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For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
TH ESSALY—A FRAGMENT.
Keel’st thou no wild emotions, such as wake
The soul to fancies which o’erride the earth,
Seeking strange Gods! We are in Thessaly,
The land of flocks, and herds, and fiery steeds,
Warriors and battles ! —but with powers besides,
Most potent when most silent! Here they dwelt,
Who could with powerful magic sjiell the winds,
Arouse the storm to violence, and speed
i ieicedemons through the thick and sheeted air,
in phrensy-guided chariots, bent on wrath,
And most malevolent mischief! Here she reared—
Her weird and wonderfubgenius—by her charms,
Shapes of beguiling beauty for young hearts,
That wiled them to the embraces of a fate.
Deeming it human, till they sunk in shame,
Or perifehed in their tortures With her charms
She crown'd her rocks with beauty and a grace,
That mock’d the soul of thought.
And left the fancy nothing to create.
And nothing to smplore! Vet barren now,
Her empire ; and her subtlety and power,
No longer work with sway, and have no speech.
Save what she treasures from the prolific past,
Shrined in her sepulchres ! How sound her sleep
bo k’d in t he embrace of rocks, on which, of old,
Her magic lighted altars to dread powers,
That now partake her silence and her tomb’
Gesnkr
Columbia , S. C.
Tffllii li DnlAWz & li,
From the Columbian & Great West
THE
BEAUTIFUL QUINTROON.
A TRI E TALE OF NF.W ORLEANS.
RV CHAR. SUMMEEFIELD, ESQ.
Concluded from last week's issue.
CHAPTER IV.
THE life YARN OF a DESPERADO WILL THE
MYSTERY BE SOLVED?
Five years had come and gone like the
ftp of lightning. With a flash out-speed
ing sight or thought, and a roar that shakes
loth earth and heaven, the fire-winged
nessenger of God shoots to its goal! Away,
onwards, from cloud to cloud, rising or
failing—sweeping all things from its track
“itha besom of destroying flame —through
the wild air, across the reelingearth, down
!, ito the boiling sea, over the high moun
toin, along the deep valley — and all in the
instant—burning, cracking, shivering and
consuming—thus flies the electric demon of
‘he tempest, ploughing out gate-ways for
‘he chariot of thunder, till the judgment
%. And thus it is, also, with the re
morseless monster of nature —Time, the
universal and eternal tyrant, of whom all
features are the victims and slaves —that
fuel Saturn who devours his own children.
Five years! How insignificant a frag
ment out of the heart of Time, as all re
c°nled ages make not one beat of the pen
vnlum, which, hanging higher than the
snns. keeps count of the cycles in the life
01 nature, in whose unimaginable sweep of
duration our “Alps and Andes come and
8° like rainbows,” and suns exhale like
dew-drops of the sky.
five years! It is nothing in the phyfii
cal biography of the world—it scarcely
“'ms a letter in the measureless folios of
‘“story. a few gyrations of the earth
‘i nning without loise on its even axle,
a '"’ ‘be brief period has fled : but oh 1 du
n"B its passage, it possessed a wondrous
11l ,| g'h to change the universe from stir
'° centre. It leaves no one object in
f “b-exhausting category of “things”
“"he same state as when it found them.
‘ er y mountain on the globe has lost some
‘ ,a " ls from its miscalled “everlasting”
Emmie; rills, rivers, seas, have departed,
mewhat, or somewhere, from their places;
lls ’ a "d pale planets dancing about suns,
Ve journeyed onwards, by legions of in
a,culahie leagues, towards the dim, dis
and undiscovered bourne,” which no
‘pc shall ver reach in the starry
ed ocean. Paltry material movements
ese for it is in the soul and heart that
the sphinx-faced Proteus of magical trans
formations developes all his power. In
five years every mind of millionary man
gains or loses ideas whose incomparable
value might beggar the wealth of nature,
even all the sun-veins of light streaming in
the bright bosom of the milky way.
What saith the angel, with the eyes of
love, that keepeth watch and ward over
human hearts'? That, in live years, affec
tion, a current, strong as the rush of the
gulf-stream, has become feeble as the rip
ple of a rill—that breasts burning with
love’s own fire, which, once, all the waters
of Niagara could not quench, have frozen
—frozen of themselves even to their inmost
core!—and that all minds and hearts are
immeasurable heights or depths nearer the
goal of their final destiny, be it above or
below, than when the first minute of the
vanished period fell, like a feather, from
the meteor-wings of time.
The full moon shone with unusual bril
liancy, as one beautiful evening in May.
five years after the marriage of Henry
Beaufort and his Alice, a large class steam
er, one of those gliding palaces, now so
common on the Western waters—might be
seen flashing, and heard booming, down
the great Mississippi, some hundred miles
above New Orleans. The luxurious sup
per had been dispatched, and four men were
seated at the card-table in the gentlemen’s
cabin, already deeply engaged in a game of
poker. At the first glance, they might all
be pronounced as remarkable individuals,
and two of them, at least, as distinguished
for intellect as for passion. These two
were partners in the four-decked play then
progressing. One was a pale, slender, sad
faced person, with a piercing grey eye full
of arrowy lightnings, but otherwise of
quiet, harmless appearance : yet this was
the renowned Col. McClung, of Natchez—
the deadliest duelist in all the fiery South.
The other was a small, lame, dark-visaged
man, with eyeslike stars, and amplest brow:
this was S. S. Prentiss, the Demosthenes
of the West.
The third player was our old acquaint
ance, Col. Hume, whom we knew at Wash
ington as the mysterious terror of Alice
May. Ilis partner was a common gam
bler, whose Bowie knife peeped from the
rutiles of his shirt-bosom, while his belt
bristled with pistols.
From the onset, the stakes were large,
and continued to double and deepen as the
night advanced; and the gain and loss on
either side, for a long while, seemed very
nearly balanced. Col. Hume and his part
ner looked anxious, but still afraid, to in
dulge their proclivity for the cunning tricks
they both understood so well—for every
time they shuffled, or cut, the eagle eye
of Prentiss and the twinkling glance of
McClung, watched every movement of
their fingers, and seemed to read their very
thoughts.
At length, however, Col. Hume succeed
ed in stocking the cards, and he and his
partner bet a thousand dollars, separately
on their hands. McClung’s grey eyes cast
a peculiar look at Prentiss, who responded
by a nod, and they doubled the stakes.—
Hume and his partner went each a thou
sand dollars better; and then McClung
and Prentiss called them , as the heap of
bank bills on the table had grown enor
mous —a mountain of wealth, one might
say, a fortune. Then the excitement of the
spectators who had formed a circle around
the scene became intense. •
The players showed their hands. Pren
tiss held four queens, McClung four jacks,
Col. Hume four aces, and his comrade four
kings.
The click of a pistol was heard, in the
pocket of McClung, while Prentiss dis
played a revolver, and simultaneously drew
the whole amount staked forwards into his
lap, remarking coolly, as he did so—“ Ge
ntlemen, the game is closed. You played
well, but, unfortunately, forgot one of our
Mississippi rules—that when either party
turns cheat, the money may be transferred
into the purse of the other! 1 trust you
may profit by the lesson, as it cost you
rather high.”
The countenance of Col. Hume was that
of a demon. Hume said nothing, how
ever, and he and his defeated associate left
the cabin, and ascended to the hurricane
deck. It was then midnight.
“Cleaned out again, Colonel,” said the
inferior partner, with a dreadful oath.
“ Yes,” answered the other, grinding his
teeth and foaming with rage.
“If it had been any men on earth but
Prentissand McClung, I would have known
what to do. VVhy, the born devils pre
sented their shooting-irons before making
the grab!” said the rogue, shuddering at
the recollection.
“It v/as not that,” retorted Hume, sharp
ly, “which caused me to take the insult—
me, whose aim never missed its mark, even
by starlight. It was the boundless ]>opii
larity of Preniiss. Had 1 slain him, every
person on the boat would have been trans
formed into an avenger, and besides, 1 have
a deeper game ahead, that I might lose by
any difficulty now.”
■‘A deeper game? asked the parasite,
catching at the idea of an additional chance,
as the drowning sailor at the last plank of
a wreck.
“Yes,” replied Hume, “and as you are
a friend, and 1 shall probably need as
sistance, I shall state the case to you at
length.”
The two then seated themselves on a
small bench near the stern of the upper
deck, and as the beautiful vessel went glid
ing away like some supernatural thing over
the moonlight water, Hume narrated a ter
rible extract from the history of his des
perate life.
“ I may trace all the errors l have com
mitted, as all the sorrows 1 have suffered,
to a single source —disappointment in love.
1 married, when a youth of eighteen, a be
ing as beautiful as I believed her pure;
and I loved her, as wild, passionate natures
alone can love. 1 would have staked the
salvation of my soul on the wager of her
honor; I would have shed the last drop of
blood in my bosom to free her from the
slightest pain. My adoration increased
when she presented me with my first-born,
a fine boy-babe—the miniature image of
his mother. No words may describe the
affection I experienced for that child. My
heart, soul, life were shared betwixt him
and the beautiful creature on whose breast
he slept and smiled. Yet, can you believe
it? one year after his birth, just as he had
learned to lisji my name—when his sunny
looks had grown into the sweetest memo
ries of the past, and beamed on fancy’s
path as a harbinger of radiant hope for the
future—that woman eloped with my dear
est friend, and stole away by darling boy.
“The abandoned mother I never saw
more. The dear friend 1 chanced to meet
after the lapse of a dozen years. He will
not soon perpetrate another wrong. His
coward prayers for mercy to me —to me,
the man whose soul he had murdered—
still ring in the depths of my brain, like
some sweet strain of music.
“For a long while, 1 made incredible ex
ertions to discover my son—for, strange to
say, notwithstanding the atrocious wicked
ness of the mother, I still loved the child;
I love him yet, whether among the dead or
living. I hoped to find him, especially as
there were natural marks of a peculiar
character on his person—the crimson im
pression of three ripe cherries on his left
breast, immediately over the heart, and a
sac simile of the same on the right arm,
near the elbow. 1 sent runners in every
direction; I travelled to distant States; I
offered rewards to the extent of all my
large fortune; but all proved to be in vain.
It was then that the gloom of a freezing
misanthropy began to settle on my wound
ed spirit. 1 learned to distrust and hate
woman as a deceiver, and man as my na
tural enemy. To keep from going utterly
crazed, it became necessary to seek some
stirring occupation, and 1 adopted that of a
negro trader, as it agreed well with my
soured and savage disposition. Besides,
the incessant wandering the business de
manded possible chance to light
on my lost brdT 1 followed it ardently,
and amassed immense wealth.
“But now I come to a still moredreadful
passage in my eventful life-yarn. Fool
that I was, I loved again, and only to be
more thoroughly undone. During one of
my tours to Maryland on an expedition of
purchase, 1 fell in with some men engaged
in the same business. They had bought, a
few days previously, a beautiful quadroon,
a young creature of not more than sixteen,
with a girl-infant at the breast. 1 have
never seen a more fascinating face and
form than those of the mother. I con
ceived for her a passion as violent as it was
sudden and unaccountable, paid a high
price for her and the child, and with them
returned to Mississippi. There I passed
her off as my wife and the babe, too, as my
own, settled a large plantation, and for
ten years was comparatively happy. The
quadroon had no more children, but I Wed
little Alice well, and gave her an excellent
education.
“At the end of the period just stated, I
made a discovery that almost deprived me
of reason. My quadroon had proven false,
and with a slave black as the accoi spades!
My revenge, you may be sure, was terrible
as to both.
“ By the event, my previous affection for
Alice was converted into boundless haired,
I had a thought of taking her life also;
but the devil, or my own ingenuity, sug
gested a more cunning method of vengeance
—one that should be profitable as well as
perfect. 1 still held the bill of sale, show
ing the original purchase of her and her
mother. 1 determined to arrange that she
should marry some wealthy man, who
would he wholly usapprised cf her servile
condition, and after she should become the
mother of several children, then I would
appear and claim my property as master
of all! Accordingly, I had her education
completed at a female seminary of the first
class in Pennsylvania, and when she ap
proached sixteen, prepared to execute my
purpese. f placed a family devoted to my
will in a tenement of mine at Washington.
I then saw Alice, informed her of my
scheme to wed her during the winter to
some wealthy gentleman, and threatened,
if she thwarted my will, to make her the
wife of my negro Bill, and sell them both
as slaves.
“Business called me to New Orleans,
and as l returned to Washiigton, fate threw
in my way a lit subject to form a victim
conjointly with Alice—a certain Henry
Beaufort, who, as I learned, would fall heir
to an immense estate, by the will of an
opulent old bachelor, wlnse caprice had
adopted him as a son. 1 saved the fool
from committing suicide; vre became confi
dential friends, I reconmended him to
the family in my ‘tenement at the Federal
city, as a quiet cottage where he could pro
cure private boarding. I tien brought on
Alice, and my accommodating tenants pass
ed her oil'as a relative of theirs. The girl,
on her part, believing me to be her father,
(for I and her mother had Always told her
so,) and fearing also to be made the wife
of black Bill and sold as a slave, after a
bitter struggle, consented to second my
wishes. I felt sure that Beaufort, imagi
native and romantic to thf verge of mad
ness, would be certain to conceive an in
tense passion for one so beautiful, culti
vated, and amiable as Alice. The result
justified my expectation. In a few weeks
they were married. And now, as my
correspondent informs me, they have two
children, and Beaufort is one of the richest
merchants of New Orleans. 1 am going
at last to reap of harvest of gold. He wor
ships his wife and children; he is proud of
their position in society. I shall seek a
private interview, tell him that they are my
slaves, and present my evidences of title;
then his affection and vanity alike will
prompt him to offer my price—fifty, perhaps
a hundred thousand dollars.
“ There is but one single danger connect
ed with the experiment. He is excitable
and brave as a lion. In the fury of the
moment, under the maddening impulse pro
duced by the first disclosure, he may at
tempt some desperate deed to spoil all.—
To avoid such a contingency, 1 wish you
to attend me, and remain within call, while
I break the intelligence gently to him. If
we succeed, you shall be amply rewarded.!’
The parasite eagerly embraced the infa
mous proposal, and the two retired to their
berths. Before daylight, the boat entered
the port of the Crescent city, and the com
rades in crime put up at the St. Charles.
CHAPTER V.
THE UNWELCOME VISITER.
On that morning, a scene of heavenly
happiness might have been witnessed in a
superb mansion, situated in the upper part
of the Ruy Royal. A private family were
seated at their own breakfast-table, in a
saloon furnished with extraordinary mag
nificence. The joyous circle consisted of
four individuals. In the high white fore
head, charming oval of the face, raven
hair, and diamond-sparkling eyes of the
father, might readily be recognized “the
handsome stranger” of a former page,
Henry Beaufort—only the old shadow of
melancholy had altogether disappeared—
had been shorn away by the star-light smile
of the sweet-featured Alice at his side, as
the veil of morning’s mist is scattered by
a sword of sunbeams. His countenance
seemed the type of cheerful thought, and
(he eloquent glances and words of soft en
dearment he bestowed on his beautiful wife,
proved that the fires of his youthful love
yet burned with undiminished brightness;
although it was easy to see that his heart
had been shared, not divided, by the two
little laughing, prattling ofl-shoots and im
ages of their mutual souls —a boy child of
four summers, and a girl of two —angels of
the heaven wiiose name is “ home.”
There was, however, a slight tinge of
sadness on the wife's fine face. The pre
vious night she had dreamed of her sup
posed father, and unquestionable master;
such visions often disturbed her anxious
imagination, both waking and in sleep.—
They were, in fact, the phantom-daggers
of fear which murdered many an hour of
love’s dearest enjoyment, for she had every
reason to expect that Col. Hume, if still
living, only awaited the most favorable
moment to appear and claim his slaves.—
For alas! by the rigid letter of the law,
those innocent babes were that bad man’s
property, as much so as the horse he rode,
or the dog that came at his call.
Oh, then, how cou’d she, so tender, so
unspeakably fond, both of that husband
and of those children, endure the presence
of the everlasting thought, that a thunder
bolt hung in the skies of the future, which
might break without an instant’s warning,
and scatter her and her beloved ones wide
ly as the world asunder! How could she
anticipate the appaling certainty of a sepa
ration, and not run mad ( None need ask
such questions who are familiar with the
infinite strength of a mother's love—that
cable, strong as the iron of the eternal
mountains, which moors her to home and
to life alike, even though the one be a hell
and the other a ceaseless crucifixion of po
verty and pain—a cable is that love, soft
as the gossamer's “twinkling line,” yet
endearing as ihe chrysolite of heaven's
starr)’ roof.”
The tortures of Alice were aggravated
incalculably by the necessity which forced
her to conceal her fears. How often did
she yearn to pour the bitter secret into that
kind bosom which slumbered nightly so
near her own; but she dared not. The re
collection of her life's first lie fixed on her
tremulous lips a brazen seal. When in
terrogated by Henry, before their nuptials,
if she knew Colonel Hume, she answered
“ never.” And now, thoroughly acquaint
ed with her husband's detestation of false
hood—the last sin in the world he would
be likely to overlook—she could not master
the courage to undeceive him.
On this morning, as we have already
said, the arrowy iron of a preternaturally
vivid and life-like dream of horror was in
her soul, and its shadowy gloom lingered
visibly on her brow till breakfast.
Henry’s sympathetic glance detected the
signs of sadness, and he inquired tenderly:
“Dearest, are you well?”
Alice answered evasively : “My dear, I
fear the poisonous atmosphere of the city
does not agree with my constitution. Os
late 1 have experienced a painful languor:
I long for a genial home in the country,
where I might never more hear one echo of
this noisy and hollow world of fashion.”
“Why did you not say so sooner?” re
joined the fond husband. “You know it
is the only business of my life to consult
your happiness, and it shall be as you
wish.”
“Would it not be better to seek our nexv
residence in one of the free States, in the
cool and bracing Northern air?” suggested
the wile timidly—conscious of the violent
prejudices of her husband in favor of Afri
can slavery.
“ What! and live among abolitionists and
their allies, the free negroes? Alice, you
must be dreaming!” retorted Henry, with
unusual sharpness.
The young wife’s eyes filled with silent
tears.
Henry saw that his words had given her
pain, and endeavoring to soften the hasty
censure, immediately added: “I did not
mean to chide you, dearest, 1 would do any
thing for you, but live in a country where
people of mixed blood should be my peers
at the ballot-box and in the drawing room.”
Beaufort did not notice the mortal pale
ness of his wife, at his iast remark; for as
he spoke a servant entered and informed
his master that there was a gentleman at
the counting-room who wished to see him.
“ Did hegive his name?” inquired Henry.
“No, massa: me ax him, but he laugh
and say you will know him dam well when
you git dar.”
“It is strange!” murmured Beaufort, and
then asked, “How did he look, Pete?,’
“Likede debil,” said the slave, “long
hair, black as <le crow's fedder; beard most
down to him knees; and eyes shiny, cold
as de rattle snake’s.”
“It must be Col. Hume,” thought Beau
fort, as he seized his hat and cain and hur
ried to the counting-house. Alice essayed
in vain to call him back. The words
choked her throat like lumps of ice. She
had listened with terrible interest to the
slave’s description of the stranger, and felt
that the hour of her doom had come. The
sleeping thunderbolt had awakened at lat.
CHAPTER VI.
THE PURCHASE.
After a few minutes’ walk, Beaufort
reached his counting-house in the Rue Ca
rondelet, and discovered that he had net
been mistaken as to his unexpected visiter.
Col. Hume was waiting, and received him
with a sinister, labored welcome, introduc
ing him at the same time to a tall, red
faced man, to whom he gave the name of
“Captain Miller.” The Colonel did not
6eem disposed to keep Beaufort long in sus
pense as to his object in the present meet-
ing. He remarked, without answering di
rectly any ol his former friend’s hurried
questions:
“Mr. Henry Beaufort, I have some im
portant business with you, such as re
quires, for your sake, the strictest pri
vacy.”
“Very well,” replied the other, “if your
companion, Captain Miller, will give us the
room, my clerks will also retire, and we
shall not be in any danger of interruption.”
As the rest left the apartment, Hume
said aloud, “Captain Miller, be so good as
to wait outside near the door; I shall pro
bably want you.”
The villain then addressed his intended
victim, in tones desigued to be impressive,
but which trembled in spite ol his powerful
will.
“Henry Beaufort, do you still remember
my last words at parting ?”
“May you and your Alice be happy till
I see you again,” replied the other, much
astonished, and repeating, as it were me
chanically, that ominous farewell.
“You have done right not to forget
them,” said Hume. “ And have you both
been happy 1”
“Certainly,” answered Beaufort, more
and more astonished: “ but allow ine to
add, that 1 do not see the purpose of your
singular questions.”
“It is well,” said Huine, without notic
ing the last remark; “ you can then prepare
to endure some suffering for the sake of
your Alice.”
“I am prepared to do and endure any
thing for her,” rejoined Beaufort sternly.
“ Before I tell you my deep secret,” said
Hume, with a sneer; “ let me forewarn you
.not to become excited or passionate ; you
cannot mend the matter by an outrage on
my life or person. Captain Miller has my
title-deeds in his pockets; and thre are three
policemen who will come at his call.
“In the name of God, of what secret do
you speak ?” cried Beaufort, pale as a
corpse.
“If you will promise to take me with
you to see Alice, and let her decide on the
truth of my claim, I will tell you,” an
swered the victim, appalled at the terrific
light which he now discovered gleaming in
his victim’s eyes.
“1 promise,” rejoined Beaufort, gasping
for breath.
“Then hear it,” said Hume, sinking his
voice into a hissing whisper—“ Alice is mv
slave!”
“It is false as h—ll,” shouted Beaufort,
feeling in his pocket for a pistol, which he
had forgotten to bring with him.
Col. Hume had not been so negligent; he
displayed one of Colt’s murderous revolv
ers, exclaiming, as he did so, “Henry, re
member your promise, let Alice decide; if
she says, I lie, kill me —I swear not to re
sist!”
“Be it so,” said Beaufort, in tones of
unearthly wildness. “If she denies your
tale, you die; if she confesses, she dies
herself! Come!” And heseized Hume’s
arm, and fairly dragged him onwards.
They soon entered Beaufort’s parlor, where
the lovely Alice sat weeping tears of fire.
The moment she perceived Hume, she ut
tered a piercing shriek, clasped her chil
dren to her bosom, and fell swooning on
the floor! Her emotion revealed all.
“It is enough!” exclaimed Beaufort;
“retire, now, 1 will see you at noon, in the
bar-room of the St. Charles.” And he
waved his hand with a gesture so mena
cing. that Hume instantly obeyed.
Beaufort stood gazing on the pale face
of his wife, and the terror of those beau
tiful children; while over his convulsed
and writhing features, the while, passed a
flight of unutterable thoughts—humbled
pride, wounded vanity, anger, shame,doubt,
horror, but love, at length, mastered all;
the angel of nature vanquished the demons
of education !
Presently, Alice opened her eyes, drew
a long sigh, and glanced around the room,
as in search of some appaling speclre.—
Henry stooped, and kissed her, whispering
fondly—“ Dearest he is gone. 1 know all,
and will save you, or perish with you!”
“ Do not say so, till you have heard all,”
she answered wildly ; and she poured into
her husband's ear the whole story of her
wrongs, and sorrows—the hidden agony of
five years!
“ My God ! how much you must have
suffered—model of patience and goodness
that you are,” exclaimed the adoring hus
band, all his love revived with incredible
fore in the crisis of danger.
At noon, Beaufort called on Hume at the
St. Charles. He was forced to pay for his
wife and cildren the round sum of a hun
dred thousand dollars. -He might, perhaps,
have avoided the claim in law; but the
disgrace and publicity of snch a suit were
not to be thought of. He had recently sus
tained some heavy losses in business, and j
this new and enormous amount, added, left
him, in a manner penniless. The affair,
however, might have ended peaceably, had
it not been for the fiend-like, sneering way
in which Hume conducted the closing trans
action, remarking, at the termination, as if
to goal his victim to phrenzy; “perhaps,
some day, 1 may call on you again !”
The implied menace decided the destiny
of both—for then the tiger, that lives in all
human nature —that may sleep, but never
dies wholly in any heart of man, aroused
itself with the burning energy of a devil in
Beaufort’s bosom, and filled every vein
with streams of lightning. But he was
wonderfully calm—it was the calm which
precedes the roar of a volcano, and thun
der of the earthquake—the calm of concen
trated power in all resistless things! He
only murmuied, however, as he bowed a
haughty adieu, the ominous words of the
other's farewell at Washington, five years
before : “Col. Hume, may yott be happy,
till I see you again ?’
The villain turned pale, and faltered—
■ Does he threaten me too? Has the crush
ed worm found its sting at last ?”
CHAPTER VII.
THE PLACE OF GRAVES!
On the morning, subsequent to the events
detailed in the preceding chapter, Col. Hume
arose with the gray dawn, as was his in
variable custom—a fact well known to
Beaufort—and having half emptied his
flask of brandy, he sallied forth for his reg
ular walk. He moved rapidly down the
Rue Royal, smiled bitterly, as he passed
Beaufort’s mansion, and paused a moment
in front of the old cathedral; gazed gloom
ily on its mouldering walls and moss-grown
turrets ; and then turning to the left, sought
the silent precincts of the French Burial
Ground. His counteuance was sad, per
haps, he had dreamed of his long-lost boy !
for strange contradiction, even he had one
green bower in the wilderness of wicked
memories—one love rill of human feeling
yet watered the barren desert of his heart
—it was the love of that unforgotten child.
He had not, however, moved unobserved :
the never-sleeping eyeof God, and the stern
glance of God’s avenger had noted every
step of his sinful feet. Even as he de
scended the marble slabs of the St. Charles,
a tall form muffled in a dark-colred cloak,
might be seen gliding beneath the lower
columns, and favoured by the dusk of twi
light, stealthily dogged his tracks. It was
Henry Beaufort—who followed him into
the place of tombs —that old garden, sowed
thick with the bones of the dead, where the
grass grows greener, and the flowers smell
sweeter than at any other spot in all New
Orleans. Beaufort gazed on the monu
ments of costly granite, where the smiling
children of yesterday had hung gay wreaths
of roses over the beds of the pale sleepers,
so unconscious and cold below ! He read,
as the dawn waxed brighter, the pompous
inscription on the snowy marble; and ever
as he moved from one grave to another,
pursuing the foot-falls of his foe, for he
waited the perfect light fora more unerring
aim—he murmured: “Oh! what an awful
place is this to engage in murder!”
At last, it was clear day. Suddenly the
sound of the foot-falls ceased, and Beaufort
heard a low moaning behind one of the
largest tombs. He crept, panther-like, with
pistol cocked, and his finger on the trigger,
to a position commanding a full view of his
enemy. A vision met his gaze, as unex
pected as it was bewildering. He saw
Hume on his knees, his pale face wet with
a rain of tears, his eyes raised wildly to
heaven, crying in accents of immeasurable
despair: “Oh! that there were a God of
the Resurrection to give me again my lost
child !”
Ami then Beaufort thought to himself :
“Aye, he has one spark ol the tire of hu
man feeling left! 1 cannot kill him! - ’
The wretch had one more chance on
earth, and in heaven. The angel of mer
cy brought it with the beams of the rising
sun : but on the instant, ten thousaud howl
ing furies flew up from the gulf of dark
ness, and shook the wavering chance from
the wandering angel’s wing.
Hume accidentally turned his eyes, and
saw Beaufort standing irresolute with the
cocked pistol in his hand. The villain
sprang up, drew his own weapon, and tired
quick as a thought, his bullet grazing the
other’s cheek. Beaufort’s pistol burst a
cap without exploding ; and before he had
time to present its fellow, Hume was upon
him with his Bowie knife. The despera
do made a terrible thrust, which Beaufort
parried with difficulty; and the violence
of the blow passing through his cjoak,
snapped the fastening at the collar, so that
the garment dropped from his shoulders.—
But this was not the only damage done to
his clothing ;. the broad blade sharp as the
edge of a razor, without touching the skin,
