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’ ‘ ■!> ‘ \ = — ===! -- 1 - J ” B *‘ —T tS^ & iFamllg Jlctospaycr : Ectootcir to ILiterature, ttir &rte, Science, Eflriculturc, JttecfutnCcs, Education, jForctan atitr lomrstic Sntemgence, Rumour, #c. BY C. R. HANLEITER, P © lET^Y. “ Much yet remains unsung .” JOY. From* 11 Romance of the Harem,” by Miss Tardoe. Joy is a bird ! Catch it as it springs ; It will return no more When once it spreads its wings. Its song is gay, but brief The voice of sunny weather; But, ah! the bird and leaf [ Vanish both together! Joy is a flower ! Pluck it in its bloom ; ’Twill close its petals up If darker hours should gloom. It is a lovely thing, And formed for sunny weather j But, ah ! the flower and spring Vanish both together! Joy is a child ! Seize it in its mirth ; For soon its lip will know The withering taint of earth. The eye is bright as truth, ’ A type of sunny weather; Bur, ah ! the smile and youth Vanish both together! iIKOULL^NY, From the Augusta Mirror- ELLEN, A TALE OF THE FRONTIER SETTLEMENTS. BY E . L . W . Chapter IV. About noon the next day, a solitary In dian might be seen quietly reclining beneath the shade of a large maple, on the eastern side of the Apalachee, about half a mile be low the ferry. A light canoe floated upon the water below him, and a long rifle lay at bis side. He would have seemed to a ca sual observer to be asleep; for he sat or rather leaned at the root of the tree, in that condition, which has been sometimes des cribed as being just midway between wak ing or sleeping—that state of dreamy ab straction, in which the subject seemed un mindful it is true, of all external objects, but is still fully awake to consciousness and reflection. The only interruption to this state was manifested alone by an occasional turn of the head towards the hill behind him—dowD which from above, a small track led to the river—as if he expected some one to come by that way. He remained thus above two hours, ot maybe longer, when liis quick and practised ear caught the sound of a coming horseman. He was on his feet, rifle in hand, in a moment. The sound con tinued to increase, until horse and rider were both revealed, descending the path to the place where the Indian stood quietly wait ing his approach. The rider dismounted at the foot ot the hill, and fastening his horse securely in the thick cluster of honeysuckles, beside the path—Herbert Searcy advanced and addressed the Indian. “ Chemicko, I find you true to your pro mise, and here before me. 1 have been un avoidedly detained, and found some difficul ty in crossing the Ocone. Apprehensive that Darnell might have suspected from our sudden flight yesterday, that we meditated some design against him, and not knowing what force he may have used to compel El len to disclose our meeting, I thought it best to avoid the main road as much as possible, lest I should meet some of his emissaries, on the look out for me. I crossed the river a mile below the road in a canoe, swimming my horse by its side, and have come as straight as I could to this place. But how long have you been wailing for me 1” “ Two, tree hours—not long for Indian wait.” “ And have you seen no person—no one on the other side V’ “ No.” “ I am fearful we acted unwisely in com ing below the ferry.- Are you sure that by crossing to a point on the other side, from which our signal maybe heard, that we can not be seen from the ferry 1” “ Riber too much crook for dat—me pad dle canoe close to ferry—Old Matt no see BIC. W “ Very well. Then let us cross over, and keep a sharp look out. Keep close under the bank till you come to that point of land yonder, and then push for the other side as quickly as possible.” The Indian obeyed promptly, and the ca noe was soon lying snugly moored in the little bay, the spot at which Frank Huddles ton was first introduced to the reader. Pausing a moment to listen, Herbert di rected the Indian to give the preconcerted signal, and placing his hands to his mouth in a peculiar manner, Chemicko imitated per fectly the loud and rapid barking of a dog. The sound penetrated far into the forest, until the very hills resounded with the echo. “ Admirable 1” exclaimed Herbert, “ El len must surely have heard that, and will be here anon, if she comes at all. Now push ever to yon clump of bushes on the other side, just above the bend of the river, and ftvvajt mv call, and watch closely every sound and object, that I be not interrupted una wares.’ ’ The order was obeyed, the point designa ted gained, and canoe and Indian were hid den from sight. A half an hour passed, and Searcy was becoming impatient and fearful lest Ellen should not come, when he caught a glimpse of her dress through the under brush, upon the brow of the hill. A mo ment afterwards the sylph-like form of El len was seen in the open path leading to the river. Her step was light and steady, but anxiety and paleness sat upon her brow. She never looked more lovely, and yet, liers was not beauty heightened by the trappings of fashion—it was the beauty of nature un adorned—the beauty of a heart, rich in vir tue’s graces—lending their brightest mani festations to every varied expression of the coun’emnce: Herbert Searcy’s heart beat high with hope, as he flew to her side, and taking her by the hand, led her to the rude scat to the water’s edge. “ Miss Hayward, this pleasure is almost unexpected. I had began to fear the signal had not reached you. or having reached you, you would not heed it. But now that we have met again, allow me to speak the lan guage of my heart fully and .” “ Nay, but Mr. Searcy will pardon the interruption, when he hears the reason, and understands my motives. I have met you here as you requested me, to relate those circumstances connected with my histcay, which will explain my situation when you saw me on yesterday, and which I trust will justify me fully in the steps I have taken to day. All this you shall know, ere you take any course, which you might afterwards re gret.” A proud consciousness of maiden proprie ty elevated her spirit, and beamed from her eye. There was firmness in her voice, and a glow upon her cheek, and dignity upon her brow as she spoke, and Herbert Searcy felt that he was in the presence of one of Nature’s children, and who had drawn her lessons of conduct from a pure and virtuous heart—a girl untaught in the awkward and disgusting ceremonies of a vain and foolish world—artless and confiding—and yet re strained by those higher and holier influ ences, which a pure and virtuous heart will ever throw around the conduct of the indi vidual who is accustomed to draw the les sons of practical life from a close and con stant communion with that heart itself. “ I honor the feelings by which • you are governed,” said Searcy, “ and shall wait pa tiently to hear all that you may be willing that I should know of your history. But I request again that you will give me your entire confidence.” “ I feel that I ought to do so,” said Ellen, “ and I shall do so as kindly and as sincere ly as it has been asked of me, fully assured that it will never be betrayed. I frankly confess that our meeting on yesterday has inspired me with new hopes, in anticipation of escape from a life of but little actual plea sure, and which has recently been marked by some events, to me of deep and poignant interest.” She then gave Herbert Searcy a brief his tory of the events of her life, until she ar rived at that period with which our story begins. Entering upon the events which we have already detailed, she became elo quent in their relation. Frequently during the recital, she was deeply agitated by the contending emotions that swept wildly over the surface of her feelings—and the listener beside her, wrapt in deep and profound at tention, heard with thrilling interest the sto ry of her wrongs. She had proceeded just far enough in the beginning of her story to fix the attention of her hearer so completely as to render him unconscious of all else, save the pre sence of the beautiful girl before him, and the great and growing interest he felt in her fortunes, when the trusty Indian on the oth er side of the river, saw across the narrow peninsula on which they stood, and around which the river swept its bending current, an object that strongly attracted his atten tion. It was a light canoe, upon the oppo site side, snugly moored in a quiet spot, hidden almost by the thick bushes that grew rankly up from the water’s edge. He was certain it was not there when he crossed the river. How did it get there 1 and who was the owner 1 where questions with which he puzzled himself not a little. Determined to find out, Chemicko gained a position in which he himself was entirely concealed, but from which he could command at a sin gle glance, the whole sweep of the forest on tbeother side. Herbert and Ellen were com pletely in view—but no other living object could be seen. Calling to his aid that pa tience for which the red man is so remark able, Chemicko moved not, but kept an eye glancing rapidly over the whole ground ly ing between the cauoe and the spot where Searcy and Ellen were. At last he was suc cessful, and his astonishment was great, when he saw the head of a man slowly ele vated above the trunk of a large tree that had fallen into the river, aDd which was not more than thirty steps below the place where Ellen was engaged at the moment in dwell ing upon the events of her life. When she reached that point at which the deep injury to be done had been threatened by Huddles ton, and confirmed by Darnell, Herbert Searcy sprung from his seat, and with up raised arm, flushed brow, and flashing eye, called Heaven to witness the justice of the cause he espoused, and the deep and merit ed vengeance which he pledged himself to execute upon her base and villainous perse cutors. MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JULY 16, 1842. Just then the muzzle of the rifle was stealthily thrust above the log behind which the man had watched the movements of Herbert and Ellen, and pointed at Searcy’s breast. Simultaneously the rifle 6f Che micko, on the opposite side, was raised to his face—his eye glancingin aline with the barrel, quickly caught the head of the secret watcher—another moment his finger sought the trigger—and another would have sped the ball to the brain of the victim, and the victim himself to his long account. But the head was suddenly withdrawn, and with it the death-dealing rifle. A rapid movement upon the part of Herbert, saved the life of his hidden foe. When the first burst of indignation which he felt had found expression in the words he uttered, lie threw himself before Ellen, and by that act brought her person precise ly between the muzzle of the rifle and him self. Taking her gently by the hand, he poured forth in eloquent and passionate terms, the interest she had excited, and the love, the inexpressible love he bore her. ” Since we met on yesterday,” said he, “ amew and bright existence has opened its inviting prospect before me, the cloud which has heretofore invested my future has been rent. The vision which has often floated an unsubstantial shadow before the eye of imagination, has at length assumed form, shape and identity, and I find in you the embodimept of every hope. Crush not this hope I pray you, by a cold expression of re gard and thankfulness for my offered protec tion—and delay not the answer that shall give me joy unknown before, until we shall be surrounded by other scenes and other circumstances. But here, in the deep re treat of the forest, under the eye of a bright and smiling Heaven, bless me with the as surance, Ellen, that I plead not for your heart in vain.” With a neck, face and brow all mantled with the roseate blush of girlhood, Ellen answered— “ From my earliest remembrance, 1 have always regarded the obligation of truth and sincerity as paramount; and I now feel, that I should be doing great wrong to you, and to my own heart, if I were from any false motive to withhold the expression of my true feelings. When but a little girl, in the midst of the sports of childhood, I found you at my side, ready to add to my pleasures and do battle in my cause, I loved you as a child might, for the goodness and valour of your heart. And now, after the lapse of years, we meet again under other circum stances, I find you unchanged in your na ture, willing to risk all in the cause of that lost child of other days, and the friendless and injured maiden of the present —my heart confesses as true —the love of my childhood, hallowed by the years that are passed.” “My own lost Ellen, now no longer lost —your voice, like the sound of distant mu sic, comes to cheer and reanimate my trou bled heart. How must I ever love you for the kind and artless avowal of your feelings; and it shall ever be my pride and glory to cherish thy guileless spirit in all its native purity, and guard it unhurt, when called, as you soon will be, to mingle in the scenes of a heartless and deceitful world. But you must not remain here a moment longer. There is taint and corruption in the air you breathe, and danger lurks in the path you tread. Let us now fly. My faithful horse awaits us on the other side—a couple of hours, and you will be in Greensboro’, safe from pursuit. To-morrow I will return to chastise those devils in human form who have conspired to blight the fairest flower that ever bloomed amidst the bowers of earth. Was it not to-dayyousaid the villain Huddleston would return 1 O! that it might be now. Then I should be content.” ’• He is a dangerous man, Herbert, and 1 would rather you would not meet him. I did not say he would return to-day ; my im pression is that he will not be here before to-morrow ; though I have dreaded his ap pearance, ever since I have been made ac quainted with his designs. I would go with you now, freely and cheerfully, never again to return, but 1 have some relics, the gift of a dear mother, which I canrtot leave behind me. A half an hour will suffice for me to Sathcrthem, and such other valuables asl esire to take with me. ’ This done, I will return, prepared to leave forever those scenes, where I have drank so deeply life’s bitter waters.” n Hasten then, dear Ellen—the moments will move but tardily till you are here again.” Herbert beckoned Chemicko to come a cross the river, as Ellen bounded with alight and joyous heart up the ravine. The Indi an in passing to the canoe, lost sight of the man whom he had watched so closely, and when he looked again he w’as gone. The man himself as Ellen departed, dropped stealthily down a few paces, to where the spring branch falls into the river, and follow ing its channel, moved upward in its sandy bed, without noise, and completely hidden from the eye of the Indian. The events of the last hour had wrought an entire change upon the feelings of Ellen Hayward, visible in the expression of joy end pleasure that spread over her face, as she sped rapidly on in the execution of her design. A mighty load waslifted from her spirit, and she moved blithely up the path to the spring, her thoughts full of bright an ticipation for the future. She paused one moment at the spring, and contrasted her present feelings with the feelings of that sad day, when Darnell first manifested to her his own abandoned character, and re vealed to her the lawless and desperate pur poses of Huddleston, and when she felt for the first time her utter helplessness, and the want of some friendly arm to stay the threatened blow. Now she had found a protector, a strong arm bared in her defence, and powerful to rescue. “ Now I may defy the power of my per secutors,” she said, musingly. “ The storm has threatened me, ‘tis true, and I feared I should have fallen beneath its fury'. The gathering flood rolled its swelling waters over my crushed spirit in advance of the ter rible outbreak which was to wreck forever my fortune and my hopes. But now that storm has passed—its fury is spent —its thunders hushed—and the bright and beau tiful bow of promise spans its glorious arch far out upon its retiring skirt. The raging flood” “ Still sweeps wildly on, with the gather ed strength of its long pent up waters!” fiercely exclaimed Frank Huddleston, as he leaped from the bushes, and threw his strong arm around her, and clasped her as with a gripe of iron. “Now you are mine! I laugh to scorn the puny threats of your new, he roic lover. Let him come, and by all the powers of darkness I swear, he shall drink deeply of the cup of my wrath. No pow er from above, around or beneath shall wrest you from my grasp !” One piercing shriek of utter despair, as the fierce eye of Huddleston gleamed upon her, was the only sound that escaped her lips. The next moment the ebbing current of life had ceased to flow, and she was help less in his hands. Lifting her from the ground, he bore her rapidly off intothe thick wood. For a considerable distance he run with a bounding step, as if he carried but an infant in his arms. He had reached the shelter of a deep, ir regular hollow, some five hundred yards from the spring, before Ellen manifested any signs of returning consciousness. This re treat for which he had aimed, being gained, Huddleston felt secure from pursuit when the evidences of returning life were seen. The pallid face assumed a flush of deepest crimson, as her opening eyes rested upon the face before her. A prolonged and bit ter cry rent the air—and another, and then another followed in such rapid succession, that the whole forest rung with the echoing sound. Her strength also had returned, in creased by the force of the circumstances and the despair of her heart, and she strug gled to free herself from his terrible grasp. Huddleston renewing his hold upon the struggling girl, again bent himself to his burden, and dashing down a rugged outlet from the hollow, that led to the stream, crossing the road west of the house, design ed to place as many obstacles between him self and pursuit as possible ; and he hoped to reach a well known spot, some hundred yards down this stream, where he felt that he should be safe. But the fearful know ledge of the dreadful fate that awaited her gave to Ellen supernatural strength, and her violent efforts to get free so impeded his flight that he was forced to stop. Snatching from the neck of Ellen the handkerchief that covered her bosom, he strove to thrust it into her mouth, that he might stifle the deafening cry that ever and again pealed up on his ear, the death knell of his hopes. The struggle was short. As the first effort was made, and as a last yet hopeless resort, Ellen plead with the villain, entreating him, by all the recollections of his mother, by a sister’s love, and by her utter helplessness, to spare her—but with a grim smile resting a moment upon his dark and terrible brow, he mocked her in her woe. The gag was made and applied—a leathern thong was being tied about her arms, when a rushing sound was heard, and a powerful voice from the hill above them arrested the spoiler in his deed of ruin. “ Hold, ruffian, hold!” cried Herbert Searcy, as rushing onward to the rescue, the fearful scene was displayed before him. Huddleston paled at the sight of the avenger—but loosing his hold upon Ellen, he snatched his rifle from his back on which it was slung, and raising it to his face, laugh ed with the malice of a fiend as he defied him. “ Come on then, sir, and he that wins shall wear her.” The words were followed by the sharp crack of his rifle. For once in his life, Frank Huddleston missed his aim, and be fore the smoke had cleared away to reveal the effect, he felt the hand of a man strong and powerful as himself, upon him. “ The time of reckoning has come at last, and you shall now reap the reward of your worse than savage crimes,” said Herbert, as he gave a tremendous blow to bis enemy, which sent him reeling forward several feet. The fight commenced. It was loug and desperate—equally matched—and influenc ed as they were by far different, yet equally powerful motives, they fought with desper ate energy. Huddleston was cool and col lected, though taken entirely upon surprise, and parried with great skill the thick and heavy blows that were aimed at his defence less head. Searcy was not less skilful than the other, and watched with eager eye each movement, though far more deeply moved and maddened by the feelings with which he was agitated. Frequently during the fight the hand of Huddleston sought the knife that hung at his belt, but Herbert had yet as often foiled him in the attempt todrawit. Ellen, awake to her lover’s peril, had sunk upon the ground incapable of exeition, awaiting with featful apprehension the re sult of the strife. For one moment the combatants, as if by mutual consent, paused to breathe, and con centrate their exhausted energies for the death struggle. Not a word was spoken— language could notconvey the deep and bit ter hate that burned in the bosom of each. The eye alone revealed its hidden depths, “ lolling in wrath,” and fiercely bright, as they looked out from beneath the dark cloud which had gathered in tempests upon the brows of both. With a muttering curse, Huddleston grasped his knife, and the long blade gleamed above his head. One rapid glance was enough for Herbert—no time was given to parly, and couching for the leap, he sprung at the throat of Huddleston, and clenching it with his right hand, with his left he fortunately seized the hand that held the knife, in time to break the falling blow, and the ruffian was borne by the force and sud denness of the spiing, incontinently to the earth. A cry of joy burst from the lips of Ellen, only to be succeeded by another of despair, os the next moment she saw Dar nell rushing madly up from the creek to the rescue. One look revealed to him the posi tion of the parties. His friend and com panion lay at the mercy of his enemy. “Ha ! Herbert Searcy!” he exclaimed, “my suspicions then are all confirmed. You have sought me even here—but I will now be levenged of all.” Drawing his knife, he ran furiously for ward, and brandishing it high above hishead, poised it a moment to give certainty to the stroke. The unexpected crack of a rifle, succeed ed by a yell of triumph, arrested that blow, and Chemicko, leaping downward from the hill above, stood beside the fallen body of Matt Darnell. The ball had pierced to his heart, and sent his spiiit all burdened with crime to the Judgment Bar. With the assistance of Chemicko, Hud dleston was bound. Searcy declaring, “ that be would not rob the law of its victim,” though he felt it would be doing but an act of justice to the country, and the cause of injured innocence, to despatch him on the spot, as a foul and polluted icptile. Chapter V. An hour after the Death of Matt Darnell, the house on the hill presented a scene of much bustle and distress. The body of Dar nell had been brought up, and his widowed wil? bewailed in no measured terms her loss, and called down the curses of Heaven upon his destioyer. The ludiansat unmov ed by the side of Huddleston, who was bound and a prisoner. Ellen was moving rapidly about from place to place, gathering together whatever of her own that she priz ed, and Herbert Searcy was assisting her with the kindest words of encouragement. Her arrangements were soon made, and Searcy despatched the Indian ’across the river to bring his horse up to the ferry, where he determined to cross, and go from thence to the nearest house upon the road,. where they might spend the night free from any interruption ; for Herbert knew not but that some of the friends of Huddleston might come unawares upon them, and attempt his rescue. To Mrs. Darnell or Haywaid, as we should properly call her, he spoke kind ly, taking pains to inform her minutely of all the circumstances connected with her husband’s life, and the causes that led to his death. The sun was down, and the great twilight hour was fast deepening with the shades of night when Chemicko returned, and reported the horse ready upon the other side. The aunt, as Ellen bade her farewell, entreated her not to go and leave her in her distress, without a friend to comfort or assist her. Ellen wept upon the neck of her aunt, as the many acts of kindness which she had received at her hands recurred to her mind, in connexion with her own former friend less and destitute situation ; notwithstanding that aunt had acted in concert with others to ensnare and ruin her. But this was now forgotten, or remembered not in anger but in sorrow; and she kindly took her by the hand and said : “ You ask that which I have no power to grant. To that man (pointing to Herbert) who has gallantly rescued me from a fate more cruel than death, I have pledged my heart, and my life. ’Tis his province to command, it shall be mine to obey. He has sought me out in the midst of my lone ly lot, to bring me again to the home of my youth and the hearth of my I must not remain. Farewell, then—l for give most freely the wrong you would have done me, believing that you were influenc ed alone by those who would have used me to accomplish the worst ends.” The party were soon in motion. Searcy offered to Mrs. Hayward his protection, as suring her that he would make some provi sion for her future subsistence, as a recom pense for the trouble she may have experi enced from his unexpected coming. Dur ing tis whole time Huddleston sat an un moved witness of the scene around, and not a muscle of his face moved until Searcy, in answer to the enquiry of Ellen as to the distance they would go before they would stop for the night, said about a mile, to a house he had seen that day upon the divid ing ridge between the Apalachee and Ocone. VOLUME I, . . NUMBER 10. Then indeed a grim smile of smothered joy lit up his dark features for a moment—but it soon passed away, giving place to a frown of defiance, as the eye of the warrior Chemi cho rested upon him. The river was crossed. On the other aide Herbert found liis horse. He mounted, and drawing Ellen up behind him, moved np the hill, leaving Huddleston in charge of the Indian, to follow on foot, A ride of fifteen minutes brought them to the house that bad been mentioned by Herbert. It was a low, wooden building, made of unhewn logs, covered with boards, with a large wooden chimney at one end, in which, as the party rode up, a fire was burning. The house in the common parlance of this day would be known os a “ Log Cabin,” but the string of the latch was pulled in, and - Herbert Sear cy knocked roundly at the door for admit tance. The door was not opened, until the inquiry was made— “ Who knocks 1” “ One who seeks a shelter of yonr friend ly roof, for himself and others, and who is willing to make yon such compensation 84 yoa may demand,” answered Herbert. Just then the voice of a woman was heard within, protesting against the admission of strangers at all—unprovided as they were for their accommodation, “ I have a lady under my care,” replied Herbert, “ whom I doubt not you know, and whom I am sure you will rejoice to en tertain.” Atthat moment the Indian and hisprisoner came up. The party were permitted to en ter the house, and an explanation ensued for Ellen and Huddleston were both known by. the man and his wife. A close observer would have noticed some signs of meaning import pass between Huddleston and the man of the house, but they were unobserv ed, unless indeed the quick eye of Cbemicko detected them. If so, there was no visable effect produced upon his stoical countenance. A hasty meal was produced by the Wo man, of which all partook. After supper, Searcy asked the man what arrangement could be made for the safe keeping of his prisoner during the night. He mentioned another house in the yard, as being the on ly one besides that they were in, and they went out together to examine it. It was a cabin of the kind we have described, yet much smaller, and without a fastening to the door. Herbert thought it would do; but himself or the Indian would have to watch during the night. They returned to the other house, Chemicko was called out and consulted by Searcy. He shook bis head, sayin§: “ Me no know much, l>out it—me no like tiust Guilford—me see him make sign—roe watch Huddleston—you watch him in bouse.” “ Very well, I’ll do that, though I hope you are too suspicious; but if any thing should be attempted, you have only to call, and I will be with you in a moment. You had better take your place at the door, and as there is no other, any person to enter must pass by you—and I should dislike to be the man, Chemicko, who should make such an attempt as that.” “ Chemicko’s eye keen—his ear quick, and his arm strong,” replied the Indian. “ Me no friad to watch.” Arrangements were made accordingly for the night. A fire was kindled upon the hearth of the house appropriated to the In dian and his prisoner. Ellen and the wife of Guilford, retired to a small apartment cut off from the main room, at the farther end, by a partition of boards, and which con tained the only bed in the house. Searcy and Guilford occupied the other room; a pallet was spread before the fire for their accommodation whenever they should de sire to avail themselves of it. They sat be fore the fire and conversed together for a long time. The hint the Indian had -given to Searcy, as to the signs between Guilford and the prisoner, induced him to use every means to draw him out, so that he might as certain the connexion, if any, existing be tween him and Huddleston.’ AH that he could learn was that he was acquainted with Huddleston—knew him for a desperate and lawless man, and one that would stop at nothing in the accomplishment of his pur poses. He spoke of his character freely, and said that he had no doubt the punish ment he would receive would be justly mer ited by the crimes he had committed. Her bert thought the Indian was certainly mis taken—this man could not be an associate of such men as Darnell and Huddleston. With this reflection he threw himself upon the pallet, still intending to remain awake and watchful. But the fatigue of the day had been such as to demand rest, and ere he was aware of it he was sleeping sound ly- The Indian was right in his conjectures when he believed signs hsd passed between Guilford and Huddleston. As soon as they met, and during the explanation given by Searcy of the situation of the parties, seve ral signs were given by Guilford to the pri soner, calculated to inspire him with the hope of escape. The man was one of the friends of Huddleston, and deeply implica ted in some of his crimes, and though less abandoned and lawless, was yet enough so to attempt any act or use any stratagem to effect his escape. He was artful and cun ning, and not entirely deficient in courage and boldness. He bad completely blinded the eves of Searcv as to his true character.