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very fond of him, having left his house
very early that morning, met Ormand,
and surprised at seeing him out so early,
spoke to him.
‘You are astir very early this morn
ing my lord.’
•Yes/ replied Ormand, ‘I am going
to take a walk,’ and, as he seemed in
haste, the man left him. As this same
man was returning to his house, about
half an hour afterward, he heard a suc
cession of fearful shrieks, in the direc
tion of the cliffs. He hurried onward,
and soon beheld, though at some distance
from him, the form of a man lying on the
sand, and another man bending over
him While he looked this second
one raised his hand high above his head,
something bright sparkled in the faint
rays of the morning sun, and when the
hand fell it was upon the breast of the
prostrate man. Then again he heard a
scream of fearful agony; the murderer
sprang away from his victim, and ran
rapidly along the sands; he came to
wards this man, who had been the wit
ness of his fearful deed, and, as he passed
with a speed defying pursuit, he was re
cognized as Ormand Sutherland, and in
his hand he held a poiguard, from which
the warm blood was dripping. 'At the
park gates he passed the porter, who
looked at his bloody clothes and wild air
with terror. The murdered man was
young Howard Montague. A letter was
picked up on the sands addressed to Mag
holia Dolenti, and signed by my wretched
boy. It breathed the warmest strain of
passion, intermixed with burning words
of jealousy, bitter expressions regarding
young Montague, and wild reproaches
directed againstjherself. At the trial,
Magnolia was a witness against my boy.
She said that Ormand had often declared
In; would kill Montague if he came be
tween them, and she acknowledged with
bitter tears, that she had told Ormond,
only the day before, that she was engaged
to Montague. Ormand seemed perfectly
stupefied; he attempted no defence, and,
when spoken to by his counsel, gave only
the wildest and most incomprehensible
answers. Enough, lie was condemned,
and the sentence was carried out. Al
most broken-hearted, I received his body,
to give it decent burial, and conveyed it
home. Alas! new grief awaited me there
—my wife had just breathed her last;
’twas as well. My elder boys and my
self stripped our Ormand of his blood
stained clothes, which he had always re
fused to give up, and wiped the damp
ness from, his face. A slight twitching of
his lips convinced me that life was not
extinct, and, after a lew minutes of ac
tive exertions, we had the poor satisfac
tion of seeing him sit up. We had borne
him to the room where he is now, and
there we kept him. That night the coffiu
was buried, the servants only were wit
nesses. The next morning they left the
place in a body, with the exception of
Jeffrey, Dora, and her infant daughter.
I have had no other servants since. All
my boys, except Reginald and Arthur,
knew it; they do not even know that such
a being ever existed, though they must
think it strange that we live in this iso
lated manner. I feared that all would
have to be revealed to them some years
ago, when I had the crest and motto of
the Earldom erased from the panels of
my carriage. Rut such was their affec
tion for me that, when they saw it pained
me, they refrained from questioning me.
I had been to church, and was just step
ping into my carriage, when 1 heard
someone remark in a loud tone, as he
pointed to the motto :
“One of them has been considerably
elevated,” you know the motto; ‘Elevated
and without stain.’ Another answered
him; ‘I think he has been, with a toler
able red stain though.’ I almost fell
headlong into the carriage. I have never
used the motto since, my guilty boy has
deprived the future Earls of Sutherland,
if ever there are any, of the right to use
it.”
“Guilty, nncle ? did you say guilty?
Oh, shame that you , above all others,
should use the word. Unfortunate, but
guilty! never!” exclaimed Emily indig
nantly. ”
“And do you still think him innocent?”
“I do, indeed, 1 sec nothing in all you
have told me to cause me to change my
opinion; it is very plain tome he found
the body of his friend, he drew the dag
ger from the wound, and, overcome by the
horror of the scene, he fled. May he not
have known the murderer, and may not
this knowledge have paralyzed his mind
for the time ?”
“Emily, what do you mean—you do not
mean to say”—
“I say nothing, uncle; but what be
came of the Italian?”
“I do not know. She went away with
Sir Howard and his daughter. I have
never heard of them since.”
Will you give me permission to visit
my cousin ?”
“You encourage me to hope that Or
mand maybe innocent. Go tohim then, if
you will, you may learn something from
him; he has never attempted to exculpate
himself to me. To us, lie has always ap
peared sullen and indifferent.”
“Poor Ormand ! Sullen, indeed. Who
would not be so to those who approached
them with countenances on which was
plainly written, “I believe you to be a
murderer?” lie knows that I believe him
innocent, and he trusts me.” Emily said
this while unlocking the door, and she
lost no time in seeking her cousin’s room.
He was more than pleased to see her, and
after this time at least, one hour of every
day was devoted to him. In the course
of two months she was delighted to ob
serve a decided improvement in her
eousin’s mental health, and, thinking she
might safely renew the subject of their
first conversation, she with cautious words
led him to the desired point.
“I have been wanting to tell you about
it,” he said, without hesitation. “I remem
ber I went to the cliffs that morning to
meet Magnolia; do you know who Magno
lia is ?” Emily said “yes,” and lie went on:
“I went to meet her, and, instead of meet
ing her. I saw my friend Howard lying
on the sands with a poignard in his breast
I ran to the stone where Magnolia always
left her notes for me; I found one, and
round it was wrapped a long silver chain,
that I had given her. I went back to
Howard, and drew the dagger from his
bosom; it was one I had seen in Magno
lia’s possession; I remember no more
until I found myself on the scaffold, and
saw the rope; that was but for a few min
utes, and my next recolletion is of this
room.”
“May I ask, what was in the note?”
asked Emily, who had been listening
with breathless interest while Ormand
was speaking. “You may ask anything
my kind cousin. I never read the note—l
must have lost it.”
“You may have hidden it,” said Emily,
musingly; “have you ever thought of any
one in connection with the murder?”
“Not then, but I have since thought of
one person—Magnolia !”
“Rut, why do you think of her, Or
mand? have you any reason for it?”
“I can’t tell now, why I thought so,
but I know I had good reasons. I think it
was on account of a note she wrote me. I
must have lost that one too.”
“If wc could only find those notes,’
said Emily; “do you think you brought
them home with you ?”
“One of them I left in the house when
I went to meet her that morning; the
other one I remember nothing about, ex
cept the silver chain—but I believe I
brought it home with me.”
“Doubtless you brought it home with
you, and, very likely, the dagger too.
Uncle Hugh says the dagger has never
been found. Cheer up, cousin, there is
hope for you yet.”
“Oh no!” he replied in a hopeless
tone, “I am doomed to spend my life in
this confinement. Did I dare to venture
out I should be hunted like a dog; men
would look upon me with scorn, and wo
men would fly from me in terror. Do not
tell me to hope, there is no hope for me,
my sun has set in everlasting night, so
fiir as this world is concerned.”
“Oil, Ormand! dear cousin, don’t
speak so, you are not guilty, and you will
yet be happy.”
“Alas, no! and even if a doubt could
be thrown upon the supposed fact of my
having committed a murder, and my life
should be thereby spared, what better off
would I be then than I am now ? Here I
have your sympathy, my cousin, and what
more would I have then,” he looked ear
nestly at her, “you do pity me, do you
not, and you can spare a thought from
my handsome brothers for the unfortunate.
Ormand.”
“Oh!” she said, smiling through
her tears, while a crimson Hush
dyed her fair face, “I do more than pity
you, my dear, dearest cousin;” and she
laid her cheek upon his hand.
The warm blood gushed to Ormand’s
pale cheek, and, then receding, left it
paler than before.
“Can you then spare me a little love?”
he asked quite calmly, after a short pause,
“a little of that sweet sister love, that is
lavished so freely on my brothers. I)o not
fear that I will misunderstand you, sweet
cousin, even this is more than I dare ex
pect,” but, even while he spoke, he gazed
longingly into her face.
“Oh, but you do misunderstand me,
dear Ormand,” exclaimed Emily, hiding
her eyes on his shoulder.
“Oh Emily, can it be true ? oh do not
deceive me ; do you love me, tell me ? Is
not this some sweet dream from which I
must presently awake —speak to me my
dear love, and tell me if I am not dream
ing!”
Emily nestled closer within his encir
cling arms, and replied in a soft gentle
voice:
“Calm yourself, dear cousin, you are
not dreaming; I do, indeed, love you, my
whole heart is yours.
“My darling, my love,” he murmured
softly, pressing her warmly to his bosom,”
“what do you see in an ugly old man like
me to love?”
“Ugly! Ormand you arc beautiful to
me, do you know I have had your picture
in my room for a long time, and how
lovely it is; you are handsomer than any
of your brothers, Ormand.”
“Oh ! fie Emily, how can you say so, it
is only the blindness of love, Emmie,
you may be sure.”
And then they sat in silence for a
long time, clasping each others hands,
and looking into each others eyes, as
none but lovers ever do.
“I am almost angry you love me, Emi
ly,” said Ormand at length, with a deep
sigh.
“Sorry, Ormand, do you say you are
sorry ?”
“Yes dear, because I can never make
you happy ; you forget who 1 aim”
“I do not forget ” she answered, but
you must not let gloomy thoughts intrude.
Why we could go far away to some dis
tant land, dear Ormand, and, there, in
some quiet obscure home, lead a happy
life. Rut we will do even better than
that; trust me, I will yet see the coronet
of an Earl grace this beautiful brow •
but 1 must leave you, Ormaud, I have
been here a long time; I will come back
again if I can.” She moved towards the
door.
“Emily!”
“What is it Ormand ?”
“You have not kissed me yet; wont
you do it now !” He held out his hand
to her, while a rare and beautiful smile
brightened his pale face. She turned
and lied to his arms, their lips were press
ed together in a loving kiss, and then
releasing herself, Emily left the room,
leaving behind her, as she did so, the
first ray of real happiness that had visit
ed the heart of the forlorn man for many
weary years.
Emily hastened to her room, and en
deavored to think calmly over all that
she had heard; and thus she spoke to
herself:
“Uncle Hugh says the witness saw the
flashing of the dagger in the sunlight be
fore Ormand struck his friend, and yet,
Montague was then lying on the sands,
and there was but one wound, on his
body, as was proven when it was exam
ined ; why was he lying on the ground
if he had not received his death
blow ? Evidently, the shining object
which the man saw, was the silver chain
wrapped around Magnolia’s note. Where
could he have put that note ? he must
have hidden it, for uncle says he had
nothing in his hand when he first saw
him; and yet, he surely brought it home,
else it would have been found. I will
go down stairs and tell unde all that Or
mand has told me.”
The Earl was still in his library, and
willingly put aside his books to listen to
her.
“I believe you are right,” he said at
last, when he had heard all that she
wished to say; $“I believe you are right,
and my boy is innocent after all. What
could he have done with that note ?”
“Is there any secret closet in his old
room, or secret apartment in that little
bookcase ?” x
“Not that I know of, and certainly, if
the note is there, it is in some secret
drawer, for all the visible shelves and
drawers were searched at the time.”
“Wc will search it again,” said Emily,
“and if necessary take it to pieces, but
uncle, why have you kept this from Ar
thur and Reginald ? lam sure Arthur’s
joyous spirit would comfort Ormand very
much, it he were allowed to visit him
freely; tell them, or let me do it.”
“No, no, child, not now ; if we can
prove his innocence, they shall know it,
and I can once more acknowledge Or
mand as the heir to my coronet. Rut,
come, I am anxious to look over that old
bookcase, all the young people are on the
lawn, under the oaks: Reginald is read
ing to them, and we will not be disturbed
for some time.”
Emily willingly assented; and assisting
her uncle to mount the stairs, they en
tered the sitting room together.
“You have Ormand’s picture here,
Emily?”
“Yes; I didn’t know whose it was—so
beautiful. I brought it here to look at,
his eyes are glorious, Uncle !”
“You seem to admire him very much,
my child
“Ido Uncle!”
“Yes, he is handsome ; but move your
books, and let us to work.’
[to be continued.]
Democratic Platform.
Payment of the Public Debt Equal
Taxation of Every Species of Property
One Currency for the Government and the
People—the Laborer , Ojf.ee-Holder, Pen
sioner, Soldier, Producer, aud the Pond
holder.
[For tlie Banner of the South.]
A Blessing.
With soft steps and holy
It tenderly stole,
And entered, unbidden,
My world-weary soul;
Aud though it half murmured
The sound of a prayer,
I felt not the presence,
Nor knew it was there.
’Twas born of a sorrow
Deep down in my heart,
I treasure it for thee,
Wherever thou art;
Through daylight and darkness
'Twill follow thee yet,
And while it is near thee,
Thou eanst not forget.
I send it to greet thee,
On pinions that shine,
For angels will bear it
Erom my heart to thine;
The years lie before thee
Through pleasant ways yet,
God’s blessing be o’er thee,
And do not forget.
In dreams may it woo thee
To visions beyond,
And while they subdue thee,
Thy thoughts must grow fond;
The quick-smothered ember
May glow for us yet,
And while I remember,
O do not forget.
Fidelia.
Thanksgiving Day, 1807.
billon’sTrevenge,
On the slope of a hill near the junc
tion of two rivers, and shut in by pleas
ant woods, lies the clean, well-to-do little
town of Senlis. A Roman town, then
in the time of the Oarloviugians a royal
residence, and later, the seat of a Bishop
ric, the Senlis of to-day has a little fallen
from its high estate; but has wisely
taken to business in place of departed
Kings and Bishops. Quiet and well
conducted as it is, the traveler who,
tempted, say. by its quaint, ruined forti
fications, should study the topography of
Senlis, would find connected with one of
its “places” a hideous story, strangely
oat. of keeping with the ways and aspect
of the place.
At the close of 1789, Senlis, like all
other French towns, was just beginning
to feel the movement of the great revolu
tion, gaining daily in power. At Paris,
the Bastile had fallen, Foulon had been
lauled to the “lanterne/* tie people had
“conquered” their King, and the “baker,
the baker’s wife, and the little apprentice”
mad come back unwillingly to Paris,
amid a crowd of bowling fish-women;
eut in the provincial towns the new
order of ideas was still compatible enough
with loyalty, and the agitation of Paris
reached Senlis as yet only in the form
of patriotic manifestations and pompous
eloquence. On the 13th of December, a
Sunday, the town was all alive with the
expectation of a great ceremony. A
sort of militia had recently been enrolled;
the colors were to be blessed in the cathe
dral, every person of consequence had
been invited to the ceremony, and every
one else was determined to witness the
procession, which was to include all the
public bodies aud functionaries. This
procession was to start from the Town
Hall; a detachment of National Cavalry
were to lead the van; then the corps of
the Arquebuse aud the Bow, in their
handsome uniforms, with drums and fifes
in front; next a company of fusiliers,
with the public functionaries; then the
colors, with a guard of honor; closing
with four companies of fusiliers and
chasseurs. This little procession was to
start at noon on a signal given by a mor
tar, to which the Cathedral bells would
answer.
The weather was so uncertain, cold,
and dark, that although the procession
was mustered, aud everything was ready
for a start, a little delay took place
while the respective advantages of two
different routes were discus*ed. One of
these wound through narrow streets, the
other road was straighter aud wider.
At this juncture a little man, Billou by
name, arrived on the scene; although
evidently intending to be a spectator
only, he was strangely anxious about the
route to be followed.
“Why, Billon, how’s this ?” said M.
Ilamelin, one of the principal personages;
“you ought to be in uniform, and in a
company.”
“You know how they treated me at
the Arquebuse,” said Billon ; “after the
insult put upon me, I could take no part
in all this. But what post do you
occupy ? ”
“Why, you know, my place is pretty
well everywhere—front, rear.”
“Trust me,” said Billon; “keep in
the rear, it will be best for you. But
what’s this about the road you’re, going
to take ? It would be a shame not to go
by the wide streets where everybody ex
pects you.”
“So 1 think, Billon; but I'm not
master. Come, come, run home, and
dress yourself; don’t be churlish on
such a day.”
Billon, however, taking his leave of
M. Ilamelin, only went off to other offi
cers, to whom he also recommended the
wide streets. Just then, as noon struck,
an express brought the order to g 0 by
thc Rue du Chatel, as Billon had so
urgently advised; the uews*flew round,
and Billon hearing it, withdrew after a
last and long look at the men of the
Arquebuse.
Rieul-Michel Billon was a clockmaker,
living at an angle iormed by the streets
Du Chatel and De la Tonnellerie. A
staid, reserved man, lie could hardly, in
his warm recommendations of a par.
ticular route, be influenced by the wish to
see the proescsion. To get at Ids motive
we must look at his past history, a
little, thin, sallow man, marked with
the small-pox, with hair of an undecided
color, such was Billon; his luee some
what sad and stern, was now aud then
kindled by the flashes of a pair of bril
liant eyes. Neat and almost elegant in
dress, of excellent manners, of agreeable
and even of witty conversation, he wag
well known, and a general favorite at
the Case of Gagneux, the principal one
in the town. Some few were annoyed by
the persistence, almost angry at times,
with which he advanced his opinions:
still Billon never quite forgot his polished
manners, and his enemies were few.
TnetO' said that, polite as he was abroad,
he was a domestic tyrant, ill-treating lib
wife, a poor, good, mild, insignificant crea
ture. A great friend of Billon’s wa.s
Desroques, a printer, who, when in the
course of 1788, the watchmaker’s hab
itual melancholly increased, did all he
could to enliven him. W ith this view,
he, after much persuasion, got BillorU
consent to have his name put up as a
candidate for the honor of being admitted
to the select Company of the Arquebuse,
Billon was an excellent marksman, and
that, together with the recomnjendatio.u
of his friend, secured his admission to
the company.
But the melancholy, shaken olf fora
time, returned with greater force than
ever, and was increased by the occur
ences of the year 1789. The watch
maker had lent a sum of money at an
interest of ten per cent. By so doing, he
laid himself open to a charge of usury,
which was made by his dishonest debtor.
To lose his interest, and to be branded
as a usurer, was too much for Bulon,
who told his friend Desroques that this
was the final Ldow, that he would not
survive the sentence.’ Time might have
brought relief to hie diseased mind, us
his friends in no way lost their esteem
of him ; hut the commander of the Aiqu ■
buse, a proud, harsh man, convoked a
meeting of the company, at which the
expulsion of Billon was voted secretly
This decision, acted on in a brutal man
ner, 0 filled up the measure of Billon'?
wrongs against society. For some day
he did not stir from home, where, how
cvery he was seen at work as usual, and
he appeared to lose gradually the sense
of his injuries. But although lie dropped
in at the Case as before, and resumed lib
old habits, Billon was revolving schern -
of vengeance. At one time he thought
he would kill the commander of the Ar
quebuse, but he was only one, and Bil
lon’s vengeance demanded more victims.
The revolutionary excitement promis
ed to bring Billon his earnestly-desired
opportunity, militia corps, and political
olubs were instituted, and to them flocke
citizens of all grades, whom social jea
lousies had hitherto kept apart; even
Billon, called into the ranks of the Nation
al Guard, found that he was no long* r
shunned by those who had taken the se
verest view of his scrape. But the vindic
tive watchmaker was not disarmed there
by. In the month of July, 1789, bemad
the first of several mysterious expedition
to Paris, returning with chests of merchan
dise, which lie kept carefully in his own
bedroom, to be unpacked by him al m
without witnesses. His wife saw with
astonishment the arrival at the house ot
a quantity of stout beams, the destina
tion of which was quite unknown to her
A carpenter was brought in, and workeu
under Billon’s direction at fixing p u '*'
and crossbeams in the room, from whieh
Madame Billon was carefully exclu led. - 1
her questions Billou was mute, an.-wen -
at most by a malicious smile; one day. h
ever, alter seeing him furbishing
arranging a number of guns, she venn* 1
to make inquiry again. “France wid ■’
invaded,” replied Billon ; “it is the E .
of every good citizen to be ready. J
now, mind your household affairs. •
leave the rest to me,” pushiug hei y
the shoulder from his room.
went on with his preparations, =
down doors, which be fitted with E lu “j
through which the end ot a gun , ! *
could be passed. The iloor of the t _
was taken up, and between the_b“ l ■
Billon firmly fixed a large chest ot p
der, on which he then placed an
mense weight. He spent near }
months in these preparations, widen w<-*