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‘J& ® wnumM^jcv naS I SMMSfiif Mill BSM't„.„.„BHSfB TO UtSMTOM, Ttt MTS MB SBliiffllS. MB TO fiSBSBiI HTtiUBSttSB, wfflgß®jaa!fl®gtß. IglflKk 1 2 For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. ■ LOST AND FOUND: Wl OR THE ROBBER’S CAVE. i BY FLORIO. CHATTER I. ■lt was at the close of an agreeable au- day, in the year 18—, that four might have been seen riding slow- in the Northwestern part of the of Missouri. Two of these, evident ly!)!’ high rank in society 7, were white— two were merely black ser- The elder of the two first-men- was much the stouter in appearance, had coal-black hair, which, though did not seem to be an object of great His countenance was open, prepos- and had an air that at once gained Much exposure had darkened his and given a mournful cast to hiifoatures, across which, now and then, shade of sadness would flit, as fraSigh the recollection of some event was ejfjs sorrowful nature. His form was firm fjßni!. and his muscles were strengthened | exercise in the open air. He sat his horse in that careless, graceful i JBi.cr. only acquired by long habit Hit his flashing eyes shone with peculiar whenever a very interesting of conversation was introduced. companion was of a lighter moulil I ■ finer proportions. Ua air distingue, i indicated that he was accustome to ! best society: and an ease ad in all his movements, combined with | language and courteous deportment. ! the man whom we would term a i in the broadest sense to which is applicable—a commendation j means contemptible in these degen- j days. His chestnut hair and eyes, j ■r teeth, and finely-formed no°e, mani- H a species of manly beauty rarely e by their servants, one would instant-! less that they had been upon a hunt ixpedition. A fine large horse, of a lack color, erect head, firm step, and it eye, bore the elder of the two white —while the younger bestrode a light [ apparently an animal of much docili yet having a remarkable degree of 9p. The elder person, whom we shall Herbert Montagne, first broke the si- I which had reigned for some time. fiVe have had fine sport during our ex on, but my greatest enjoyment was in k in your company, James. It is a pure so seldom obtained, that, when it occur, I feel happy during its entire [nuance.” [Thank you, Herbert; but truly I have (tch pleasure in being with you, as you Itave in possessing my company. To presence of my dearest friend and is always agreeable, and thoughts > flßim are most acceptable to my mind.” “Don't forget Marie, James: ’tis treason speaking, and calculated to sub - at thority she has acquired over heart. Thoughts of love and her can ■■occupy your attention.” not so, Herbert, say not so : ’tis love Marie with all the fervency of I am capable, still my friendship for f w pure as ever; and, as my love ,■ excels common love, so my friend- V"’ you surpasses the so-called friend ’ : the wodd. Who was it that, at of his own life, dragged me from waters of the Missouri, when, to my own mismanagement, the *H was overturned I AVho was it that I Me, by his self-possession and dar om the insults and, perhaps, violent *of a desperado J Answer me this, ten tell me who should have the most 11 in mutual converse?” JU forget, James, who it was that, by 1 loan, started me so fairly in my bu -that I have ever since easily main- I ground, and have a good prospect of the same as long as l remain a fsan trader. Bat enough of this. By tet, let oar friendship he cemented firmly than ever, and may we be al re®ly to assist each other as much as i our power.” And the two friends bent towards each other, clasping their hands with the true grasp of friendship, “As you say,’’ said James Mauray, “our luck has been good. I was so for tunate as to kill one buck, but you num ber four as the victims of your unerring aim. I heard the old hunters praising your shooting very highly.” A life on the prairies is qualified to teach a man his dependence upon his rifle, and this always requires a quick eye and a steady hand. Practice, both in self-de fence against Indians, and in slaying game, has given me a little skill in the use of a rifle.” “ I have heard that a man’s best friend and safest guard on the prairies, is his ri fle. Is it not so !” “Certainly.” “No doubt you prize your rifle highly, then ?” “Dearly. I paid high for it, and it has never failed, in the hour of trial, to send home its messenger of death.” And Herbert Montagnc cast a glance at the object of conversation, which his ne gro servant was carrying. It was a rich-’ ly-mounted piece, rather long, with a large; bore and percussion lock. It seemed no less an object of care with the servant, | than of interest with the master. “When do you think of taking your next trip to Santa Fe!” said James Mau-’ ray to his friend. “I shall start soon. I have made ar rangements for transporting a larger sup ply of goods than at any time previous; J so, if the rndians do not trouble me, I hope to make a good deal of profit.” “ Do the Indians olten molest you, on y*j u i v\ a.y *?*• “ Yes, I have had several slight skir- j mislies with them ; but, by the kindness of | Providence, I have always managed to beat them off, without loss of life on my | part.” “ You have, then, men with you as guards'!” “Oh yes, always. Every muleteer also has his rifle. 1 shall have thirty or forty sure marksmen with me, this trip, besides a dozen drivers. It will be a hardy band of Camanches that will dare attack us.” “ You have had some experience in In dian warfare ?” “ Os course, I have had much intercourse with them in the last eight or ten years, and have learned something of their ways. Caution is the safeguard against them. A watch set regularly every night, with care! in tying the horses, so that they cannot stray, will prevent many accidents.” “ Then they try to steal your horses ?” “ Not only horses, but any thing else they can lay their hands on —especially blankets, whiskey, powder, lead and guns. It is on this account that they attack out ward-bound caravans in preference to those returning to the United States; but forty or fifty tnen can defend almost any cara van from them, except in particular places. Though attacking in large parties, each man takes care of himself, and is willing enough for others to open the way, and re ceive the bullet of the white man, provided he can obtain the booty. lie reasons with himself in this manner: ‘I want that horse, or that gun, but it is not worth risk ing my life for. Now, if I can get it with out danger, by merely killing its owner, I will do so.’ They will not make an at tack in an open place, where they know some of their number will he slain. Am buscades and bush-fighting are their pecu liar modes of warfare.” “ You certainly lead a life of danger, and must have passed through many stir- j ring scenes.” “Aye, some to make the blood dance, along the veins, as the heart keeps time ‘ with the rattling of guns, intermingled with the shrill war-whoop of the wild In dian. But tell me, when is the ‘consum mation, devoutly to be wished,’ to take place I” “ Probably, in two or three months. You know Marie's uncle has not long been dead, and her aunt is of the opinion that the ceremony should not take place until the middle of winter. She has a notion, also, that an engagement of a few months is nothing more than proper.” I hope, by that time, you will have returned from Santa-Fe, for I desire your presence at the ceremony more than that of any other per son .” “ I shall have returned ere then, and will certainly attend, if possible; but we are not entirely masters even of our own actions ” The two travelers now remained silent, for they saw two strangers approaching them, likewise on horse-back. As they passed, giving and receivingthe usual salu- tation—“ Good morning, gentlemen,"—one of them seemed to be somewhat embar rassed, upon meeting the dark, piercing (eye of Herbert Montagne. After they were out of ear-shot, Mauray said : “ Take my word for it, that is the man you frightened so badly, the day he would have assaulted me.” “It is! I have seen him frequently. He seems to meet me by the merest chance, yet it looks very much as if 1 accidentally done on purpose.’ And, what is stranger still, he always acts in an embarrassed manner. Why, I can't tell. lam not at all acquainted with him, yet his counten ance seems familiar to me.” “Oh! that is because he has crossed your path so frequently,” said Mauray. “No, it is not; there is something be neath all that, which I cannot discover.” “ \ ou must be a very close observer.” “ : Tis true I am. Thrown upon the world at an early age, and left to my own resources, I acquired the habit of observ ing every thing, and it has proved of vast benefit to me.” They now approached a small village, and, on entering it, shaped their course for the only house of entertainment in the place. On alighting, they demanded to be shown a room, and to have supper prepar ed for them. They were shown into a very pleasant room. “Yes,” continued Montagne, resuming the thread of conversation, “ I have seen many vicissitudes in life. My history isa strange one. I will give it you, some fu ture day.” After supper, Herbert Montagne took a little walk in the fresh air. Ou hisreturn, he saw, at a short distance from the house, the very person they had met that after noon, upon noiseliacK, and w ho seemed to take such an interest in Montagne. The fellow was anxious to avoid Herbert, and turned to depart, but a heavy hand grasped his shoulder, and the words, “ follow me,” greeted his car. Mechanically, he obeyed. Montagne turned towards the outskirts of the village, and, arriving in an open field, suddenly confronted his companion, and demanded: “Who are you!” “ What is that to you!” was the an swer. “ 1 have never molested you ; nei ther am I aware why you have the right to stop me, and demand my name.” “Come, sir, no trifling with me : mine is not a nature to brook it. 1 have met you frequently, during the last few years, and it seems as though you had determined to dog me all my life. What is the meaning of this !” “I pursue my course through life as best suits me. Is it a matter of suspicion that l chance to meet you, nowand then?” “Chance, do you call it?—chance, that wherever I go, there I see you ? Whether at St. Louis, Cincinnati, New Orleans, or Independence ? It looks very much like intention. Tell me, also, what means that appearance of recognition you ever wear, during our chance rencontres?” “You certainly are a close observer, to perceive things where they do not exist.” “ Do you think to put me oflf, that way ? Answer, for I insist upon knowing.” “ Knowing what ? my occupation ? That were difficult: ‘For that which 1 do, I allow not; for what I would, that I do not; but what I hate, that do I.’ ” It is needless to follow the conversation farther. Let it suffice to say, that Herbert failed in his design of discovering who the individual was, and what were his purpo ses. They, however, returned to the house together. On the morrow, the two friends set out for St. Louis, and we will take our leave of them for a short time, to give the reader an insight into their history. Herbert Montagne was, as we have seen, a Santa-Fe trader, lie had no par ticular home, nor did he know either his father or mother. Much mystery hung over his fotmer life, which he himself could not unravel, lie was now about to setout upon anew expedition, with a much larg er train than any of his previous ones. James Mauray was a very wealthy young man, of twenty-five years ol age— two years the junior of his friend. lie was the possessor of a lame farm, near St. Lou is, and the owner of one of the finest boats that plied between that city and New Or leans. On their arrival at St. Louis, Herbert Montagne left for Independence, to finish his preparations for trading. James, on the contrary, hurried to pay his devoirs to his betrothed. Affectionate was the meet ing between these two, for their hearts were filled with pure and mutual love for each other. James gently saluted her fore head, and kindly enquired after her wel fare and that of her aunt, and was rejoiced to hear of their safety and well-being. ; Marie exulted in his return, and slightly upbraided him for staying away from her so long. A gentle earnestness marked their converse, and love, confidence and hope, beamed from their eyes. Nothing like sentimental parade pervaded their in tercourse. Respect for each other, and an insight into their respective characters, made their communion of the mo>t agreea ble kind. The confidence of two such be ings, free from the slightest stain of jeal ousy or envy, could not but be of that soul subduing character which makes the heart melt with overflowing love. Taking her hand in his, he placed himself by her side, and inquired if every thing advanced pros perously ! whether there was any cause, which might create uneasiness or inconve nience! She thanked him for his solici tude, and professed her happiness, at that time, to be as great as could be in the case of one who had neither father nor mother. Only one thing she objected to—her aunt’s opposition to their present union. “ But she has ever been as kind as a mother to me, and I cannot slight her, by opposing her wishes.” “ Never fear, Marie. All will fall out as it should, in the due course of time. I will take care that she does not maintain her contrariety much longer.” The object of their remarks now entered. She was a lady of majestic bearing, and one who at once might have been the pride of a city ; nor had she yet lost every trace of former beauty. Her age might have been about forty. James Mauray remained in their compa ny till a late hour, and appeared to tear himself, then, from society dear to him as his life. No one could censure him, in the was a form of exquisite proportions. Her dark, blue eye, contrasted beautifully with the fairness of her skin; her hair was black as-the raven’s wing; and her Grecian nose and pearly teeth, combined with a most bewitching mouth, formed a being of ravishing loveliness. It seemed as if James purposely avoided pressing his own upon those ruby lips of her’s, so like half-blown roses, lest he should become intoxicated with their sweetness. It was about five or six weeks after Herbert's departure, that James received a letter from New Orleans, relating to busi ness of so great urgency, that his immedi ate presence was necessary. He took a very affectionate leave of Marie, and took a passage down in his boat, the “General Jackson.” While on his way, we will give the reader the history of Marie and her aunt. But a subject of so great import ance deserves a separate chapter. CHAPTER 11. Near the city of Marseilles, Fiance. | there dwelt, twenty-one years prior to the | opening of our tale, in a noble chateau, j the aristocratic family of de Montfort. ft was composed of Mons. and Mad. de Mont fort, and their child, a boy about four years old. M. de Montfort, though living at a little distance from the city, was a ve ry rich merchant, and sent his ships to all the ports in the Mediterranean, and to Eng land and America. Though living in a fine chateau, and very wealthy, still M. de Montfort had never visited Paris, nor been in the royal presence. The whim seized upon him and his wife to make a visit to the French capital, and behold some of the ensigns and appendages of royalty, togeth er with a thousand other things, only found there, which would delight their fancy and gratify their curiosity. Finally, great pre parations were made for the visit, and ma ny francs spent in the necessary expenses incurred. M. de Montfort left his busi ness in the handsof persons best calculated to consult his interest, and set his mind at rest upon that point at once. It was a bright, sunny morning, when the huge gates of the chateau opened to permit the egress of a coach, containing the entire family. As the turrets of the building sunk, one by one, out of her view, Mad. de Montfort sighed and said : “Ah ! if we should never return !” “ Indulge in no such gloomy anticipa tions,” said her husband; “we shall re : turn perfectly safe, unless Providence or i ders otherwise.” In due time, they arrived in Paris. Two weeks’ sojourn proved to them that all their pleasure and sight-seeing did not com pensate for the trouble and inconvenience !to which they were exposed. According ly, they determined to set out on their re turn the following day. Right happy did they feel, that night, in anticipating the pleasureof the morrow. But, in the morn ing, little Henri de Montfort was missing. Long and unavailing was the search made for him. The bereaved parents were com pelled, sorrowfully, to leave the city, with out their child. Mad. dc Montfort never fully recovered from this blow, and she ex. pired, four years after, in giving birth to a female child, who was called Marie. Her husband, at the time of her death, was thir ty-four years of age, and, being thus doubt ly afflicted, became sa l and morose. He even went so far as to insult the captain of one of his ships, and, consequently, not a great whilt, after, that very ship was wrecked on a certain coast. Fortunately, no lives were lost; but, in the vessel, there was a large amount of specie which M. de Montfort never recovered, though vigorous efforts were male to that effect. The cause of the high words between the em ployer ami employed was this: for sever al years past, several of M. de Montfort's ships had been cast away in rather suspi cious circumstances, more especially those most richly laden; and this captain, think ing his employer had accused him of some connection with those events, became out rageously angry. He was insulted in re turn. Loss quickly followed loss, until M. de Montfort found himself comparatively a poor mail. His commercial name was de stroyed, and he became bankrupt. The only possessions left him, were his chateau and the neighboring lands. About two years after the loss of his wife, it became necessary for him to proceed to the city of Montpelier, upon business. On his return, after a few days’ absence, he made a call upon his sister, dwelling near the river Rhone, at its mouth. His actions, whilst there, seemed, by their incongruity, to de note some aberration of minJ. Os this, in deed, his brother-in-law did not have the least doubtasU f u V"wTaiit | night. A sojourn of two days seemed to weary him much, for he determined to set out for home late in the evening of the second day. In vain did Mons. Legare endeavor to persuade him of the folly of such a course. “ For, - ’ said he, “the river is now swol len, and you will be obliged to cross it in a small, open boat—an attempt incurring the greatest hazard. I even doubt the proba bility of your hiring a person willing to venture upon so dangerous a service, even though you offer a large reward.” All was useless. He had determined to go, and would not change this determina tion. Mons. Legare watched his brother in-law anxiously, after he left the shore, for a person had been hired to take him across. As he feared, when Mons. de Montfort reache 1 the middle of the stream, his boat was whirled away towards the open sea by the force of the current, and gradually swallowed up in the gloomy pall of darkness. M. de Montfort, by his own infatuation, had rushed into destruction. The following day, the boat was found, bottom upwards, upon the sea-shore, and the dead body of the boatman had also floated ashore during the night. Marie was now an orphan. Her aunt took her for the pui pose of rearing her - the more especially as she had never been blessed with offspring. Mons. Legare moved his residence to a city in the North of France, when Marie was about four yearsold. Becoming wearied of that place, he determine 1 to emigrate to the United States. First, he sold all of his own and Marie’s possessions, and then had the pri ces paid in specie, for by’ this means he would be enabled to transport it all, with out any danger of carrying money that would fail to pass in the New World. His choice of a residence was St. Ixmis, in the State of Missouri. For thirteen years, they lived happily and contentedly. At the end of that pe riod, M. Legare died. Madame Legare and Marie were now alone upon the earth; not exactly alone, either. Marie had, for some time, been engaged to James Mau ray, who had wooed and won her. Their marriage, as has been before stated, was put off', on account of the death of M. Le gare, who expired from an attack of apo plexy, as he was rising from the dinner table. [To be eontimie<l.] For Richards’ Weekly Gazette. SONNET FOR JULY. The radiant Suinmfr in her pride sweeps on. Heightening the beanty of the growing year, Which, like a maiden, when—forever gone Her happy girlhood days—doth hot appear The lovelier for their flight. Now the glad earth Repays with bounteous increase human fare, The hills and vales to golden stores give birth, And shining fruits tho grateful orchards bear; But fiercely beams the high Midsummer Sun, And hot and arid is the breath of Day, That the pour laborer, ere his task is dime. Grows faint arel weary : anti the noisy play Os school-boys ceaseth, and the birds’ sweet song, Anti brigh f (lowers droop while the alow hours the heat j roiotig! W\ V. - Richards. Fur Richard*’ Weekly Gazette, j DAVY JONES’ DUEL. BV TIM WHETSTONE. It was one of those sultry evenings in ] the month of August, when all nature l seems to be groaning under the scorching rays of old father Sol, that the citizens of, the village of L were thrown into con siderable excitement, by the announcement | of a duel, and the death of one of their in habitants. It seemed, upon an investiga tion, that two young men from the vicini ty, who had been educated in all the sim plicity ami honesty of country life, had procured situations in the village—one as a clerk in a dry goods establishment, and the other as a I ar-keeper in Uncle Billy Lane's tavern. In the course of time, a rank and “ green-eyed jealousy'’ sprung up ! between these country lads, owing, proba bly, to the fact that Davy Jones, the bar la village lass to suit the taste of Tom Sikes, the clerk. This affair was a pro lific source of mutual backbiting and con tinual threats, which at last terminated in a personal rencontre, in which Billy Sikes had the worst end of the bargain. The idea of being whipped by a bar-keeper, and being forced to cry aloud Enough.,’ ‘■'nough ,’ ‘pull him off,’ • my eye is out,’ was peculiar ly grating to the sensitive feelings of Billy, and induced him to adopt the only alterna tive of revenge common among gentlemen —a duel. Accordingly, a little billet was penned to Davy, demanding an honorable satisfaction. When it was handed in, Da vy evinced considerable merriment, as he thought Billy wanted him to come over and drink porter, or take a friendly colla tion of some kind, and bury the hatchet: as for the word ‘duel,’ it did not belong to Davy’s vocabulary, and if it did, and not mean ‘cullin’ meat and choppin’ bread,’ he had no use for it. The object of the note was carefully explained to Davy by the bearer; and the reader can easily imagine Davy’s consternation, if he ever saw a 1 hemmed’ hare on a frosty morning. 1 Well, by Jucks,’ said Davy, ‘I don’t believe in any sich way of fightin’. My daddy always told me to cut nobody with ; a knife, nor shoot any man ; and then I j was readin’ in this old book t'other day,’ (raising Prince’s Digest.) ‘that any man who font a duel, I spose like Bill Sikes wants me to fight, will have to go to the Penitentiary at Milledgeville, and war spot ted breeches, and eat bread and water fora long heap of years. So and now I shan’t fight any sich a way, but with fist and skull : I’ll be kittle-slapped if I do—and that’s jest as good as if I had ’cr swore it.’ ‘But,’ said the bearer of the note, ‘Davy, you do not understand the serious and dis graceful consequences which will necessa rily follow your declension. You will, if you persist in refusing Mr. Sikes an hon orable fight, be posted to-morrow morning on the court-house door, as a coward and scoundrel.’ ‘l'll be snap-dashed,’ said Davy, ‘if 1 am a gwine to make myself a target for Bill Sikes to shoot at. I don’t want to kill him; but I’ll tell you, sirree, if he don't quit sending me sich foolish papers, I’ll catch him by the nap of the neck, and I’ll run these killers of ugliness [showing his thumbs,] clear through his squash; and then, by Hoky, he'll wish he had never seed me and this paper, or Caroline Wig giuton nother. Now that's a fact.’ The bearer, Dr. Hooker, finding Davy |>erfectly incorrigible in reference to the meeting, retired, and icported to Billy the j progress of affairs, which enraged him to such a pitch, that at one time a serious idea was entertained of placing him nnder the control of a bedoon bit and double-reined bridle. The Doctor succeeded, however, in calming him, and concluded again to make an attempt upon Davy. According ly he repaired alt alone to Davy’s room a second time. He found him in a deep meditative mood, evidently reflecting upon what had transpired. , ‘Well, Davy,’ said the Doctor, -Billy says nothing short of a fight will do him, or he will post you at 2 o’clock, I’. M. I would advise you to fight ‘, to lie postal and submit, would he worse than death and I am convinced from your expertness in shooting, that you will kill him.’ ‘But,’ said Davy, how ’ll I keep from Milledgeville if I shoot him? and then the old man will give me ‘Jessie.’ I don't like sich a way, Doctor, but I'll he oon sarned if Billy Sikes is gwine to put me on a door for all the girls to laugh at. I'll level old ‘Nel’ at him, and let you know I'll make him wish he had n't seen me. and her too.’ 1 But,’said the Doctor, ‘Davy, f would . tight fairly. To shoot him without giving him an equal and fair chance, won 1 1 be cowardly, and it would be murder, and ihe penalty death. You can easily fight, and ; run to South Carolina; it is near—and you i will escape all law. I will be your sec -1 ond and surgeon, and see you safely out.’ 1 ‘Well,’ said Davy, ‘Doctor, 1 don't want to fight, but if nothing else will do, f reck lon I must do it; but I had rather have old , ‘ Net’ than any of them to shoot with. F can blaze him with her first pop. and then I reckon he'll let me rest.’ ‘Yes, Davy,’ said the Doctor, ‘you would probably kill him with ‘Ncl;’ but equality is the principle in all such meetings, and you must fight with pistols.’ Davy rather objected to yielding old 1 Nel, but as he had implicit confidence in the Doctor, he acceded all the arrangements to him. The Doctor, finding Davy deter : mined to meet danger in any form, saw at i once the impropriety of letting the affair pass off with powiltj and shot, he theie- seconds, Sic., and let Billy into the whole secret, who was, by the by, very glad of it, when he saw Davy’s ‘dander’ was up. The day of meeting was arranged ; the point was in the rear of the jail, under the declivity of a hill, and the Doctor was sec ond and surgeon for both parties. On the evening on which the duel was announced, Davy and the Doctor might have been seen sliding and creeping along in the rear of the village inn, approaching the jail. When they arrived, the opposite party was there, and the verdant corn, which but a few hours previous had be decked the place with its shade, was laid low, to make way for the combatants.— The ground was ‘stepped off,’ (measured) —ten feet—each man put at his post, arm ed with a large horseman’s pistol. Between the words one and three, the parlies were to fire. The Doctor repaired a short dis tance from the assailants, made a pathetic speech, and began giving the word in a very deliberate tone. Davy, at this junc ture, was in a state of great trepidation, but seemed resolved to kill or be killed.— At the word three, Davy pulled trigger, and boo! boo! went his pistol, with its huge load. Billy remained unhurt, and began | taking a very deliberate aim, when Davy | hallooed— 1 I'll be consumed if lam gwine to stand here, and be shot down like a oxen.’ VV ith this, he made at Billy, pistol inhandf and when near him, let drive at his head, which he fortunately inisscJ. Billy snap ped, and took to his legs; but by the time ly intervention of the lookers-on and the Doctor, they were again put to their places, and Billy took his fire. Davy had become a little composed by this lime, and folded his arms and took it like a man. Billy let slip and missed. After he bad shot, he proposed a compromise, but Davy said— ‘ No: he had been murderously shot ut ; his life was in danger of being sasiinateil; he come here to die, and he intended to kill Bill Bikes, and next shoot he wonhl plump him right in the forehead; he would eat snake* if he didn't.’ Firrding no compromise in Davy, the pistols were again loaded and the combat ants put at their places. Davy stood fear less and firm as a stately oak ; his eyes sparkled with courage, as he stood viewing Billy’s thick sides. The word was again given. Davy raised his pistol, and cut loose at the word two. Billy fell at the crack, giving vent to the most piteous la mentations : ‘l'm dead—l’m dead —oh f save me—oh! my bead—my heal—my poor head?’ Davy stood terror-stricken, surveying • the scene. The blood was trickling over ! the snow-white linen of Billy; the Docto: I was trying to stop its current, but all to no ; purpose; and Billy was still uttering the | most terrible groans. Davy stood with his ! hair dishevelled, his coat off, and his face | buried in his handkerchief, sobbing and af frighted. At length he drew near, an 2 ! said, ‘Billy, I want to make friends afore yon die.’ But just as be was in the act of | offering his hand, the Doctor looked, and es i pied someone rapidly approaching through ‘i the corn. In a moment, he exclaimed -