The two clerks, or, The orphan's gratitude :: :: University of Virginia Library

Bolivar slept. The victor, the liberator
slept, but not in calmness. Was it the
whisperings of mighty ambition that caused
the tossing and the restlessness, the deep
sigh, and the smothered groan? He awoke
suddenly, and sprung from his couch.

“Mina!”

The major, whose watch in the ante-room
it was that night, entered.

“Your excellency.”

“I am troubled, I know not why. Remain
with me, Mina, I would not be alone.
I am not superstitious, major,” said he with
a smile, “but there is a heaviness upon me
that I cannot account for.”

Mina bowed, and seated himself.

“Nay, major,” said Bolivar, “throw yourself
beside me on the couch; companionship
may drive off these vague forebodings.”

And there they rested; the two careworn
soldiers. The room was lit by a high candelabra,
and every object was distinctly discernable.
Bolivar's eyes wandered restlessly
around the apartment. Suddenly a shadow
flitted by the open casement upon the balcony.
Bolivar strained his glance; again it
passed, and the President sprang to his feet.

“My general!” said Mina.

“I will return---remain,” and Bolivar advanced
to the casement.

All was still. No sound save the distant
tread of the sentinel, as he paced his rounds
before the Palace. In the ante-room still
slumbered two officers of the Presidential
guard. Bolivar glanced at them, and through
the open casement upon the sleeping city.—
“This is childishness!” he murmured to
himself, “I will sleep,” and he turned towards
the couch.

Mina's eyes had followed the movements
of the President. As Bolivar left the casement,
the major's watchful eyes caught a
glimpse of a dark figure on the balcony. It
entered, and crept noiselessly behind the general
. Quick as lightning the pistol of the
major was discharged at the intruder, and
springing from the bed, Mina threw himself
before his general. Bolivar turned, startled
at the report and flash---turned, but to behold
his brave officer staggering to the floor.
“Treason!” cried he, and the guards in the
ante-chamber rushed in. A muffled figure
rushed by them, and sprang over the balcony.
Two shots from the pistols rang simultaneously
in the general's ears. The next
instant, the room was filled by the roused
soldiers. Bolivar bent over Mina---a dagger
stuck in his side.

“My general,” cried Mina, as his eyes
opened on the President, “it is well.”

The hand which Bolivar had grasped closed
upon his own, and Mina fell back. He
had died for his country's deliverer, a death
well fitting the soldier and the patriot.

“Pursue the assassin!” cried the general,
as he sprang to his feet. It needed no more.
Fowler, who had entered, cast but one look
at his dead friend, and rushed from the
apartment, followed by the excited guards.

Torches flashed through the gardens, and
over the Plaza. “Ha! blood!” cried a soldier,
stooping with his torch to examine
some dark stains upon a broad stone of the
court-yard. “We will track the murderer.”

And they followed the course of the blood
drops, across the Plaza, and through the imperial
street. Drop by drop, it led them on,
Fowler at their head. Suddenly the trail
stopped; they had reached the river side.
Fowler plunged in, beat back the wave, and
gained the opposite bank. The form of a
man lay prostrate upon the brink and the
young captain sprang towards it. The figure
rose and staggering forward, raised his sword.
The torch which Fowler bore, gleamed in
the man's face---it was the face of Richard
Martin.

Ay, HE was the murderer. The second
time had his dagger drank the blood of the
Peruvian captain; and this was the death-draught.

“Richard---again?” cried the horror-stricken
Fowler.

“I'm gone—Harry---shot---yes!” muttered
Dick, as he fell at the feet of Fowler.

Henry bent over him. The soldiers who

had followed him, now gained the bank, and
surrounded the dying murderer. Curses
loud and deep rang in his ears. “Let him
confess,” said Fowler to them, in Spanish.

“Ay, confess—confess, I will do that,”
cried Richard. “Ha, ha! I'm dying; here,
Harry—Harry Fowler; I'm a villain. Here,
this is yours, take it,” and he tore open his
breast, and grasped a little packet. “Mercy!
Oh, God—water, water!” A soldier bent forward,
and presented his sword hilt; “the
cross,” he said.

“Away—damnation, ha, ha!”

“Richard—Richard—”

“Ah, Harry, are you there? Look here!
Fowler, I've wronged you—will you—will
you—”

“I forgive you Martin. May HE forgive
you!” said Fowler raising his eyes to heaven.

“Ha, ha, ha!” and the soul of the guilty
man fled—whither?

“He's gone,” said the young captain, as
he placed the packet in his bosom, “bear
him to the Palace.”

A tall form, muffled in a mantle, started
from behind one of the trees, that edged the
river, as the soldiers bore the murderer back.
“He cannot implicate me,” he muttered to
himself, “he is dead with Bolivar.” Mounting
a horse, he gallopped from the spot.

“What is that?” asked one of the soldiers
as the clatter of the horse's hoofs struck
their ears, as they crossed the narrow bridge
that spanned the river.

“The wind, comrade,” was the answer.

They knew not that the greater villain had
escaped, for the tool lay dead before them.

“And you must return,” said Bolivar to
Captain Fowler.

“I would do so, your excellency. I would
see my friends, and assert my innocence.
Your excellency has heard my story.”

“I have; yet I would have you remain.
Bethink yourself; I am your friend; your way
is open here. But, if you must, return to your
country. But let this,” and he took from
his finger a costly gem, “let this ring remind
you of Bolivar.”

Henry sank upon his knee, and grasped
the general's hand. “Farewell,” said the
President; “when next you visit South America,
I may be a private man. But I will still
be your friend, and your country's.”

“May heaven preserve your excellency.”

“Heaven has done so, thus far,” said Bolivar,
“from the dagger and the cannon ball.
I hold the sword of the Republic, under
heaven, for her good. The foes of her liberty
may hate and persecute me. The field of
battle shall attest the valor of our soldiers
and the triumph of our liberty; the same
fortunate field shall see me throw down the
palm of my command. Adieu, scnor, return
to your country, and remember Bolivar.”

Farewell to the sunny Southern shores!—
Farewell to the hard strife, to the glorious
victory! Henry Fowler turned from the
palace of Bolivar with a sigh and a smile—
a sigh for the friends he should leave behind,
and for the fate of the gallant Mina; but the
smile was the shadow of Hope, as she came
from his boyhood's home. His soul had
roved, aimless, amid the wild scenes of his
past year's life, but she had now found an
object.

Home!—how the young wanderer's heart
leaped at the thought, for the vision of a
bright future came with it. He longed for
the day when he should tread again his native
shores, with the proofs of his wrong
and his innocence. The dying Richard's
gift was the key of the orphan's future.

“Shure, but ye won't lave us, captain.”

“I must return, my dear O'Callagan; I
have fond friends in my own country, and
my heart is with them. But will you not
accompany me, my brave friend, and—”

“Throth and it's meself that has frinds,”
said the warm-hearted Irishman, as he dashed
a tear from his eye; “but, God hilp them,
they dwell in the stranger's land.”

“And have you none in your own country,
major?”

“Not while the yoke of the Sassenach is
upon her. No, me young frind, me breath
is freedom, and the curse of the stranger has
poisoned the air of the green Isle.”

“Come, then, with me, major, to my own
free land,” said Henry.

“Nay, me lot is cast here, till the battles
of freedom are inded, or her light ahall
baam on the hills of swate Erin. Good bye,
me young soldier, and when you see an
Irishman frindliss and in ixile, befrind him
for me sake. God bliss ye. Remimber
O'Callagan.”