Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

a msMm jm&t mmi4.,,,...jmqtsb m jmuam, tm Mn mb sbimiss. mb to iml mmMmwL 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,