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VOLUME 11. |
by c. r. hanleiter.
IP® IT UY a
Tilt: YELLOW LEAF.
Round flew the bowl, the laugh rose high,
When summer’s richest canopy,
The budded boughs of emerald dye,
Was all our shade.
So soft the air, so gay the plain,
Though August's moon was in her wane,
We said that summer’s joyous reign,
Would never cease.
High rose the laugh, the transport swell,
When sudden ! potent ns a spell!
Detached by no rude zephyr, ‘ell
One yellow leal!
The mirth was hushed, the songster’s lays
Broke short, and back in solemn gaze
Hung on the leaf, nor dared to raise,
A tiin’rous lay.
F.nch feared upon his neighbor's (ace,
His own sad thoughts portrayed in trace,
As the pale emblem spoke the race
Os summer run.
It seemed some fuiry from the skies,
Had seen our idle transports rise,
And to unmask life’s treacheries,
The warner sent.
To tell us that the scene might glow,
But soon would fade in cheerless snow ;
To tell us that our life might know
An autumn too.
■rexma**”. 1 ’
©EIL[E©TI[S) TA L I 8 a
REVENUE OF LEONARD ROSIER.
It was lute on a summer afternoon that
Leonard Ros'er, a student of the most fa
mous school of sutgery in Paris, was re
turning to his home in the Rue St. Honorc.
The merry populace thronged the street.,
and many acquaintances accosted him ; hut
he stopped not to converse with any one,
nor turned aside with the crowd to follow
any splendid equipage. His face was hand
some, but pale, apparently with study ; and
it was singular that in one so young, and
especially a Frenchman, the expression
should have been so uniformly melancholy.
He went up the steps of a small house and
knocked gently. The door was opened by
an elderly woman, whose face beamed with
joyful surprise on seeing him.
“•I am so happy —so glad you are come
Mr. Rosier. I would have gone myself
for you, hud I known where to find you. —
Mademoiselle Eulalie —”
“ What of her —is she worse I” demand
ed the youth impatiently; but without
waiting the old woman's reply he pushed
past her, and went hastily up stairs. The
woman looked after hint, and shook her
head sadly.
Leonard entered a small front chamber
just then lighted with the last crimson rays
of the setting sun. On a couch near the
window reclined the pale anil emancipated
form of a young gill, apparently in the last
stage of a decline. Illness, though it had
wasted her figure to almost ethereal thin
ness, had tv-t destroyed the exquisite sym
metry of her features. They were still
perfect in their delicate outline; and the
beautifully-chiselled lips wore a tinge of
rose which, like the faint spot of color on
each cheek in contrast with her otherwise
dazzling paleness, was evidently the effect
of disease. Her eyes were large, dark,
and supernaturally bright. She held in her
almost transparent fingers a rose partly fa
ded.
Leonard came softly to her bedside, and,
bending oxer her, said in a low tone of deep
and anxious love, “ Eulalie !”
The lovely invalid turned quickly, and
her eyes beamed with joy as they rested on
him. “ Oh, brother,” she murmured, “you
are come at last!”
The young man turned away his face,
and wept for a minute in silence. At
length, looking up, and addressingthe nurse,
who had followed him into the loom, he
asked, “ When did this fearful change take
place 1” t
’ 0 About two hours since,” replied the
woman. “ Mademoiselle, while sitting on
the fauteuil at the window, was seized with
a violent fit of coughing, and raptured a
blood-vessel. The bleeding was inconsider
able, yet it reduced her to this weakness.”
“ Brother!” said the invalid faintly, and
clasping his hand, she looked up imploring
ly in his face.
“Do not suffer her to speak, said the
nurse. . .
“I must!” replied the young girl; ami
by the slight pressure of her fingers Leon
ard knew” that she had something on her
mind. He motioned the old woman to
withdraw j she objected that it would be
dangeious to allow her patient to talk, but
a glance at Leonard’s face of despait con
vinced her that he thought bis sister beyond
hope, and that even the chance of prolong
ing her feeble life was scarce sufficient to
justify them in withstanding her wishes.—
The nurse left the apartment.
“ Beloved Eulalie !” repeated Leonard,
again bending over his sister.
“Brother!” exclaimed she, with an en
ergy that startled him j “ brother, l saw
him!” .
, “ Him ! whom I Oh, heaven ! sobbed
the youth. Eulalie motioned for some
drops that stood on the table. Leonard
poured some from the phial, and adminis
tered them; they seemed to revive her.
She spoke in a stronger voice, and less in
terruptedly.
SI jFamUfi : Brtootrtr to SUtcratuve, &£rtcuUure, jpUcitauCca, Sfruraticu, jFovciflu *um Somrsttc Intelligence, szc.
“ I saw him—the Marquis de Verneuil.”
“ The villain !” groaned her brother.
“ Yes—lie is so. Leonard, or he could not
have acted as he has done,” said Eulalie,
with strange calmness. “To deceive a
young girl like me by a false marriage, and
then desert her—”
“ His life shall pay for it,” said Leonard,
in a voice of agony.
*’ Not so !” cried Eulalie. “Would such
a revenge profit me 1 Hear me, Leonard.
The hand of death is upon me, and, ere I
die, I have a boon to ask. But, before
1 name it, you must promise—promise me
solemnly, on your knees, Leonard, and be
fore God, that you will never attempt his
life. Leave to the Almighty Judge the
punishment of my wrong. Leonard, pre
mise me. It is Eulalie’s last prayer hut
one.”
Leonard hesitated, but, adjured again
and again, he knelt down and took the re
quired oath. ,
“ Now hear me,” said his sister, “ for my
strength is failing, and the moments are
numbered in which I can speak at all. 1
saw the Marquis dc Verneuil from yon
window. He drove past in his chariot, and
beside him was seated a beauteous lady,
whom I judged, front the fond look with
which he regarded her, lie means to make
hia bride. Leonard, Ido not envy her, but
is it wrong to wish that I could leave the
world as the wife, not as the outcast mis
tress of him who once loved me I Os the
tights of a wife I have been cruelly defrau
ded—would lie not give them to me for a
few moments 1 I should not live to delay
his second nuptials. Oh, brother, would he
not 1”
The emotion that accompanied these
words showed how near her heart lay the
request. Leonard answered not till she had
again urged it, and hesaught him to make
her death happy by heating her petition to
the marquis. The shades of evening were
falling—there was no time to he lost.
“ Speed, brother,” said the low pleading
voice of Eulalie, “ for, sure 1 am, that to
morrow’s suit will not behold me living.—
Bring him to my bedside, that 1 may for
give him—and be, for but the closing mo
ment of my life—his bride. Go, Leonard ;
hut whatever may happen, remember your
oa;h !”
And, summoning the nurse to watch by
the couch of the dying girl, the young man
left his sister on his strange ert and to the
Chateau de Verneuil, some miles distant
from Paris. To the burning impatience of
his spirit, the fleet hnise lie rode went slow
ly ; and, though yet early in the evening, it
seemed to him that hours passed before lie
reached the chateau. His horse was wet
with foam as lie dismounted at the gates. —
Those gates were not solitary; a group of
gallant steeds were led to and fro by gaily
dressed menials, and one or two lately-arri
ved guests, with rustling plumes and broid
ered mantles, wereadmitted aslie approach
ed. Light streamed from the diamond
shaped panes of the castle, and rich music
floated on the air. The young marquis held
a sumptuous feast, and entertained the aris
tocracy of Paris. For an instant there was
a pause in the music; some toast wa9 pro
posed ; then there was a burst of applause,
piesently drowned in the rejoicing clam
or of cymbal, and bugle, and kettledrum.
It was a splendid banquet, in truth, not
only in the viands and choice wines, but in
the wit and courtly gaiety of that festive
company. The soul of their mirth, the in
spirer and presiding genius of the revelry,
was the marquis himself. The humor of his
jests was the most exquiste part of the en
tertainment. There was not a shade on his
face to show that aught of sadness had ever
marred the flesh of liis laughing eye ; it
was not in nature like his to feel any por
tion of the wo his recklessness inflicted up
on others,
The revelry was at its height, and the gay
host about to challenge fresh admiration by
some new brilliant speech, when a servant
whispered in his ear, and informed him a
voung man had arrived express from Paris,
and demanded to see him instantly. The
marquis sent his valet to question the stran
ger, and finding that his business was not of
a political but a private nature, and pioba
blv such as did not particularly concern De
Verneuil’s interests—this was an inference
of the valet’s on observing the humble ex
terior of the young student—the marquis
returned answer that he could not now he
disturbed, and directed the stranger to com
municate his errand to the confidential ser
vant.
Leonard bit his lip till the blood came, as
the man delivered his reply ; then taking a
pencil and paper from his pocket, he wrote
a few hurried lines to the marquis—inform
ing him of the dying prayer of Eulalie Ro
sier, and imploring him (for liis sister’s sake
Leonard stooped to entieaty) to lose not a
moment, as she could not survive the night,
in doing justice to his victim. No man
could resist such an appeal! thought Leon
ard, as he gave his note to the valet. The
man at first refused to disturb his master
agaiu ; but moved by the youth’s evident
distress, he at last consented once more to
fulfill his request.
By St. Denys! hut the modesty of this
transcends belief!” cried De Verneuil, as
he read the billet; end after giving orders
to liis servant to conduct the young stranger
without the gates, and inform him that ho
might consider himself fortunato that he rg-
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 21, 1843.
Esquire Wilkins was the hardest man to
beat that ever stood a poll for any office in
the gift of liis county. It mattered very lit
tle to him wliat principles were in the as
cendant, or whether he ran as Whig or
Democrat, New-light Locofoco or Indepen
dent. He was the people’s man—the poor
man’s friend—one whose sympathies, espe
cially ori the eve of an election, went out to
all the unfortunate of his species, and cov
ered even the women and children of the
poor voters. He wasn’t proud—he knew
every body, but especially was he mindful
of his poor neighbors and particular friends,
whom he delighted to call upon at their
houses. His saddle-bags would be termed
by the opponents of the United States Bank,
a “ powerful electioneering engine'’ filled as
they were with everything to make the heart
glad—such as a bottle of the “ very best”
for the men, with lots of ginger bread, mint
candy and sugar-plumbs for the children,
and drops and paregoric for the sick baby.
He was precisely of the same opinion with
| everybody else on all subjects. He was a
| Methodist now, a Baptist then, arid a Pres
byterian when it suited the company. He
ever had a remedy for every ill and a conso
lation for every grief, and never left a poor
neighbor’s house without having shed a ray
of sunshine upon their desponding hearts.
His benevolence on such occasions was be
yond all bounds—rents should he paid, doc
tors’ bills should he settled, executions
should be stayed, and,if lit was elected, tax
| ation should cease, and the poor should have
relief. But he was in a hurry and could do
nothing then —lie must be active or Jones
would beat him. Then patting the baby on
the head and protesting that it was a mar
velous smart child,he would with a sly laugh,
charge the mother to name the next one af
ter him, and concluding with an earnest in
junction to the husband to be at the polls,
dead or alive, he would take his leave to
visit the house of the next voter.
Is it any wonder that ’Squire Wilkins was
hard to beat I But the tace is not always
to the swift nor the battle to the strong. —
’Squire Wilkins was beaten at the last elec
tion, and the above picture represents, as
near as we can make it, the first interview
between.him and his friend Jenkins, just
after the election. Jenkins was an “ avail
able,” and not only voted the “entire tick
et” which had beeu placed in his hands by
his dear friend Wilkins, but actually made
his oldest son, a lad of 20, “ kiss the calf
skin” that he might vote the same ticket.—
There was a certain little execution hanging
over Jenkins’ head, which had long been
held by a neighbor of the opposite politics,
who having learned the compromise the
former had made of his long professed prin
ciples, could not find in his heart any kind
ly sympathy moving him to longer indul
gence. ’Squire Wilkins had promised to
see him harmless from this same execution,
and it now became necessary to remind him
of said promise. They met on sale day.—
’Squire Wilkins was in a biißtle—over head
and ears in business, buying the property of
his poor neighbors that was being sacrificed
under the Sheriff’s hammer—and it was
with difficulty Jenkins could attract his no
tice. But Jenkins’ only mule, which com
prised the bulk of his estate was about to
be (not “ put upon the block,” for the ani
mal was fractious and had an aversion to
blocks, hut what was the same thing)
ceived no chastisement for his daring folly,
the marquis laughingly asked his guests
“ what they thought of the sang froul of a
sutgeon’s apprentice, who had the impu
dence to demand that he should on the in
stant leave his courtly guests, to tide post
haste to Pat is, and marry his siek sister !”
The shout of merriment that followed this
jmjnr aftek rag i£gg©Ta®^ a
“knocked down” to the highest bidder, and
he sought his friend Wilkins. He at length
came upon him unawares.
“ Good morning, ’Squire,” said Jenkins
with rather a beseeching smile upon his tal
low face, at the same time extending his
hand, which Wilkins did not observe.
“Good morning, sir,” icplied Wilkins,
coldly, at the same time starting as if in
search of some oneiti another direction.
But Jenkins mustered tip courage to pur
sue his friend, the ’Squire, and, quickening
liis pace, overtook him, and laying liis bony
hand upon the ’Squire’s arm, intimated that
he would like to have a few words in pri
vate with him.
Stepping a few paces to one side, the
’Squire preserved peifect silence, with his
eyes fixed upon some object in the distance,
while Jenkins commenced in a tremulous
tone, his vacant gaze directed full in the
’Squire’s face—
“ Well, ’Squire—you know—that execu
tion—you know, what I told you about.
They’ve tuck old Blaze and the Sheriff’s
gwine to sell him in spite of all I kin do. I
can’t raise a cent, and the old woman and
children’s all got the fever’n ager —anti
“ That’s bad—that’s bad,” replied the
’Squire, growing restive under the recital,
and seeming impatient to be off—“ but—no
money—that’s very had.”
“ Well, ’Squire, can’t you fix it for me—
old Blaze is all we’re worth upon the face
of the yeath—and you know you sed ”
“ Oh, yes, but it’s utterly impossible—
han’t got a cent of money to spare —losing
every day—expect to be sued next Court.”
“ But you know, ’Squire, I’m your friend,
and goes the ‘ entire stripe’ for you all the
time, agin Jones or anybody else—and then
you know ”
“ Yes ; but you see I can’t —it’s as much
as I can do these times to take care of my
own affairs,” replied the ’Squire, as he turn
ed to leave.
“ But, ’Squire, it's only twenty dollars,
and Blaze is worth more’rt a hundred—
we'll be completely ruinated, ’Squire.—
Conte now, you remember wliat you prom
ised ”
But the ’Squire was out of hearing, half
way across the square, and poor Jenkins
was left to make the best he could of his
desperate case. Poor fellow, the election
was over, and even the little influence lie
had possessed on the eve of the election
was gone. ‘There were no poor men’s
friends there to aid him, and he had to sub
mit to the cruel motification of seeing his
little nil of worldly possessions—his only
mule—purchased by Esquire Wilkins, for
less than half it was worth, and sent away
to stock that gentleman's plantation with
other property which he had purchased at
the sale. He turned away from the scene
in disgust. “ Dad blame your pore men’s
friends,” said lie—‘‘they’re all alike in this
world. Ther an’t one of ’em that wouldn’t
take the shirt off a pore man’s back, if it
would fit ’em and they wasn’t too dratted
proud to wear homespun. Let one of ’em
come a cajolein’ about me again with ther
saft sodder ! Old Wilkins, the ceteful old
cus, lias got nty vote nnd my mule too this
time—but if ever I vote for a pore man’s
frietid agin may I be cussed with St. Anti
ny’s dance all the rest of my life and never
stop jiiinpin tel the eend of the world !”
question fell like u thunderbolt on the curs
of Leonard as he quitted the gates of the
Chateau de Verneuil.
The young student returned to his sis
ter’s deathbed—with what tidings] To tell
her that her last prayer had been mocked—
that her name had been scoffed at by tlm
author of her sufferings—had setved to
point a just for his heartless companions !
Leonard rejoiced that when he again saw
Eulalie, she was beyond the ennsiousness of
wrong or of woe. She did not even know
her brother as he knelt beside her, weeping
hitter tears ; and'long before sur.rise Eula
liehad sunk into the arms of death.
It was high noon upon a bright day in Oc
tober, when a brilliant bridal company was
issuing from the church of St. Koch. It
consisted of many of the nobles of Paris,
and dames whose beauty was dazzling even
amid the splendor of their altiie who pos
sessed the gift more rare even than loveli
ness, the aristocrat mein, the high-bicd de
licacy of air, that compelled the crowd about
the church-door to fall hack involuntarily as
they advanced. In the rear of the gorgeous
tiain come the Marquis de Veineuil and
his bride, tlie most admired beauty in the
fashionable circles of Pat is. The magnifi
cence of her dress, and the proud hearing
of the marquis, excited expressions of de
light and homage as they moved. He bow
ed gracefully to the salutations of his friends
—more distantly to mere acquaintances, and
look the hand of his fair bride to assist her
into the carriage in waiting. Just then
there was a sudden movement in the crowd,
and a young man, his face pale as death, and
his eyes glaring like those of a maniac,
sprang into the space sacred to the approach
of aristocracy, and confronted the bride
groom. He had a drawn sword in his
hand.
“Marquis de Yet neuil !’’ cried he, as
the noble stopped, alarmed at this wild np
pailion, “ I do not seek your life! I have
sworn an oath to the dead, aye, the dead
Eulalie, to do you no harm, and well it is
for you that 1 hold my vows more sacred
than you do yours ! But you shall not pass
without a memorial from me Take this
—and remember Leonard Rosier!”
As lie spoke he struck the marquis on the
face with the flat of his sword, then turning
away, rushed into the thiong. Stung by
the insult,DeVerneuil shouted to his friends
to cut him down, or secure him ; but in
vain. There was little affection at that
lime Binong the populace for the corrupt
and selfish aristocracy. The discontent
which piereded the days of the revolution,
had been long at work ; and on the first
flash of a quarrel between a noble and one
of their own order, most of the inferior
class were ready, without inquiry, to es
pouse the cause of the latter.
Theyoungsurgeon had insulted oneofthe
hated class of the nobility ; he was borne
off in triumph by the crowd. When some
of his acquaintances recognized him, and
proclaimed his wrong, shouts of defiance
were flung by the incensed people in the
faces of Leonard’s pursuers, and the distur
bance became so great that it was thought
expedient to let the offender escape. De
Vei neuil stepped into his carriage and took
his seat by his bride, with his face glowing
with rage and shame, and muttering curses
and tlueats. The bridal cortege, was pursu
ed as it departed by execrations and taunts
fiomthe multitude, glad of any opportuni
ty to give vent to the fire that had so long
burned secretly and sullenly, and was soon
to burst forth and amaze the world with its
dreadful devastation.
Years had passed. The revolution was
at its height. Its horrors were enacted
daily—hourly ; and the guillotine streamed
with the blood of the noble victims.
It was a stormy winter night in 1793.
The door of a house in the Rue Nicaise
was besieged by a party of sansculottes,
who were dragging along with them a pris
oner, whom they had seized coming out of
the house of the Prince V- .
They knocked loudly at the door. “O
pen, Citizen Rozier! open the door! we
have anew subject for you !’’
A window above was thrown open, and
the figure of a man with a lamp in his hand,
was visible. He wore a dressing-gown,
which the wind blew hack from his mea
gre limbs; and a soiled velvet cap, decora
ted with a tri-colored cockade.
“ A subject!” repeated he with a hoarse
voice. “ A subject ! and his head not
off!”
“ Not yet!” cried or.e of the men.—
“ You must give him quartets for an hour
or two —till morning ; for the guillotine has
had hard work to-day. Ills turn comes
earliest in the morning, unless he goes off
first by an extra post, for he is half dead
with fright already. See what you can do
towards reviving him ; and for a foe you
shall have him to-morrow warm fiom the
axe.”
“ Bring him in, then,” replied the sur
geon, and he descended to open the door.
The sans-culottes dragged in their prisoner
who seemed, in truth, more dead than alive.
“ Keep the bird well caged !” cried they.
“We took him from an aristocratic nest; a
hand leagued for the distruction of the re
public.”
“ Come in, and guard him.”
“ Not so, citizen doctor! We know you
well, and can trust you. We leave the pris
oner in your charge, for we have much bu
siness before us to night. At dawn we will
take him away—if you have not in the
meantime dosed him to death. Come
lads 1” And shaking the doctor by the hand
; and beckoning to his companions, the sans
! culotte depat ted.
1 “ You deserve the guillotine, all of yog!”
WM. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR.
muttered the doctor, then turning; to the
prisoner, said encourageingly— '* Do not
despair, it may he in my power to bare you.
I have saved more than one victim from
1 those bloodhounds. Troth! if they had the
1 least suspicion of me, ’twere as much ns any
head is worth, hut let us hope for the beat.
While speaking he lignied the lamp,
which had been extinguished by the wind
as he opened the door. He turned to the
stranger, and stood as if struck by a thun
derbolt. For a minute’s space the two ga
zed upon one another ; the surgeon’s pale
face grew paler, and his eyes glared fixed
ly, as on some hideous apparition. At
length, recovering his self-possession by •
strong effort, lie said with a sneer, “ I bate
the honor of seeing the Marquis do Ver
neuil 1”
“ Mercy, mercy !” gasped the prisoner.
He was tienibling violently, and drops of
cold sweat stood on his forehead.
“Monsieur de Marquis does not recog
nise me 1” asked the doctor.
The prisoner looked 8t him earnestly, and
shook his head; teiterating his entreaties
for compassion.
“ Monsieur le Marquis does not know
me !’’ repeated the surgeon in the same hit
ter ironical tone. “ The great and noble
find it hard to recollect the poor; it is the
canaille that always have such inveterate
memories.”
“ For heaven’s sake, do not mock my mis
ery !” implored the fallen noble. “You
have said you could save me—”
The suigcou rang a small bell, and a
servant appeared, when he ordered him t
biing wine and refreshments. They were
set on the table, the doctor drew up chairs,
and invited his guest to sit down. The ago
ny of thp prisoner increased every moment.
*• For God’s sake, have pity upon me !”
“ All in good time. Eat—you have need
of refreshment.”
“ Let me fly. The darkness of the night
will favor my escape.”
“ Impossible I There are spies about
the door. My own servants would betray
you. You cannot stir hence till morning.
You had better eat something.”
“ Oh, fate ! How can 11”
“ Drink, then.” The doctor poured out
a cup of wine and pushed it towards his
guest. He did not touch it, but stood shir
eiiug with terror. A pause ensued.
“ Save me! save me I” again faltered he.
“ Monsieur le Marquis,” said the doctor
drily, “seems to have a very great fear of
death !”
The prisoner renewed his supplications.
The surgeon hesitated. At length he
sa : d, “ 1 know of hut one way to help you.”
The prisoner was breathless.
“ You are aware,” continued the doctor,
“ that I am an anatomist. From what the
sans-culottes said, you must have known
that they are in the habit of bringing me
bodies from the guillotine for dissection.-
They do it out of friendship, for they think
me an excellent citizen. You need nut
shudder. I have, as I before mentioned,
saved several who were brought to me alive
and yet, thanks to Marat, with whom 1 am
intimate, I have never been in want of fresh
bodies. 1 have just now one in the house.
Hut I cannot pass him off for you, M. le
Marquis, because he is abort and stoat, and
lacks the symmetry of proportion for which
you are remat knble. Besides he has at pre
sent no head. “These sans-culottes are not
easily deceived. 1 must deliver job into
their hands alive, or show them your corpse.
The only method 1 see ifcthis; you must
drink a portion I have prepared, which will
render you insensible, and apparently dead,
till to-morrow evening. When my. good
friends come for you, 1 will take them to
the marble table where you are laid out like
a corpse.”
The prisoner shuddered, but after a min
ute said, “ If ynußave me, 1 assure you, on
my honor, your reward shall be princely.'*
The doctor turned hia head with an ex
ptession of disgust.
“ When must 1 take the drink V asked
his guest.
“ Immediately.”
“ And where shall I pass the night !*’
“ As soon as you have drunk the portion,
you will fall into a stupor, which will soon
become total insensibility. 1 will then call
my servant and order him to remove your
body into the dissecting-room, and to lay it
on the table.”
The pi isoner groaned. •* You do not like
youi lodgings 1” said the surgeon. “ But
you will he in tio condition to notice them
when you have taken the draught.”
“ Let me only see the room !” implored
the marquis.
“ You had better lose no time. Hark !
what is that 1” The clock struck. “One,
two! they will be here : ,ti less than an
hour.”
“ I will take the draught J” cried
prisoner in mortal anguish. “But ynly
me sec the room l”
The doctor rose without tepty, am}’ tak
ing the lamp, led the way, beckoning 19 hia
guest to follow him- At the other end
the hall they filtered* passage which led tq
the dissectiag-room. It was large, and fur
nished with wooden cases, and glaasea iq
which were preparations in spirits of win?.
More than one skeleton ws visible, pack iq
its case. On a marble in the middle
of the room lay an uncovered headless,
■ cpvpse, mangled and bloody, The marqut^
| NUMBER 30.