly. “He does not
see us, and thinks, doubtless, with the others, that
we are all taken, killed, or fled.” Let us remark
here, that Ronald and his men were now occupying
a position on the hill--in a thicket—where
they could observe all that was taking place below,
and remain themselves concealed. “Now,
then, comrades,” continued Bonardi, “for one
more act ere we die. Draw your knives, men,
and swear by the mangled corses of your dead
comrades, that unto death you will follow yon
traitor, so long as a man of you remain alive!”

“We swear!” cried all, vehemently, touching
the blades of their knives to their lips.

“Enough! Now, Piketon, to cut him off, ere
he joins the main body. You, with six men, will
defile carefully down on this side; but slowly, so as
not to attract attention. I, with the rest, will ride
around and suddenly come in before him, when,
to save his life, he will be forced to turn and fly.—
If he do so, follow; and Heaven save him if he escape
us!”

In a moment the party of Bonardi was in motion.
In a few more, his manœuvre was successfully
executed; and John—who supposed
Bonardi either killed or taken, and was now quietly
gazing upon the awful sight on the river—
suddenly found himself confronted by the only
man he feared, and cut off by his followers from
joining those who might render him assistance.—
His only safety was now in flight; and with a yell of
despair, he turned and fled. That yell was echoed
by some fifteen sturdy horsemen, who immediately
joined in pursuit, all eager for his heart's
blood.

The cries of John, and his pursuers, were heard
far around—ringing out upon the night air like
those of so many fiends; but they were quickly
drowned by still louder shouts of, “The bandits,
the bandits!—Bonardi, Bonardi!” and suddenly
wheeling their animals, some twenty horsemen
dashed madly forward, to join in the wild chase.
Ere we follow them, however, let us briefly
glance at the causes which led to these results,
take one more look at the scene before us, and
then close it forever.

After the escape of John, from Piketon and his
companions—as related in the chapter preceding
—he had ridden directly for home, with dark
thoughts of revenge uppermost in his mind. He
knew if taken, death would assuredly follow,
as he had that evening had ample witness in the
case of the Jew. His only safety he now felt was
in the total overthrow of Bonardi and the banditti;
and to effect this as soon as possible, was his only
theme, as he spurred rapidly on. In doing this,
he would not only secure his own life, but obtain
the revenge he sought on those who had dared
to come between him and his victim. But how
to effect this suddenly, was the main object. At
first he thought of seeking his father, and acquainting
him of the whereabouts of Emily, and
the rendezvous of the bandits—stating that she
had been seized, carried off, and was now held in
durance by them. This he knew would rouse
the ire of his father—who was as yet ignorant of
Bonardi being in the vicinity—and that as soon
as possible, he would raise a large company from
the surrounding country, go forth to rescue
Emily, and exterminate the band. But this,
even at the best, would consume much time, and
doubtless prove of no avail; from the fact that
most of the bandits themselves were known as settlers,
and so scattered through the country, that
the least stir of this kind would be known to them
in season to effect an escape, or, what was more
probable, rally themselves into a body, ambush,
and slaughter their opponents. This project,
therefore, was a hazardous one; the more so, as
in the meantime they might seek him out and kill
him; and he knew sufficient of Ronald Bonardi,
to render this thought a not improbable, and,
consequently, a startling one. They might even
now be on his trail—such a thing was not unlikely—and
he urged his beast up hill and down, over
hollow and plain, through forest, thicket and
stream, at his greatest speed.

At length he found, to his regret and consternation,
that the noble animal was beginning to
falter. There was but one course—his place must
be supplied by another; and in this, chance favored

him; for shortly after, he rode past a cottage,
where he perceived several horses lying
down. Immediately reining in, he alighted, selected
the best, transferred bridle and saddle, and,
in less than five minutes, was again speeding on,
leaving his own horse behind him. When the
sun rose, he was within twenty miles of his father's
cottage; and for the first time he slackened
his speed, to meditate upon the wisest course for
him to pursue. A thought struck him! He
would ride at once to St. Louis, learn at what time
the steamer was to leave, and possibly he might
hear of something advantageous to his foul design.

When he reached home, some two hours later,
he found that the party—consisting of his father,
Merton, Bernard and Tyrone—had just started on
a third day's search for Emily, and that Rufus
was lying in a very critical state. This latter,
however, troubled him not; and without heeding
anything further, he changed his horse, and immediately
set off for St. Louis, where he arrived
about two o'clock the same day. He knew from
Bonardi's plan, that three of the band were to be
on board when the boat should leave; and accordingly
he at once repaired hither, to learn if anything
new had occurred. Two of them he found
without difficulty, and learned, to his surprise and
joy, that the boat was to leave that evening; that
the third had been gone some thirty-six hours to
inform Bonardi of the fact; and that it was supposed
the latter would get the information in
time, by hard riding, to be at the general rendezvous,
where the boat, owing to some slight delays,
would probably pass at early dark.

Than this information, nothing could have
suited John's purpose better; and he immediately
hastened to a magistrate informed him of the
whole affair, and, to give it an air of truth, stated
that he himself was a member of the band, whose
conscience had forced him to betray the wicked
course his fraternity were pursuing. This information
of course was of the most startling character
to the magistrate—who believed Bonardi and
his men had quitted the country some three years
before—and instantly making out warrants, he
sent off and had the two men on the boat arrested.
On confronting them with John, one of them became
much alarmed, and, on the promise of a pardon,
immediately corroborated his statement.—
The affair resulted in the whole matter being speedily
made known to the governor, who promptly
ordered two companies of militia, consisting of over
a hundred men, several of whom had served in
the late war, to act as a posse to the Sheriff, in arresting
or exterminating the outlaws.

The Sheriff himself was a man of extreme
measures, who cared little for the sacrifice of life,
so his ends were by such means accomplished.
His plan was, to have the boat start at the
given time, as though nothing had been discovered,
and, with his posse, to go down on her himself;
that ere fully in sight of the rendezvous,
some seventy-five should land, and proceed thence
on foot; that the steamer, when hailed, should
round to, but manage to avoid sending out a boat
—well judging, if the banditti were there concealed,
they would not allow their scheme to be frustrated
by a circumstance so trifling,—that the
steam should be compressed until the boats came
along side, so that the steamer might start suddenly,
and by this means throw them into confusion;
that at the same time the party concealed on
board, should pour among them a well directed
fire, which was also to be a signal to those on
shore to be ready to intercept their landing. In
fact, the attack was carried out exactly as planned,
and the reader has already seen the result. The
grand oversight was in compressing the steam,
and then throwing it suddenly upon the engine,
which shortly after produced the terrible explosion
we have recorded.

Having thus briefly explained the matters most
directly connected with our story, and trusting
the reader is as anxious to quit this scene of wholesale
slaughter as ourself, we shall, after giving a
slight summary of what followed, leave it at once
and forever.

But few of those poor beings on board the ill
fated steamer at the time of her explosion, were
saved; and these mostly by the aid of the boats,
which had been brought hither by the orders of
Bonardi, for a very different purpose. Some two
or three of the number who leaped into the stream,
swam to the shore—the rest were drowned. In
less than an hour, the boat burned to the water's
edge and sunk--bearing down with her the gold
and silver coin, the primary cause of the dire mishap
and loss of life. In the meantime a messenger
was despatched, post haste, to St. Louis; which
resulted in the arrival, some three hours later, of
another steamer. This, ere morning, bore back a
strange medley of citizens, soldiers, and bandits;
some well, some wounded, some dying, some
dead. Of the party of Bonardi, some few were
taken prisoners; but these, generally speaking,
consisted of those who were too severely wounded
to fight or escape, and who afterwards, with but
few exceptions, died of their wounds—the main
body having either fled or been killed. Of the
soldiers, a number were killed in the fight, and
many wounded. The prisoners who survived
their injuries, together with some three or four
others, captured unharmed, were afterwards tried
by the authorities, and disposed of according to
the evidence found against them.

On that same night, a steamer, chartered for
the purpose, having on board a large body of
armed men, and two six-pound cannon, departed
for the Osage; the object of the expedition being
to find the grand rendezvous of the banditti, arrest
or exterminate the remainder of the band,
and, particularly to secure, living or dead, the
body of Ronald Bonardi.

3. CHAPTER III.

An hour later than that in which the attack
was made on the bandits, through the treachery
of John, the party of his father returned from a
third days search for Emily, fatigued in body and
depressed in spirits. Three days had they traversed
the country in every direction, making diligent
enquiries of every person they met, and yet,
of what had become of her, not the slightest cue
had they gained; and consequently, as we have
said, they returned most sadly depressed in spirits,
and worn out in body. In fact, hope of ever beholding
her again had almost become extinct; for
to them it was probable she had been seized by

the Jew and his accomplices, and taken out of the
country. And this latter seemed the more probable,
from their having been at the residence of
the Jew, on the day she disappeared, and knew
him to have been absent.

On Webber and Merton the sad truth fell with
a crushing effect; and men though they were,
both wept for grief. In fact, the latter, when he
found all search had been in vain, knew it would
have to be relinquished, and felt the sweet being
of his soul's adoration—she whose heart and hand
in the holy confidence of love, had been pledged
to him—was now gone, forever gone, pressed his
hands to his burning temples, and strove, as a
man, but vainly strove to be calm. Life to
him now seemed a lonely path, through a barren
waste, where not one bright flower by the
wayside grew, to relieve it of utter desolation;
where no ray of sunlight came, to dispel, even for
a moment, the oppressive gloom.

Slowly, sadly, and in silence, the party referred
to, reined in their horses on the night in
question, at the cottage of Webber—litttle dreaming
that beneath that humble roof, the ingrate,
the black hearted villain, the cause of their present
trouble, had been sheltered, and fed; and that
there too, their sorrow was soon to find an additional
weight. At the door they were met by
Mrs. Webber, who was pale and trembling with
intense grief and excitement.

“Oh, you have come—you have come, thank
God!” uttered she, in the low, rapid accents of
heart touching misery. “I feared, oh God! I
feared you would be too late. Quick! quick!”

“Sarah, Sarah,” gasped Webber, “what, what
has happened? Speak, Sarah! for Heaven-sake
speak!”

“Alas! William, Rufus —”

“Well, Sarah!”

“Is dying.”

“Great Heaven!” and staggering back, Webber
would have fallen, had not the arms of Bernard,
who was close behind, supported him.

Like the sudden shock of an earthquake, this
startling announcement came upon those who
heard it; for they believed Rufus free of danger,
and slowly, yet gradually recovering. He had
been pronounced convalescent by his physician,
and the events of the last few days had so engrossed
their attention, that by them he had in a
measure been forgotten. From the moment of
his fainting, on hearing of the disappearance of
Emily, as previously mentioned, he had gradually
declined. His mother—whose very existence,
as we have before stated, seemed bound up in his
—noticed the change, with all a fond mother's
feelings of grief and alarm. Night and day since,
had she remained almost constantly by his side;
and on the evening previous, when the party returned,
she had made known to her husband her
fears. Wearied by a hard day's ride, and thinking
her fears had made her exaggerate, Webber,
contrary to his usual custom, had seemed almost
indifferent to his wife's remarks; and merely saying,
“He will be better anon,” retired early to
rest, to be in readiness to pursue his search for Emily
on the following day. Several times during
the day on which we have again introduced him,
his conscience had reproved him for neglecting
his son; and it was not without considerable anxiety,
that he once more approached home; consequently
the powerful effect produced by the sudden
and alarming announcement of his wife.

Recovering, somewhat, from the first terrible
shock, Webber sprang forward, and in a moment
stood by his son, followed by his wife, Merton,
Bernard and Tyrone. A light, standing on the
table by the bed, cast a mournful gleam—if we
may so be allowed the expression—on to the pale,
calm features of the dying youth, who, save an
unnatural breathing, seemed like one asleep.

“Rufus!” gasped his father, grasping his thin
hand. “Rufus, my son!”

Slowly the invalid unclosed his eyes, and for a
moment looked up with a vacant stare.

“Rufus, my son! Oh, God! do you not know
me?”

“Father,” said Rufus, calmly, a look of recognition
lighting up his thin features, at the same time
raising himself on his elbow, and glancing slowly
around: “Father—mother—Edward—yes, yes,
I know you all; but I am weak, father,” and he
sunk back on his pillow. Suddenly he started,
and a bright flush passed over his wan features.
“Emily!” cried he, quickly: “Emily! what of
her? have you found her?” and he gazed with an
intense look on his father's tearful eye.

“Alas! my son, we have not.”

“Too well—too well I knew it,” he murmured,
clasping his hands, and gazing upward with a solemn,
devout look. “We shall meet again, but it
will be there;” and stretching forth his wasted,
bony arm, he pointed above: “It will be there—
in Heaven!”

“Oh! dear, dear Rufus,” cried his mother,
springing forward, unable to control herself longer,
and bending on him a look of the most intense
anguish, while every eye in the room filled with
water: “Oh! dear, dear Rufus, say you will meet
again on earth!”

Rufus gazed upon her a moment, and shook
his head sadly. “Mother, dear mother, speak not
thus! My minutes are all numbered. I—I am
dying, mother.”

“Oh God, support me!” returned she, sinking
into a chair, and covering her face with her hands.

“Nay, mother—nay, father—nay, friends”—
continued he, “weep not! We must all die, sooner
or later, and death is only terrible when we are
not prepared to meet it. It is only parting for a
time, to meet again in the bright and glorious land
of spirits. I feel I shall be happy when my spirit
has thrown off this clayey tenement, and entered
upon its second existence. Oh, my dear parents
and friends, I beseech you, weep not for me! for I
was not, could not be happy here. Edward,
come hither; I have somewhat to say to you, ere
I set out upon my long journey.”

Edward approached with tearful eyes, and took
his hand.

“You, my noble friend,” continued Rufus, “are
sad—almost heart-broken—for the sweet being
you love is gone; but be not cast down—be not
disheartened—for you will meet again, and see
many happy days on earth. Nay, shake not your
head with that despairing look, for what I tell
you is true. My spirit is already on the verge of
eternity, and looks with a prophetic eye into the
future. But now I had a dream; and in that dream
I saw you and Emily meet. There was sadness
in the hearts of both; but it gradually rolled away,
as mist from the mountain tops, and joy, like
sunlight, shone in your faces. Mark these words!
they are prophetic. You will see her, you will
love her, you will cherish and guard her, with all
the pure, deep devotion of a holy love, emanating
from a high minded, noble, manly heart. Ere
that time, however, these frail limbs will have

stiffened in death—this soul will have flown to
the presence of its God; therefore shall I give you
my secret, and request that you bear to her my
dying words. Tell her, Edward, that one who is
gone, loved her no less deeply, no less purely, no
less sacredly than yourself. Tell her that from
youth up she was the sole ideal of his longings,
the angel visitant of his dreams. Tell her that
Hope, like a star, once rose and shone brightly on
the broad field of his future imaginings, but that
its light went out in the Hope of another. Tell
her to think sometimes on this, and sometimes
cast a glance upon the lowly grave of Rufus
Webber. You will tell her this, Edward?”

“Should we meet again, my gentle friend, I
will,” replied Edward, pressing the hand of Rufus.

“You will meet again, Edward, and in that
thought I die happy.”

“And you loved her so,” said Edward, deeply
affected; “and I knew it not.”

“And she knew it not,” returned Rufus. “I
saw she loved another, and I would not pain her
with the story. But that is now past, and so forget
it. Ah! I—I feel my voice is going: I feel myself
growing fainter; and so, dear Edward, farewell!”

Edward pressed his hand, and turned away with
a burst of grief.

“Father?”

“My son!”

“I am going fast. Where is John?”

“Alas! he is not here.”

“Then bid him farewell for me, and tell him it
was the dying request of his brother, that he
shun bad company. Father, farewell!” and he
pressed his hand—a hand that shook with the agonies
of a father's heart. “Mother,” and the
voice of Rufus faltered.

“Oh! my child—my son—my own dear Rufus!”
cried she, throwing her arms around his
neck, and pressing kiss after kiss upon his bloodless,
quivering lips: “Oh! my son—my son—I
cannot, cannot part with you!”

“Mother, dear mother,” returned he, in faltering
accents: “Mother, be calm—be calm! Remember
it is the will of God, who orders all
things for the best. We shall soon meet again in
another, in a better world. Ah! ah! death is coming.
Mother, fare—fare-well! Friends—all—all—
fare—farewell! In—in Heaven!” and with these
words the lips of the gentle Rufus were sealed
forever.

For an hour life remained in his body; but from
that moment Rufus spoke no more, nor seemed
he conscious of anything that transpired afterward,
although his mother still clung to, and entreated
him in the most heart-rending tones to
speak to her again. At the expiration of the time
mentioned, his gentle spirit passed away, as one
sinking into a quiet sleep.

His mother, when fully convinced that he was
gone—that in sad truth his dearly loved voice
she would never hear again—slowly unclasped
her arms from his neck, and, with her eyes fixed
steadfastly upon him, sank into a seat by his side,
seemingly unconscious of everything around.
His father stood and gazed upon him for a few
moments with folded arms, while his features
writhed in agony, his chest heaved, and his heart
beat fast and almost audibly. In silence, in sorrow,
stood Merton, Bernard and Tyrone, near the
foot of the bed, gazing upon the corpse—forming
a most impressive group for a mournful picture.
Suddenly each started, and gazed into each others
faces enquiringly. A shrill cry came borne upon
the air, and with it a sound like the rushing of
waters. Another, and another cry, and nearer
and louder came the rushing sound. What
could it mean? All sprang to the door; and although
it was dark, yet dashing over the hill to
the right, they could trace the dim outline of a
horseman; and, following close, another—another—and
still, and still another—and more behind.

“There must be something alarming!” said
Webber, quickly. “What can it mean?”

Scarcely were the words uttered, ere the foremost
horseman dashed up to the door, leaped from
his steed, and rushed in in breathless haste.

“John!” cried Webber, in astonishment.

“Quick! quick! father—close the door—or I
shall be murdered! I am pursued by Ronald Bonardi
and his men!”

“Ronald Bonardi!” echoed all, in a breath; and
springing back, the door was bolted just as the
other horsemen were beginning to come up.

“Ay, Ronald Bonardi,” answered John, rapidly.
“He and his band are the kidnappers of Emiily.
I know their secret retreat, and for this they
would murder me!”

“Emily!” cried Merton, breathlessly, “Emily!
speak—speak!—where is she?”

“In Bonardi's cave, on the Osage river.”

“Oh, John, you give me new life!”

“Then use it defending mine, by killing these
ruffians, and I will restore her to you.”

“Quick! quick!” said a deep voice from without,
“for our time is most precious.”

The next moment there came a tremendous
crash, making the whole house tremble—the door,
bolts, bars and all, were splintered and broken
into a hundred pieces—while a tall, muscular
figure leaped forward, into the centre of the astonished
group, and the same deep voice shouted:

“Ho, traitor!”

“'Tis he!” shrieked John, turning to fly.

“Ay, 'tis he!” shouted back the figure; and then
there came a flash—a crack—and with a yell of
pain John sank to the floor.

“How!—Barton!” gasped Webber, in astonishment,
as he caught a glimpse of the intruder's
features.

“Barton and Bonardi are one!”

As he spoke, the figure seized upon the body of
John, with the strength of a giant, and, turning,
bounded into the midst of his followers, who
stood crowded around the doorway to cover his
retreat.

“To horse! to horse!” he shouted; and darting
away at the word, in a moment more each man
was in his saddle.

So rapidly was this whole movement executed—
for it occupied far less time in action, than we have
in description—that neither Webber himself, Merton,
Bernard nor Tyrone, recovered from the torpor
of a sudden astonishment, ere the bandits had
escaped them—actually shooting, seizing, and
bearing John from their midst.

“Good God!” exclaimed Webber, “is my house
to be broken into, my son murdered and borne
away, without a hand being raised to rescue or
avenge him? Follow, men!” and rushing forth,
he was quickly joined by his three companions.

By this time the bandits were all mounted, and
Bonardi, still supporting John, was just balancing
himself in his saddle, when he observed Webber
rushing towards him.

“Away!” he shouted to his men; and burying

his own spurs in his horse's flanks, he darted
off.

Webber instantly drew a pistol, and taking aim
as well as the darkness would permit, pulled the
trigger. A flash—a report—a groan succeeded—
and he could perceive Bonardi waver in his saddle;
but still he sat his horse—the animal slackened not
his speed—and in a few seconds both horse and
rider disappeared, while Webber's attention was
suddenly called to another quarter, where the
bandits were being attacked by another party of
horsemen that had just come up.

From the flight of John from the river, the
chase had been a desperate, and an equal one;
with the exception, that in the hard run of thirty
miles, the bandits had succeeded in distancing
their pursuers some quarter of a mile, so that they
had just sufficient time, after John entered the
cottage, to seize upon a huge stick of timber,
break open the door, capture the traitor and
mount, before the others were upon them. As
their design was now accomplished, they turned
upon their pursuers, headed by Piketon—for Bonardi
still kept upon his course—and a terrible
fight ensued. Webber and his companions not
knowing friend from foe, retreated into the house,
to be ready to defend it in case of necessity.

“I guess they're having a putty hard tussle, by
the way them are shooting irons are going off,”
remarked Bernard. “Hadn't we better assist them
are fellers that come up last, eh, Bill?”

“Gladly, if we could assist them; but to attempt
it now would be fool-hardy,” answered Webber.
“As soon as this fight is over, we must rally as
large a company as possible, and start immediately
for the Osage, to rescue Emily, and punish the
murderers of my son Oh, God! am I to be made
childless in one night!” and Webber leaned against
the wall of his cottage for support. “And to
think, too,” continued he, after a moment's pause,
“how basely I have been deceived! I can scarcely
realize my having been, more or less, for three
years past, the companion of that notorious bandit,
Ronald Bonardi, under the assumed name of
Barton!”

“Wal, when I seed him at the river, and you
was a talking to him about himself, I guessed
then his name wasn't Barton,” said Bernard.

“Well, well, he shall not escape again!” replied
Webber, sternly. “He shall be brought to justice,
unless he die defending himself; for I will follow
him to the world's end myself, sooner than suffer
him to go unpunished. Fool that I was, to
let him shoot down my son before my own eyes!
And then to actually bear him off! What unheard
of daring!”

“The whole affair transpired so suddenly,” remarked
Tyrone, “that for one I really knew not
what was taking place, until he had fled.”

“The same with myself,” said Edward. “But
I am much mistaken, or he suffers now; for when
Webber fired, I heard him groan, and fancied I
saw him reel in the saddle.”

“I kind o' thought as how that are shot did him
too,” rejoined Bernard. “But if it didn't, there's
more where that come from, I guess, as will.”

“Ay,” rejoined Webber, fiercely, “there is!—
But hist! The fighting seems to have ceased, and
there is a horseman approaching.”

“House, ho!” shouted a voice from without.

“What would you?” answered Webber, interrogatively.

“Rest and food for the night, for our horses and
ourselves,” replied the voice.

“Who are you?” demanded Webber.

“An officer of justice, at the head of a party
of soldiers, sent out to arrest or exterminate
these accursed bandits, who, with the exception
of three killed, have again escaped us. We
would tarry here until daylight, ere we pursue
them further; for our horses are fatigued, two of
our men are killed, and three or four others
wounded. If you can accommodate us, I will see
that you are remunerated, and will also give you
the full particulars of what has occurred.”

“I am in a sad condition to do so,” answered
Webber, gloomily; “for one son lies a corpse in
the house, another has just been shot and borne
away, my wife sits buried in grief, and I am nearly
distracted myself; but still, such accommodation
as I have, you are most welcome to; and we
will endeavor, ere morning, to increase your party
for the pursuit.”

As further detail seems unnecessary here, we
trust the reader will allow us to substitute a brief
summary of what followed. The party in question
remained at Webber's through the night—all
resting, with the exception of the wounded, in
the out-houses. The latter were cared for, as well
as circumstances would permit, and their wounds
not being of a very serious nature, they departed
the next morning for St. Louis, bearing their two
dead comrades with them. During the night a
search was made, in the direction taken by Bonardi,
for the body of John; it being thought probable,
the former, if wounded, might drop him on
the way, and possibly with life remaining--though
for the latter there was little hope;—but the expedition
proved fruitless, and the party returned
some three hours later, not having discovered the
least trace.

Merton, anxious to start early on the morrow
to the rescue of her he loved, rode most of the
night from farm to farm, among the settlers, giving
each a brief account of what had happened,
and beseeching them to join in ridding the country
of the outlaws; the result of which was, the
additional force of some twenty-five, able bodied,
determined men, well mounted and armed, who,
with the party at Webber's, set out at daylight on
a journey to the Osage, to search for the grand
rendezvous, apprehend, disperse, or annihilate the
banditti.

In this expedition, Webber and Tyrone did not
join; the former, because he did not consider it
prudent to leave his house in a totally unguarded
state, with the corpse of his son within, and his
wife in a very feeble condition, but little better
than a stupid insanity, caused from her overwhelming
grief; and the latter, because it was
deemed advisable that one at least should remain
as a companion for the former. Moreover, Webber
had learned, in course of conversation with
the officer mentioned, the astounding particulars
of what had occurred at the river, and the cause
of hate against his son, from his having been a
member and betrayed the band, the which had
served to completely unnerve, and almost render
him insane also.

Besides Webber, his wife and Tyrone, there
was another individual within that house of
mourning, whom we have, during the excitement
of the past few days, lost sight of altogether; but
whom we shall bring once more before the reader,
ere we close our now nearly completed story.—
We allude to the prisoner of the Jew, who, under
the treatment he had of late received, was fast regaining
health and strength. But leaving each

and all for the present, let us precede the party
just departed, to the cave on the Osage.

4. CHAPTER IV.

On the afternoon of the day succeeding the
fight, and the second from the departure of Bonardi,
a rough group of some fifteen outlaws
were lounging about the Outer Cave—some talking,
some polishing their weapons, and some playing
cards. These consisted of the ten left as
guards, with the addition of Hendrick and his four
companions, who returned the day previous,
bringing in Saxton and Niles prisoners, both of
whom were now confined in the dungeon below,
the place whence Piketon led forth the Jew on the
night of his trial and execution.

In the Inner Cave were four females—consisting
of Emily, Inez, Hetty and Cyntha; and to
these we shall, for the present, direct our attention.
Inez and Emily, at the moment introduced,
were reclining on sofas, but a little distance
apart, while the other two, Hetty and Cyntha,
were occupying one corner of the apartment, conversing
together in a low tone.

Since the departure of Ronald, Inez had lavished
upon Emily the most tender care, anticipating
her every wish, and doing all in her power
to restore her strength, and contribute to her happiness.
Partly from Ronald, ere his departure,
and afterwards from Hetty and Emily herself, she
had learned the story of the wrongs of the latter,
and all the gentle sympathies of the woman had
been elicited in her behalf. From Ronald, too, she
had learned a secret, of which Emily and Hetty
were as yet ignorant, accompanied by a request
that she would not reveal it, unless some unforeseen
accident should prevent his return.

The parting between Ronald and Inez had been
affecting and solemn. He had not revealed to
Inez his design, but she could perceive by his pale
features, and an agitation which he vainly strove
to conceal, that he was about setting forth on an
unusual, if not dangerous mission. Hence, as we
have said, the parting had been affecting and solemn;
and since that time, Inez, although she strove
to be cheerful, and paid the most tender regards
to the wants of Emily, could not banish from her
mind thoughts dark and painful; and in consequence
an air of gloomy abstraction would not unfrequently
take possession of her. On the day
we again introduce her, these painful reveries
had become more frequent than before—more
prolonged—and in one of them we now find her.
And here, had we space to devote it, we might moralize
upon the causes producing these results.

It is thought the spirit, in many cases, when
approaching the confines of that vast eternity before
it, grows brighter, more etherial, and is less
allied to the corporeal substance around it—consequently,
is more sensitive to events about to
happen--and by its elevation or depression, prognosticates,
many times, the good or evil that will
shortly follow: moreover, too, that with an intuitive
sense, it sometimes communicates to the body
what and whom this good or evil will effect, and
what will be the result. Hence the spiritual, or
second sight. We believe, too, the spirit is not
unfrequently acted upon, when far from death
ourselves, with regard to the fate of some dearly
beloved friend, (but not so clearly as in the former
instance) which is to influence our seeming
destiny; and hence our gloomy forebodings, or
presentiments.

But as we presume the reader—who is doubtless
anxious for the conclusion of our story—will not
thank us for stopping to moralize or philosophize
here, we shall pass on, and leave a subject we might
otherwise be tempted to investigate farther.

Inez, as we have said, was reclining on a sofa,
in a mood of gloomy abstraction. Her eyes were
bent upon the ground, her features were pale and
very sad in expression, and there was a slight
quiver of some of the delicate muscles, as though
the mind was laboring with painful thought.—
She had been sitting thus some quarter of an hour,
motionless and mute. Emily was also reclining
upon a sofa, but a little distance from her. Her
features, too, were pale, and somewhat care-worn;
but there was, notwithstanding, a more animated
and hopeful look than when we saw her last—and
yet, withal, the expression was sad. Under the
kind treatment received from Inez, Emily had
gradually recovered from the hardships she had undergone,
and although still weak, was fast regaining
health and strength. At the moment introduced,
her eyes were resting enquiringly, but sadly,
upon Inez, as though she sympathized with,
and wished, yet almost feared to question her of
her sorrows. At length the strong promptings of
her gentle and grateful heart got the better of her
reserve, and approaching, she bent down, and
gently taking the soft, delicate hand of Inez in her
own, in a sweet, touching, musical voice, she
said:

“You are sad, dear Inez?”

There are words, and ways of saying them,
which at times, with a sudden and resistless impulse,
will stir up all the finer emotions of the
heart, and make the eye grow moist and dim.—
Such was the effect of Emily's words upon Inez.
She started, a flush mantled her pale features, and
she looked up into the sweet countenance of Emily,
with tearful eyes. The next moment these
two gentle beings were locked in each other's embrace,
and the tears of both mingled.

“Oh, will you not open your heart, dear Inez,
and tell me what makes you so sorrowful?” asked
Emily, as, with an arm thrown around the others
waist, she seated herself by her side.

“I hardly know myself, Emily,” answered
Inez, with a sigh; “but I feel as though there were
a weight upon my heart. I fear something has
happened to him--to Ronald--though why I cannot
tell; for he has often been away, sometimes for a
week, and yet I felt not so depressed as now. I
fear that dark man you spoke of will betray him,
perhaps has done so already, and he may now be
in prison, or dead. Oh, God! if such should be
the case, what, oh! what would become of me?”
and Inez shuddered, and hid her face in her hands.

“Do not borrow trouble, dear Inez,” said Emily,
gently, and soothingly. “All will turn out
for the best, rest assured. We are all in the
hands of a holy, omnipresent God, whose actions
cannot err.”

“But is not that God a God of justice?” asked
Inez, solemnly. “And will he not punish man

for his misdeeds, his—his—” Inez' voice faltered—“his
crimes?”

“Man will doubtless suffer for his misdoings,”
answered Emily; “but God will look into the heart
and judge him by the motive.”

“Oh, Emily, dear Emily,” returned Inez, weeping,
“to you I will say what I have never yet
said to human being—for you seem so gentle and
pure, my heart yearns for your sympathy. You
know the occupation of my husband, and that it
is criminal in the eyes of the law. His heart is
good and noble; and yet, for his outward acts, I
have a long time feared, and of late more than
ever, that some terrible calamity, sooner or later,
will befal him.”

“It is strange,” replied Emily, musingly, “that
one who possesses so many good and generous
qualities as he, should lead such a wild, daring life
—should associate with men so far inferior to
himself, both in intellect and education.”

“Yet judge him not too harshly, dear Emily,”
returned Inez, sorrowfully, “for circumstances
have made him what he is. He has told me his
early history; how he wept over the death of a
beloved mother—a mother who was foully, most
foully wronged;—how your—how his own father
disowned, treated him with contempt, and spurned
him from his presence, while society could do
nought less than point at him with the finger of
shame, because he was a bastard son. Oh, you
know not how such things can try a proud, restless
spirit like his—a spirit that, turned into a different
channel, had led him to honor and renown—and
make him turn with venomed tooth
upon that society, as the viper upon the foot that
tramples it.”

“I doubt not there have been strong causes for
his deeds,” rejoined Emily; “yet methinks a nature
like his should have paused, ere he brought
one so gentle and innocent as you seem to be,
into a career the laws of the land will hold most
criminal.”

“You do him wrong there, dear Emily. It is
of my own doing. He frankly and nobly told
me all; that we must never meet again; and yet
I married him, and gave up name and wealth,
knowing him to be an outlaw.”

“This is strange, very strange, Inez,” remarked
Emily, in surprise.

“Does it seem strange to you?—to me it is
simple. I loved him; and had it been to the gallows
direct he would have led me, I cheerfully
had gone to die with him.”

“I understand,” replied Emily. “Oh, woman's
love! what will it not do? where can its bounds
be set? But strange that he did not then, does
not now, give up this wild, terrible life, and retire
to some quiet, though humble spot, where
you would both be happy.”

“Alas!” sighed Inez, “his oath bound him
then—his oath binds him yet.”

“Alas, indeed!” sighed Emily; and for some
minutes both sat silent, buried in thought. Suddenly
Inez started to her feet, and her but now
gloomy countenance became radiant with joy.

“He comes!” she cried, “he comes! I hear
his step. I would know it from a million—and
now his voice!” and tears of joy streamed from
her eyes.

The remark of Inez was correct; for Ronald
had already entered the Outer Cave, and was now
giving orders in a low, rapid tone.

“Quick!” he said, “quick! All—all is lost.
If there are any here afraid to die, they may now
escape. We shall soon be attacked. Those of
you who are willing to stand the brunt of the
peril, will join Piketon, quickly as possible. You
will find him at the Entrance. He already has
his orders. You will obey to the letter his commands.
Go, men! I am wounded and faint.
Should we never meet again, farewell!” and Ronald
extended a hand to each of those bold outlaws,
who grasped it in silence, with tearful eyes.
Then seizing their weapons, they rushed forth,
while Bonardi immediately entered the Chieftain's
Chamber, where the bright light, as it fell upon
his features and form, exhibited a sight most sad
to behold, and where he was greeted with a wiid,
universal shriek of alarm.

His face was pale—in fact bloody, bloodless, and
ghastly. His features exhibited the expression
of great mental and bodily suffering. His eyes
were wild and blood-shot—his hair dishevelled,
matted, and in some places stained with blood.
His dress was disordered, torn, and bloody also.
One hand, bloody likewise, was pressed upon his
side, where appeared to be a wound.

“Ronald! My God, Ronald!” screamed Inez,
who was springing forward to meet him; and
throwing up her hands, she staggered back and
fell to the ground.

“Oh, sir, you are wounded—are killed, perhaps!”
cried Emily, in alarm.

“I have my death wound, Emily, but heed it
not. You, Inez, Hetty and Cyntha, must escape!
We shall ere long be attacked. I have time to explain
nothing. I shall die here. How is Inez,
Cyntha?” enquired he, turning to the latter, who
with Hetty had rushed to her on her fall, and was
now placing her on a sofa.

“Missus dying! She jus gasp um once, massa!”
answered the terrified Cyntha.

“Inez, dear Inez!” cried Ronald, darting forward,
placing his arm under her head, and supporting
her against his breast.

Inez opened her eyes, and looked up into his
face. Then she uttered a wild scream, and threw
her arms around his neck, where she clung as if
fearful of being torn away.

“Oh, God!” groaned Ronald, “this is the most
trying moment of all. Inez, Inez,—dear Inez—
for God-sake, Inez, look up!—awake!—look
up!—you must escape!”

“Escape!” shrieked Inez, starting back her
head, and gazing into his face in terror.

“Ay, escape! We shall soon be attacked, and
you must not be here to fall into the hands of
those accursed minions of the law!”

“And you, Ronald?”

“I cannot escape: I am wounded.”

“And could you think your Inez would leave
you thus, Ronald? Never, never, never! No,
no, no! if you die, Inez will die with you!” and
again she threw her arms around his neck, and
clung to him wildly. Suddenly she started.
“Oh, you are wounded!” she cried. “Oh, let me
see it! I will staunch the blood! It shall not,
shall not kill you, dear, dear Ronald!”

“'Tis vain, Inez, 'tis vain!” groaned he, straining
her to his heart. “I know the wound is mortal.
But come, Inez, you must fly! If I know
you are safe, I can die content.”

“Never, never, never, Ronald! I will not
leave you!”

“But, Inez”—and Ronald whispered the conclusion
of the sentence in her ear.

Inez trembled, and grew a shade more pale; but
still she answered firmly, “I will remain.”

“Enough!” and Ronald strained her to his heart
again in silence. Then easing her upon the sofa,
he sprang to his feet. “Emily,” he exclaimed,
“you must fly this moment! Hetty and Cyntha
will go with you!” and turning to the latter, he
placed in her hand a purse of gold. “There, my
faithful Cyntha, go! and may you escape and be
happy.”

“And leave missus?”

“I will tend on her, Cyntha, so no more. Emily,
here,” and he drew forth a letter. “In this
you will find the explanation I promised you, regarding
your parents. Do not open it until you
hear of my death, which will not be long. It is
brief, but comprehensive. I wrote it in haste,
since I saw you, for I feared we should never
meet again. At the mouth of the cave, a boat
awaits you, manned by three trusty followers,
who will conduct you to a place of safety. And
now, Emily,” and his voice faltered, “it only remains
to bid you farewell!” and taking her hand,
he pressed it to his lips, respectfully.

“Oh, sir!” exclaimed Emily, weeping bitterly,
“how can I thank you for your generosity?”

“Nay, I need no thanks, Emily. You were a
woman, in the hands of a black-hearted villain,
and I did but my duty. You are saved, and that
villain has paid the penalty.”

“Then John is —”

“Dead!” said Ronald, solemnly, concluding the
sentence. “But question no farther; you will
learn all in time. Oh haste, Emily, and away,
ere any thing happens to endanger you!”

“Inez!” exclaimed Emily; and the next moment
they were in each others arms, both sobbing
bitterly. “Inez, sweet lady, it wrings my
heart to leave you; but I will not urge you to
go, for I can understand your feelings. While
Emily Nevance lives, Inez and Ronald Bonardi
will never be forgotten. Farewell, dear Inez;
farewell, farewell!” and straining her once more
to her heart, she pressed a kiss upon her lips,
sprang away, and disappeared into the Outer
Cave. Hetty and Cyntha took an affectionate
leave, and disappeared also, both weeping. In a
few minutes all three were seated in a boat without
the cave.

“Farewell,” uttered Bonardi, who had followed
them to the top of the ladder, waiving his hand
solemnly: “Farewell!” The next moment the
boat shot away, and turning, Bonardi descended
the ladder with a quick step. Drawing forth a
key, attached to his person by a small gold chain,
he glided behind the ladder, and opened an iron
door, which concealed an aperture in the solid
rock.

It was the door of a powder magazine.

Hastily taking thence some eight or ten casks,
he gazed on them a moment, with a singular
smile, and then proceeded to arrange them along
the wall, at certain distances from each other, until
the two last came within the Inner Cave. He
then uncorked, and attached a train of towe,
soaked in turpentine, to each. This done, he returned
to Inez, clasped her in his arms, cast himself
upon a sofa, and whispered in her ear:

“Now, dear Inez, let them come.”

In the meantime, the boat, bearing Emily, Hetty
and Cyntha, reached the Entrance, which
was the juncture of the creek and river Osage,
and so called from its being the only point whence
the cave could be approached. On either hand
was a high bluff, which gave the channel running
back to the cave an appearance of being artificial.
The bluff on the eastern bank of the Osage, and
immediately around the Entrance, was very steep
and rocky, covered with a stunted growth of
trees and underbrush, so that a large party might
be there concealed in ambush. It was here that
Emily, and the two females with her, were landed,
and then immediately conducted up the steep.
As she went up the winding path, she could occasionally
perceive, on either hand, a dark figure,
crouched in the bushes, with a rifle either resting
against his shoulder, or poised and pointed toward
the river, whom she rightly conjectured to be of
Bonardi's band, and that—but why she knew
not—they expected an attack from below. When
she reached the brow of the hill, she could
perceive the sun shining upon a beautiful and
variegated landscape, through a crimson mellow
haze, within an hour of the horizon.—
At another time perhaps, she would have paused
to admire the scenery, and contemplate the rich
beauty of light and shade, as, striking some high
point, with a golden sheen, the rays of Sol threw
a long line of shadow into the quiet valley at its
base, or glanced off from the smooth surface of
many a stream—not excepting the Osage, and the
great Missouri, the latter some several miles distant—as
from a polished mirror; but now her
thoughts were sad and painful; and she turned
from this to her conductor—who here come to a
halt, and was looking eagerly in every direction—
with an enquiring gaze.

“You'll have to mount and fly, gal,” said he,
at length, turning to her; “for if I arn't mistaken,
it'll be no place for you here shortly. Thar's a
body of men coming by land, and another by water;”
and he pointed to where the smoke of a
steamer indicated its advance up the Osage, some
three miles distant. It was this latter, by the
way, which Bonardi had discovered from one of
the bluffs, that had made him so apprehensive of a
sudden attack. “Right round this ere rock,”
continued the man, “is four blooded horses; but
as thar' aint but three o' ye, I suppose the cap'en
overrated the number as was to ride 'em, or else
his wife 'scapes another way.” As he spoke, the
party turned the angle of a huge rock, where
were found four fine horses, well caparisoned for
riders. “Mount, gal, and ride hard to the east, and
you'll soon be out o' the way of a scrimmage.”

In a few minutes all three were mounted, and
thanking him kindly for his services, Emily led
the way down the hill, with feelings better imagined
than described, while her conductor, turning
short around, speedily rejoined his companions.

The party in ambush was commanded by Piketon,
who had orders from Bonardi to annoy the
party attacking as much as possible, without sacrificing
his own men; and, if pressed hard, to escape
as best they might, and leave the rest to
him; but, under no consideration, to allow a man
of them to return to the cave. As soon as the
individual who conducted Emily up the hill returned,
he immediately sought the lieutenant,
whom he found leaning against a tree, rifle in
hand—for since their return, the party, in addition
to their other weapons, had armed themselves
with rifles and short swords—and gazing down
upon the dark waters of the Osage, with a gloomy
look and clouded brow.

“How!” exclaimed the lieutenant, suddenly
starting at a remark the other now whispered in
his ear. “By land, too? Are you sure?”

“Sure!” answered the other.

“What distance from us?”

“About five miles, as near as I could reckon.—
I jest catched a glimpse on 'em going behind a
hill.”

“I feared so, I feared so!” returned the lieutenant,
biting his nether lip. “There will be time
to give these others one good round, however, and
then we must escape. What ho!” he shouted:
“Listen all! Comrades, there are two parties
approaching to attack us. One comes by water,
the other by land. The one by water will shortly
be here. We must manage to give the latter
one deadly round, and then fly to the Retreat,
where are horses in waiting, and thence along the
banks of the Osage, following the course of the
stream, far back into the country; by which means
we shall avoid the others, with whom our numbers
are too few to engage in conflict, and where
we will remain until the excitement has died
away, when those who have wives and children
can return for them, and then quietly leave this
accursed country forever. Such are the orders of
our noble captain, Ronald Bonardi, who is mortally
wounded; and who, for his own design,
chooses to remain in the cave.”

After this, Piketon proceeded to dispose of his
men, so as for each to lie in perfect concealment
to those below, with orders that so soon as practicable,
each was to select his man, and, at the
word, to pour a terrible volley of death among
them, and then rush up the hill and escape. This
being done, all relapsed into silence—a silence to
be shortly broken by the awful mandate of death.

The steamer which left St. Louis during the
night, was, in the meantime, slowly approaching.
The rendezvous of the banditti had been so accurately
described by the traitor John, that there
was but little danger of those in command mistaking
the place; still it required a careful examination
of the shore, as they approached, and this examination
they were now making. In about
twenty minutes she hove full in sight of the concealed
bandits, who clasped their rifles with the
nervous grasp of determined and desperate men.
In ten more she had thrown off her steam, and
lay floating,

on the dark bosom of the Osage below them.

“This must be the place,” said a deep voice on
board. “Yonder is the inlet. Man the boats!”

Instantly a dozen boats suspended to the steamer
for the purpose, were lowered into the water,
and quickly filled with armed men. And here,
ere we proceed, let us give a word or two in explanation.

From the information conveyed by John, it
was gathered that the outlaws, who might chance
to escape the attack on the Mississippi, would
here rally as their stronghold, and doubtless here
make their last desperate resistance,—particularly
Bonardi, who, he stated, would return hither
to seek his wife, and, from his character, be little
likely to fly,—consequently this was the place to
be immediately sought, to give the final blow of
extermination to the banditti. On this information
the authorities had acted, and hence the arrival
of the steamer for this purpose.

As soon as the boats were manned, a stout figure
sprang into the forward one, and stood erect in
the bow.

“Six of you,” he said, in a low, quick tone,
“will remain behind to cover us, and prevent an
attack in the rear. The six with myself will now
forward to the cave, which we must enter at all
hazards. Row, men, row! Fifty dollars to him
who first enters the cave! An hundred to him
who captures the body of Barton—alias Bonardi
—living or dead!”

The words were scarcely out of the speaker's
mouth, when six boats shot out from the rest, and
entered the channel, each straining as for life to
be first at the cave.

“Now then, comrades,” whispered Piketon,
“pick your men on the river, and do not waste
powder! One farewell volley, and then for our
horses, as the others must be near.”

“But our captain?” said one, enquiringly.

“Fear not for him,” answered Piketon. “He has
some deep design in view, doubtless, as this was
to me his last solemn injunction. Now then,
comrades,—ready—fire!”

The last word was drowned in a roar of musketry,
that rolled heavily across the Osage, and
reverberated from cliff to cliff, echoing far away
into the solitary retreat of many a wild beast,
startling him from his lair, while groans, shrieks,
and curses, immediately resounded from the boats,
where all was consternation and confusion—not
less than twenty having fallen under the fire, most
of them dead, and the others, with but three exceptions,
mortally wounded.

“Ho! pursue them!” shouted a hoarse voice,
from one of the boats; and the speaker pointed
up the hill, where the bandits were seen making
their escape.

Scarcely a minute elapsed, ere the dead and
wounded were placed on the deck of the steamer,
and the boats touched the store. Leaping at once
upon the bank, they darted up the steep acelivity,
and some of them had reached within a few yards
of the summit, when suddenly all paused, as by
common consent, and their faces blanched with
absolute terror. The ground beneath them trembled,
as by the throes of an earthquake; and then
there came a tremendous, heavy, booming sound,
seemingly from the bowels of the earth below.
For a moment a dead silence ensued; and then
wild shrieks, from distant voices, rent the air.

“The cave!—the cave!—they have blown up
the cave!”

Horror stricken at this awful announcement,
they turned and rushed back to their boats, in
wild dismay, only to find, shortly after, this terrible
intelligence confirmed by their own observation.
Of the party that entered the channel,
upwards of fifty in number, some thirty had
reached the cave and disappeared, while the
others were eagerly pressing forward, when Bonardi,
with Inez clasped to his heart, fired the
train, and himself, with every soul within, was,
in the twinkling of an eye, launched into eternity.
As the explosion took place, and the cries
ascended from those in the creek, who had escaped,
announcing the awful calamity, a voice
from the brow of the hill shrieked:

“Oh God! oh God! she is lost!” and Edward
Merton reeled to and fro, and finally sank to the
earth; while the tall, gaunt figure of Harvey Bernard
stood over him, with a look of the most intense
anguish depicted on his honest, open features.

“Poor youth!” he murmured. “Alas! poor
Emily;” and kneeling by Edward, he wrung his
horny hands, and gave vent to his grief in choking
sobs, that made his strong, muscular frame quiver.
A quick rustling among the bushes startled him.
On looking up, he instantly sprang to his feet,

staggered back several paces, and uttered a shout
of joy.

“Emily!” he shrieked, “alive?”

At the word Emily, Edward bounded to his feet,
and saw her, but a few paces distant, rushing toward
him.

“Emily!” he gasped, scarcely crediting his
senses.

“Edward!” and the next moment they were
locked in each others embrace, and so overcome
with joy, that for a time all power of utterance
was lost; while Bernard, in a delirium of ecstacy,
fairly danced about them, and actually so far forgot
himself as to kick several stones down the
hill, to the no small annoyance of some of the
party hurrying up from below.

It was a strange wild meeting, that of the
lovers, in that wild region, and at a moment too
so awfully terrible, when not less than forty human
beings, without a second's warning, had just
been ushered into the presence of their Maker;
when groans and shrieks from the dying, on the
deck of the steamer, were mingling with the
hoarse shouts and cries of those who had escaped
their untimely fate. It was a strange wild meeting,
that of the lovers, and one that by them
would never be forgotten.

As the reader is aware, Merton and Bernard
had set out in the morning, with a party rising of
forty men, to seek the rendezvous of the banditti,
rescue Emily, and punish the offenders. We shall
not attempt to describe the thoughts and emotions,
the hopes and fears, agitating the breast of the
former, during that eventful day, (when his mind
ran on the perils seemingly surrounding her he
loved,) but leave these to the imagination of the
reader, for our space is already limited. Suffice,
that a hard day's ride of bodily fatigue and mental
anxiety, had brought him to the spot where
we now find him. When within three miles of
the place, Edward had descried the steamer; and
divining at once her purpose, had become very
much alarmed, lest there should be a fight, wherein,
as he thought, Emily must necessarily become
involved. Whispering his fears to his companion
Bernard, both instantly drove their spurs into
their horses' sides, and set rapidly forward, in advance
of the others. When they arrived at the
foot of the hill, whereon they now stood, they
found it too steep for a speedy ascent with their
horses, which were already very much blown,
and leaping from their backs, they darted up on
foot. They had proceeded but a few paces, when
they heard the report of a volley of fire-arms,
which caused them to redouble their speed. On
their way, they caught a glimpse of the flying
bandits, some distance to the left; but heeding
them not, they still pressed on, and at length, pale
with excitement, and breathless with bodily exertion,
they reached the summit. As they came
in full view of the steamer, the awful explosion
at the cave took place; and Edward, thinking Emily
was within, and now lost to him for ever, uttered
the words recorded, and sank to the earth.

As to Emily herself, she had ridden, in company
with Hetty and Cyntha, some two miles,
when she perceived a body of men, about a mile
to the right of her, rapidly advancing toward the
spot she had but lately quitted, and where she
knew the bandits were lying in ambush. Some
little distance in advance of the main body, she
descried two horsemen, whom her eyes and heart
at once told her were Edward and Bernard,
Fearful lest the one she loved, with his compan
ion, might heedlessly run into an ambush, that
would cost both of them their lives, she suddenly
wheeled her animal, and, without a word to the
others, darted away to intercept them. But in
laying out her line of interception, the angle was
too abruptly formed, and, in consequence, she
had fallen somewhat in the rear. Had they even
for a moment glanced to the right, they must
have seen her; but with their eyes intent upon
one point, she had escaped their observation.
When they sprang from their horses, at the base
of the hill, she was but a few rods distant. Ere
they arrived half way to the summit, she had dismounted
and was struggling up after them, but
too much exhausted to gain their ears with her
voice. Their meeting the reader has already seen.

And now, leaving Edward and Emily to the
holy commune of love, and the relation of such
other matters as are already familiar to the reader,
with a few brief remarks we shall close this chapter.

The party of which Merton and Bernard
formed a portion, on seeing them ride forward in
such haste, increased their speed, and presently
joined them on the hill, where they received the
sad intelligence of what had taken place, and
also learned that the bandits had effected their escape,
without the loss of a man Of those who
were in the cave at the time of the explosion, not
one could be recognised—so mangled were they,
and torn, and blackened with powder. The cave
itself, though not utterly demolished, was so rent
and shattered—both apartments being blown into
one—that those who may chance to view it at the
present day, will fail, doubtless, to recognise that
almost classic beauty belonging to it prior to and
at the date of our story; or, what is more, may
even fail to recognise the cave at all. For the
benefit of the curious, however, and lest some may
deem it a fabulous one, we will here assert that the
cave is still in existence, and can be seen by those
who may be disposed to seek it.

As the party just arrived soon discovered their
presence was no longer necessary, and as the sun
was already near the line of the western horizon,
they immediately set out upon their return, accompanied
by Bernard, Edward and Emily. Hetty
and Cyntha soon after joined them, both of
whom, to their no small surprise and terror, were
immediately taken into custody, to be conveyed
to St. Louis for examination; and particularly the
latter, who had no papers to show that she was
free. About five miles from the Osage, the party
found a convenient place, and quartered for the
night, during which Cyntha effected her escape,
and was never afterwards heard from,—she probably
having again joined the escaped outlaws.

At daylight on the following morning, each resumed
their journey, much refreshed by a good
night's rest, and for some thirty miles traveled
in company, when they gradually began to separate,
as here and there one after another turned
off to seek their nearest course home. Some
three hours after nightfall, Bernard, Edward and
Emily arrived at Webber's, having traveled the
last five miles entirely by themselves.

The party on the steamer remained at the cave
during the night, and on the day following, after
having interred the remains of all those found in
the cave, started upon their return, with what
feelings we leave the reader to imagine.

Of the party of Piketon, we can only say they
were never again heard of in that country.—
What became of them is unknown. Probably

they sought some remote place, and perhaps settled
down, many of them, into peaceable citizens
—who shall say? No little wonderment was
created among some of the oldest settlers, to find
that here and there an old neighbor had suddenly
and mysteriously disappeared—in many cases
whole families also—and for a long time it was a
difficult matter to reconcile their minds to the
fact, that in the persons of those neighbors had
existed many of the most formidable members of
the dread banditti.

On the night following the one in which Bonardi
blew up the cave—wherein Saxton and
Niles perished—in a miserable hoved, unfriended
and alone, the wretched outcast Curdish breathed
his last. The wound in his shoulder, given by
Bernard, having mortified, produced his death.

So perish the guilty.

Thus, one after one, in various ways, have we
seen our characters disappear, until but a few remain.
Well, like to them, one after one, shall
we also disappear, and perchance without a friendly
hand being raised to record that we have been.

Let us now turn once more to the living of our
drama of life, take a farewell view, and then let
the curtain descend and shut them from our sight
forever.

5. CHAPTER V.

It was a beautiful morning, about a week from
the return of Emily, and every thing in nature
looked bright and animated. A gentle rain had
fallen during the night, and the drops were still
lingering on leaf and blade and flower, and sparkling
in the morning sunlight, like so many diamonds.
The air was clear, soft and invigorating;
and the light-footed Zephyrs sighed through the
forests, rustled the leaves, kissed the beautiful
flowers, and caught a thousand sweet sounds of
melody to bear away to their frolicsome meetings
in Fairy Land.

Before Webber's cottage, on the morning in
question, stood a gallant steed, foaming and panting
from hard riding; while the rider himself, having
entered the cottage, was now standing in the
apartment where the gentle Rufus had breathed
his last, with one arm thrown lightly around the
waist of the graceful Emily Nevance, who, with
her soft blue eyes turned sweetly upon him, was
gazing with a look of joy, somewhat saddened by
grief.

“Oh, Edward,” she exclaimed, with animation,
“I joy that you have come! I have been watching
for you since the first streak of morning gilded
the east; for I knew you would select the cool
of the day, and ride long ere daylight. Oh, I
have been so sad since we buried poor Rufus!”
and Emily turned away her head to conceal a tear.

“Well, well, dearest,” answered Edward, drawing
her fondly to him, and pressing a kiss upon
her lips, “let us not forget, while we grieve, that
Rufus is happy now. It is a fact that we are
prone to grieve too much for departed friends,
and thereby oppose our selfishness to the Divine
Will. Instead of grieving for the death of a friend,
we should rather rejoice that all his troubles are
at an end, and that he is now singing immortal
songs in the bright regions of glory. We know
that all must die, sooner or late—that we are all
wending to the Spirit Land—then wherefore
grieve that one we love has reached the bright
goal before us?”

“I admit your philosophy is good,” rejoined
Emily, “but still you will allow philosophy has but
little to do with the heart, with the affections. Philosophy
is the cold emanation of the brain—love the
warm offspring of the heart; and the latter, as a
general thing, will triumph over the former.”

“Your remarks are true,” returned Edward,
“for such are the selfish propensities of human
nature. The heart will for a time gain ascendency
over the head: love will triumph over philosophy:
such are facts; and yet, as I said before, we
should strive to give the latter the asceudency,
when we find the former can avail us nothing.—
To this end I would fain bring philosophy to my
aid here; and yet withal I deeply, most deeply
grieve, that one so gentle, so noble as Rufus,
should be taken from among us, just in the bright
flower of manhood. For himself I deeply grieve,
and for his almost heart-broken parents, my heart
bleeds in sympathy;” and Edward's voice trembled,
and tears filled his eyes.

“Alas!” sighed Emily; “his mother, poor
woman, I fear will never recover from the shock.”

“Is she then no better?” asked Edward.

Emily shook her head mournfully. “No,” she
sighed. “As you saw her on the day of the funeral,
as you saw her on your departure, three days
since, you will find her now. She sits in a state
of torpor, twirling her fingers, but takes no heed
of what is said, or what is passing around her.—
Alas! I fear she will soon follow him.”

“And Webber?” asked Edward, with a sigh.

“He bears up as well as can be expected under
the circumstances; but it was a hard blow, a very
hard blow, to be made childless in one night, and
one son, too, to be murdered before his own eyes,
in his own house, and then borne away no one
knows whither.”

“It was indeed,” said Merton, solemnly. “And
the body of John has never been found?”

“It has not. It is supposed to have been devoured
by wild beasts, or thrown into some
stream.”

“Well,” said Merton, somewhat sternly, “he
at least deserved his fate. What a black hearted
villain!”

“Hush!” exclaimed Emily; “upbraid not the
dead! He is gone to be judged for the deeds done
in the body. He has suffered the penalty of his
misdeeds, has paid the last great debt of nature,
and so let us be charitable, and say, `Requiescat in
pace.' But come, I am detaining you, and you
must be faint with your long ride. Let us enter
the other apartment, where breakfast awaits us.”

“A moment,” returned Edward, taking her
hand. “I have some news, both good and bad.—
With the steamer which exploded and went down
on the night of that terrible fight on the Mississippi,
went my father's fortune. He had borrowed
on securities, a large amount of specie to
send to New Orleans. It was lost, and he is now
a ruined man. This is the bad news. The good
is, that he has given his consent to our union,
which I trust will ere long be consummated.”—
As he spoke, Emily bent down her eyes, and a
modest blush suffused her features.

“It lightens my heart much, dear Edward,”
she replied at length, “to know that his consent is

gained; for somehow I have felt as though I were
doing wrong, in accepting your hand contrary to
his wishes. For his sake, dear Edward, I regret
the loss of his wealth; as it must be a severe blow
to one who has labored so long and steadfastly
to acquire it.”

“The lesson will be a hard, but doubtless beneficial
one,” returned Edward, “by showing him
the mutability of the fabric on which he has concentrated
time and talents that might have been
used more worthily, not only to the elevation of
himself, but of those around him. No one, dear
Emily, should set their heart upon gold. Man
has nobler duties to perform than the hoarding of
wealth. Wealth, properly used, I will admit is a
blessing, because by it so many poor human beings
can be made comfortable and happy; and yet how
few of the wealthy think of this, or act upon it, but,
on the contrary, use their gold to oppress, to grind
the faces of those who are dependent upon them,
and by such means make their wealth a curse.”

“Too true—too true,” said Emily, musingly;
and then looking up into Edward's face, after a
moment's pause, with a sweet expression, she
added: “By your father's consent, dear Edward,
I feel the only barrier to our union removed—for
I have already learned who were my parents!”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Edward: And pray who
are you? and how got you the information?”

“The latter I received from Ronald Bonardi.”

“Ronald Bonardi, Emily? you astonish me!”

“You will doubtless be more astonished, when
you peruse the letter he gave me. But come, to
breakfast now, and then you shall know all. By
the way, you remember the stranger you saw
here, whom my guardian found in the last stages
of starvation, in the vault of the Jew.”

“I do.”

“He stated to my guardian, on last evening,
that he had something important to communicate;
and wished all, but myself in particular, to be present.
As I had retired to rest, it was deferred until
this morning. And now, dear Edward,” said
Emily, playfully, “who knows but what that
communication concerns me very particularly?”

“Who knows?” returned Edward, and they
passed into the other apartment.

Some two hours from the foregoing conversation,
a group of six individuals were seated in the
same apartment where this conversation took
place. These consisted of Webber, Bernard and
Tyrone, Edward, Emily and the stranger—Mrs.
Webber not being present. The expressions on
the faces of each, were solemn, even mournful;
for the events of the last few days had been of a
nature to give a gloomy cast to their countenances,
not easily to be erased. The features of
Webber himself were pale, sad, and full of the
furrows of intense grief and care. Those of the
stranger were thin and pale also, but exhibited
nothing of that ghastliness so apparent on his
first introduction to the reader as the prisoner of
the Jew. The expression of his countenance
was naturally stern, and there were a few lines in
it of a sinister cast. He appeared like one who,
to use an old familiar phrase, had seen better days;
but one whose constitution had been somewhat
broken by irregular habits and dissipation. He
was a little turned the middle age of life, and his
hair was somewhat grey. After the party had
become seated, and a momentary silence elapsed,
the stranger, in a voice deep, clear, but slightly
faltering, said:

“To do an act of justice, and thereby make a
partial atonement for my past crimes, I have requested
each and all of you to be present, and
listen to my tale.”

Every eye was turned upon him, with an enquiring
gaze. The stranger noticed this, and
seemed for a moment not a little embarrassed;
but summoning all his resolution to his aid, he
proceeded:

“My story I shall make as brief as possible, for
one likes not to dwell on ones misdeeds. My
name is Charles Walton—the place of my nativity,
England. I was born rich—entered college
at a proper age, with bright prospects—fell into
bad company—gambled much—drank much—
and was finally expelled. My parents shortly after
died, and I was left a wealthy heir. In horse-racing,
drinking, and petty gambling, I squandered
my property; and at the age of thirty,
found myself a beggar, a vagabond, and a villain—
ready to do almost any deed for money. In this
situation I was discovered by one who had known
me in better days—a villain who had helped to
fleece me—and knowing my character, habits,
and desperate situation, he opened to me his devilish
heart, offered me a large sum to carry out a
design he had in view, which I accepted, and became
his tool. This design was no less than the
murder of the only daughter of Sir Walter Langdon,
for which I received in advance the sum of
ten thousand pounds.”

At the mention of the name of Langdon, Emily
started and grew pale, while her eyes, fastened
upon Walton, and her head bent a little forward,
exhibited the most intense eagerness for what was
to follow.

“The girl,” continued Walton, “by bribing the
nurse, I managed to get in my possession. She
was a sweet little creature, of three years—my
conscience smote me—I could not murder her—
and I fled the country, bearing her with me. I
took passage for America, and fifteen years ago
landed in Boston. I immediately set forth on a
tour through the States, taking the child with me,
determined to abandon her, so soon as a suitable
opportunity presented, whereby she would be bettered
by the change. Chance favored me. I
tarried one night at a farmer's house, the inmates
of which pleased me, and in the morning I departed,
leaving the child in their care, but stating
I would return in a few days. That farmer's
name was William Webber—the child bore that
of Emily Nevance.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Webber, while
Merton sprang to his feet, and there was a look
of surprise on the faces of Bernard and Tyrone.
Emily, pale and trembling with excitement, leaned
back in her chair, unable to speak. “Go on—
go on!” said Webber, quickly; “for I perceive the
deep mystery of fifteen years is being unravelled.”

“After leaving your house,” resumed Walton,
addressing Webber, “I came to the West, and for
ten years led a dissolute life. My conscience,
meantime, often upbraided me for the crime I had
been guilty of, and at length I resolved to make
at least some slight reparation. My money was
now nearly exhausted, but still I had some few
thousand dollars remaining, and I returned to the
East, with the intent of seeking Emily, proceeding
to England, and restoring her to her rights;
for I had learned, withal, that her family were all
dead, and that the villain who employed me to
murder her, being next akin, was now reveling
in the halls of her father, rioting upon his own
ill-gotten gains. For this purpose, I say, I returned

to the East; but alas! when there, my good
resolution failed me, and I faltered in my purpose.

“It is hard, gentlemen, for one who has made
himself a villain, to come forward and acknowledge
it to the world, and be the by-word of jeer
in the mouths of his associates. It was this which
deterred me, as it has deterred many a wretched
being before me, from returning to the paths of
honesty. It is a false pride, I will admit, but it is
human nature, nevertheless.

“Determined, however, that my journey should
not be all in vain—that some good at least should
accrue from it—I employed a trusty messenger to
convey you a package, (wherein was enclosed the
sum of one thousand dollars, and a note explanatory,)
with positive instructions to the bearer, that
it should be placed in no hands but yours, that he
should learn if the child was still living and doing
well, that he should answer no questions, and return
as speedily as possible.”

“Ha!” ejaculated Webber, “this clears up another
mysterious event. But go on—go on!”

“My main object in this was the education of
Emily; for still it was my intent at some future
day to do her justice. Again I returned to the
West, and during the four years following, squandered
or made way with most of my money. At
the end of this period I found my health failing
rapidly; and fearful lest death might overtake me,
ere the grand error of my life should be repaired,
I sought a magistrate, in Cincinnati, and had papers
drawn up, stating the full particulars concerning
the abduction of the girl, how to prove
her identity—in fact, everything essential to the
establishing of her in her rights—which I swore to
and signed, in the presence of two respectable
witnesses, who, together with the magistrate,
signed the papers also. These I carried about my
person, superscribed to both Emily Nevance and
yourself—so that in the event of my dying suddenly,
you would probably receive them. After
this, I somewhat recovered, and made another
tour to the East, with the full determination, if
my life was spared long enough, to return with
Emily to England. To my surprise and regret, I
found you not, and learned you were now living
in the Far West. Resolved to see you at all
events, I returned again to the West—after having
received a full description of the part of the
country where you were located—and had actually
reached within a few miles of your residence,
when, it being just at dark, I was set upon by
some three or four ruffians, who seized, stabbed
me twice, and drew me aside into a rough cave,
where they proceeded to rifle my person; while
another—no less a villain than that accursed Jew,
from whom you rescued me—perceiving I was
still alive, deliberately, in cold blood, grinning upon
me the while, stabbed me twice himself, and I
knew no more.”

“Ha!” ejaculated Webber, breaking in upon
the speaker, “this happened some four or five
months since?”

“As near as I am able to judge,” answered
Walton, “it did.”

“Then you were the stranger supposed to have
been murdered, and whose body had been sunk in
the Maramee—the case alluded to in my remarks
a few mornings since, Tyrone. But proceed, proceed,
for I am anxious for the sequel.”

“What followed this,” resumed Walton, “I am
unable to say; for when consciousness returned,
I was in that loathsome dungeon, where you found
me, with the Jew standing over me, grinning horribly,
more like a thing of hell than earth. Why
my life had been spared, and wounds dressed, I
knew not then; but afterwards gathered, from different
remarks dropped, and hints thrown out by
the Jew, that, after his perusal of those papers, the
strange and absurd idea of some day marrying
Emily, had taken possession of him; and that my
life was preserved to be a living witness in enabling
him to recover her property and rights. In
this insane design I encouraged him, in the hope
of some day being released. What I suffered until
that release, is beyond the power of language
to describe. I shall not attempt it. For some
days ere you found me, I had not tasted food, nor
seen a living being, save the hideous Jew, who
came down but a few hours before to murder me,
which something interrupted, and saved my life.
Such, friends,” concluded Walton, “for you all
seem like tried friends to me, is my sad, eventful
tale; and I throw myself entirely upon your generosity
to pardon me the past, by pledging myself
to make all the atonement in my power for the
future.”

“Your punishment in my opinion, has exceeded
your crimes,” replied Webber, mildly;
“and were this not the case, I am not one of
those selfish beings that can withold the right
hand of fellowship from him who repents and
seeks to atone for his past errors. Charles Walton,
there is my hand;” and as he spoke, Webber
arose and extended his hand, which the other
grasped with warmth, while a tear sparkled in his
eye.

“And there is mine,” said Tyrone, coming forward.

“And mine,” said Merton, following his example.

“Wal, old feller,” said Bernard, approaching
also, “I guess as how I'll have to gin ye a grip
on't tu; for darn me, if I don't think there's some
good streaks about ye anyhow, if they be a little
mixed up.”

“And Emily?” asked Walton, deeply affected.

“O, sir,” answered Emily, with a sweet smile, “I
am too happy in the present, to bewail the past.
If you have done me wrong, from my heart I forgive
you, and trust that He who reigns above will
do likewise.”

“This is too much,” said Walton, drawing his
hand across his eyes. “I did at least expect rebuke
from some of you.”

“He who can rebuke a repentant man, himself
needs a rebuke,” rejoined Merton; “for there must
be something wrong, if not base and cowardly in
his own heart.”

“Them's jest my sentiments!” cried Bernard;
“for the man that wont forgive a feller when he
up and acknowledges he's done wrong, aint no
man at all, whether he's dressed up in broadcloth
finery and talks pious or not.”

“How incomprehensible, how inscrutable are
the ways of Providence!” remarked Webber, musingly,
after a pause. “How intricately our web
of fate is woven with that of others; between
whom and ourselves, many times, there seems not
the slightest connection, until a strange order of
events reveals to us perhaps, that years agone,
and miles apart, unknown to each, each was secretly
exercising an influence upon the destiny
of the other.”

“Most true, dear guardian,” said Emily, in reply;
“and in my own case, how strangely and
strongly this is verified! Read that, dear guardian;”

and she placed in his hands the letter given
her by Bonardi.

Webber glanced over it hastily, and, as he did
so, there was a perceptible start of surprise on his
features. “Strange—strange!” said he, “can it
be possible this is so?” and he proceeded to read
aloud as follows:

“Dear Emily:—Pardon the liberty I take in
thus addressing you, for it is perhaps the only favor
I shall ever ask at the hands of one whom the
ties of consanguinity bid me hold most dear. I
fancy I see you start with surprise, at the idea
of the same blood flowing in the veins of both of
us. Such is the fact. Your father and mine
were one; but fortune placed a wide disparity between
us. You were born to wealth and honor—
I to poverty and disgrace. You were born to be
the courted of society—I to be the outcast. And
if we both had one father, what, you ask, made
this disparity? I answer, you were born legally—
I illegally. Or, in other words, your mother was
married by the laws of the land, in the presence
of earthly witnesses—mine, by the laws of honor,
in the presence of God only. But enough of this,
for my minutes are all numbered. Emily, I am
dying of a wound received from the hands of
the father of him whom I have punished for turning
traitor to us, and attempting to wrong you.
John Webber is dead. But ha! I am wandering
from my subject—my thoughts are almost distracted,
and so pardon me.

“Some days since, in a conversation with the
father of John, I learned of you, and that your
birth was involved in mystery. Having learned
the whole particulars, and some slight coincidences
recurring to my mind, a vague suspicion
crossed me that you might be the daughter of Sir
Walter Langdon,—who, if living, must be of the
same age with yourself; and who, fifteen years
ago—about the period when you were brought to
Webber's—mysteriously disappeared.

“When I saw you first, in that wild retreat on
the mountains of the Osage, I felt my suspicion
at once made reality, from your strong resemblance
to your father. Gods! Emily, what feelings
came over me then! when I thought how
that father had spurned me, his own son, from his
presence, and was thus the indirect instrument in
making me the outlaw I am! But a terrible retribution
followed, Emily. Your mother soon
after died—your brother was murdered—you were
stolen away, and your father and mine died a
childless maniac, and his estates passed into the
hands of a villain. By those papers destroyed by
John, doubtless you might have proven your
identity, and gained possession of what is lawfully
your own. As matters are now, I fear this cannot
be done—still I think it worth the trial; but,
at least, you may rest assured your birth is noble
and honorable; and this, to one as sensitive as
yourself on the subject, cannot but be joyful tidings.

“And now, dear Emily, my sister, I must bid
you farewell,—for time presses, and my wound
grows painful. I write this a few miles from the
cave, which I shall endeavor to reach alive, and
see my own loved Inez once again. If I succeed,
I shall probably hand you this myself,—if not,
you will get it from the hands of another. There
are many things of which I wish to speak with
you,—but it is now too late, too late. You will
doubtless hear my name a by-word of terror, and
my memory cursed; but you at least will be char
itable and not curse me; you at least will take into
consideration the circumstances that have
made me what I am; you at least may feel the
poor despised outlaw was not so bad as he seemed.
If you never behold me again, and Inez survives
the loss, I pray you, dear Emily, be to her a friend
and sister—for she at least is innocent of crime.

Farewell, farewell!

5. CHAPTER V.

“How strangely wonderful!” remarked Webber,
thoughtfully, as he concluded the letter.—
“Were facts like these detailed in a novel, they
would be considered wild fancies of the author's
brain. But reality often exceeds romance.”

“Well,” said Tyrone, “all at least seems tending
to prove the hitherto unknown Emily Nevance,
is henceforth to be known as Lady Langdon;
this I am sure is a sweet romance of reality;”
and he glanced at Emily, with a smile.

“At least,” returned Walton, “if God spares
my life, I shall endeavor to make it so.”

“Nay, gentlemen,” said Emily, archly, smiling
sweetly, rising and extending her hand to Edward:
“Not Lady Langdon, and so please you
all.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Edward, rapturously, pressing
her hand in his, “have you forgotton, Emily,
that when I was rich you were about to refuse
me, because you were poor; and now that the
tables are turned, I —”

“Hush!” interrupted Emily, placing her hand
upon his mouth.

“That's right, Emily, that's right!” cried Bernard,
rubbing his hands and smiling “Don't let
him make a fool o' himself now, jest at the windup
like.”

Edward made no reply, but drawing the blushing
Emily aside, whispered something in her ear,
stole a kiss, and both were happy.

Six months from the foregoing events produced
a great change in the positions of our characters.
Mrs. Webber had followed her son to the
grave. Bernard had returned to settle in the
East--where he afterwards married and lived a
happy life. Tyrone had set up in his profession
of lawyer, in St. Louis—a profession in which he
afterwards distinguished himself. Edward had
been united to the lovely Emily; and accompanied
by Webber,—who, after the death of his
family, had disposed of his property—and by Hetty,
who had been released, and who begged to accompany
Emily in the capacity of a servant—and by
Walton, who, true to his promise, determined to
restore Emily to her rights,—they had set sail for
England, where the latter soon after obtained
possession of what was rightfully her own, and
where she and Edward lived in happy affluence,
to tell their children many a wild story of the
Backwoods of America, and of their own singular
connection with the Bandits of the Osage.