Transcriber's note: The following Table of Contents has been added for the convenience of the reader.

[THOUGHTS AT NIAGARA.]
[STANZAS TO A LADY.]
[MOHAWK.]
[THE INNOCENCE OF A GALLEY-SLAVE.]
[STANZAS.]
[THE DEATH OF A GENTLE MAIDEN.]
[FOREST WALKS IN THE WEST.]
[ODE TO BEAUTY.]
[MEADOW-FARM: A TALE OF ASSOCIATION.]
[THE MAIDEN'S BURIAL.]
[A NIGHT ON LAKE ERIE.]
[A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD FABLE.]
[THE MAIL ROBBER]
[LETTER THIRD.]
[THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.]
[EPIGRAM: FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.]
[THE PRINTER.]
[CÀ ET LÀ.]
[THE DYING STUDENT.]
[LITERARY NOTICES.]
[EDITOR'S TABLE.]

THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Vol. XXII. SEPTEMBER, 1843. No. 3.

[THOUGHTS AT NIAGARA.]

'There's nothing great or bright, thou glorious Fall!
Thou may st not to the fancy's sense recall.' Morpeth.

Numbers have labored to describe this imposing spectacle, but no pen can exhaust the subject, or do full justice to its grandeur. It is great, indescribable, mighty; and the sensations it produces are indefinite, confused, and wholly unlike and above the emotions raised by other scenes and other causes. It would be presumption to offer a description; although the image of the passing moment is so deeply fixed in the mind, that all else can be dismissed at pleasure, and the imagination conduct us, as often as we will, to a seat on Table-Rock where we can again see the dashing waters roll up in billows above the verge, then gliding over, literally tumble into myriads of particles before they are lost in the rising spray.

One idea impressed me strongly, while enjoying this triumph of Nature's eccentricities; that the Canada Fall was to the American as Great Britain to the United States. Both of the same majestic pattern, equally lofty, created by the same stream, and side by side; but the former more powerful, more irresistible, more overwhelming; while the latter possesses another kind of beauty, less angry, less furious, less threatening, but yet grand and magnificent, and, take away the other fall, incomparable.

Undoubtedly in ages past this mighty tide rolled over in an unbroken sheet; but having worn away in a slow retreat to its present position, a rock unyielding and immovable separated the stream into two unequal divisions; and, judging from the past, the future would seem to forewarn changes equally great. The Canada Fall, however, can gain nothing by the wearings of time. It can have no larger proportion, no higher ledge; but on the other hand, some shifting rock, some rupture in the bed of the river above, may direct the larger share into the American channel, and the relative character of the two be reversed.

The comparison to some extent will hold of the two governments. Our ancestors were common. The same language, the same literature, and the same religion supplied, and continues to supply us both; and although a rock impassable has divided us, we continue in civilization to stand side by side. Great Britain, however, stretches her dominion through the world. The channel of her power is deeper, and its full current sweeps along with irresistible force. She has attained her full meridian, and stands forth the mammoth power of the present age; with her ensign unfurled to every breeze, and her ambassadors upon every isle. She draws within her influence 'earth's remotest bounds;' but, if we rightly estimate the indications of the times, her political meridian has no higher degree; and when she moves from her present position, it is even more probable that she will 'hasten to her setting' than be borne along in her present attitude by the shifting currents of time.

Our republic, in contrast with it, presents the figure of aspiring, expanding youth, and vigorous age. The youth of the parent stock; but, being educated in a different school, and upon another soil, and having shaped out a separate course, founded upon the experience of the past, has formed juster estimates of the dignity and independence of man; of his social immunities; of his inborn liberty; of his equality of right with all mankind; and of his constituting a part of the national sovereignty, rather than its appendage. His free-born genius has unfolded while struggling for these essential principles; and guided by their inspiration, he stretches forward in the career of intellectual and moral expansion, promising ere long to excel immeasurably the sturdy parent, whose genius is encumbered by prejudice, aristocracy, and regalism, and blunted by long and arduous toil.

Unlike the two Falls in extent, neither Great Britain, nor any civilized nation, possesses such a valuable, continuous, and available territory as constitutes the American republic. It reaches, with hill and plain, river and mountain, from ocean to ocean. The waters of the Missouri wander for five thousand miles through its breadth, and yet find their source and discharge within its limits. If, excepting Russia, we double all the kingdoms and States of Europe, and suppose the area to be extended over the Union, an empire as large as Spain would still be left: indeed it is almost impossible to appreciate the territorial magnitude of this grand confederacy, on the imposing scale on which its government is instituted.

For the beautiful and grand in natural scenery, it is saying little to assert that ours is unrivalled. From that variety which stirs the milder feelings, up to that which rouses the highest emotions, it seems to furnish the whole catalogue of the pleasing and the sublime. It offers to us 'rivers that move in majesty;' the bright and gentle scenery of the inland lake,

'On which the south wind scarcely breaks
The image of the sky;'

——'Antres vast,
Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven;'

and lastly, Niagara's rushing tide, the triumph of the grand in nature.

The comparison might be continued in some other respects. The American Fall presents a plain, bold, and widely extended front, while the Canadian is sinuous, and bears deeper marks of the surges' wild career. In like manner the English government has been irregularly extended by the convulsions of time; enlarging its empire by every vicissitude, and swelling its resources even by calamity. Its institutions also have been essentially modified, almost revolutionized, during the long struggles for the emancipation of mind. On the other hand, ours exhibits the same unbroken and formidable outline by which it was originally bounded. Not a fragment has crumbled, but it has rather been rendered geographically complete. Relying upon no foreign possessions for its magnitude; upon no navy or army for its strength; it trusts the future to the guidance of the American mind; those mighty energies now unfolding in the sunny atmosphere of free institutions, and cultivating in that republican school which recognizes no degradation but ignorance, and no distinction save substantial and virtuous worth.

Leaving any farther comparisons, which are idle except as a mere matter of novelty, it may not be amiss to consider the pretension so often reiterated, that our institutions are levelling. What does this vague charge mean? Do they obstruct personal effort, or the pursuit of happiness, or the cultivation of the mind? Do they draw from the husbandman his earnings, from the artisan the fruits of his skill, from commerce its reward? No; so far from shackling man, the philosophy of all Americanism seems to be to open wide the gates to the field of human exertion; inviting every citizen freely to enter and reap according to his abilities; and emphatically to make the utmost of the powers which the Deity has bestowed. Where then is the prostrating tendency detected by the aristocrat in our institutions? It must be because they do not establish and sustain a Patrician race, exalted by territory, wealth, and prerogative. If this is the levelling into which such charges may be resolved, it has precisely a contrary effect, and is much more a matter of commendation than reproach. Republicanism does not seek the elevation of a few, but of all; and this principle is one of profound wisdom, guiding more directly to national greatness than any other political maxim, aside from its inherent justice to man. We have yet to learn that intellect and moral worth require the sustenance of hereditary wealth and place; while ignorance coupled with arrogance would merit contempt, no matter how it was habited. On the other side, aristocracies organized and sustained by law have in all ages, without doubt, produced more misery among men than all the desolations of faction, the rapacity of military commanders, and the tyranny of kings combined. We need no American mandarins to wrest by legitimatized oppression that free, unbroken spirit from the great mass of citizens which must constitute the energy of the nation. Our republic, however, does recognize an order of Patricians, though it rises high above the region of factitious distinctions. Taking the monument for its emblem, the corner-stone of the order is virtue. The pedestal, intellect. The shaft, mental progress, and usefulness to man. The summit, grandeur, sublimity of character. It is composed of Franklins, Marshalls, Washingtons, and the ascendancy of such Patricians is founded on the grateful appreciation of the people of eminent usefulness and exalted worth. If the Pisos, Antoniuses, and Scipios of Rome, together, with the swarming host of Europe's privileged characters shall fade even from the page of history, our Washington and Franklin will live 'through the still lapse of ages,' with perpetual freshness in the minds of men. Such men need no commemorative column, sculptured with their deeds or lineage; and as Napoleon dated his patent of nobility from the battle of Monte Notte, so does theirs bear date with the commencement of their public usefulness.

Turning once more to the Falls of Niagara. Our national boundary divides it, assigning a part to the British empire, thus forming a natural but most remarkable division, the centre of a raging river and a mighty fall. We can all cordially approve the poetical exclamation of a distinguished Englishman:

'Oh! may the wars that madden in thy deeps,
There spend their rage, nor climb the encircling steeps;
And till the conflict of the surges cease,
The nations on thy banks repose in peace!'

Aquarius.

[STANZAS TO A LADY.]

BY W. H. HERBERT

I.

How sweet the time, when morning's prime
First brightens into day,
And fields of dew from skies of blue
Receive the glittering ray!

II.

More sweet the hour, when Passion's power
First sways the yielding frame,
And heart and soul, and mind and sense,
Dissolve in Love's soft flame.

III.

Oh! sweet the light, that gilds the night
From many a glorious star,
And bright the beam, whose golden gleam
The sun shoots forth afar!

IV.

But sweeter far than sun or star,
The light of that dark eye,
Whose dazzling glance and dreamy trance
The shining spheres outvie.

[MOHAWK.]

A CLUSTER OF SONNETS TOUCHING THAT VALLEY.

BY H. W. ROCKWELL.

IV.

Hark! how the cool wind shakes this tent-like screen
Of thick and rustling leaves. No sultry heat
Flames 'mid this spicy air and twilight sweet,
Or steeps the fresh moss, shaded by the green
O'erhanging branches. Let the hot sun beat
Upon the haze-filmed forest-tops; for me,
Amid this hush, inviolate sanctity,
Where all that's best and holiest seems to meet,
The noontide hours shall gently glide away
In quiet meditation. Thou, meanwhile,
That wearest 'mid thy banks through many a mile
Of wood and moorland the fierce beams of day,
Shall be the almoner of many a story,
Hallowed with daring deeds and ancient border-glory!

V.

THE MOHAWK GIRL.

A noble race! but they are gone,
With their old forests wide and deep!'—Bryant.

Where are the painted skiffs that rocked between
These clumps of willow? 'Neath this twinkling shade
Of waving bushes, which o'erhead have made
For the smooth waters a light emerald screen,
Thick with young leaves, and mingling stems, that lean
Mid briers and grass-tufts where the wren hath laid
Her speckled eggs—the shell-decked Indian maid
Sees her wild costume in the trembling green
No longer. Haply by this mossy cove
Of rocking silver she hath twined her locks
With daisies and wild-roses from the rocks;
Roses, the summer growth of this dark grove,
And dewy violets from the splintered blocks
Of yonder bluff, with vines and weeds inwove.

VI.

Cheeks olive-bright, o'er which the blaze of noon
Kindled a sweeter crimson; jetty braid,
And meek eyes where the summer heaven had made
Its bluest glory; speech, which like the tune
Of winds among the beechen boughs at noon,
Scattered soft music through the stooping shade;
She seemed some 'delicate Ariel' of the glade,
Whose life was one of sunshine. Fair, yet soon,
Too soon! that creature of fond romance passed
With the brief beauty of her gentle look,
Dark lock and wampum by the cool wind shook,
And all that I had deemed most sweet to last;
Yet not less fleetly have her race forsook
Those natural rights which once they held so fast.

H. W. R.

Utica, July, 1843.

[THE INNOCENCE OF A GALLEY-SLAVE.]

BY 'THE BULWER OF FRANCE.'

About two o'clock one morning in the month of September, 1828, the country houses situated on the banks of the Garonne, between Reole and Cadillac were steeped in that profound stillness to which the repose of the city is a stranger; and when, in the words of Delisle, 'one sees only night and hears only silence.' A single villa standing alone in the middle of a park of moderate extent, seemed to form an exception to the general repose. From a window on the first floor, at the eastern angle of this building, streamed forth a gleam of light so faint that at a short distance it would be necessary to regard it very attentively to be certain of its existence. A lover of adventure, who would take the pains to scale the park-wall, climb the balcony, and then support himself on the outside of this window, might perchance deem himself sufficiently repaid for his trouble by the mysterious picture there displayed to his curiosity. Between two curtains of blue silk the eye might distinguish the interior of a sleeping apartment, furnished with elegance and taste, and dimly lighted by a night-lamp. Upon a bed in a recess of the room, a female in the flower of youth and of surpassing loveliness was lying in a slumber whose feverish agitation betrayed the presence of one of those tenacious emotions, which not even the temporary suspension of thought and sensation can interrupt. Near the bed, watched a man mute and motionless, with forehead pale and furrowed with the traces of old age. With head bent over the pillow, breathless, and apparently attempting to restrain with one hand the throbbings of his heart, he seemed to catch with sinister avidity the half-uttered words which a painful dream apparently forced from the lips of the sleeper.

'His name! she will not pronounce his name!' exclaimed the old man, after a vain effort to distinguish the broken sounds, and casting around him a look of impotent rage.

'Arthur!' murmured the fair sleeper, as if some fatal power had suddenly broken the last seal which still guarded the half-betrayed secret of her dreams.

'Arthur!' repeated the old man, starting as if this name had been a dagger ready to pierce his bosom; 'Arthur d'Aubian! and I refused to give credence to it. Arthur! blind fool that I have been!'

With a convulsive gesture he brushed away the moisture which stood upon his livid brow, and leaning over the bed, more hateful to him than a yawning sepulchre, he again put his ear close to the fresh and rosy mouth from whence issued these empoisoning words.

'I can go no farther!' murmured the young female, making an effort to rise; 'thy life is in peril; mine is nothing; but thine—No, I can no more! He has suspicions; he will kill you!'

She uttered a stifled sob, trembled from head to foot, and suddenly, with a painful exertion, started to a sitting position. The old man, thinking she had awoke, glided behind the bed-curtains to conceal himself from her view; but without opening her eyes, she remained for some moments immovable in the position she had assumed. Gradually the changes in her countenance betokened those of her thoughts; the terror impressed upon her features gave place to an expression of contemplation, which in turn changed to one of anxious and profound attention. At length, as if the excitement of her nerves had reached the degree of intensity at which the phenomena of somnambulism commence, bending her head, as if to catch some distant sound, she suddenly arose, threw over her shoulders a night-robe, and gliding on tip-toe, cautiously approached the window.

'Midnight!' said she, in a low tone; 'there is not a drop of blood in my veins; the wall is so high! Should he fall! Hark! I hear him in the garden. How loudly he walks! It is the gravel they have put upon the paths. Oh! this is, this must be, the last time: I shall tell him so. This fear is worse than death!'

With a precision in her movements manifesting that internal clairvoyance, of which science has not yet offered us a satisfactory explanation, the somnambulist, whose eye-lids were still closed, extinguished the night-lamp and drew the bolt of the door. She then drew aside the curtains, and opened the window, without the slightest sound reaching the ears of her husband, who a few paces behind her followed this pantomime with looks of sullen fury. She next took from her work-box a long riband, which she unrolled from the window, until it might be supposed to touch the ground; a moment afterward she drew it in, and made a movement as if she were attaching the hook of a rope-ladder to the balcony. Then, breathless and palpitating, she withdrew into the interior of the chamber. Suddenly she opened her arms, and threw them around an imaginary being, murmuring in impassioned tones, 'My life! my life!' She embraced but empty space, and remained for some time as if confounded, with arms crossed upon her bosom.

'Arthur!' cried she at length, aloud, and rushed in a wild paroxysm of terror toward the balcony. The feeble hands of her husband found strength for the moment to hold her back.

'I am terrified! I must not be terrified!' exclaimed she, in a low voice, as she struggled in his arms. The anxiety of the loving woman had now given place to the instinct peculiar to persons subject to somnambulism; who with an incomprehensible perception of their situation, dread above all things being suddenly awakened. But the paroxysm had been too violent for a peaceful termination. Those mysterious filaments by which the soul extends itself during the slumber of the organs which are its accustomed agents, were suddenly severed; as the chords of a harp are snapped by the contact of too rude a hand. The young woman awoke, and uttered stifled shrieks at finding herself, in profound darkness, in the clasp of unknown arms, which held her tightly in their embrace.

'It is I, Lucia,' said the old man, with a painful effort; 'it is I; be not afraid.'

Releasing her from his grasp, he then lighted the candles, closed the window, and with an air of composure approached his wife, who was now seated on the bed, gazing around in silent amazement.

'What has happened?' demanded she, pressing her forehead with both hands; 'I have a chaos, a volcano in my head! How came you here?'

'I heard you walking,' replied the husband, in a subdued voice; 'I was afraid that you were ill, and came up.'

'Can you hear one walking here from your chamber?' replied Lucia, with a secret terror.

'It is the first time it has happened. Your sleep has never before been so disturbed.'

'What a dreadful thing to be a somnambulist!' said she, bending down her head; 'and they say there is no remedy for it.' She then added, faintly: 'Did I speak while asleep?'

'No,' replied the old man, whose exterior remained cold, while his nails were tearing his bosom. He then took a light, wished his young wife a more peaceful remainder of the night, and descended to his apartment. On entering the room his strength failed him, and he sank into an arm-chair, where he remained for some time exhausted and almost insensible. At length that moral energy which physical decay does not always destroy, awoke fierce and implacable in the old man's heart, which at first had seemed almost broken by the discovery of his dishonor.

'How can I kill her!' exclaimed he, wringing his hands in agony. 'Her! I cannot; I have not the courage. But he! he! the aggressor! the spoiler! He will refuse to fight. He will talk of my years; and every one will side with him. For it is allowable, ay, it is deemed an honorable thing, to pluck from an old man the happiness of his declining days; to hold up his name to ridicule and contempt; to make him the victim of shame and despair; but to cross weapons with him, that would be to outrage his gray hairs! And have they not reason? My sight is weak; my hand feeble; in a duel, I should fall without avenging myself. He would spare me, perhaps! Ha! ha! No! no duel; no uncertainty; no hazard. His death at all events, even if I must assassinate him!'

The injured husband passed the remainder of the night in revolving in his mind a thousand plans of vengeance. At day-break he arose, and walked for a long time in the park before any one in the house was stirring. At length a gardener whom he had employed in working on the terrace, met him at a turn of the walk. At sight of the old man the workman took off his cap and approached him with an air of mystery.

'Monsieur Gorsay,' said he, 'I am glad that you have come out so early; I have something to tell you, and I had as lief have none of the others present.'

'What is it, Piquet?' demanded the old man, in a quick tone.

'It is this, Monsieur Gorsay: somebody has broken into the little green-house where we keep our tools. Last night, through forgetfulness, I left my jacket there, in which was my watch, a real silver one, bran new, which cost me, 'pon honor, eighteen francs. There were beside in one of the pockets four crowns, and at least three francs in small change. I found the jacket—proof of which, you may see it on my back—but the watch and the money, parbleu! not a shadow of them to be seen.'

'Don't your workmen go into this green-house?' observed M. Gorsay.

'You have hit it; it is one of them that has done it; I'll put my hand into the fire else.'

'Whom do you suspect?'

'Jean Pierre and Vacherôt are both natives here. I have known them for twenty years, and would answer for them as I would for myself. There is no one, saving your presence, but that sulky Bonnemain who could have thought of such a thing.'

'Bonnemain!' repeated the old man, who seemed as if he was reflecting deeply upon something.

'Yes, he; I have always mistrusted that town fellow,' replied Piquet; 'beside, he spoils work so that I am ashamed of him. He calls himself a gardener, and cannot make a graft!'

'But,' said Monsieur Gorsay, who seemed to take a greater interest in this affair than might have been supposed, 'you have only suspicions, and it is necessary to have proofs.'

'Proofs! here is one that I think clear enough,' replied the gardener, taking from his pocket a little nail, which he held between his fore-finger and thumb; 'look at this new nail which I found under the green-house window. Nobody but Bonnemain has got such as these in his shoes, which he bought the other day at La Reole, and by my faith! there is one gone from the right foot; I noticed it yesterday when he took them off to go down into the fish-pond.'

'Have you mentioned this to any one?'

'No, no; I am not such a fool;' replied the gardener, with a knowing air; 'I wished first to take your advice on the subject.'

'You have acted very prudently, Piquet. Say nothing of this until you hear farther from me; and when you see Bonnemain, send him to me: I will make him speak, I warrant you.'

Piquet shook his head, doubtingly. 'He is a stubborn dog; you will find him the devil to confess, Monsieur Gorsay.'

The old man dismissed the gardener with an abrupt movement of the head, and walked slowly toward the house. He entered his apartment, and there waited with a strange feeling of impatience for the presumed perpetrator of the theft, who was not long in making his appearance at the room door, where he stopped, cap in hand, with an air of respect.

Bonnemain was a man of about forty years of age, of a strongly built frame, rather a mild countenance, and dressed with a sort of care and pretence which seemed foreign to his occupation.

'Shut the door and come this way,' said M. Gorsay to him; at the same time closing the window at which he was sitting.

After obeying him, the laborer remained standing upright and motionless; his whole appearance and demeanor calm and collected.

'Bonnemain, or rather Baptiste Leroux,' said the old man, regarding him with a fixed and piercing eye, 'a robbery has been committed in my house. Innocent or guilty, you have been suspected, for your previous course of life renders you liable to suspicion; beside, there are proofs in the present case, and an investigation will doubtless bring others to light. You have already suffered a severe punishment, and as an old offender you are doubtless well aware of the sentence that awaits you—the galleys for life.'

'My good Sir!' replied Bonnemain, with an air of astonishment which might have deceived even a practised judge, 'you fill me with amazement! I give you my word of honor, Monsieur Gorsay, that I am innocent. It is true I have been in trouble, and I cannot deny it; because when I came here to look for work, I had to show you my passport. But because one has been caught in a foolish scrape in his youth, that is no reason why he should be a rogue all his life. As sure as there is a God who hears us, I know nothing at all about this matter.'

'For what crime were you condemned the first time to the galleys?' demanded Monsieur Gorsay.

'For a little faux pas I had the misfortune to commit when I was in a mercantile house,' replied the freed convict, with an air of contrition.

'For an assassination,' replied the old man, lowering his voice, but with marked emphasis; 'for an assassination, committed upon the person of a tax-gatherer, from whom you expected to get what he had received, but which, happily for you, he chanced not to have about his person at the time. I say happily for you, for the robbery not having been committed, and the premeditation not proven before the jury, you were only sentenced to the galleys. At Toulon your good conduct gained you a commutation of punishment, and instead of finishing your days in confinement, you were set free at the end of ten years. You see I am well informed.'

'Ah! old fox!' thought Baptiste Leroux, alias Durand, alias Lejeune, alias Bonnemain, 'if you and I were alone in some dark wood, your business should soon be done for you, old fellow!'

Monsieur Gorsay seemed to divine the sanguinary thoughts of the man, for he cast his eyes with an uneasy look toward the window. He was reässured, however, by the presence of some men who were working in the garden at a short distance. In broad day, in his own house, and within reach of such assistance, he felt that he had nothing to fear from the fury with which the convict seemed filled, notwithstanding his efforts to conceal it. He therefore continued the conversation, but it was rather with the familiarity of a friendly counsellor, than the severity of a vindictive judge.

'Hitherto,' said he, 'you have experienced nothing but misfortune; you have passed ten years in the galleys for a murder by which you gained nothing; and here you are on the point of going back again for life, for stealing a paltry watch, worth perhaps twenty francs.'

'It was not worth ten!' answered Bonnemain, who instantly bit his lips till the blood sprang from them.

'Ten or twenty,' replied the old man, with an ironical smile, 'it matters little; the main point is, that the robbery can be proved. Indeed, it is so now, by your own confession. I shall be obliged to have you arrested.'

'You will then arrest an innocent man,' said the convict, losing in spite of himself somewhat of his assurance.

Monsieur Gorsay bent down his head, and remained for some time with downcast eyes; raising them at length, he fixed upon Bonnemain a look which seemed as if it would pierce the inmost recesses of a soul degraded by habitual vice. 'Suppose,' said he to him, 'that instead of giving you up to justice, I should furnish you with the means of repairing to Bordeaux, and from thence of embarking for a foreign port; St. Sebastian, or Bilboa, for instance; suppose farther, that not content with saving you, I should remit you a sum of money sufficient to set up an establishment somewhere out of France, which would place you beyond the reach of want; ten thousand francs, for instance. What would you think of such a proposal?'

All the emotion evinced by the galley-slave at this munificent and unlooked-for proposition, was an almost imperceptible movement of the lips. With the sagacity of that class of persons who gain their livelihood by a criminal and not always bloodless industry, he comprehended in an instant that a bargain and not a deed of benevolence was in the wind. This conviction at once restored all his wonted audacity; for to bargain with a superior is for the time to become his equal.

'What should I think, Monsieur Gorsay?' replied he, after seeming to reflect for a little while; 'by my faith! I should say, 'Bonnemain, it is not for your beautiful eyes that ten thousand francs are offered you. In truth, somebody has need of you for a job that is worth the money. Egad! a fine pour boire is ten thousand francs!'

'And this job; will you undertake it?' demanded the old man, in a concentrated voice.

'That depends on circumstances,' said Bonnemain. 'I never turn my back upon work. It is only your lazy dogs who refuse to work. But still, one must know what the matter in hand is.'

'Suppose it is something of deep importance?'

'Something like the affair of the tax-gatherer, is it not?' demanded the convict, with a significant smile.

'It is,' replied M. Gorsay, in a deep tone.

'Only this time,' continued the convict, 'instead of having an eye upon the government money, the business in hand, perhaps, is to get rid of a tall young fellow who scales walls and climbs into windows as if he had been brought up to it?'

'You have seen him then?' exclaimed the old man, put off his guard by this unexpected revelation.

'Listen to me, Monsieur Gorsay,' said Bonnemain, coolly; 'we must be plain with each other in this matter. I will speak frankly, and tell you all I know. Beside, I am not now afraid of your denouncing me. That fool of a Piquet leaving his jacket, with his watch and money, in the little green-house, put some notions in this noddle of mine. And beside, I chanced just then to be a little cramped for the needful. And after all, the best of us are but human. See me then in the park, by the wall, behind the plane trees. On a sudden I hear a noise just above me. At first I thought it was a cat or a marmot; but no such thing; it is a man who lets himself down the wall, and then marches straight toward the house. 'Good!' thinks I to myself; 'here's a comrade who has perhaps got a better idea than mine, and may-be there will be shares for two.' It was near midnight, and as dark as an oven. All's one to me; so I slip off my shoes and follow. Behold him now just under your window. I lay me flat down on the turf, so that in turning he might not see me. What then do I see? A window opens above, something white appears, and up my gentleman climbs in a twinkling. 'Excuse me,' says I to myself; 'it seems my comrade has got a friend inside the house, and we are hunting for different game.' And so, seeing that the affair was not in my line, I set about my own little business.'

'Did you recognize this man?' demanded the old man, in a husky tone.

'I think,' replied the galley-slave with a grin, 'that you had better ask that question of Madame Gorsay, who saw him nearer than I did.'

'Did you recognize him?' repeated the husband of Lucia, in a tone of thunder.

'Yes,' said Bonnemain coolly, 'I did; it was your neighbor, Monsieur Arthur d'Aubian, who lives down by the river, about twenty minutes' walk from here.'

'Well, it is he that must be put to death!' said the old man, rising in a transport of fury.

'I do not say yes, I do not say no;' replied he of the galleys, with an air of nonchalance. 'I risk my ball at this game; if I lose, I know what I must expect; if I win——'

'You shall have ten thousand francs;' said M. Gorsay, interrupting him.

'That is more than my carcase is worth, there is no doubt about it; I do not find fault with the price. But the deed once done, who will assure me that I get my pay? You may guess I shall not have much time to wait; and, as they say, one does not find ten thousand francs on horseback; you have not perhaps a quarter of that sum in your house; for although one may be rich, yet that is no reason for keeping so much ready money about him.'

Instead of replying to this objection, the old man approached a secretary which stood near the chimney, opened it, displaced one of the drawers, and drew out from a secret cavity a wooden bowl, containing some twenty little rouleaus; he took three or four of these in succession, and tearing off their coverings, let fall on the writing-table a shower of gold. All the emotion evinced by the convict at this sight, was a sudden sparkle of the eye, and a gloating smile, which was instantly repressed by his thin and colorless lips.

'You see your money is ready for you,' said M. Gorsay. 'Is the bargain concluded?'

'When one does not pay in advance, it is the custom to give an earnest,' replied Bonnemain, twisting his hands behind his back, to resist the temptation.

'There then,' said the old man, giving him a dozen twenty-franc pieces; 'when the business is done, you shall have twenty times as much. You see it is gold; you will not have much trouble to carry it.'

'Gold is never heavy,' replied the galley-slave, in a sententious tone; and without farther discussion he thrust the earnest of his bargain into his pocket.

Thus far the compact between the old man and him of the galleys had been carried on without a difference. The two accomplices then began to discuss the means of accomplishing the deed of which Arthur d'Aubian was to be the victim. Listening only to the impatience of his hatred, the outraged husband was eager for a vengeance as prompt as terrible; to wait until evening seemed intolerable. The subordinate assassin, upon whom was to fall the danger and responsibility of the deed, soon convinced him that a murder in broad day-light was out of the question.

'As he is in the habit of taking walks at midnight,' said he, with the confidence of one who had maturely weighed the matter in hand, 'that must be the time for our purpose: between his house and yours there is a little by-path, exactly suited for the deed; one may lie hid behind the hedge. There is not a dwelling within half a mile, and the Garonne is hard by. The moon does not rise till two o'clock; and as my gentleman takes his stroll about midnight, we shall be able to do his business for him without risk. The time of the tax-gatherer's little affair, it was that cursed moon that caused me to be detected; and since then I have made a vow never to do work with that minx overhead. There is no way, see you, of putting her out.'

'First of all, however,' said M. Gorsay, 'you must restore to Piquet the watch and money you took from him. He has suspicions of you, and if he enters a complaint will have you arrested.'

'And that will spoil your business, eh, old gentleman?' familiarly interrupted the thief, about to become a murderer. 'I understand you; they will cage me, and in the mean time this fine fellow d'Aubian can climb over walls and scale balconies at his leisure. Here goes, then, for restitution; it shall be done forthwith, and Piquet shall see wonders. As for his cursed old warming-pan, I do not value it a sous; it is not worth the trouble I have taken for it.'

The plan being at length arranged, the two men parted. Before leaving the chamber, however, Bonnemain examined every corner with that close observation with which adepts in villany are usually endowed. He noticed the secret place where the old man replaced the bowl of gold, and the manner in which he fastened the secretary; he also carefully observed the structure of the window, and noted that there were no shutters on the inside. On the outside a simple Venetian blind protected it from forcible entrance, which the small elevation of the ground floor rendered easily practicable. Satisfied with his examination, the convict respectfully saluted the man to whom he had just sold himself, and then rejoined his companions in the garden, with his usual tranquil and composed air.

In the course of the morning, as Monsieur Gorsay was slowly pacing one of the alleys of the park, he was again accosted by his gardener.

'I am surely bewitched,' said master Piquet, whose sun-burnt face seemed expanded to double its usual size with joy and amazement. 'Only to think, Monsieur Gorsay, that my watch and money should get back into my pocket again, and I know nothing about it! If there were such things as sorcerers, the thing would be plain enough; but one does not believe in such nonsense now-a-days.'

'It is one of your comrades who has been amusing himself at your expense,' replied the old man, shrugging his shoulders and continuing his walk.

'It may be so,' thought Piquet, 'but they sha'n't drive it out of my head that Bonnemain is an ugly dog, and if I were Monsieur Gorsay, I should get rid of him in short order.'

About the middle of the following night a strange rencounter took place upon the coping of the wall which surrounded the park of M. Gorsay, on the side of the alley of plane trees. Two men who at the same moment were scaling this enclosure, the one from the outside and the other from within, suddenly found themselves face to face on reaching its summit. Mutually startled at so unexpected a meeting, both were on the point of letting go their hold. Instinctively, however, they preserved themselves from falling by clinging to the cope-stone of the wall, and bestriding it with a vigorous effort, found themselves seated on a more secure resting-place. For a few moments they remained motionless, face to face in this position, bestriding the wall, to which they clung tightly with their legs, so as to leave their hands at liberty for the contest which such a rencounter seemed to render probable. They were so close to each other that in spite of the darkness they could distinguish the persons, and in a short time recognized each other. Presently the one who came from without saw the arm of his adversary suddenly raised, and at the extremity of the outline which it for the instant formed with the dark back-ground of the heaven, he distinguished the blade of a knife or dagger. Retreat was out of the question, and the attack was a deadly one. Unarmed himself, he sprang upon his assailant, seized the extended arm with one hand, and with the other rudely grasped him by the throat.

'Bonnemain!' said he, in a low tone, 'throw down your knife, or I will pitch you from the wall!'

Compelled under fear of strangulation to obey this mandate, the convict dropped his weapon, which fell into the park.

'Monsieur d'Aubian,' said he, in a half-stifled voice, 'let me get down; I will not prevent your going in, do not hinder me from going out.'

'You have been committing a robbery,' said Arthur; 'people do not scale walls in this manner without some evil intent.'

'But you yourself are climbing them; does it follow that you are a robber?'

Rendered mute by this reply, the lover of Lucia reflected that even had a robbery been committed, it would be impossible for him to arrest the criminal without compromising the woman he loved.

'Best let him go,' thought he; 'it is doubtless his interest that I should be silent, and he for his own sake will hold his tongue.'

Freed from the double grasp which confined his arm and almost stopped his breathing, Bonnemain, without a word farther, stooped down and groped along the outside of the wall. He soon found the rope-ladder, of which Arthur had made use, and which a hook, thrown by a strong and practised hand, had fastened to the edge of the coping. The convict grasped it tightly, and swinging himself over, began to descend with the agility of a squirrel. When half way down he stopped short, and reäscended as quickly as he had gone down.

'Neither seen, nor known; you understand me!' said he, in a significant tone to the young man; 'or if you choose to turn informer, I shall have a story to tell, how a certain young man made his way into the chamber of Madame Gorsay the other night!'

Without waiting for reply, Bonnemain let himself slip to the ground, and fled across the fields, where, favored by the darkness of the night, he quickly disappeared.

Arthur, without moving, remained for some time in the position in which the convict had left him. The idea of the secret of his love being at the mercy of such a miscreant, filled him with a sensation of mingled chagrin and anger. He soon, however, tried to reässure himself with the thought that he ought not to dread any indiscretion on the part of one so much interested in keeping the secret. Still, in spite of all his efforts to drive from his mind the impression produced by this disagreeable incident, he felt a vague apprehension of impending evil, which in all his previous nocturnal rambles he had never experienced. Instead of descending rapidly into the park, as had been his former custom, he now hesitated, and was on the point of retreating; but the thought of Lucia awaiting his arrival, decided the point, and love triumphed over prudence. He drew the rope ladder to the inside of the wall, and then perceived that on this occasion its services would not be required; for Bonnemain, to facilitate his escape, had placed against the wall one of the large ladders used in the garden. D'Aubian soon reached the ground, and notwithstanding the darkness, bent his way through the trees, as one to whom the obscure labyrinth was familiar. As he approached the pavilion, his footsteps were arrested by an unwonted noise, which broke the silence, till then undisturbed, save by the monotonous sound of the rustling foliage. Hearing nothing farther, he pursued his way; but presently a more distinct sound, like the voice of a man calling to others, again caused him to stop. Many shouts in rapid succession from different quarters were now heard in reply. It was evident that the robbery which had been committed by Bonnemain had aroused the inmates of the house, and that they were now searching the park. With the fleetness of a deer when he first hears the baying of the hounds, Arthur directed his course toward the place at which he had entered. Just as he reached it, he saw, flitting before him in the coppice, a light resembling a will-o-the-wisp, and immediately afterward distinguished a man with a lantern running hastily up the straight alley which bordered the wall of the enclosure. On perceiving the ladder, the man suddenly stopped, like a hound when he scents a track, and began to utter shouts, which were answered by other voices at a distance. In a short time two more lights, similar to the first, made their appearance through the trees, and the lover of Lucia now saw that his retreat was completely cut off. For a moment he hesitated, and then decided that it was more prudent to confront the danger than attempt to fly without the chance of escaping. He advanced therefore toward the scouts, who were assembled at the foot of the ladder in animated discussion. At sight of the young man, who emerged briskly from the thicket, there was a general sensation. The more prudent remained quiet; the bolder threw themselves upon d'Aubian, whom they did not at the moment recognize.

'What's the matter, Piquet?' said Arthur, shaking off the leader of the nocturnal expedition, who had seized him by the collar.

'How! what! is it you, Monsieur Arthur?' said the gardener, astounded at this rencounter.

'What has happened? and what is the meaning of all this stir?' replied the young man.

'Oh, good heavens!' said Piquet, 'poor Monsieur Gorsay has just been assassinated!'

'Assassinated!' exclaimed d'Aubian, turning deadly pale.

'All bathed in blood! with a great gash in his side in which you may put your hand! It is all over with him, poor gentleman! We are now after the assassin, who you may see has got off at this place, for here is my ladder which the gallows-bird has used. But how comes it, Monsieur d'Aubian, that you are in the park at this time of night?' continued he, regarding the young man with a look of suspicion.

Arthur had had time to invent a story to account for his unexpected appearance on this occasion.

'From what you tell me,' said he, 'I am sure that I have seen the assassin.'

'Seen him! Who is he? Did you recognize him?' demanded all at once the three men, pressing round him.

'I was returning from Canderol,' said d'Aubian; 'on my way home I passed along the foot-path on the outside of the park. Suddenly I perceived a man letting himself slip down the wall. This excited my suspicions, and I advanced toward him, but at sight of me he instantly took to his heels, and disappeared in the fields. In his stead I only found a cord hooked to the wall. Fearing lest some mishap had befallen Monsieur Gorsay, I clambered over the wall by means of this cord, in order to reach the house more quickly and give the alarm; which I was about to do when I saw your lanterns.'

'And did you recognize him? this robber?' asked one of the domestics.

'No,' replied Arthur, calling to mind the threat of the convict.

'It could only have been Bonnemain who has done this deed,' said Piquet; 'I always mistrusted that sulky wretch.'

One of the men who had been ferretting along the wall, now suddenly raised himself. 'Here is a knife!' said he; 'and there is blood upon it!'

The instrument of murder passed from hand to hand. It was one of those poniards without a sheath, known as Catalonian knives, the blade of which on opening is fastened by a spring. The steel had been carefully wiped, but in the groove of the handle might be seen traces of blood which had not been completely effaced.

'He cannot be far off,' said the head gardener; 'we must track him like a villanous wolf as he is. Come on, boys! let us after him, all hands! But you, Monsieur d'Aubian, will not you come in and console poor Madame Gorsay a little? She is almost distracted. Think what a shock this is to the poor lady! They have sent for the doctor, the priest, and the king's attorney; all is in confusion; but I am sure she will be glad to see you, who are so good a friend of the family.'

Suspicious as all men are whose consciences are not free from reproach, Arthur thought he perceived in these words an ironical meaning, which was in reality very far from the simple mind of the honest gardener. He feared also lest a refusal to go might awaken suspicions; and beside, the calamity which had just befallen Lucia inspired him with a mournful desire to see and assure her of his eternal devotion; the only consolation he could offer at the moment of so terrible a catastrophe. He accordingly accompanied Piquet, who returned to the house, carrying with him as proofs the clasp-knife and rope-ladder.

'The rascal laid his plans well,' said the gardener, as he trudged along; 'he must have thought that the ladder would be too heavy to drag over the wall, and this is why he has brought along this rope-ladder; a true robber's instrument. A strong-wristed rascal to climb up such a machine as that!'

'Is Monsieur Gorsay dead?' asked d'Aubian, with a thoughtful air.

'The poor old gentleman cannot be far from it,' replied the gardener, quickening his pace.

The place where the crime had been committed was the bed-chamber in which the old man had had the interview with the galley-slave a few hours before. The assassin had effected his entrance through the window, by raising the inner hook which fastened the Venetian blind. Surprised in bed, and probably asleep, M. Gorsay had to all appearance been stabbed instantly. At any rate his resistance must have been short and feeble, for he was found lying in his natural position. The covering was scarcely deranged, and were it not that the bed-clothes were deluged in blood, one might have supposed him to be sleeping. After the commission of the deed the assassin had endeavored to break open the secretary. During this attempt a vase which stood on the chimney-piece was disturbed by him, and fell with a loud noise; and it was not until then that the domestic, who slept in an adjoining room, was aroused and gave the alarm.

The spectacle which met the eyes of Arthur on entering this fatal place redoubled the emotion by which he was already agitated. By the light of a number of torches placed hap-hazard around the room, might be seen a group in whose visages and attitudes extreme consternation was displayed. The bed on which the victim was lying had been dragged into the middle of the room, in order to facilitate the remedies which the physician was beginning to apply. At the pillow knelt an old priest, watching for some sign of life which might permit him to commence the performance of his office. These two individuals, invested with an office equally stern and almost equally sacred, had arrived at the same moment. Accustomed to meet at the bedside of the dying, they scarcely exchanged words. Without losing time the physician had commenced his work; the priest was awaiting the fitting moment for his.

At the foot of the bed, motionless as a statue, sat the wife of the wounded man, her hands tightly clasping the edge of the couch, which she had seized with convulsive energy when they had tried to draw her away from the bloody spectacle. Not a tear, not a groan escaped her; pale as if at the point of death herself, with fixed eyes and set teeth, she gazed upon her husband in mute stupefaction; and now and then, as if the better to see him, she dashed aside with frantic gesture the black locks which fell in disorder over her forehead and shoulders.

At sight of her lover, Lucia testified neither perturbation nor surprise: it seemed as if excess of emotion had dried up all the sources of ordinary feelings. With a look of profound sadness she pointed to the lifeless body of her husband, and then resumed her stone-like aspect, which might remind the beholder of one of the ancient victims of destiny.

However conscience may be lulled and put to sleep by passion, it is always sure to awake at the sight of death. As Arthur gazed upon the man whose hospitality he had abused, now lying bathed in his blood, he felt a portion of that remorse which racked the heart of the guilty wife steal over his soul. At such a moment to direct toward her a single word, a look, even a thought, seemed to him an odious profanation. Instead of approaching her he seated himself beside the priest, and said in a low voice: 'Is there any hope of saving him?'

'God knows!' replied the old man, raising his eyes to heaven

For many hours the efforts of art seemed unavailing; consciousness was not restored to Monsieur Gorsay; and every moment respiration seemed on the point of ceasing. The physician, who on the first examination of the wounds did not think them mortal, began to lose hopes. The absolute insensibility which prevailed, and which he had at first attributed to loss of blood, and the feebleness of old age, made him now suspect that some vital organ had been reached by the poniard of the assassin. From time to time he bent over the wounded man, and listened with anxiety to the faint breathing which with difficulty made its way from his breast. At length some nervous contractions disturbed the sepulchral rigidity which the form and features of the patient had hitherto assumed; the respiration became stronger, and after a painful effort, the eye-lids half unclosed; he tried to raise himself, but had not sufficient strength; and he now lay for some time with mouth and eyes open, but evidently unable to see or speak.

'Curate,' said the physician, wiping his forehead, 'I think you may go to bed; I have now good hopes that we shall save him.'

For the first time d'Aubian now sought the eyes of Lucia, but he caught them not. On hearing the words of the physician she had fallen upon her knees, and seemed to be praying fervently.

It was now broad day-light. A group of peasants and workmen had collected before the house, whose eager conversation showed what an impression the news of the attempt made on the person of a man rich and universally esteemed had produced in the neighborhood. The excitement of this assemblage increased every moment, and broke forth in loud expressions of rage at the sight of Bonnemain, with hands tied behind his back, whom two sturdy peasants under the guidance of Piquet were dragging along with an air of triumph. Curses, menaces, threats of death, of which in such cases the populace, especially those of the south, are always prodigal, overwhelmed with frightful concert the presumed author of the assassination. From threats they were proceeding to stones, and from stones would probably have come to knives, when the mob was on a sudden roughly broken in upon by a carriage which drove up at a brisk trot, and from which leaped a personage clad in black, of grave demeanor and stern countenance.

'In the name of the law,' cried he in a tone of authority, 'let none of you raise a hand against this man.'

On recognizing the King's Attorney of the Court of Reole, the most violent desisted from their process of summary justice, and ceasing their vociferations, fell back some paces. After interrogating Piquet, the magistrate ordered the cords to be taken from the prisoner, whose mud-soiled clothes and bruised visage showed that he had only yielded after a desperate resistance. The king's attorney committed him to the care of the two volunteers who had effected his capture; he then entered the house for the purpose of holding the inquest, for which an express had been sent to him at day-break.

Thanks to the skilful succors which were incessantly employed, Monsieur Gorsay by degrees recovered strength and consciousness, but not the power of speech. In the mean time, and while waiting until the patient should be in a fitting condition to sustain an examination, the king's attorney employed himself in viewing the localities, and collecting with scrupulous attention every fact which might have a bearing upon the proceedings which were subsequently to be instituted. Of all the persons collected in the house, one only had declared that he had seen the assassin escape; this was Arthur d'Aubian, who found himself obliged to repeat his partially fabricated story, of which Piquet had already given some details.

'And so, Sir,' said the magistrate to him, 'the gardener was mistaken when he affirmed that you believed that you recognized in the man who scaled the wall the individual named Bonnemain?'

'As I did not see his face, I could not have recognized him,' replied Arthur, who signed his deposition with a steady hand; resolved to preserve the reputation of the woman he loved, even at the expense of a false oath.

These preliminaries finished, the king's attorney, who was in haste to reach the main point of his inquest, the confronting the accused with the victim, returned to the chamber of Monsieur Gorsay. He approached the bed of the old man, who in spite of his feebleness made an effort to raise himself, and seemed to thank him for his coming, by a look of intelligence.

'He is not yet in a condition to speak,' said the physician in a low tone to the magistrate; 'but he hears and comprehends what is said to him.'

'Monsieur,' said the king's attorney, bending over the bed, 'I hope that you will soon be able to give us in your own words the information which justice requires, to punish the attempt of which you have been the victim. Meanwhile, until you recover your speech, will you please to answer me by signs? An overturned lamp which was found upon the secretary, leads us to suppose that the assassin made use of a light while attempting to commit the robbery. It is possible that at this moment you might have seen him; is this conjecture true? Did you see the murderer?'

Monsieur Gorsay with some difficulty made a sign in the affirmative.

'If he were brought before you, would you recognize him?'

The old man repeated the same gesture with more energy, while an expression of horror was manifested in his countenance.

'Monsieur,' said the physician, drawing aside the officer of justice, 'I must declare to you that a confronting of the parties at this moment would be attended with danger. The situation of the wounded man is still very precarious, and the sight of the assassin would necessarily produce an excitement which it would be prudent to avoid.'

'It is precisely,' replied the magistrate, 'because I, as well as yourself, regard the situation of the wounded man very precarious, that it seems to me improper to defer a confrontation, which alone can throw satisfactory light upon this affair. For the sake of the public, as well as that of the individual in custody, I must not neglect the only means of decisively ascertaining the truth. In case of the death of Monsieur Gorsay, what will remain? Strong proofs, presumptive evidence, more or less weighty, but not ocular testimony; since Monsieur d'Aubian declares that he did not recognize the fugitive. We must therefore take advantage without delay of the lucid interval of the wounded man, who may become worse in a moment.'

'Who will most certainly become worse, if you bring the assassin into this room,' replied the doctor in a quick tone.

'Will you assure me, upon your honor,' asked the king's attorney, 'that Monsieur Gorsay will be still alive to-morrow morning?'

'Nobody is sure of living until to-morrow,' replied the physician, avoiding a direct answer; 'but do as you please, Sir. In protesting against a measure which may prove fatal to a man committed to my care, I have performed my duty.'

'As I shall perform mine, by taking every measure to develope crime, no matter at what cost.'

'Though this cost should be the death of an old man?' demanded the doctor, with generous warmth.

'Sir,' replied the magistrate, with a grave air, 'you speak as an apostle of humanity, and I shall not take offence at your language. I for my part am the representative of society; and you must understand in your turn that it is impossible for me to shrink from my mission, whatever may sometimes be its rigor. I regret that a discussion like this should have arisen between us, although in fact it is honorable to both, as it proves that each of us is sensible of his duty. Were I in your place, I should perhaps take the course that you have taken; permit me to believe that were you in mine you would act as I do.'

These two men separated with a mutual gravity. As the king's attorney left the room for the purpose of having the prisoner brought in, the physician approached d'Aubian and the curate, who since Monsieur Gorsay had recovered his consciousness kept themselves withdrawn from view, in a corner of the room; the priest, that the patient might not perceive that his situation was of sufficient danger to render spiritual succor necessary; and Arthur, from one of those compunctious visitings of conscience which the conviction of having irrevocably injured a man whom one respects never fails to awaken in honorable minds.

'Curate,' said the doctor, with an air of dissatisfaction, 'human justice is scarcely humane. You might preach a sermon from this text. While you are considerately concealing your cassock in order not to alarm this poor man, the king's attorney here is giving us a fine specimen of the morals of his trade. Provided he can complete his procès verbal, every thing else is of little moment. He has now gone to bring the assassin into this chamber. I have told him that I would not answer for the consequences, and he still persists. But let him do as he pleases; I wash my hands of it.'

'Madame Gorsay should be removed from the room,' said Arthur, whom the situation of Lucia at this moment inspired with pity as much as love.

'That is what I was on the point of suggesting,' replied the physician. 'You alone, curate, are capable of doing it: lead her out, and do not permit her to return. Should we need your services I will send for you, but do not let her come here again. Her nervous organization is extremely irritable, and I dread a rush of blood to the brain. There are those who have become confirmed lunatics with slighter indications of insanity than she sometimes exhibits when under great nervous excitement. Keep her in her chamber; I will go up to her as soon as I can get away from here. It may perhaps be necessary to take some blood from her.'

Making use of the double authority of his age and profession, the curate succeeded in leading Lucia from the apartment. As they left the room the king's attorney returned, followed by Bonnemain, in custody of two peasants, his volunteer guard. At sight of the assassin of her husband, Madame Gorsay turned away her head, and leaned heavily upon the arm of the priest, who quickened his pace, saying to himself in a low tone, 'In this great calamity I thank thee, O my God! that this is not a child of our parish!'

The prisoner and escort stopped at the threshold of the chamber, while the magistrate advanced singly toward the wounded man, to prepare him for the interview.

'This is the critical moment,' said the physician to d'Aubian; 'lend me your aid, for these domestics are so awkward they can afford no assistance. Pass your arm under the pillow, and support Monsieur Gorsay: in his present posture he cannot see the man they are bringing in, and we must try and abridge this ceremony.'

Having satisfied himself that the wounded man, although still speechless, was capable of comprehending the scene which was about to take place, and seemed to be in a condition to support it, the attorney made a sign for Bonnemain to approach. The galley-slave cast around him a ferocious look, and seemed to be calculating the chances of escape; these appearing hopeless, he resigned himself to his situation, and slowly advancing, remained motionless a few paces from his victim, with head hanging down, face livid and contorted, and his whole frame agitated by a trembling which seemed strongly characteristic of guilt.

'This old fellow is a tough one!' thought he, as he beheld the eyes of Monsieur Gorsay, which he had believed closed for ever, now wide open and glaring upon him.

The crisis anticipated by the physician now took place. At sight of the murderer the old man, in spite of all his efforts to nerve himself, experienced a feeling of terror, the violence of which was manifested by a sudden change in his countenance. Already pale, his face became still more death-like, his eyes closed, and his head sunk upon the pillow, as if the sight of the assassin had completed the work of the poniard. As the doctor hastened to prepare a cordial, Arthur, who with one arm supported the wounded man, bent forward to apply to his nostrils a vial of salts. At this moment Monsieur Gorsay reöpened his eyes, and saw immediately before him the countenance of the man for whom Lucia had betrayed him. He stared at him for some moments with an air of stupefaction, as if contemplating an apparition to which reason will not allow us to give credence; but suddenly a supernatural fire lighted up the features which death seemed already to have stiffened with his icy hand. Hatred, indignation, fury, vengeance, all the deadly passions which since the preceding evening had been busy at his heart, now seemed to flash from his eyes in one appalling glance. Unaided, and by an effort of incredible vehemence, the old man raised himself, and stretching his hand toward Arthur, whom this movement struck with a sort of superstitious awe, he made convulsive efforts to speak, which at length burst the bands by which his tongue had until now been enchained:

'The assassin! the assassin!' cried he, with a voice which seemed to issue from a sepulchre.

A clap of thunder falling in the chamber could not have produced a greater impression than that caused by this terrible and vindictive exclamation. D'Aubian stood speechless and aghast, as if indeed guilty. A sullen smile of malice played on the lips of the galley-slave. The magistrate and physician exchanged a significant glance: the latter, approaching the wounded man, took his arm and felt his pulse.

'Ægri somnia!' said he, addressing the magistrate.

Monsieur Gorsay repulsed the doctor, with an expression of anger. 'No! it is not the dream of a sick man!' said he, in a hoarse but distinct voice; the blood which I have lost has not taken away my reason. I have my senses; I see you all. You are Monsieur Mallet; you, you are Monsieur Carigniez, the king's attorney of Reole; the curate has just left the room with my wife; these are the workmen who work in my garden; and this,' continued he, pointing to Arthur with a furious gesture, 'this is the man who has just attempted to kill me!'

'Your sight, still feeble, deceives you,' said the magistrate, who as well as Monsieur Mallet continued to think that the wounded man was not in full possession of his senses. 'Look this way; do you not recognize this man here on your right as the assassin?'

'No nonsense, Monsieur Magistrate!' cried Bonnemain; 'you see well enough that he recognizes the other one. I call every one here present to witness!'

The old man by a strong effort overcame the horror which the sight of the galley-slave caused him, and gazed on him for an instant with affected composure.

'This man,' said he, 'is called Bonnemain; he is employed by my gardener. It was not he who attempted to assassinate me. It was that one, I tell you; it was Arthur d'Aubian. Do your duty, Monsieur Attorney. I have perhaps but a short time to live; let my declaration be written down. If I die, I adjure you all to repeat to the jury my last words; write——No, give me the pen; I have sufficient strength to write myself.'

'Bravo!' said Bonnemain to himself, drawing a longer breath than he had yet done; 'this will do bravely! If all customers were as plain-spoken, there would be some pleasure in doing business. It seems the old crab has not yet digested the rope-ladder of my tall gentleman here. This does finely!'

D'Aubian had not spoken a single word: the victim of a vengeance whose stroke he could not avert without publicly casting dishonor upon the woman he loved, he enveloped himself in silent resignation and disdain.

'Monsieur!' said the magistrate to him, with an embarrassment to which gentlemen of the legal profession are rarely subject, 'however strange the declaration of Monsieur Gorsay may appear to all of us, it is impossible for me not to include it literally in my procès verbal.'

'Do your duty, Sir,' replied Arthur, gravely.

At the request of Monsieur Carigniez, the old man recapitulated the details of the attempted assassination, of which he had been the victim; he adhered to the truth in every particular save one. In spite of all the objections which were raised by the interrogator, he invariably substituted the name of the lover of Lucia for that of the real assassin. At the moment he took the pen to sign the declaration which would probably send an innocent man to the scaffold, the priest reëntered the room. At sight of the minister of that religion which enjoins forgiveness of injuries, Monsieur Gorsay experienced a moment's hesitation. Vengeance, however, soon gained the ascendancy; with a hand still steady, he signed the procès verbal, and immediately fell back on the pillow, exhausted by the tremendous efforts he had just made to assure himself of revenge by committing it to the strong arm of the law.

'Have you finished?' asked the doctor of the magistrate; 'you see he is almost lifeless; methinks this should suffice you. Have you not learned all you wished to know?'

'I have learned more than I desired,' replied Monsieur Carigniez, with a troubled air. 'What is your opinion of the situation of Monsieur Gorsay? Do you still believe that the delirium of fever has any thing to do with this strange declaration?'

'Were my life at stake,' answered the physician, 'I could not speak an untruth against my conscience. Monsieur Gorsay is at present free from fever, and knows very well what he says: whether he speaks the truth or not, that I cannot tell.'

'And you, reverend Sir, cannot you aid us with your lights?' said the solicitor to the curate, who on learning the declaration of the old man, remained absorbed in silent consternation.

'A true christian would have forgiven,' replied the old priest, to whom Lucia had made a full and detailed confession of her faults.

'Forgiven what?' demanded the magistrate.

The curate felt that to pronounce a single word more would be to betray the secrets of the confessional.

'God reads the heart,' answered he in an agitated voice; 'He alone can cause light to descend upon men, whose mission it is to dispense justice. He alone can proclaim innocence, and amend the guilty by leading him to repentance.'

'I wish to know your opinion,' said the attorney, still persisting in his inquiry; 'do you believe Monsieur d'Aubian guilty of the crime of which he stands accused?'

'I believe him innocent, Sir;' replied the priest with warmth.

'How then do you explain the conduct of Monsieur Gorsay?'

The priest cast down his eyes and remained silent. Monsieur Carigniez, who was sitting at a writing-table, engaged in the re-perusal of the procès verbal, leaned his head upon his hands, and remained for some time in an attitude of deep thought.

'It is the attempt at robbery which perplexes me,' said he at length, speaking to himself; 'murders are committed by all classes; but this robbery! this is what seems inexplicable. A man of wealth may become an assassin from jealousy, or revenge, but not from cupidity. Passion engenders murder; need begets theft; in this case passion may perhaps exist as a cause, but where is the plea of poverty? Monsieur d'Aubian is wealthy, is he not?' asked he in a half-voice, addressing the physician.

'He is so reputed, if play has not impaired his means,' replied the latter in the same tone.

'Ah! is he a gambler?' responded the magistrate.

'A gambler not a little ruined, I suspect,' replied Monsieur Mallet; 'he has been seen to lose at Bordeaux twelve thousand francs at a single sitting.'

'This changes the whole aspect of the affair,' said the king's attorney, upon whom the words of the physician seemed to make a deep impression: 'I was saying to myself just now that we cannot imagine an effect without a cause; but play is a cause. You remember the old adage: 'One begins by being a dupe, but ends by becoming a knave.' Sometimes one ends by becoming something worse. We all remember the Count Horn, who assassinated an old money-lender for his gold.'

'You give to words spoken at random an interpretation which was very far from my thoughts,' exclaimed the doctor, with an accent of reproach.

'It is the business of both of us to interpret,' coldly replied Monsieur Carigniez. 'You proceed from symptoms to the disease; I, on my part, go from signs to the crime; from suspicions to proof.'

The attorney here rose, and approaching d'Aubian, who during this scene had preserved a firm and composed demeanor: 'Sir,' said he to him, with grave politeness, 'have you any observations to make upon what you have just heard?'

'None, Sir,' replied the young man, in a tone in which strong emotion, with difficulty repressed, was perceptible. 'It is not for me to discuss the accusation of which I find myself the object, nor to endeavor to remove the error of Monsieur Gorsay. In my declaration I have spoken the truth; it is therefore needless to say more. I deem it beneath me to protest my innocence, which no one here present doubts.'

He cast an expressive look toward the bed of the old man, who only answered this appeal by a smile, in which shone forth the triumph of inextinguishable hatred and implacable revenge.

'He knows all!' said Arthur to himself; 'it is my death he wants; he shall be gratified, if to save my life the sacrifice of Lucia is required.'

At this moment two gen d'armes, who had just arrived from Reole, passed before the window, through which they cast an inquiring look. On seeing them Bonnemain experienced the instinctive terror with which the sight of agents of the law always inspires criminals. D'Aubian knit his brow, and slightly contracted his lips.

'Are these men here to take charge of my person?' inquired he of the king's attorney, with forced irony.

'I can give you a seat in my carriage,' replied the magistrate, whom the haughty countenance of the young accused inspired with a degree of involuntary respect.

'Will they accompany us?' inquired Arthur, more occupied by the ignominy than the danger of his situation.

'Not if you swear to me that you will not attempt flight.'

Arthur smiled disdainfully: 'There are but two kinds of men who fly; the cowardly and the guilty; I am neither of these. You may therefore trust to my word of honor. And now allow me to beg of you one favor.'

'Proceed, Sir,' said the magistrate.

'Let us set forth immediately,' replied Arthur, eager to quit the place; for he dreaded lest Lucia, unexpectedly returning, might become the witness of a scene so fraught with danger to both.

'I am at your service,' replied the king's attorney, who had just closed his procès verbal, and whose presence in the house of Monsieur Gorsay was now no longer required. At a sign from the magistrate all present left the apartment. The two gen d'armes waited at the door. Physiognomists by profession, they placed themselves with one accord on each side of Bonnemain, in whose aspect they had simultaneously scented crime.

'Monsieur Magistrate,' cried out the galley-slave, 'tell these good gentlemen, if you please, that they are mistaken. As it is as plain as that two and two make four that I am innocent of this business, I hope you will set me at liberty at once. I have some work to do in the garden; and I cannot lose all day here like a sluggard.'

'Public opinion accuses you,' replied Monsieur Carigniez, 'and I am obliged to detain you temporarily. Should there be no proofs against you, you will be set at liberty in a few days.'

'Here is fine justice for you!' said the man of the galleys, when he saw d'Aubian enter the carriage and take his seat by the side of the king's attorney; 'the detected assassin rides in the carriage, while the innocent man goes on foot, between two gen d'armes. This is the way the rich always combine to trample upon the people! And you, comrades, have you no blood in your veins, that you let one of your brothers be dragged off to prison in this way?'

'You have neither brothers nor cousins here, hark you, Mister Juggler-of-watches!' cried out Piquet to him, with a knowing air.

'Vive la Republique! down with the Jesuits!' howled Bonnemain, who in his desire to excite a popular movement in his favor threw out in succession the two greatest stimulants he could think of.

No one stirred among the attendants; some hootings even were heard; and the galley-slave, forced to set out on his march under the escort of his two new guardians, became convinced that his fate excited very little sympathy among his old companions.

'Well, well,' said he to himself, with forced resignation, 'it would have been almost too much of a good thing to be let off at once; provided only the old man, who has been such a good fellow thus far, does not change his mind.'

The departure of the two suspected individuals had excited among the assembled peasants a commotion, the noise of which reached the apartment of Lucia. Half terrified at the outcries, she approached the window, and saw Arthur at the moment he ascended the carriage of the king's attorney.

'Where is Monsieur d'Aubian going?' asked she involuntarily of the physician who had rejoined her.

'To prison, probably,' replied Monsieur Mallet, fixing his eyes steadily upon her.

'To prison!' almost shrieked Lucia.

'Are you then ignorant that it was he who attempted the life of Monsieur Gorsay? Your husband has formally accused him.'

The poor wife, instead of making reply, gazed around her with an air of bewilderment; suddenly turning deadly pale, she closed her eyes, and fell backward into the arms of the doctor, who seemed prepared for this crisis; for without being discomposed, he laid her upon a sofa, and afforded her the succor her situation required.

'Curate,' said he to the old priest who at this moment entered the room, 'this young woman has now two confessors.'

PART TWO IN OUR NEXT.

[STANZAS.]

Oh! ask not whither my heart hath flown,
Nor who to that heart is dear;
Though sweet the scenes that meet my view,
My heart, oh! my heart is not here!

Though friends surround, and fortune smile,
And love e'en the prospect cheer;
Though pleasure's roses strew my path,
Yet my heart, oh! my heart is not here!

But far o'er the blue wave's crested foam,
Where the heather blooms so fair,
And berries hang on the holly-bush,
My heart, oh! my heart is there!

[THE DEATH OF A GENTLE MAIDEN.]

A PHANTASY: INSCRIBED TO B. T. D.

'Now is done thy long day's work;
Fold thy palms across thy breast,
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest.
Let them rave!
Shadows of the silver birk
Sweep the green that folds thy grave,
Let them rave!'

Tennyson.

'Twas Sabbath eve: on couch of rose-leaves lying,
With all her undimmed loveliness around her,
Silent, yet fast, a radiant One was dying;
Fading most like the flowery wreaths that bound her
With fragrance, vainly wasted. There had been
A fitful dirge upon the cool air borne,
That spake of parting. Sadly sweet was seen
A hectic bloom upon the cheek of morn,
That told of tears to be ere day was done.
Dark pall-like clouds swept by till set of sun,
Then folded their broad pinions, and reclined
In sullen grandeur o'er the distant West,
Like spectral forms in slumber. Every wind
Had wailed itself to stillness, and a rest
Voiceless and deep stole down upon the world.
The Storm-fiend slowly turned his sombre car,
With drooping wing, and lurid banner furled,
Toward his own rugged North, while from afar
There came a sudden gleam, a golden ray,
A strange, rich light, as from a young moon's birth,
And shone o'er One, there passing fast away
From the soft sky, and green, rejoicing earth!

Many a presence, dim and fair,
Pale gleaming shapes of things, divine and rare,
With tearful eyes and broken sounds of weeping,
Beside that couch a mournful watch were keeping
In that hushed eve. Gay Zephyr pensive stood,
With plumes enfolded like a stricken flower's;
And Echo from her cave in dark wild wood
Held whisperings faint with groups of gentle hours,
Making the silence yet more sad and still;
And glowing sighs that dwell in rustling grass,
And guardian spirits of each singing rill,
Murmurs from vine-clad vale and sunny hill,
Odors that from the rose's deep heart pass,
When kissed by breeze of even, gathered there,
Where that clear radiance quivered on the air,
Melting to farewell showers. And there seemed
A gush of music, dying far away,
Soft, exquisite, and low, like that is dreamed
By one who slumbereth at the close of day
On Ocean's golden wave. A liquid tone,
Like fall of distant waters, deep and lone,
A silvery strain of many voices blending,
Fell on my soul; and, thrilling cadence sending
Far thro' the coming night, did float along,
Profoundly sorrowful, this brief, wild parting song:

Fare thee well!
We have heard the solemn chime,
Pealing forth the flight of Time.
Sternly tolls its passing bell
For thy latest funeral knell.
From Earth's griefs, unquiet fears,
Mournful memories, lingering tears,
Mortal ill, and mortal wo,
Thou art soon about to go!
Fare thee well!

Brightness marked thy pathway here;
Stars, and skies, far, blue, and clear,
Gorgeous clouds and silvery haze
Floating in the streaming rays;
Love, and hope, and joyous mirth,
Such as in young hearts have birth;
Soon will be a lasting close!
Come not breathings of repose?
Fare thee well!

Fades the thronging dream of life
Through the mist of mortal strife;
Rends the veil that shrouds the real
From the vast and lone ideal;
Spectres wild, and quaint, and strange,
Flitting gleam in hurried change
O'er the Future's magic glass;
They are passing—Thou wilt pass!
Fare thee well!

Paler grows thy lustrous eye,
As the light of sunset sky,
Death-damps chill are on thy brow,
White and cold as moon-lit snow.
As a bird with wounded wing,
Now thy heart is fluttering;
Soon 't will rest, to beat no more—
Pang and thrill alike be o'er!
Fare thee well!

In the shadowy dome of dreams
Mournful light of Memory streams
O'er the voiceless forms and still
That the busy Past did fill.
Far from wreck of wo and weeping,
They in stormless peace are sleeping;
There thy sisters long have gone,
Thither thou wilt soon be flown—
Fare thee well!

Music that ends not in tears,
Love that knows no boding fears,
Tones that falter not in sighs,
Hearts in which no sorrow lies,
Flowers, unfading, sweet, and fair,
Sister! all await thee there!
We shall miss thee; but away!
Wearied one, no longer stay!
Fare thee well!

'T was gone! That radiant train melted away
Like last love-whispers of the broken-hearted;
And with the purple gleam of closing day
The gentle Spirit of the Month departed!