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The last notes of a favorite waltz resounded through the splendidsaloons of Mrs. Montresor's mansion in Grosvenor Square; sparkling eyesand glittering jewels flashed in the lamp-light; the rival queens ofrank and beauty shone side by side upon the aristocratic crowd; therich perfumes of exotic blossoms floated on the air; brave men andlovely women were met together to assist the farewell ball given by thewealthy American, Mrs. Montresor, on her departure for New Orleans withher lovely niece, Adelaide Horton, whose charming face and sprightlymanners had been the admiration of all London during the season of 1860.

The haughty English beauties were by no means pleased to see thesensation made by the charms of the vivacious young American, whosebrilliant and joyous nature contrasted strongly with the proud andlanguid daughters of fashion who entrenched themselves behind a barrierof icy reserve, which often repelled their admirers.

Adelaide Horton was a gay and light-hearted being. Born upon theplantation of a wealthy father, the cries of beaten slaves had neverdisturbed her infant slumbers; for the costly mansion in which the babyheiress was reared was far from the huts of the helpless creatures whoworked sometimes sixteen hours a day to swell the planter's wealth. Nogroans of agonized parents torn from their unconscious babes; no criesof outraged husbands, severed from their newly-wedded wives, had everbroken Adelaide's rest. She knew nothing of the slave trade; as at avery early age the planter's daughter had been sent to England for hereducation. Her father had died during her absence from America, andshe was thus left to the guardianship of an only brother, the presentpossessor of Horton Ville, as the extensive plantation and magnificentcountry seat were called.

On Adelaide attaining her eighteenth year, her aunt, Mrs. Montresor, aninhabitant of New York, and the widow of a rich merchant, had crossedthe Atlantic at Augustus Horton's request, for the purpose of givingher niece a season in London, and afterward escorting her back toLouisiana.

She found Adelaide all that her most anxious relatives could havewished—elegant, accomplished, fashionable, well-bred; a littlefrivolous, perhaps, but what of that, since her lot in life was to bea smooth and easy one. Mrs. Montresor was delighted, and expressed hergratification very warmly to the Misses Beaumont, of West Brompton, inwhose expensive but fashionable seminary Adelaide had been educated.

In an ante-chamber leading out of the crowded ball-room—anante-chamber where the atmosphere was cool, and where the closeneighborhood of a fountain plashing into its marble basin in anadjoining conservatory refreshed the wearied ear, two young men loungedlazily upon a satin-covered couch, watching the dancers through theopen ball-room door.

The first of these young men was a South American, Mortimer Percy, thepartner of Augustus Horton, and the first cousin of the planter and hispretty sister Adelaide.

Mortimer Percy was a handsome young man. His fair, curling hairclustered round a broad and noble forehead; his large clear blue eyessparkled with the light of intellect; his delicate aquiline nose andchiseled nostrils bespoke the refinement of one who was by nature agentleman; but a satirical expression spoiled an otherwise beautifulmouth, and an air of languor and weariness pervaded his appearance. Heseemed one of those who have grown indifferent to life, careless alikeof its joys and sorrows.

His companion contrasted strongly with him both in appearance andmanner. With a complexion bronzed by exposure to Southern suns, withflashing black eyes, a firm but flexible mouth, shaded with a silkyraven mustache, and thick black hair brushed carelessly back from hissuperb forehead, Gilbert Margrave, artist, engineer, philanthropist,poet, seemed the very type of manly energy.

The atmosphere of a crowded ball-room appeared unnatural to him. Thatdaring spirit was out of place amidst the narrow conventionalities offashionable life; the soaring nature needed wide savannas and loftymountain tops, distant rivers and sounding waterfalls; the artist andpoet mind sighed for the beautiful—not for the beautiful as we see itin a hot-house flower, imprisoned in a china vase, but as it lurks inthe gigantic cup of the Victoria regia on the broad bosom of the mightyAmazon.

But Gilbert Margrave was one of the lions of 1860. An invention inmachinery, which had enriched both the inventor and the cotton spinnersof Manchester, had made the young engineer celebrated, and when it wasdiscovered that he belonged to a good Somersetshire family, that he washandsome and accomplished, an artist and a poet, invitations flocked inupon him from all the fashionable quarters of the West End.

He had been silent for some time, his gaze riveted upon one of thebrilliant groups in the ball-room, when Mortimer Percy tapped himlightly on the shoulder with his gloved hand.

"Why, man, what are you dreaming of?" he said, laughing; "whatentrancing vision has enchained your artist glance? What fairy formhas bewitched your poet soul? One would think you were amid solitudesof some forest on the banks of the Danube instead of a ball-room inGrosvenor Square. Confess, my Gilbert, confess to your old friend, andreveal the nymph whose spells have transformed you into some statue."

Gilbert smiled at his friend's sally. The two young men had metupon the Continent, and had traveled together through Germany andSwitzerland.

"The nymph is no other than yonder lovely girl, talking to your cousin,Miss Horton," said Gilbert; "look at her, Mortimer, watch the gracefulhead, the silky raven hair, as she bends down to whisper to hercompanion. Is she not lovely?"

Few who looked upon the young girl of whom Gilbert Margrave spoke,could well have answered otherwise than in the affirmative. She wasindeed lovely in the first blush of youth, with the innocence of anangel beaming in every smile; with the tenderness of a woman lyingshadowed in the profound depths of her almond-shaped black eyes.Features, delicately molded and exquisitely proportioned; a tinyrosebud mouth; a Grecian nose; a complexion fairer than the ungatheredlily hiding deep in an untrodden forest; it was difficult for theimagination of the poet, or the painter, to picture aught so beautiful.

The young South American put his head critically on one side, with thecalculating glance with which a connoisseur in the fine arts regards avaluable picture. The used-up Mortimer Percy made it a rule never tocommit himself by admiring anything, or anybody.

"By no means bad-looking!" cried Gilbert Margrave, impatiently; "youcold-hearted automaton, how dare you speak of womanly perfection insuch a manner. She's an angel, a goddess—a siren—a—"

"You'll have an attack of apoplexy, Margrave, if you go on in thisway," said Mortimer, laughing.

"Yes. The African blood runs in those purple veins. The hereditarycurse of slavery hovers over that graceful and queen-like head."

"What of that? Had you been a planter, Gilbert, you would have beenable to discover, as I did, when just now I stood close to that lovelygirl, the fatal signs of her birth. At the extreme corner of the eye,and at the root of the finger nails, the South American can alwaysdiscover the trace of slavery, though but one drop of the blood of thedespised race tainted the object upon whom he looked."

"But this girl seems an intimate friend of your cousin, Adelaide; whocan she be?" asked Gilbert.

"Yes, that is the very thing that puzzles me. Adelaide must be utterlyignorant of her origin, or she would never treat as a friend one who,on the other side of the Atlantic, would be her lady's maid. But hush,here comes my aunt, she will be able to tell us all about her beautifulguest."

Mrs. Montresor was still a handsome woman. She bore a family likenessto her nephew, Mortimer, who was the only son of her sister, whileAdelaide and Augustus Horton were the children of her brother. Her fairringlets had, as yet, escaped the hand of Time. No tell-tale streaksof gray had stolen amid the showering locks. Her blue eyes were asbright as those of a girl, and shone with the light of good humor andbenevolence. She was not only a handsome woman, she was a lovable one.The young instinctively clung to her, and felt that within that amplebosom beat a kindly heart, which a long summer of prosperity had neverrendered callous to the woes of others.

"Come, gentlemen!" she said, gayly, as she approached the two friends;"this is really too bad! Here you are lolling on a sofa, 'wasting yoursweetness on the desert air,' while I have, at least, half a dozenpretty girls waiting for eligible partners for the next waltz. As foryou, Mortimer," she added, shaking her perfumed fan, threateningly ather nephew; "you are really incorrigible; poor Adelaide does not evenknow you are here."

"I came in late, my dear aunt, and I saw that both you and my cousinwere so surrounded by admirers, it was quite impossible to approachyou."

"A pretty excuse, sir, which neither I nor Adelaide will accept," saidMrs. Montresor, laughing.

"Out upon your gallantry, sir; you preferred talking to Mr. Margrave todancing with your cousin and affianced bride?"

"I am not a very good dancer; I am apt to tread upon the ladies' laceflounces, and get my heels entangled in the spurs of young dragoons. Ireally thought my cousin would rather be excused."

"Indeed, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Montresor, evidently rather annoyed byher nephew's indifference; "I should not be surprised if Adelaideshould one day ask to be excused from marrying you."

"Good gracious!" cried young Mortimer, playing with his watch chain;"do you think my cousin is not very violently in love with me?"

"Violently in love with you? coxcomb! But, joking apart, really,Mortimer, you are the coldest, most unpoetical, soulless creature Iever met with."

"My dear aunt," said Mortimer, apologetically, "I will freely own thatI am not a very sentimental person. But what of that? My intendedmarriage with my cousin, Adelaide, is by no means a romantic affair.In the first place, Augustus Horton and I are partners. My marriagewith his sister is therefore advisable, on the ground of commercialinterests. That is reason number one, not very romantic to begin with.Reason number two is this; you have two nephews and one niece; youwish your favorite nephew (meaning me) to marry your niece, in orderthat one of these days, having no children of your own, you may leavethem the bulk of your fortune. There's nothing particularly romanticin this. You say to the two young people, 'Marry,' and the two youngpeople say, 'Very well, we're agreeable!' and behold the business issettled. Very advisable, and very proper, no doubt, but not a subjectfor romance, my dear aunt."

"Bah, Mortimer, you're incorrigible; but I know that at the bottomof your heart you're very much in love with your pretty cousin,notwithstanding your pretending indifference."

"Come, then, my best of aunts. Forgive your most perverse of nephews,and answer me one question, for the benefit of Gilbert Margrave here,who has been bewitched by one of the lilies of your ball-room."

"That is the very question we want you to answer," replied Mortimer,leading his aunt to the curtained doorway of the ball-room. "See, thereshe is, that dark-eyed girl, talking to my cousin Adelaide."

"I am a little," replied the young man, thoughtfully; "I did not knowLeslie had a daughter."

"Indeed. She is a very lovely girl, and you must be good enough tointroduce us to her, by-and-by."

"Take care, Mortimer," said his aunt; "you are surely not going to fallin love with Miss Leslie."

"Not the least danger, my dear aunt. Though I would not say as much forpoor Gilbert here."

"Pshaw! Mortimer," exclaimed the young artist, reddening; "it is thepainter's privilege to admire beauty without loving it."

"No doubt of it, my dear boy," answered Mortimer; "but unfortunately,sometimes a certain little rosy-legged gentleman, with a bow andarrows, called Cupid, steps in; the painter forgets his privilege, andthe man falls in love with the artist's model."

"Well, I must leave you, gentlemen," said Mrs. Montresor; "I thinkI see Adelaide and Miss Leslie coming this way, so if you want anintroduction to the young South American you must obtain it through myniece. Au revoir, naughty boys!"

"Stay, my dear aunt, you will forgive Mr. Margrave when I tell you thathe is as determined an abolitionist as yourself, or any of your friendsin New York. He means sailing for South America in a month, armed withsome new inventions in machinery, which he declares ought to supercedeslave labor."

"Yes, madam," said Gilbert, earnestly; "your nephew well knows myopinion upon this subject, and though his interests may be allied tothe hateful barter, which should call a blush to the cheek of everyhonest American, I know that his heart is with us, the abolitionists ofslavery."

"Let me shake hands with you, Mr. Margrave," exclaimed Mrs. Montresor;"I declare to you that so hateful to me is the slave trade, and allconnected with it, that were it not necessary for me to escort my niecehome and assist at her marriage with this hare-brained boy, I wouldnever again set foot upon the accursed soil of Louisiana; but I mustnot say more to you now, for here come the young ladies. Adelaide isbut a child as yet, and has never thought seriously of the matter;while her brother Augustus, like his father before him, is a determinedadvocate of slavery. Once more, adieu!" and the elegant, althoughportly, Mrs. Montresor glided from the room, her rich robes of sky-bluemoire antique rustling around her.

"Gilbert," said Mortimer, hurriedly, as soon as his aunt was out ofhearing, "remember, I beg, do not breathe to a mortal one hint of whatI just now told you, with regard to Miss Leslie's origin. I suspectsome painful mystery here, and I would not, for the world, that anyidle talk of mine should cause this poor girl's gentle heart one throbof sorrow or one thrill of shame."

"You may rely upon me, Mortimer," exclaimed Gilbert, with enthusiasm."My lips are sealed forever."

There was a marked contrast between the two friends. Young as AdelaideHorton was, she had already all the finished elegance and easyconfidence of a woman of fashion. Frivolous, capricious, and somethingof a coquette, she was born to charm in a ball-room, and to shine ina crowd. Cora Leslie was a creature of an utterly different nature.Like some wild flower from the luxuriant forests of her native Southshe seemed destined to bloom with a sweeter perfume in loneliness. Toblossom for the silent stars and the midnight skies; to expand herfairest petals to the sunshine of one loving heart.

"I do not care to see my cousin just now," said Mortimer, "so I willleave you, Gilbert, to make yourself agreeable to the young ladies,while I go and smoke a cigar in the balcony opening out of theconservatory."

The young man strolled through the curtained doorway, leading into thecool retreat, as his cousin and her friend entered from the ball-room.

"Here, at least, my dear Cora, we shall be able to breathe," saidAdelaide, as the two girls approached Gilbert. "Ah, Mr. Margrave," sheadded, perceiving the young artist, "it is here, then, that you havebeen hiding yourself while a hundred lion-hunters have been trying tochase you. Cora, allow me to introduce to you Mr. Gilbert Margrave,engineer, artist, poet—lion! Mr. Margrave, allow me to present to youMiss Cora Leslie, my friend, and the most elegant waltzer in my aunt'scrowded assembly."

"I beg, Mr. Margrave," said Cora Leslie, "that you will not listen toMiss Horton's assertions; she only grants me this eulogy because sheknows that she waltzes better than I."

"Will you permit me to be the judge of that, Miss Leslie?" saidGilbert, "and, in order that I may be so, grant me your hand for thenext waltz?"

"Oh, yes, yes," cried Adelaide, laughing, "we'll waltz with you. Ipromise for Cora. Now, pray go back into the ball-room, Mr. Margrave,and satisfy those good people who are pining to stare you out ofcountenance, which is the only English tribute to genius. Go, now, youshall summon Cora as soon as the first notes of the waltz strike up."

Gilbert bowed and left the ante-room, not without one enthusiasticglance at the innocent face of the fair Louisianian.

"There goes another of your admirers, Cora," cried Adelaide, as sheflung herself into one of the luxurious easy-chairs, while Coraseated herself on a sofa, a few paces distant and laid her bouquet ofhot-house flowers on a tiny table at her side. "I declare, Miss CoraLeslie, that I begin to think I did a very unwise thing in persuadingmy dear, good-natured aunt to give this farewell reunion to our Englishfriends, for you had only to make your appearance in order to stealevery admirer I have. It is a general desertion to the camp of theenemy. I should not wonder if Mortimer himself joined the renegades,and left me to sing willow for my inconstant swain."

"But I thought from what you told me, Adelaide," replied Cora,laughing, "that Mr. Percy was by no means a very enthusiastic orromantic person."

"Oh, no indeed," said Adelaide, with an impatient sigh; "you areright there, my dear Cora; never was there such a cold-hearted,matter-of-fact being as that cousin and future husband of mine. If hepays me a compliment, it is only an artful way of drawing attentionto one of my defects, which, I will own, are rather numerous. If heever utters an affectionate word, I always feel convinced that he islaughing at me. Imagine, now, my dear Cora, was it not flattering to mywomanly vanity to hear him say, when he arrived in London a month ortwo ago, after a separation of four years, 'My dear Adelaide, my aunthas taken it into her head that you and I ought to marry; I don't wantto oppose her, and I suppose you don't, either.'"

"'Oh, no, my dear cousin; I've no objection to marry you. But praydon't ask anything else.'"

"I scarcely know. I am impetuous, rash, passionate, capable of doingeven a wicked action when under the influence of some sudden impulse.I am daring enough, Heaven knows, but there is one species of couragethat I lack—the courage which gives the power of resistance. I couldnot oppose my aunt. Has she not been the tenderest of mothers to me?Besides, I did not love any one else, or at least—Why abandon myselfto dreams that can never be realized? Again, as the wife of my cousinMortimer, I shall never be an exile from my dear native South. If yousee me gay and happy, Cora, in spite of my approaching marriage, it isthat I shall soon behold the blue skies of my beloved Louisiana."

"Forgive me, dearest Adelaide," said Cora Leslie, "but from a few wordsthat escaped you just now, I fancy that I have a secret of your heart.Has Mr. Margrave, by any chance, made an impression in that quarter?"

"You are very inquisitive, miss," replied Adelaide, blushing; "Mr.Margrave is an accomplished young man, but his manner to me has nevergone beyond the bounds of the most ceremonious politeness. Perhaps,indeed, had he betrayed any warmer sentiment toward me, I might—Butdo not, I implore you, force me to reflect, my dear Cora. Is it notdecided that I am to marry Mortimer? I will present him to you thisevening if he makes his appearance, and you shall tell me what youthink of him."

"I am most impatient to see him," said Cora. "Tell me, dear Adelaide,did you ask him for tidings of my father?"

"Do not think me forgetful, dear Cora, but I had so much to say tohim about my brother and my native country that I forgot to make theinquiries you charged me with. There, now, you are angry with me, Iknow, I can see it in your eyes."

"No, Adelaide, no!" answered Cora, "that which you see in my eyes isnot anger, but anxiety. It is nearly three months since I have receivedany letter from my dear father, and this long silence is so unlike hisaffectionate consideration that it has filled me with alarm."

"Nay, my dear Cora, the cares of business no doubt have prevented hiswriting; or perhaps he is coming over to England, and wishes to giveyou a delightful surprise. Did you not tell me that Mr. Leslie meant tosell his plantation, and take up his abode in England? But here comesMortimer, and you can yourself make all the inquiries you wish."

The young planter strolled with a leisurely step through the doorway ofthe conservatory, bowing to the two girls as he entered the room.

"At last!" exclaimed Adelaide; "so you have actually condescended tohonor my aunt's assembly with your gracious presence, my dear cousin.Perhaps you were in hopes you would not see me."

"On the contrary," said Adelaide, "I was awaiting you with impatience.But pray don't be alarmed, it was not on my own account, but on that ofMiss Leslie that I wished to see you. My friend is anxious to ask youabout her father."

"Mr. Mortimer Percy, cotton merchant and slave proprietor, my cousinand my future husband, as my aunt says—"

"Oh, in Heaven's name, speak, Mr. Percy," cried Cora, pale withagitation, "what has happened to my father?"

"Reassure yourself, Miss Leslie," replied Mortimer, "when I left NewOrleans your father was rapidly recovering."

"Wounded!" exclaimed Cora; "oh, for pity's sake, do not deceive me, Mr.Percy! this wound—was it dangerous?"

"You see, Adelaide," she murmured, after a few moments' silence, "mypresentiments were not unfounded. Dearest father, and I was not near towatch and comfort you!"

Adelaide Horton seated herself by the side of her friend, twining herarm affectionately about Cora's slender waist.

"Strange," thought Mortimer Percy, as he watched the two girls, "oneword from me, and my cousin would shrink from this lovely and innocentcreature with loathing and disdain."

The prelude of a waltz resounded at this moment from the orchestra andGilbert Margrave appeared to claim his partner.

"Ah!" exclaimed Adelaide, "it is you, Mr. Margrave! My poor friend hasjust heard some sad news."

"Yes, there has been a revolt of the slaves, in which her father wellnigh fell a victim. Thank Heaven, the result was less terrible than itmight have been."

While Adelaide was speaking to Mr. Margrave, Mortimer Percy approachedthe chair on which Cora was seated, and bending over her for a momentsaid, in a low voice, "let me speak to you alone, Miss Leslie."

"Alone!" exclaimed Cora, with new alarm, then turning to Gilbert, shesaid, calmly, "I trust that you will be so kind as to excuse me, Mr.Margrave, and ask Adelaide to favor you with her hand for the nextwaltz, I wish to speak to Mr. Percy about this sad affair."

"Cora insists upon it, Mr. Margrave," said Adelaide, "and you must,therefore, resign yourself. But remember," she added, turning toCora, "that we only consent on condition that we find you smiling andaltogether restored to good spirits on your return. Now, Mr. MortimerPercy, after this I suppose you will leave off praising the virtue ofyour pet negroes."

"What would you have, my dear cousin?" replied Mortimer; "when dogs aretoo violently beaten, they are apt to bite."

"They should be tied up then," retorted Adelaide as she took Gilbert'sarm and hurried to the ball-room where the dancers were alreadywhirling round in valse a deux-temps.

Cora rose as she found herself alone with the young planter, and nolonger attempting to conceal her agitation, exclaimed, anxiously.

"And am I indeed to believe what you say, Mr. Percy; do you really meanthat it is ill-usage which has urged my father's slaves to this revolt?"

"Alas, Miss Leslie," replied the young South American, "the planterfinds himself between the horns of a terrible dilemma; he must eitherbeat his slaves or suffer from their laziness. I will own to you thatMr. Leslie is not considered too indulgent a master; but he onlyfollows the example of the greater number of our colonists. However,it is not he, but his overseer who was the chief cause of this revolt.Your father would have interfered; in attempting to do so he wasseriously wounded; but let me once more assure you that he was entirelyout of danger when I left New Orleans."

"Your father did not know that I should see you," replied Mortimer,"and it is on this very subject that I wish to ask you a few questions;not prompted by any vain curiosity, believe me, because you inspire mewith the warmest interest."

Mortimer drew a chair to the side of that on which Cora was seated, andplacing himself near to her, said gravely,

"Tell me, Miss Leslie, in what manner do you usually receive yourfather's letters?"

"So young! Your memory can recall nothing that occurred at that time, Isuppose."

"Oh, yes," answered Cora; "but memories so confused that they seemrather to resemble dreams. But there is one recollection which no timecan efface. It is of a woman, young, beautiful, who clasped me to herarms, sobbing as she strained me to her breast. I can still hear hersobs when I recall that scene."

"I do not know, Miss Leslie, for at that time I was still in England,where, like you, I received my education."

"Alas," exclaimed Cora, her beautiful eyes filling with tears, "whocould it be if it was not her? No, Mr. Percy. I have never known eventhe poor consolation of hearing people speak of my mother. Every timeI have ventured to address my father on the subject, he has replied inharsh and cold tones that have chilled my heart. All that I could everlearn was that she died young, at New Orleans. I dared not speak upon asubject which caused my poor father such painful emotions."

"But he has always evinced the greatest affection for you, Miss Leslie,has he not?" asked Mortimer.

"Oh, Mr. Percy," replied Cora, her eyes kindling with enthusiasm, "whatfather ever better loved his child? Every whim, every childish wish hasbeen gratified, but one; alas, that one prayer he would never grant."

"That I might join him in New Orleans. On his first visit to England, ayear ago, I implored him to take me back with him; but he was deaf toall my entreaties. 'It is because I love you,' he said, 'that I refuseto take you with me'; perhaps it was the climate of Louisiana that hefeared; that climate may have been the cause of my mother's death."

"All that I could obtain from him in answer to my prayers," continuedCora, "was a promise that this separation should be the last; that hewould sell his plantation at the earliest opportunity, and come andestablish himself in England."

"With reservations that have made me tremble," replied Cora; "I feelthat his affairs are embarrassed, and will detain him from me longafter the promised time of our reunion."

"Alas, Miss Leslie, you are not deceived," said Mortimer earnestly;"Mr. Leslie has experienced great losses. The death of Mr. Treverton,his partner, who was killed in a duel a year ago, at the very time ofyour father's return from England, revealed deficiencies that he hadnever dreamed of. He was obliged to have recourse to heavy loans; andsince that, the revolt of his slaves, in damaging the harvest, hasgiven the finishing blow to his difficulties."

"Then my father is ruined, Mr. Percy," cried Cora, clasping her hands:"oh, do not imagine that the aspect of poverty alarms me; it is not ofmyself that I think, but of him. What a life of anxiety and effort hehas endured, in order to establish a position, which he only seemed tovalue on my account! Never has he allowed me to hear one expression ofuneasiness drop from his lips; never has he denied the most extravagantof my caprices. Ah, if he but knew how gladly I would exchange all thisworthless splendor for the happiness of sheltering my head upon hisnoble breast. If he could but tell how dear the humblest home would beto me after the long isolation of my youth. Who can tell how long ourseparation may endure!"

"Nay, Miss Leslie," said Mortimer soothingly; "your father'sposition is far from desperate, though he may require a long timeand considerable courage in order to extricate himself from hisdifficulties."

"And during this heart-rending struggle," exclaimed the young girl, "hewill not have a creature near him to comfort or sustain him. And ifnew dangers should menace him—for this revolt has been avenged by theblood of the slave-leaders, has it not?—and fresh cruelties may causenew rebellion. Oh, heaven! the thought makes me tremble! No, my fathershall not be alone to struggle! If he suffers I will console him; if heis in danger I will share it with him."

"You leave England in a few days with Mrs. Montresor and your cousinAdelaide. I will accompany you."

"I remember nothing but that my father is in danger, and that adaughter's place is by his side. See, here comes Mrs. Montresor; I knowshe will not refuse to grant my request."

The good-natured hostess had come to the ante-chamber to look after herwall-flowers, as she called them.

"You running away from us, Cora!" she said; "we shall certainly notallow this matter-of-fact nephew of mine to deprive us of the belle ofthe room."

"Oh, my dear Mrs. Montresor," exclaimed Cora; "a great misfortune hashappened to my father."

"I know it, my dear child," replied Mrs. Montresor, "but, thank Heaven,that misfortune is not an irreparable one."

"No, madam, nothing is irreparable but the time which we pass far awayfrom those we love in their hour of trouble. I implore you to take meback to him."

"But Cora," answered Mrs. Montresor, "do you forget that your fatherformally expressed his wish that you should remain in England?"

"Yes, madam; but the motive of my disobedience will render itexcusable, and my first duty is to go and console my father."

"Pardon me if I still interfere, Miss Leslie," said Mortimer Percy,earnestly; "but think once more before you take this rash step. Yourfather may have some very serious motive for forbidding your return toNew Orleans."

"What motive could a father have for separating himself from his onlychild? But stay," added Cora, struck by the earnestness of Mr. Percy'smanner, "perhaps there is some secret mystery which you are aware of.Tell me, sir, is it so? Your manner just now—the strange questionswhich you asked me, all might lead me to suppose—"

"Those questions were only prompted by my interest in you, MissLeslie," replied Mortimer; "but it is the same interest which bids meurge you to abandon the thought of this voyage. Your father's welcomemay not be as warm as you would wish."

"I know his heart too well to fear that," exclaimed the excited girl;"be it as it may, my resolution is irrevocable; and if you refuse totake me under your charge, Mrs. Montresor," she added, "I will goalone."

"What?" cried Adelaide who had entered the ante-chamber, followed byGilbert, in time to hear these last words. "You would go alone, Cora;and who, then, opposes your departure? We will go together; will wenot, dear aunt?" exclaimed the impetuous girl.

"Yes, Adelaide, since your friend is determined on leaving, it willbe far better for her to accompany us," replied Mrs. Montresor; "butI must own that I do not willingly give my consent to Miss Leslie'sdisobedience to her father's wishes."

"But my father's thanks shall repay you for all, dear madam," saidCora; "I shall never forget his goodness."

"Come, come, then, naughty child, let us return to the ball-room. Youmust bid adieu to all your acquaintance to-night, for our vessel, theVirginia, sails in three days. Come, children, come."

Mrs. Montresor led the two girls away, while Mortimer Percy flunghimself onto a sofa, Gilbert Margrave watching him anxiously.

"What would have been the use, since I cannot tell it to Miss Leslie?That is what seals my lips. Her father has concealed from her her realorigin. She thinks she is of the European race—I discovered that in myinterview with her—and I dare not reveal a secret which is not mine totell."

"And you fear that her return to New Orleans will cause sorrow toherself?" said Gilbert.

"I do," replied the young South American; "every door at which shedares to knock will be closed against her. Even my cousin, her friend,will turn from her with pity, perhaps, but with contempt. You, whodwell in a land where the lowest beggar, crawling in his loathsomerags, is as free as your mightiest nobleman, can never guess theterrors of Slavery. Genius, beauty, wealth, these cannot wash out thestain; the fatal taint of African blood still remains; and though a manwere the greatest and noblest upon earth, the curse clings to him tothe last. He is—a slave!"

Cora's father, Gerald Leslie, was the owner of a fine estate upon thebanks of a lake about two miles out of New Orleans, and also of ahandsome house in that city. It is at this latter residence that wewill introduce him to the reader.

Gerald Leslie was in the very prime of life. Scarcely yet forty-fiveyears of age, time had set no mark upon his thick chestnut hair or hishandsome face, save a few almost imperceptible wrinkles which the caresof the last year or two had drawn in rigid lines about his well-shapedmouth.

His features were massive and regular; the brow broad and intellectual;the large hazel eyes bright but yet thoughtful; and there was a shadeof melancholy in the general expression of the countenance which lent apeculiar charm to the face of Gerald Leslie.

It was the face of one who had suffered. It was the face of one who hadfound himself a lonely man in the very prime of life; in that hour ofall other hours in which a man yearns for the smiles of loving eyes,the warm pressure of friendly hands. It was the face of one who haddiscovered too late that he had sacrificed the happiness of his life toa mistaken principle.

While the good ship Virginia is sailing away from the dim blue shoresof the fading English coast, bearing Mrs. Montresor, her nephew andniece and Cora Leslie to their far Southern home, let us enter theplanter's luxuriously furnished study, and watch him as he bends overhis desk.

The burning Southern sun is banished from the apartment by means ofVenetian shutters; the floor is covered with a cool matting woven fromIndian reeds; and the faint plash of a fountain in a small garden atthe back of the house is heard through one of the open windows.

It is not a pleasant task which occupies the planter. His browcontracts as he examines the papers, pausing every now and then to jotdown two or three figures against a long row of accounts, which lookterribly formidable, even to the uninitiated. At last he throws down aheap of documents with a weary sigh, and flinging himself back in hischair, abandons himself to gloomy thought.

"Yes, the truth is out at last," he muttered; "no hope of a settlementin England; no chance of a happy home on the other side of the blueAtlantic with my Cora, my only one. Nothing before me but the wearystruggle of a ruined man, with difficulties so gigantic that, struggleas I may, they must close in upon me and crush me at the last. Oh,Philip Treverton, but for the cruel deception you practiced upon me, Ishould not be in this position."

Philip Treverton was Gerald Leslie's late partner. He had been shot atwelvemonth before the opening of our story, in a sanguinary duel witha young Frenchman, who had insulted him in a gaming-house. But thetwo men had been more than partners, they had been friends; true andsincere friends; and Gerald Leslie no more doubted the honor of hisfriend, Philip Treverton, than he would have doubted his own.

Among the debts owned by the two planters there was one of no less thanone hundred thousand dollars to a lawyer and usurer, one Silas Craig,a man who was both disliked and feared in New Orleans; for he wasknown to be a hard creditor, unscrupulous as to the means by which heenriched himself, pitiless to those who were backward in paying him.

In an evil hour Gerald Leslie and Philip Treverton had had recourse tothis man, and borrowed from him, at a cruelly heavy rate of interest,the sum above mentioned. Treverton was, unlike his partner, a recklessspeculator, and, unfortunately, not a little of a gamester; hetherefore thought lightly enough of the circumstances. Not so GeraldLeslie. The thought of this loan oppressed him like a load of iron,and he was determined that it should be repaid at any sacrifice. Hegathered together the money before leaving New Orleans to visit hisdaughter in England, and intrusted the sum to his partner, Treverton,with special directions that it should be paid immediately to SilasCraig.

Gerald Leslie knew that his partner was a gamester, but he firmlybelieved him to be one of the most honorable of men, and he had everfound him strictly just in all their commercial dealings.

He departed, therefore, happy in the thought that the debt was paid,and that Silas Craig, the usurer, could no longer rub his fat, greasyhands, and chuckle at the thought of his power over the haughtyplanter, Gerald Leslie. He departed happy in the thought that his nextvoyage would be to convey him to an English home, where the tyranny ofprejudice could never oppress his beloved and lovely child.

The first intelligence which greeted him on his return to New Orleans,was the death of his friend and partner.

Philip Treverton had died a week before Gerald Leslie landed. He haddied at midnight in a wretched chamber at a gambling-house. There was amystery about his death—his last hours were shrouded in the darknessof the silent secrets of the night. None knew who had watched besidehim in his dying moments. The murderer had escaped; the mutilated bodyof the murdered man was found in the waters of the Mississippi.

Philip Treverton's death was a sad blow to his survivor, Gerald Leslie.The two men had been associates for years; both thorough gentlemen,intellectual, highly educated, they had been united in the bonds of asincere and heartfelt friendship.

What then were Gerald Leslie's feelings when he found that his friend,his partner, his associate, the man whom he had fully trusted, haddeceived him; and that the money left him in Treverton's hands hadnever been paid to Silas Craig?

In vain did he search among his friend's papers for the receipt; therewas not one memorandum, not one scrap of paper containing any mentionof the hundred thousand dollars; and a week after Gerald Leslie'sreturn, he received a visit from the usurer, who came to claim hisdebt. The planter gave him a bill at a twelve-months' date, the heavyinterest for that period fearfully increasing the debt. This billcame due on the very day on which we have introduced Gerald Leslie tothe reader, and he was now every moment expecting to hear the usurerannounced.

He was still without funds to meet his acceptance. Many other debtswere pressing upon him; and he felt that in a few months his plantationmust be sold, and he left a ruined man. But, as the drowning wretchclutches at the feeblest straw, or the frailest plank, so he clung tothe hope furnished by delay.

"Once more," he muttered, as he leaned his head upon his hands inthe attitude of despair, "once more must I humiliate myself to thislow-minded wretch, and beg the delay which he may grant or refuse,as it pleases his base nature. Heaven help me, I little dreamed thatGerald Leslie would ever come to sue to Silas Craig."

At this moment a cheerful-looking negro entered the apartment, bearinga card upon a silver salver.

The negro departed, and in a few moments returned, ushering in afat man, of about fifty years of age, dressed in the loose andlight-colored coat and trousers, fashionable in New Orleans.

This summer costume, which was becoming to many, accorded ill with thefat and awkward figure of Silas Craig. The loose open collar displayeda bull neck that bespoke the brute force of a sensual nature. It wasalmost impossible to imagine a more truly repulsive appearance thanthat of the usurer of New Orleans; repulsive, not so much from naturalugliness, as from that hidden something, dimly revealed beneath theoutward features that told the nature of the man, and caused the closeobserver and the physiognomist to shrink from him with instinctiveabhorrence.

Cruelty leered out of the small rat-like gray eyes; hypocrisy andsensuality alike were visible in the thick lips and wide animal mouth.The usurer's hair, of a reddish yellow, was worn long, parted in themiddle, and pushed behind his ears, giving a sanctimonious expressionto his face. For it must be known to the reader that Silas Craig hadalways contrived to preserve a character for great sanctity. His voicewas loudest in expressing horror at the backslidings of others; hispresence was unfailing at the most frequented places of worship; andmen who knew that the usurer would strip the widow or the orphan ofthe utmost farthing, or the last rag of clothing, beheld him drop hisdollars into the plate at the close of every charity sermon.

By such pitiful artifices as these the world is duped, and Silas Craigwas universally respected in New Orleans; respected in outward seemingby men who in their inmost soul loathed and execrated him.

With a bland smile, he obeyed Gerald Leslie's gesture, and seatedhimself in a low rocking-chair, opposite the planter.

"I trust I see you well, my dear friend," murmured Silas Craig, inthe fat, oily voice peculiar to him, "and yet," he added, almostaffectionately, "I do not think you are looking well—no, decidedlynot, you look a little harassed; a little care-worn, as if the businessof this life was pressing too much upon you."

"I have good need to look harassed and care-worn," answered GeraldLeslie, impatiently. "Come, Mr. Craig, do not let us waste our timeupon fine speeches, and sympathy which we cannot either of us expect tofeel—I know what you have come here for, and you know that I know it,so why beat about the bush? You have my acceptance, due to-day in yourpocket, and you come to claim payment."

"You are as proud as ever, Mr. Leslie," said the usurer, an angry gleamshooting out of his small eyes, in spite of the affected smile upon hislips.

"Why should I be less proud than ever?" answered the planter,haughtily. "If you call a contempt for falsehood, and a loathing ofhypocrisy pride, I am certainly among the proudest."

Gerald Leslie knew that every word he uttered was calculated toinfuriate Silas Craig, and that, at the moment when he had to ask afavor of him; but the haughty spirit of the planter could less brook tostoop now than ever—the very fact of having to ask this favor stunghim to the quick, and urged him on to show his contempt of the man fromwhom he had to ask it.

The usurer sat for some few moments in silence, rubbing his handsslowly, one over the other, and looking furtively at Gerald.

"You may ask me why you should be less proud to-day than ever, Mr.Leslie," he said, with a malicious grin. "Shall I tell you why? Becausethe tables are turned since the day when you passed Silas Craig inthe streets of New Orleans, as if he had been one of the slaves onyour plantation; when you spurned him as if he had been the dirtbeneath your feet. I know what you said of me in those days; I cameby my money by crooked ways; I was a rogue; an usurer; my ill-gottenwealth would bring me to the gallows some day. These are the sort ofthings you said, and I took them quietly enough; for I am of a patientdisposition, and I knew my turn would come. It has come. The times arechanged since then. My wealth was ill-gotten, was it? You were gladenough to borrow a hundred thousand dollars of it, ill-gotten as itwas; and now when I come to-day to ask you for the payment of thatmoney, you take such a high tone that I can only believe you have itready for me in your cash-box yonder?"

It was with a malicious chuckle that he uttered those concluding words;for the crafty wretch well knew the nature of Gerald Leslie, and he hadsuspected from the first that the money was not forthcoming.

"Indeed!" said Silas. "Then I'm extremely sorry to hear it; as, ofcourse, under those circumstances, I can no longer delay putting anexecution upon your property, and sending the Leslie plantation andyour valuable lot of niggers to the auctioneer's hammer."

Having uttered this threat, he sat for some little time with his handson his knees, and a smile of triumph upon his face, watching thecountenance of the planter.

Gerald Leslie's was a gloomy face to look upon in that moment; but itneither expressed grief nor humiliation, and his enemy was disappointed.

It was not enough to ruin the man he hated. Silas Craig would havegiven half his fortune to see that haughty spirit lowered in the dust.

The planter sat for some minutes in perfect silence, as if he wererevolving some plan in his mind. Presently he looked up, and, withoutany alteration of his former manner, addressed the usurer thus:

"Silas Craig, sooner than ask a favor of you, I would see every scrapof property I possess sold in the public sale-room, and would leave mynative land a beggar. I do not ask you a favor, then; I offer you abargain. If my property is sold to-day, it will be sold at a loss. Youwill be paid, it is true, but others, for whom (pardon me) I feel agreat deal more concern, will lose. Two months hence that same propertywill, for certain commercial reasons known as well to you as to me,realize a much larger amount. Besides which, I have friends in theNorth who may come forward in the meantime to save me from ruin. Renewyour bill at two months from to-day, and for those two months I willgive you double the enormous interest I have been already paying—aruinous bargain for me, and as valuable a one for you. But no favor;remember that! Do you accept?"

"I do," said Silas, after a few moments' deliberation. "The interestought to be trebled, though."

"I accept it," answered Silas. "Give me pen, ink and paper, and I'lldraw up the document."

While the difficulties of the planter were becoming every day morepainful to encounter, and more perilous to his future prospects ofhappiness, the good ship Virginia reached her destination, and in duetime Mrs. Montresor and her two fair charges arrived at New Orleans.

Cora Leslie had given her father no warning of her coming. It hadpleased the loving girl to think that she should creep to his side whenhe least expected her, and that the happy surprise of her arrival wouldcome upon him in the midst of his troubles.

It was growing dusk on a lovely summer evening, when the travelersreached New Orleans. Bidding a hasty adieu to Adelaide Horton and Mrs.Montresor, with a promise to call upon them early the next day, Corasprang into the carriage which Mortimer Percy had procured for her,requesting him to give the address to the driver.

"Your father is in town, Miss Leslie," said the young man. "You willhave scarcely ten minutes' drive."

"Ten minutes!" cried Cora, eagerly. "In ten minutes, then, I shall seemy father!"

Her lovely countenance glowed with enthusiasm as she spoke; while hertiny hands were clasped in an ecstasy of delight.

Mortimer Percy's face grew strangely mournful as he looked upon theexcited girl.

"One moment, Miss Leslie," he exclaimed, earnestly, pausing, withhis hand upon the carriage door. "You remember what I said to you inGrosvenor Square, on the night of my aunt's ball?"

"You remember that I then told you I feared your father's welcome mightnot be so warm a one as your loving heart would lead you to desire. Ifto-night you should find it so, remember my warning, and do not doubtyour father's affection, even should he receive you somewhat coldly.Remember too, that come what may, and should the hour of troublefall upon you, as it sometimes does on the youngest and the fairest;remember that you have always a friend in Mortimer Percy, and do notscruple to appeal to him."

"There is a mystery in your words which I seek in vain to fathom, Mr.Percy," she said; "and I know that your warnings fill me with a strangefear; but I know, too, that you have been very good to me, and shouldsorrow come, I will not hesitate to appeal to you and your cousinAdelaide."

"Adelaide is a good little girl," answered Mortimer, with a sigh; "butI shall be better able to serve you than she. Good night, Miss Leslie."

He released her slender hand, gave some directions to the driver, andin another moment the horse started, and Cora felt that she was on herway to her father's residence.

The sun was sinking in a bed of crimson glory, and the dusky shadowsclosing in the streets of New Orleans.

The houses and public buildings were dimly visible in the declininglight, as Cora looked out of the carriage window. The place seemedstrange to her after her long residence in England. She had no memoryof anything she saw, and felt that she was an utter stranger in hernative land.

But she had not long to think of these things. The carriage drewup before her father's house, and the door was opened by the blackservant, Caesar. Without waiting to ask any questions, she hurried intothe hall, after dismissing the driver; but as she was about to inquirefor her father, another negro servant emerged from one of the doorsopening into the hall, and advanced to meet her.

He was past middle age. His hair was grizzled with patches of gray, andhis face had an expression of settled melancholy rarely seen upon thenegro countenance. He was dressed in a loose linen jacket and trousers,and his manner and appearance altogether denoted his station, which wasthat of confidential man and general servant, factotum to his master,Mr. Leslie.

This man's name was Toby. He had served the planter faithfully forfive-and-twenty years.

"He will not refuse to see me," murmured the young girl; "he cannotdeny himself to his daughter."

"His daughter!" exclaimed the negro, with an irrepressible burstof enthusiasm; "his daughter, Miss Cora, that was away across thesea—yonder, in the free country. Cora, the child I used to nurse inthe years that are gone by; ah, forgive me, forgive me, forgive thepoor old negro slave who is almost wild at the sight of his youngmistress!"

The faithful creature fell on his knees at Cora's feet, and, claspingher hand in both his own, covered it with kisses.

"I remember the little child that I used to carry in my arms, not thebeautiful young lady from the happy English land; but the young ladyhas still the soft voice and the sweet smile of the little child, andshe is not angry with poor Toby because he is beside himself with joyto see her once again."

"Angry with you!" exclaimed Cora; "but tell me—my father, where is he?Do not detain me longer when I should rush into his dear arms!"

"Your father—!" A sudden change came over the slave's manner. "Yourfather, Miss Cora! He thinks you still in the free English country,and when he hears that you have returned—" The negro paused, with anembarrassed countenance, as he uttered these words.

"What then?" cried Cora. "If I have returned without his knowledge, amI not his daughter; and who, in his hour of sorrow, has a better rightto be at his side?"

"In that room, Miss Cora," answered the negro, gravely, pointing to thedoor of the study.

Without waiting for another word, Cora softly opened the door, andgliding into the room, stood for a moment mutely regarding her father.The Venetian shutters were closed, and a shaded lamp burned upon theplanter's desk—a lamp that left the room in shadow, and threw its fulllight upon the care-worn face of Gerald Leslie. The papers before himlay unheeded on his desk, with a half-burned cigar by their side. Hisfinely molded chin rested upon his hand, his brow was contracted bypainful thoughts, and his dark brown eyes were fixed gloomily upon theground.

He had not heard Cora's entrance. The young girl crept softly to hisside, and dropping on her knees at his feet, clasping her hands abouthis left arm, which hung loosely over the arm of his chair.

It was with no exclamation of joy, but with a cry of something nearerakin to agony, that the planter turned and beheld his only daughter.

"Yes, dearest father. I know—I know that it is against your commandsthat I have come, but I felt that it could not be against your wishes."

These words were uttered in a voice so low as to escape the ear ofCora; but she could still perceive that her coming had not given herfather the pleasure she had fondly hoped to have seen written in hisface, when he first beheld her.

"Father, father," she cried, piteously, clasping her arms about hisneck, and gently drawing round his head, so as to be able to look inhis face; "father, can it be that you do not love me?"

"Not love you, Cora, my darling, my darling!" Clasping his child to hisbreast, Gerald Leslie burst into a passion of sobs.

Let us turn from the residence of Cora's father to the splendid mansioninhabited by the wealthy young planter, Augustus Horton, in one of thebest streets of New Orleans.

It is upward of a week after the arrival of Mrs. Montresor with hertwo fair charges. It is a bright summer morning, and the family partyare assembled in an elegantly furnished apartment opening into a coolveranda, filled with exotic plants.

Mrs. Montresor, who, even in that warm climate, is too energetic tobe idle, is seated at her embroidery. Her nephew, Augustus, lolls inan easy-chair, reading the New Orleans papers, while Adelaide Hortonreclines in a hammock near the open window. Mortimer Percy, with hishands in the pockets of his light trousers, and a cigar in his mouth,leans against the window, talking to his cousin.

"Say what you will, Mortimer, it is most extraordinary that Cora shouldnot have called here since our return," exclaims Adelaide.

"But do I not tell you, my dear cousin," answered the young man,"that Mr. Leslie has taken his daughter to his country seat upon theplantation?"

"What of that?" replied Adelaide. "Mr. Leslie's villa is but half anhour's drive from New Orleans. Nothing could have been easier than forhim to have brought Cora here."

"Show him in," said Augustus, without raising his eyes from thenewspaper he was reading.

"Silas Craig!" exclaimed Mortimer, with a shudder of disgust. "What inHeaven's name induces you to encourage the acquaintance of that man,Augustus?"

"Pshaw, Mortimer, I have none of your romantic notions. Mr. Craig is avery respectable member of society."

"Respectable! Yes; the man who makes money is respectable, no matterby what shameful means he makes it. Usurer, oppressor of the helpless,trafficker in human flesh—what matters by what hideous trade the goldis got? The yellow guineas will not sparkle less—the hollow world willnot be less ready to bow to the respectable member of society."

"Fool!" cried Augustus, angrily; "Craig is here. Do you wish him toknow your opinion of him?"

Mortimer shrugged his shoulders and resumed his conversation with hiscousin Adelaide.

Silas Craig saluted the ladies with ceremonious politeness, and, afterthe first greetings, exclaimed with a face expressive of sanctimoniousgrief and pious horror—

"What! Is it possible that you have not heard of Mr. Gerald Leslie'sconduct? All New Orleans is ringing with the scandal."

"Ah, ladies, you may indeed well ask what scandal; for who couldbelieve that Mr. Leslie, one of the principal planters of Louisiana,should have been guilty of such a treason against the interest ofsociety at large?"

"I mean that Gerald Leslie has been discovered within these last fewdays, to have educated in England the child of one of his slaves, aquadroon called Francilia; whom he sold to me some fourteen years ago.The girl has been brought up in England, where she has received theeducation of a princess, and it is only through her unexpected returnto New Orleans that the secret has been discovered."

"There was one spark of feeling, at least," muttered Mortimer, as hewatched his cousin's emotion.

"Now," pursued the pitiless usurer, "according to the Louisiana law, itis criminal to teach a slave to read. What, then, must be the offenseof Mr. Leslie, in sending this girl to a first-class English boardingschool, and having her taught the accomplishments of a lady of thehighest birth?"

"A terrible offense, indeed, Mr. Craig," said Mortimer, bitterly; "butthis girl is Gerald Leslie's own daughter, is she not?"

"She is; but what of that? Born of a slave mother, she is not the lesshis slave."

"I understand. As a worthy member of society, then, as a Christian anda gentleman—in the sense in which we regard these things—he may sendhis daughter to toil sixteen hours a day on his plantation; he may handher to his overseer to be flogged, if she is too weak (or too lazy, asit will most likely be called) to work; he may sell her, if he will, nomatter to what degradation—no matter to what infamy; but let him dareto love her—let him dare to look upon her with one thrill of fatherlyaffection—let him attempt to elevate her mind by education, to teachher that there is a free heaven above her, where slavery cannot be—lethim do this, and he has committed a crime against society and the lawsof Louisiana."

"Exactly so," replied Craig, rubbing his oily hands, "I see youunderstand the law of the land, Mr. Percy. No wonder that Gerald Leslieis a ruined man, he has wasted a princely income on the education ofthis girl—this slave."

"I did, indeed," replied Adelaide, "we were educated at the sameschool—we were bosom friends."

"Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed Craig, sanctimoniously; "to what pollutionare our daughters exposed, when the children of slaves are foisted uponsociety in this manner!"

"No, Mr. Craig," cried Mortimer, with, a bitter laugh; "the pollutionis in the very atmosphere of a clime in which a father's first duty tosociety is to trample on the laws of humanity—the ties of flesh andblood."

"Hold your tongue, Mortimer," said Augustus Horton, "you know nothingof these things; Gerald Leslie has acted disgracefully, and this girlmust pay the penalty of her father's folly."

"Excuse me for two or three minutes, Mr. Craig," said Augustus, rising;"I have a few words to say to my cousin. I will rejoin you almostimmediately; in the meantime the ladies will amuse you. Come, Mortimer."

The young man followed his cousin, after bowing coldly to Craig.The truth of the matter was that Augustus Horton wished to get hisimprudent partner out of the way, as he felt that Silas Craig wouldtake care to spread the report of Mortimer Percy's revolutionaryprinciples among the outraged Southerners.

Left alone with the two ladies, Silas Craig felt himself very much at aloss for conversation.

He had never married, and he was always silent and ashamed in femalesociety. Accomplished hypocrite as he was, he trembled before the keeninstincts of a woman, and felt that his real nature stood unmasked.

But on this occasion he was relieved from his embarrassment in a mannerhe had little expected. Just as he was preparing himself to utter somecommonplace remark, a stentorian voice resounded through the vestibulewithout.

"Oh, you needn't announce me," said the intruder; "everybody knows me.It's old Craig, the lawyer, I want to see, and I know he's here."

A close observer might have noticed that Silas Craig's face grewconsiderably paler at the sound of his voice; but before he could makeany remark, the owner of it had dashed into the room, banging open thedoor with a noise of thunder.

Well might the ladies start with an exclamation of amazement at theapparition that stood before them. The newcomer was a tall, lanky,raw-boned looking man, with long hair, which streamed in rough locksfrom under his fur cap. He wore a bear-skin jacket, very much theworse for bad usage, loose knicker-bocker trousers, leather gaiters,and great nailed boots; his red-striped shirt was torn and ragged,and a tattered cloak hung loosely over his shoulder. When we furtheradd that he carried a musket under his arm, the reader will be ableto understand the astonishment of Mrs. Montresor and her niece atbeholding such an intruder in their elegant apartment.

If a ghost risen from the grave had stood before him, Silas Craig couldscarcely have appeared more terrified than he did at the sight of thisman.

"So I've found you at last, my worthy Craig, have I?" cried thestranger. "I've been over every inch of ground in New Orleans, I think,looking for you. At last somebody told me you were at Mr. Horton's.Very well, says I, here goes for Mr. Horton's, and here I am; but howis my dear Craig! You don't seem glad to see me."

"His dear Craig! Vulgar ruffian!" muttered Silas in an undertone; andthen, with an effort to overcome his embarrassment, he said, "Why, asfor being glad to see you, my dear Bill, of course, I'm glad; but yousee—you see the truth was, I thought you were in California."

"Yes, where you sent me to dig for gold and keep out of your way. No,the climate didn't agree with me, and I didn't find any gold, though Isoon spent all I took with me. So, knowing I had powerful friends inNew Orleans, I thought the best thing I could do would be to come backand throw myself once more on their generosity."

"But I say, Craig," said the stranger, looking at the two astonishedwomen, "Where's your manners? Ain't you going to introduce me to theladies?"

"Oh, to be sure," replied Silas, with increasing embarrassment. "Mydear Mrs. Montresor, my dear Miss Horton, allow me to introduce to youMr. Bill Bowen, formerly captain of a slaver."

"Don't be frightened, miss," said Bill; "your brother was one of mybest customers. I've done many a bit of business in the nigger tradewith him."

"I know my dress ain't quite the thing for a lady's drawing-room,"he said, looking down at his ragged shirt-sleeves and clay-stainedclothes, "but we'll soon set all that to rights. My friend Craig willrecommend me to his tailor and lend me the money to pay his bill, if itcomes to that, won't you, Craig?"

"Yes, 'in consideration for past services,'" repeated Bill Bowen,rather significantly. "I tell you what, Mr. Craig, as you seem doingthe civil to these ladies here, and as you don't seem over much torelish my company, I'll slope now, and drop in and take a bit of dinnerwith you at your own house by-and-by. What's your hour?"

"Six o'clock. I shall be sure to be punctual," said Bill Bowen, "forI've got a pretty, sharp appetite. Good morning, ma'am. Good morning,miss," he added, nodding familiarly to the two ladies, as he strode outof the room.

"What a horrible creature!" exclaimed Mrs. Montresor. "How can youtolerate him, Mr. Craig?"

"Why, the truth is," replied Silas, "the man has been of use to me insome trifling matters of business. He has served me for a long time oneway or another, and I've got used to his queer ways. He's an eccentricsort of animal, and he works all the better for being humored, so Ilook over his uncultivated manner."

"I would not advise you to encourage him in running after you intopeople's drawing-rooms," said Mrs. Montresor, pointing to the clay leftby Bill Bowen's boot upon the rich colors of the Persian carpet.

"I'll forgive him if he ever plays me this trick again," he muttered."You are quite right, Mrs. Montresor, Mr. William Bowen requires to betaught a lesson, and I think Silas Craig is the man to teach it to him.Pray excuse the inconvenience you have been subjected to, and permit meto wish you a good morning."

"I cannot tell you how I dislike that man!" exclaimed Adelaide, whenher aunt and she were alone; "he inspires me with a disgust for whichI can scarcely account. And then, again, how cruelly he spoke of Cora!Poor girl, poor girl! A slave—a slave like Myra, or Daisy or Rose, orany of our servants. The friendship between us is broken forever, andhenceforth I dare not look upon her as my equal."

The iron hand of prejudice has so strangled every warmer emotion ofthe soul, that this girl, whose heart was naturally good and generous,was prepared to abandon forever the friend and companion of her youth,because the taint of African blood was in her veins, the brand ofsociety was stamped against her name—because she was a slave!

Twenty years before the period of which we are writing, a certainwealthy Spaniard, calling himself Juan Moraquitos, came to New Orleansand took up his abode in a superb villa residence, sufficiently removedfrom the din and bustle of the city, and yet commanding a view of thewide sweep of waters, and the dense forest of masts that thronged thelevee.

Within six months of the arrival of Don Juan Moraquitos at New Orleans,his wife died, leaving little Camillia—an only daughter.

Here, under care of two women, the infant was placed. The slave Pepita,who had nursed Olympia, the mother of Camillia, in her childhood, andhad attained her in her death hour; and another female slave calledZarah, a woman whose husband had been sold to a merchant of Florida,but who had been allowed to keep her son with her. He was an activenegro boy of about six years old. These two women, with a couple ofstout negro slaves, who worked in the gardens, composed the entireestablishment of the baby heiress.

Time passed; the rosy lips began to form half-inarticulate murmurs,then gentle and loving words. The baby learned to speak her nurse'sname, to prattle with the negro lad—Zarah's son.

Zarah attended to the household work and waited on the nurse and herfoster-child.

As the baby, Camillia, grew into a laughing girl, the young negro lovedto amuse the little heiress by indulging in all kinds of rough andimpish gambols for her gratification.

Pepita often let Tristan, the negro boy, to watch the slumbering child.It was six years after the death of Olympia when the stern father'sheart first relented to his orphan child.

Even though the spirit of his lost Olympia seemed to rise from thegrave, and gaze at him, out of the eyes of Camillia. The little girlwas asleep upon a grassy bank.

She awoke at the sound of the Spaniard's footstep, and uttered, alittle scream of terror.

"Yet you screamed when I first saw you! A strange welcome for yourfather, Camillia."

"A slave!" he muttered, as Don Juan led the child toward the house. "Aslave! Yes, I have been told that often enough!"

A week after this, Camillia, the nurse, Pepita, Zarah, and the boyTristan were removed to the Villa Moraquitos, in the suburbs of NewOrleans.

Camillia was now under the care of a governess, a Frenchwoman,Mademoiselle Pauline Corsi. This lady took no pleasure in the antics ofTristan—so he seldom saw Camillia.

It was in the depth of the brief winter when the brother-in-law of DonJuan Moraquitos arrived at the villa.

He was the only surviving relative of the Spaniard's dead wife, herolder brother, dearly beloved by her, but he who had forced upon herthe marriage with his friend, Don Juan. His name was Tomaso Crivelli.

He had come from Mexico on a tour through the United States, and hadarrived at New Orleans—to die.

Half an hour before he died he became conscious, and implored Don Juanto send for an attorney. It was necessary that he should make a will.

On the reading of the will it was found that Don Tomaso had left hisentire fortune to his brother-in-law, Don Juan. But Don Tomaso had notcome to the villa alone. He had brought a boy—about eight years ofage. He was named Paul.

"Do not fear, my child, your future will be my care," and Paul Lisimonwas brought up in the household of the Spaniard, Camillia and Paultaking lessons side by side from Mademoiselle Pauline Corsi.

"Come, come, Bowen, don't excite yourself," said Silas, "You shall havethe money."

"Listen to what people say of Mr. Treverton's death; he lost heavilyat play; he could not pay up; he was insulted by a stranger, andstabbed in a kind of duel. The murderer's party carrying off the body.A fortnight afterward the body was found in the Mississippi; the facecould not be recognized, but from papers found in the pocket, thecorpse was known to be that of Treverton—it was therefore buried inthe Treverton vault. The police failed to discover the murderer. OnGerald Leslie's return from Europe, he examined the papers of his latepartner—which had been sealed up. That for which Leslie looked mostanxiously was a certain document, the receipt for one hundred thousanddollars, paid to Mr. Silas Craig, attorney and money lender. He did notfind it!"

"I ain't in no hurry," replied Bowen. "Now I want to take a squint atwhatever lies behind yonder map." Silas suppressed a half-mutteredoath; but reluctantly touched a spring. A door flew back. They entereda long, narrow passage. At its end was a window having a view of alarge gambling saloon!

Nearly a month had elapsed since the arrival of the Virginia in theharbor of New Orleans, and still Adelaide Horton and Cora Leslie hadnot met.

The young creole, generous-hearted as she was, had never felt the sameaffection for her old school-fellow since the fatal revelation made bySilas Craig. It was in vain that the generosity of her nature wouldhave combated with the prejudices of her education; pride of caste wasthe stronger, and she could not but despise Cora, the lovely descendantof slaves. In the meantime the two girls had ceased to meet. The natureof Adelaide Horton was capricious, and volatile, and, in a few days,she had almost dismissed Cora's image from her memory.

Indolent, like all creoles, Adelaide spent the greater part ofher days in a rocking-chair, reading a novel, while fanned by herfavorite slave, Myra. Mortimer Percy was, as we know, by no means themost attentive of lovers, although living in the same house as thatoccupied by his fair cousin. He saw her but seldom, and then evinced anindifference and listlessness which often wounded the volatile girl.

"How weary and careless he is," she thought; "how different to GilbertMargrave, the artist, the poet, the enthusiast!"

Alas, Adelaide, beware of that love which is given without return!Beware of the bitter humiliation of finding that he whom you havesecretly admired and reverenced—he whose image you have set upon thealtar of your heart, and have worshipped in the sanctity of silence andof dreaming—that even he, the idol, the beloved, looks on you withindifference, while another usurps the earnest devotion of his poetsoul.

Adelaide Horton had ample time for indulgence in those waking dreamswhich are often so dangerous. A school-girl, young, romantic andfrivolous, ignorant of the harsh ways of the world, she built faircastles in the air—ideal palaces in a lovely dreamland, which wereonly too soon to be shattered to the ground.

Gilbert Margrave came to New Orleans armed with those brilliant schemesof inventions in machinery, which might, as he fondly hoped, supersedeslave labor, though not militating against the employment of the many.

He came well furnished with letters of introduction from powerful menin England to planters and merchants of New Orleans; but though he metwith much politeness and hospitality the Louisianians shrugged theirshoulders and shook their heads when he revealed his opinions and triedto win their approval of his plans. They looked upon the handsome youngengineer with a feeling something akin to pity. He was an enthusiast,and, like all enthusiasts, no doubt a little of a madman.

One of the first houses at which Gilbert Margrave presented himself wasthat of Augustus Horton. He found Adelaide and her aunt alone in theirfavorite morning room; one lounging in her rocking-chair, the other, asusual, busy at an embroidery frame.

The young creole looked very pretty in her loose and floating morningrobe of India muslin, richly trimmed with Valenciennes lace andpeach-colored ribbons. Her hair was arranged in clusters of shortringlets, which trembled in the summer breeze, wafted in through theVenetian blinds of the veranda.

As the name of Gilbert Margrave was announced, the animated girl sprangfrom her easy-chair, and, flinging down her book ran forward to receivethe long-looked-for visitor.

"At last!" she exclaimed. "I was sure you would come, but I have lookedout for you so anxiously—I mean we all have," she added, blushing.

"A thousand thanks for your kind welcome, Miss Horton. Believe me, yourhouse is one of the very first to which I have directed my steps."

"Say rather how selfish," replied Gilbert. "Do you think it is nohappiness, in a foreign country, to find one circle at least where oneis not a stranger?"

"Nay, Mr. Margrave," said Mrs. Montresor; "will you not call us acircle of friends?"

"But pray sit down," exclaimed Adelaide, pointing to a low chair neara stand of perfumed exotics in one of the windows, "sit down and tellus all your adventures by land and sea, especially the latter, and howyou have survived the hair-breadth 'scapes and ventures of the brinyAtlantic."

Gilbert Margrave told, in a few words, the particulars of his voyage,which had been a rapid and pleasant one; "so rapid a passage," hecontinued with a smile, "that I trust I am yet in time to assist at thewedding of Miss Horton and my old friend Mortimer Percy."

"I really do not see," she said, "why all the world should be in such ahurry for this marriage. There is surely time enough. One would thinkI was in danger of becoming an old maid, or else that everybody wasdesirous of getting rid of me."

"I do not think there is much fear of either contingency," repliedGilbert, laughing.

"The truth is, Mr. Margrave," said Mrs. Montresor, "that my dearAdelaide is a spoiled child, and because her cousin happens to be avery sensible, high-principled young man, but not exactly a hero ofromance, she thinks herself called upon to affect a contempt for him.But I know her better than she knows herself, and I am certain that,at the bottom of her heart, she cherishes a very sincere affection forMortimer."

"How can you know what's at the bottom of my heart, when I don't knowmyself, aunt Lucy?" exclaimed Adelaide, impatiently; "upon my word, Ithink no girl was ever so cruelly used as I have been. Other peoplemake up a marriage for me, other people tell me whom I love, when Iought to know a deal better than they do. It's really shameful!"

If the real cause of Adelaide's indignation could have been known,it would have been discovered that her anger was not so much arousedagainst her aunt as against Gilbert Margrave, for the indifferentmanner in which he had spoken of her approaching marriage.

Anxious to quell the storm, of which he little knew himself to be thecause, the young engineer endeavored to turn the conversation, and inorder to do so, he asked a question which had been trembling on hislips from the very first.

"Your friend, Miss Leslie," he said; "the star of your farewellassembly—you often see her, I suppose, Miss Horton?"

Gilbert Margrave little knew that this very question only added fuel tothe fire already raging in the breast of the impetuous girl.

"I have never seen Cora Leslie since our arrival in New Orleans," sheanswered, coldly.

"Indeed! But I thought you such intimate friends. Miss Leslie—she isnot ill, I hope?"

"That question I cannot answer. I know nothing whatever of Miss Leslie;for I repeat, we have not met since we reached America."

The blood rushed in a crimson torrent to the face of the youngengineer. He started from his seat as if he had been shot.

"In Heaven's name, Miss Horton," he exclaimed, "what would youinsinuate; surely nothing against the honor of—"

"I insinuate nothing, Mr. Margrave," answered Adelaide. "I simply tellyou that the—the person of whom you speak is no companion for me.Whatever friendship, once existed between us is henceforth forever atan end—Cora Leslie is a slave!"

A choking sensation had risen to the throat of the young engineerduring this speech. Unutterable anguish had possessed him at thethought that he perhaps was about to hear of some stain upon thecharacter of Cora. What, then, was his relief at finding how much hehad wronged her purity, even by that fear?

"Yes; African blood flows in her veins. She has never been emancipated;she is, therefore, as much a slave as the negroes upon her father'splantation."

"I was led to believe something to this effect on the very night ofyour aunt's ball in Grosvenor Square, Miss Horton. So far from thiscircumstance lessening my respect for Miss Leslie, I feel that itis rather exalted thereby into a sentiment of reverence. She is nolonger simply a beautiful woman; she henceforth becomes the lovelyrepresentative of an oppressed people."

"Your opinions are rather Quixotic, Mr. Margrave," replied Adelaide,with a sneer; "and I fear you will find yourself almost in as painfula position as the Spanish knight, if you venture to make them known inNew Orleans."

"Whatever danger I may incur of being either ridiculed or persecuted,I shall never conceal my detestation of prejudice and tyranny, and mysympathy with the weak," answered Gilbert proudly. "Pardon me, if Ispeak warmly on this subject, Miss Horton; it is not to be supposedthat you and I should think alike. We represent the opposite sides ofthe Atlantic."

"Nay, Mr. Margrave," replied Adelaide, whose brief outburst of angerhad passed like a thunder cloud in a sunny sky, "it is I who should askpardon. I fear I am a passionate and heartless creature, but I cannothelp feeling some indignation against Mr. Leslie for the cheat he hasput on us."

Adelaide Horton scarcely dared own to herself that it was jealousy ofGilbert's evident partiality for Cora, rather than anger against theyoung girl herself, that had been the cause of her cruel words.

Augustus Horton entered the room at this moment, and Adelaide presentedher brother to the young engineer.

There was little sympathy between Gilbert Margrave and the planter ofNew Orleans. Augustus had never quitted the Southern States, except onthe occasion of one or two brief visits to New York. His ideas werenarrow, his prejudices deeply rooted. He was by no means free from thevices of his fellow-citizens; he was known to frequent the gamblinghouses, which, in spite of the law promulgated for their suppression,still existed in New Orleans; but he was known, also, to be prudent,even in the midst of his dissipation, and never to have jeopardized thesplendid estate left him by his father.

But hospitality is an universal virtue with the creoles, and Augustusbade the young engineer a hearty welcome to his house.

They conversed for some time on indifferent subjects, and Gilbert,having accepted an invitation to dinner for the following day, wasabout to take his leave, when he was prevented by the entrance of theslave, Myra.

"What is the matter with you, Myra?" asked Augustus, impatiently. "Whatare you standing there for? Why don't you speak?"

"Oh, if you please, massa," stammered the girl, "there is a youngperson below who asks to see my mistress, and who calls herself MissLeslie."

"Gerald Leslie's daughter here!" exclaimed Augustus. "This is too much.This is what her father exposes us to in not teaching this girl herreal position."

"Can you ask?" replied her brother. "Surely there is but one course. Iwill ask Myra here," he added, pointing to the young quadroon. "Tellme, girl, what do you think of this young person?"

"Why, massa, I—I—thought in spite of the whiteness of her skin, shemust be—"

"Very well, then; do you think it possible that your mistress couldreceive her as a visitor—as an equal?"

Myra courtesied, and was about to leave the room, when Gilbert Margravearrested her by an imperious motion of his hand.

"Stay!" he exclaimed. "Pardon me, Mr. Horton, if I presume to say thatthis must not be. I had the honor of meeting Miss Leslie one evening atthe house of your aunt. Permit me, therefore, to spare her an insultwhich I should feel myself a dastard in tolerating. Allow me to carryyour answer to Miss Leslie?"

"Oh, pardon me, Mr. Horton, if I appear to make a bad return for thekind welcome you were so ready to offer to a stranger; but rememberthat the customs and prejudices of the South are new to me, and forgiveme if I say that the conduct which on your part would only be natural,would become on mine an abominable cowardice!"

Before he could say more, Gilbert Margrave had bowed deferentially tothe ladies and to the angry planter himself.

"And even if he does," said her aunt, quietly; "what difference can itpossibly make to Miss Adelaide Horton that is—Mrs. Mortimer Percy thatis to be?"

Crimson mounted to Adelaide's face at this remark. She made no answer,but with an angry look at her aunt, hurried from the room.

"I very much fear, Augustus, that your sister has no great inclinationto marry her cousin, Mortimer Percy."

"And the cause of this disinclination is some foolish preference forthe insolent European who has just left us?"

"This is too humiliating," exclaimed Augustus, walking rapidly up anddown the apartment; "my sister degrades herself by evincing a markedpredilection for a man who is indifferent to her, and the object of heradmiration does her the honor to prefer a—slave!"

On an elevated terrace, fifty feet above the margin of a lake, wassituated the summer pavilion occupied by the once wealthy planter,Gerald Leslie.

Thick shrubberies of magnolia and arbutus, intersected by windingpathways, and varied by rockeries, lay between the terrace and thelimpid waters below. Tall palms spread their feathery branchesabove the roof of the pavilion, and exotic flowers bloomed beneaththe colonnade of bamboo work which surrounded the light edifice. Aflight of marble steps led from the glass door of the pavilion, and abalustrade of the same pure white material stretched the whole lengthof the terrace, at each end of which were sculptured marble vases,filled with the rarest blossoms. A flower garden, in exquisite order,surrounded the pavilion, while exactly opposite the veranda a rustictable and some garden chairs were placed beneath the luxuriant shade ofa banana tree.

Seated on the steps leading from the pavilion, faithful as a dog wholistens for the footsteps of his beloved master, the slave Toby mighthave been seen on the day following that on which Cora had paid herunwelcome visit at the house of Augustus Horton.

Gerald Leslie was at his office in New Orleans, where business oftendetained him when the best wishes of his heart would have kept him byhis daughter's side.

The summer afternoon was hot and sultry, and all the windows were open.The slave seemed to be listening eagerly for some sound within.

"All is silent," he said, sorrowfully; "that pretty bird sings no more.What has happened? Something. I know. I saw by her sad face when shereturned from New Orleans yesterday, that all was not well with thesweet young mistress. The sorrows of those he loves cannot escape theeyes of poor Toby."

At this moment a light footstep sounded behind him, and Cora Leslieemerged from the pavilion.

The young girl was dressed in the thinnest white muslin, which floatedround her graceful figure, aerial as some vapory cloud in the summersky. She was pale and a mournful shadow dimmed the orient splendor ofher large black eyes. She descended the marble steps slowly withoutperceiving the faithful slave who had risen at her approach, and whostood aside regarding her earnestly.

"Miss Cora is sad," he said presently; "will she forgive the poor slaveif he presumes to ask why?"

She started at the sound of the mulatto's voice, and turning toward himheld out her hand silently.

"Not so much sad, Toby, as bewildered," replied the young girl. "Myreception at the house of my old school-fellow has filled my mind withperplexity. What could be the meaning of Adelaide Horton's conduct?"

"Forgive me, Miss Cora, if I remind you that your father particularlyrequested you not to leave the house during his absence."

"I know, Toby, I know. But why that request? Why am I a prisoner here?Why is my father's manner more indicative of sorrow than joy at myreturn to Louisiana? Why, on my first visit to the friend of my youth,do I find the door shut in my face?"

"But the English gentleman who conducted you home explained the reasonof that, Miss Cora?"

"No, Toby; Mr. Margrave endeavored to explain, but in doing so he onlyrevealed his embarrassment. There is some secret in all this. Somemystery that—Hark!"

The sound which arrested Cora's attention was the trampling of ahorse's hoots upon the carriage drive below the terrace.

"Hulloa!" cried a voice from the same direction. "Hulloa, there! Isthere any one to hold my horse?"

"I will see him," repeated Cora; "he may come to offer anexplanation—Heaven knows it is needed."

Three minutes afterward Augustus Horton made his appearance in theflower garden, where Cora awaited him. He bowed carelessly to the younggirl without raising his hat, but fixing upon her lovely face a gaze ofardent admiration.

He carried a light riding-whip in his hand, and was smoking a cigar,which he did not remove from his mouth.

Something in the planter's familiar manner, and in his ardent gazefilled the young girl with indignant surprise, and she looked at himwith a glance of astonishment as he flung a sealed packet upon thetable, and seated himself, without invitation, in one of the rusticchairs.

"I have some papers to restore to your father," he said; "but thatis not the whole object of my visit. My sister told me that you werelovely, Miss Leslie, but I now perceive that in such a case a womannever tells more than half the truth."

Cora had remained standing during this speech. She now seated herselfin the chair opposite to that taken by the young planter, and said,calmly—

"Was to reply to the letter addressed by you to my sister, Adelaide?Yes, Miss Leslie, that letter proved to us that Mr. Margrave had notproperly acquitted himself of the commission which he undertook."

"My sister much regretted not being able to receive you, yesterday, andI should have shared those regrets, had she not chosen me to bring youher excuses."

"It is not an excuse which I require, Mr. Horton, but an explanation,"replied Cora, with dignity.

"What further explanations can you require, Miss Leslie," he said; "thepreparations of her approaching marriage? A little touch of headache,perhaps? Is not this sufficient to explain all?"

"No, sir, it is not. Because I would rather hear the truth, bitteras that truth may be, than these courteous mockeries which put me tothe rack. Mr. Percy's opposition to my return to America; my father'semotion on beholding me; the strange isolation in which I am kept; and,lastly, your sister's extraordinary conduct of yesterday—all theseprove to me that some terrible fatality overshadows me; a fatality ofwhich I am ignorant, but which I am determined to discover."

"Nay, Miss Leslie, what is that you would seek to know? Why not becontent to reign by your grace and beauty? For the fatality of whichyou speak can cast no cloud upon your loveliness; and even the jealousyof our wives and sisters cannot rob you of your sovereignty."

"And yet I endeavored to make myself understood. Ah, Miss Leslie! weare but strangers, newly met, within this hour; but we Creoles are thechildren of a southern clime, and our passions are gigantic as thepalms which wave above your head—rapid in growth as the lilies on thebreast of yonder lake. Love, with us, is a flame; suppressed, it istrue, yet needing but one spark from the torch of beauty to cause aconflagration."

The young girl felt that the Creole's burning, passionate words veileda meaning which was an insult to her.

"Nay, hear me, hear me, Cora," continued Augustus Horton; "there is,perhaps, a secret; there is, it may be, a fatality which overshadowsyour young life. Be mine, and none shall ever taunt you with that fatalsecret; be mine, and you shall be the proudest beauty in Louisiana, thequeen of New Orleans, the idol of your lover's devoted heart; be mine,and the debt owed me by your father shall be cancelled; be mine, andI will tear into a hundred fragments the bill which I hold for fiftythousand dollars, and which it will half ruin Gerald Leslie to pay."

Her eyes flashing, her bosom heaving with offended modesty, Cora Leslierose from her chair.

"Toby," she called, without even replying by so much as a look to theplanter's appeal.

"Toby, you will conduct this gentleman to the gates of my father'sgrounds, and remember that if he ever again dares to present himselfhere, it will be your duty to refuse him admittance. You hear?"

"Go, sir," said Cora, looking at Augustus for the first time since shehad risen from her seat; "I am but a stranger in New Orleans, and youhave done much to enlighten me as to the character of its inhabitants.You have done well to choose the hour of a father's absence to insulthis only daughter. Go!"

"I obey you, Miss Leslie," answered Augustus, white with rage, andtrembling in every limb with suppressed passion. "Believe me, I shallnot forget our interview of to-day, and shall take an opportunity toremind you of it on some future occasion. For the present I am yourdebtor; but trust me, the hour of settlement will come between us,when you shall pay dearly for this insolence. In the meantime," headded, turning to the mulatto, "in order to teach your young mistressher proper position, be good enough to relate to her the story ofFrancilia."

With one savage glance at the indignant girl, he hurried down theterrace steps, sprang into the saddle, put spurs to his horse, and rodeoff at a gallop.

"Francilia," exclaimed Cora; "Francilia! what could he mean? Speak,Toby, tell me, who was this Francilia?"

"Well, then, what could she have in common with me? Why did that mancast her name in my face as an insult?"

"You do not answer me. Good Heavens! A terrible light flashes upon me.Speak, speak!" cried the excited girl, grasping the arm of the slave inher slender hand, "Toby, speak!"

The mulatto fell on his knees at the feet of his young mistress, andcried imploringly:

"Toby, tell me," murmured Cora, in a voice hoarse with emotion; "whowas my mother?"

"Mistress, dear mistress, for pity's sake do not ask me. I havepromised not to reveal—"

"You said just now that you loved me," answered Cora; "if you spoke thetruth, prove your affection; tell me who was my mother."

"Oh, merciful Heaven, have pity upon me!" cried Cora, hiding her facein her hands; then, after a long pause—she said sorrowfully—

"And I did not even know the name of my mother. Francilia! A slave!This, then, is the secret of my life. Alas! She is dead: is she not?"

"Curse her!" exclaimed Cora; "Would that I could embrace her, as I doyou," she added, throwing her arms about the old man's neck.

"What of that? Does not the same blood flow in our veins? Are we not ofthe same down-trodden race? Ah, speak, speak, Toby, you knew my mother;tell me of her; you see I am calm, I can listen."

She drew the mulatto to one of the garden chairs, and, forcing him tosit down, placed herself at his feet; her hand in his; her eyes raisedto his face.

"Francilia was but fifteen years of age," Toby began, "when a slavemerchant brought her to Mr. Leslie; she was a quadroon, beautiful asyou are, though her skin was not so white. She had long black hair,and large dark eyes, whose sweet and gentle glance I can see againin yours. She was at first employed in the service of Mrs. Leslie.Oh, Heaven! Poor child, how happy and light-hearted she was then; herjoyous voice warbling the soft melodies of her nation; her merry laughringing through the corridors of the house. I saw her, and I dared tolove her! That time was the happiest of my life, for she too loved me.Fools that we were. What right has the slave to love? The slave whobelongs to another. One day, Francilia left for Saint Louis, with hermaster and mistress. They were to be absent some weeks. I was to remainbehind. In bidding me farewell she left me this silver ring, which Iwear on my finger. I would give it you, dear mistress, but I have swornto keep it till my death. When Francilia—returned—she—"

"Oh, for pity's sake, do not accuse her! You know not what it is to bea slave, bound to obey, body and soul, the commands of a master. Isnot even resistance a crime? When Francilia returned she had becomeyour father's mistress. She confessed all to me, with tears, andheart-rending grief! A terrible rage possessed me! I was like a drunkenman! If, in that moment, Mr. Leslie had appeared before me, I know thatI should have become a murderer. But the habit of suffering teachesresignation to the slave. This first fury past, I felt my energyabandon me, and I could only weep with Francilia over our vanishedhappiness. Alas, poor child, she no longer laughed, she no longer sang!"

"It was only when you came into the world," continued Toby, "that sheseemed to re-attach herself to life, and I, bestowing on you all thedeep devotion that I had felt for her—forgive me, Miss Cora, I lovedyou as if you had been my own child."

"But she—oh, how she loved you. With more than a mother's love; withthe love of the slave, who knows that even her child is not her own,but is a slave like herself—and who dares not to slumber beside thecradle of her infant, for they take away the children while the mothersleeps, and she awakes, perhaps, to find the cradle empty."

"But this was not the fate with which you were threatened. Mr. Lesliehad married a vain and capricious woman. They had no children, and hislife was not a happy one. His love for you was intense—all the moreintense, as he was compelled to conceal from all an affection whichwould have been considered a weakness. Your father's love for you hadreassured Francilia, when one day (you were then four years old), heannounced his determination of taking you to England. Francilia didnot utter a word; the silent tears filled her mournful eyes. But whenthey tore you from her arms, she burst into a tempest of sobs, and fellinsensible to the ground."

"But all that is nothing!" cried the slave, his eyes flashing withvengeful fury; "nothing to—. Yet, no, no! I have no more to tell."

"But I insist on knowing all," exclaimed Cora vehemently. "What becameof my unhappy mother? How did she die?"

"On his return from Europe, Mr. Leslie found her tranquil, andapparently resigned; but the glance of those mournful black eyes becamean eternal reproach, which irritated and tormented him. He sent herto work on the plantation; but for some reason or other, go wherehe would, he was always meeting her, always encountering the samemelancholy look, which seemed to ask him for her child. At last hecould endure it no longer. He sold her."

"He sold her to a man of the name of Craig—a bad man—who, under themask of a sanctimonious life, concealed the base heart of a profligateand a villain. He thought, on purchasing the slave, that he wouldsucceed her late master in her good graces; but finding that he couldobtain nothing by persuasion, he would have had recourse to violence,when Francilia seized a knife and buried its blade in her heart."

"A negro belonging to this Craig stole the knife, which he gave to me.I have it still."

Cora sank on her knees, the tears streaming from her eyes, her claspedhands uplifted to Heaven.

"Alas, beloved mother!" she cried, "martyr to the base and cruel lawsof this accursed land, it is after fifteen years that your daughterlearns your unhappy fate; after fifteen years that she weeps for yourmemory!"

Neither Cora nor Toby was aware that there had been a listenerduring the latter part of their conversation; but it was not less afact. Gerald Leslie had returned unobserved by either of the excitedspeakers, and, arrested by the passionate gestures of the mulattoslave, had lingered in the background, anxious to discover the cause ofhis agitation.

His anger was terrible when he found that the fatal secret, whichit had been the business of his life to conceal from Cora, was nowrevealed. But he still lingered, anxious to hear all.

"Toby," murmured Cora, rising from her knees; "tell me where did theybury my mother?"

"Her grave is half-hidden in the thickest depths of a wood of magnoliasupon the borders of Silas Craig's plantation. I carved a rustic crossand placed it at the head."

At this moment Gerald Leslie rushed forward, and, springing towardToby, lifted his riding-whip as if about to strike the mulatto, whenCora flung herself between them.

"Strike me rather than him!" she exclaimed; then turning to the slave,she said quietly, "Go, Toby! I swear to you that while I live noneshall harm so much as a hair of your head."

"I will not have you excuse yourself," said Cora; "you have only doneyour duty. Go!"

Toby bent his head and slowly retired. Cora stood motionless, with herarms folded, her eyes fixed upon Gerald Leslie.

"Well," she said, "why do you not strike me? Who am I that your handhas not already chastised my insolence? Your daughter? No! The child ofFrancilia, a quadroon, a slave! Prove to me, sir, that I am before mymaster; for if I am indeed your daughter, I demand of you an account ofyour conduct to my mother."

"I am ungrateful, am I not? Yes, another father would have allowed thischild to grow up to slavery; while you, ashamed of your paternal love,as if it had been a crime, you tore me from my mother's arms, in orderthat I might forget her; in order to withdraw me from the curse whichrested upon me; to efface, if possible, the last trace of this fatalstain!"

"You could have refrained from giving me life! You sent me to England;you caused me to be educated like a princess. Do you know what theytaught me in that free country? They taught me that the honor of everyman, the love of every mother are alike sacred."

"It is, then, with my affection that you would reproach me!" repliedGerald Leslie, mournfully. "I would have saved you, and you accuseme, as if that wish had been a crime! I snatched you from the abyssthat yawned before your infant feet, and in return you curse me! Oh,remember, Cora, remember the cares which I lavished upon you! Remembermy patient submission to your childish caprices; the happiness I feltin all your baby joys; my pride when your little arms were twined aboutmy neck, and your rosy lips responded to my kisses?"

"No, no!" exclaimed Cora; "do not remind me of these things. I wouldnot remember them, for every embrace I bestowed upon you was a theftfrom my unhappy mother."

"Your mother! Hold, girl! do not speak to me of her! for though I feelthat she was innocent of the hazard of her birth, I could almost hateher for having transmitted to you one drop of the accursed blood whichflowed in her veins."

"Your hatred was satisfied," replied Cora, bitterly. "You sold her! Thepurchase money which you received for her perhaps served to pay forthe costly dresses which you bestowed upon me! The diamonds which haveglittered upon my neck and arms were perhaps bought with the price ofmy mother's blood!"

"Have a care, Cora! Beware how you goad me to desperation. I have triedto forget—nay, I have forgotten that that blood was your own! Do notforce me to remember!"

"And what if I do remind you! what would you do with me?" asked Cora."Would you send me to your plantation to labor beneath the burning sun,and die before my time, worn out with superhuman toil? No! sell merather. You may thus repair your ruined fortunes. Are you aware thatone of your creditors, Augustus Horton, offered, not an hour ago, thefifty thousand dollars that you owe him as the price of your daughter'shonor?"

"Oh, Heaven!" exclaimed Gerald Leslie; "all this is too terrible!" andflinging himself upon his knees at Cora's feet, he clasped her handspassionately in his own. "Cora, Cora, have pity upon me! What would youask of me? What would you have me to do? My crime is the crime of all.Is the punishment to fall upon me alone? Am I alone to suffer? I, whohave sacrificed my honor—yes, Cora, my honor as a colonist—to theclaim of paternal love. Do you know that every citizen in New Orleanswould blame and ridicule me for my devotion to you? Do you know that Iam even amenable to the laws of Louisiana for having dared to educateyour mind and enlighten your understanding? See, I am on my knees atyour feet. I, your father, humiliate myself to the very dust! Do notaccuse me; in mercy, do not accuse me!"

Cora's beautiful face was pale as ashes, her large dark eyes distended,but tearless.

"Upon my knees, beside my mother's grave," she said, solemnly, "I willask her spirit if I can forgive you."

She released herself from her father's grasp, and hurried into thehouse before he could arrest her. The planter rose from the ground andlooked mournfully after his daughter, but he did not attempt to followher.

Later in the evening Gerald Leslie returned to New Orleans, and spentthe long hours of the night alone in his solitary office face to facewith ruin and despair.

The one crime of his youth had risen to torture his remorsefulsoul—ghastly and horrible shadow, it pursued the sinner in everyplace; it appeared at every moment. Repentance only could lay thephantom at rest, and he was now only learning to repent.

He had never before looked upon his conduct to the beautiful quadroon,Francilia, in the light of a crime. What had he done which was not doneevery day by others? What was she, lovely and innocent being as shewas, but a slave—his property—bought with his sordid gold—his todestroy as he pleased?

Her melancholy death he looked upon as an unhappy accident, for whichhe himself was in no way responsible. That crime rested upon SilasCraig's overburdened soul.

Gerald Leslie utterly forgot that had he not been heartless enough tosell the mother of his only child, this cruel fate would never havebeen hers.

But now the consequences of his crime had overtaken him in a manner hehad never dreamed of; Cora, his beloved, his idolized child, accusedand cursed him as the murderer of her mother.

He dared not remain at the summer pavilion. He dared not meet thereproachful glances of those eyes which appeared to him as the ghostlyorbs of the late Francilia. No, alone in his office, surrounded onlyby the evidences of commerce, and the intricate calculations of trade,he endeavored to forget that he had a daughter, and a daughter who nolonger loved him.

And where all this time was Cora? With the Venetian shutters of herapartment closed; with the light of day excluded from her luxuriousapartment, she lay with her head buried in the satin cushions of hercouch, weeping for the mother whose mournful face she could scarcelyrecall—weeping for the father whose youthful sins she so latelylearned.

Bitter, bitter were the thoughts of the young girl, whose life hadheretofore been one long summer sunshine.

She, the courted, the caressed, the admired beauty of a Londonseason—she was a slave—an Octoroon—a few drops only of the Africanrace were enough to taint her nature and change the whole current ofher life.

Her father loved her, but he dared only love her in secret. The proudcolonists would have laughed aloud at the planter's affection for hishalf-caste daughter. And he, too, Gilbert Margrave, the poet painter;he, whose every glance and every word had breathed of admiration,almost touching upon the borders of love; would doubtless ere long knowall; and he, too, oh, bitter misery, would despise and loathe her.

Oh, thank Heaven, the unhappy girl wronged the noble nature of theEnglish heart! She knew not that to the Briton there is no such word asslavery. She knew not that in a free country the lowest laborer in thefields has as full a right to law and justice as the proudest noble inthe land.

Camillia and Paul Lisimon were no longer children. The young heiresshad attained her nineteenth year, while Don Juan's protege was, as ourreaders are aware, two years her senior.

Paul still lived at the Villa Moraquitos. He occupied a small butneatly furnished apartment, upon the upper floor. Here were arrangedthe books he loved; here he often sat absorbed in study till the earlymorning hours sounded from the clocks of New Orleans, and the palestars faded in the purple river.

Deep in the quiet night, when all the household were sleeping; whenthe faintest footfall awoke a ghostly echo in the awful stillness ofthe house, the young student, forgetful of the swiftly-passing hours,toiled on, a steady traveler on the stony road which leads to greatness.

It was to Silas Craig, the attorney, that Don Juan Moraquitos hadarticled his protege, much to the dislike of the young man, who had apeculiar aversion to the usurer.

"Let me be with any other lawyer in New Orleans rather than that man,"he said; "I can never tell you how deep a contempt I have for hischaracter."

"His character! my dear Paul," he replied, "what in mercy's name haveyou to do with the man's character? Silas Craig is a hypocrite! aprofligate, who covers his worst vices with the all-sheltering cloakof religion. Granted! He is not the less one of the cleverest lawyersin New Orleans, and the fittest person to be intrusted with thecultivation of your splendid intellect."

These conversations were perpetually recurring between Don Juan and hisprotege, prior to the signing of the articles which were to bind PaulLisimon to the detested attorney; and the young man, finding that allhis remonstrances were in vain, and fearing that if he objected toostrongly to being articled to Silas Craig, the business would terminatein his being compelled to lead a life of hopeless idleness, made nofurther difficulty about the matter; and some weeks after the signingof the articles, he took his seat in the office of Mr. Craig.

It was not long before Paul Lisimon discovered that there was a decideddisinclination on the part of the attorney to initiate him even in themerest rudiments of his profession. He might have sat in the officereading the paper and lolling in a rocking-chair all day if he hadpleased, but whenever he sought for employment he was put off with someexcuse or other, more or less plausible.

An idle young man would have been delighted with this easy life—notso Paul Lisimon. Kind and liberal as Don Juan Moraquitos had been tohim, the proud spirit of the young man revolted against a life ofdependence. He yearned not only to achieve a future career, but torepay the obligations of the past—to erase the stain of dependencefrom his youth; to pay for the education which had been given him byfavor. Thus, where another would have rejoiced in the idleness of SilasCraig's office; where another would have abandoned himself to thedissipated pleasures that abound in such a city as New Orleans; whereanother would have snatched the tempting chalice which youthful passionoffered to his lips, Paul Lisimon, in very defiance of his employer,slowly but surely advanced in the knowledge of the profession whoseranks he was predestined to join.

Strange to say, Don Juan, instead of praising and encouraging theindustry of his protege, laughed and ridiculed him from his determinedlabors.

"You are the most extraordinary young man I ever met with, Paul," saidthe Spaniard. "Where others of your age will be haunting the gaminghouses, which, in spite of our laws for their suppression, secretlyexist in New Orleans—where others would be nightly visitants of thetheatre and the cafe, you are forever brooding over those stupid books."

"Other men are perhaps born to fortune," answered Paul, with quietdignity; "remember, dear sir, I have to achieve it."

"Nay, Paul; how do you know what intentions a certain elderly Spanishgentleman may have with regard to a document called a will?"

"Heaven forbid, sir," replied Paul, "that I should ever seek to fathomthose intentions; and if you allude to yourself, permit me to take thisopportunity of declaring that I would not accept one dollar, even wereyour misguided generosity to seek to bequeath it to me."

"Santa Maria, Mr. Lisimon, and why not, pray?" asked Don Juan, laughingat the young man's impetuosity.

"My little Camillia; she will be rich enough in all conscience. Ah,Paul," added the Spaniard, looking somewhat searchingly at Lisimon, "itis a serious matter for a father to have such a daughter as CamilliaMoraquitos to dispose of; a beauty and an heiress! Where in all NewOrleans shall I find the man rich enough or noble to be her husband?"

"You will consult your daughter's heart, sir, I trust," he murmuredhesitatingly, "even before the claims of wealth?"

The old Spaniard's brow darkened, and his sombre black eyes fixedthemselves upon Paul's face with a sinister and penetrating gaze thatboded little good to the young man. No more was said upon the subjectbetween the two men. Paul did not relax his industry by one iota afterthis conversation. The enervating pleasures of the rich could not winhim from the stern routine of toil and study.

Paul Lisimon, the unknown dependent upon a rich man's bounty, thepenniless lad who knew not even the names of his parents, or of thecountry which had given him birth—Paul loved the peerless daughterof the wealthy Don Juan Moraquitos; and was it to be wondered that heloved her?

From her childhood he had seen her daily, and had seen her every daymore beautiful—more accomplished.

She possessed, it is true, much of the pride of her father's haughtyrace; but that pride was tempered by the sweetness of Olympia Crivelli;and it was a high and generous sentiment that led the young girl tohate a meanness or falsehood with even a deeper loathing than she wouldhave felt for a crime.

But to Paul Lisimon, Camillia was never proud. To him she was allgentleness; all confiding affection. The very knowledge of hisdependence, which, had been dinned into her ears by Don Juan, renderedher only the more anxious to evince a sister-like devotion which shouldtake the sting from his position.

Instinctively she knew, that spite of all outward seeming that positionwas galling to the proud boy. Instinctively she felt that nature increating Paul Lisimon had never intended him to fill a subordinateposition. He was one of those who are born for greatness, and who,constrained by the cruel trammels of circumstances, and unable toattain their proper level, perish in the flower of youth, withered bythe blighting hand of despair.

So died the poet Chatterton, a victim to the suicide's rash madness. Sodies many a neglected genius, whose name is never heard by posterity.

Paul loved the heiress; loved her from the first hour in which she hadsoothed his boyish anguish at the loss of his patron Don Tomaso; lovedher in the tranquil years of their youthful studies; loved her with thedeep devotion of manhood, when his matured passion burst forth in itsfull force, and the flickering light became an unquenchable and steadyflame.

No, as years passed on, and the bud changed to the lovely blossom,Camillia's feelings changed toward her father's protege. No longercould she greet him with a sister's calm smile of welcome. The ardentgaze of his dark eyes brought the crimson blush to her cheek and brow;her slender hand trembled when it rested in his—trembled responsive tothe thrill which shook the young man's strong frame; her voice falteredas she addressed him, and her Southern eyes veiled themselves beneaththeir sheltering lashes, and dared not uplift themselves to his.

Happy and cloudless sunshine of youth. They loved, and earth becametransformed into a paradise—the sky a roof of sapphire glory; thesunny river a flood of melted diamonds. The magic wand of the youngblind god, Cupid, changed all things round them into splendor.

They dreamed not of the future. They thought not of the stern policyof a father, implacable in the pride of wealth. No, the distantstorm-cloud was hidden from their radiant eyes.

"My Camillia," exclaimed the young man; "think you I can fail toachieve greatness when your love is to be the crown of the struggle?Think you I can falter on the road that leads to success, when youreyes will be the loadstars to guide my way?"

The reader will see, therefore, that love and ambition went hand inhand in the soul of Paul Lisimon, and that higher motives than the merelust of gain, or even the hope of glory, beckoned him on to victory.

It is not to be expected that Camillia Moraquitos was without suitorsamong the higher classes of New Orleans.

Had she been blind, lame, hump-backed, red-haired, a vixen, or a fury,there would yet, doubtless, have been hundreds ready to kneel beforethe charm of her father's wealth, and to declare the heiress an angel.But when it is remembered that her future fortune was only exceededby her glorious beauty, it will be thought little marvel that shehad a host of admirers ever ready to flock round her at her father'ssoirees, to attend her in her drives, to haunt her box at the opera orthe theatre, and to talk of her beauty in all the coffee-houses of NewOrleans. Our readers must remember that there is much in this chiefcity of Louisiana, which resembles rather a French than an Englishtown. The inhabitants are many of them of French extraction. Thecoffee-houses—or cafes as they are called—resemble those of Paris;the gambling-houses and theatres are Parisian in arrangements, and theyoung men of the upper classes have much of the polish of our Gallicneighbors, mingled with not a little of their frivolity.

Among the many suitors for the hand of Camillia Moraquitos was no lessa person than Augustus Horton.

But the young planter did not love the Spanish beauty; there wassomething terribly repellent in the haughty spirit of Camillia to thosewhom she did not love, and Augustus Horton's pride was wounded by thethought that his attentions could possibly be disagreeable to anywoman whom he condescended to honor by a preference. It was not love,therefore, which made him so constant in his attendance on the youngbeauty. No; mercenary motives, mingled with the resolute obstinacy ofwounded pride. He would not confess, even to himself, that there wasany fear of his failing to attain the prize. He despised the youngfops who whispered soft speeches and high-flown compliments into theunheeding ear of the disdainful girl, and, thinking these his onlyrivals, dreamt not of defeat.

In all the planter's visits to the Villa Moraquitos he had never yetencountered Paul Lisimon.

The young Mexican scrupulously held himself aloof from the rich andfrivolous guests who assembled in Don Juan's splendid mansion.

In vain did the Spaniard bid his protege to join in the festivities atthe villa. In vain did Camillia reproach her lover with coldness andneglect, Paul was inexorable.

"No, Camillia," he said, when the young girl remonstrated with him, "Ishould hear your father's guests ask each other in the superb disdainof their creole insolence, 'Who is this Mr. Lisimon?' I wait the time,Camillia, when my own exertions shall have made this simple and nowunknown name of Lisimon familiar to every citizen in New Orleans."

While the soft echoes of piano and guitar floated through the luxurioussaloons; while the rich contralto voice of Camillia, mingling with thechords of her guitar, enchanted her obsequious listeners, Paul toiledin his lonely chamber, only looking up now and then from his books andpapers, to listen for a few brief moments to the sounds of laughter andrevelry below.

"Laugh on!" he exclaimed, as a sarcastic smile curved his finely-moldedlips; "laugh on, frivolous and ignorant ones—whisper unmeaningcompliments, and murmur inanities to my peerless Camillia! I do notfear you; for it is not thus she will be won."

Augustus Horton was a rich man; he belonged to one of the best familiesin New Orleans, and the old Spaniard knew of no one better suited as ahusband for his beloved daughter.

Don Juan therefore encouraged the young planter's addresses, though atthe same time thoroughly resolved to throw him off should any richer ormore aristocratic suitor present himself.

Camillia knew nothing of her father's intentions. All her admirers werealike indifferent to her, for her heart was irrevocably given, and herfaith irrevocably pledged, to Paul Lisimon.

While these changes had been slowly working among the heads of thehousehold, the hand of Time had not been idle in the humble chambers ofthe Villa Moraquitos.

White hairs were mingled in the black locks of the mulatto womanPepita; the negress Zarah was bent with age, and Tristan, the negrolad, had become a man—a man with powerful passions and a subtle andcunning nature, hidden beneath the mask of pretended ignorance andsimplicity.

He could sing grotesque songs, and dance half-savage dances, as in theearly days of his young mistress's youth when he was Camillia's onlyplayfellow. He knew a hundred tricks of jugglery, sleight of hand bywhich he could amuse an idle hour, and even now he was often admittedto display his accomplishments before the Spanish girl, her devotedattendant Pepita, and her old governess, Mademoiselle Pauline Corsi,who still remained with her, no longer as instructress, but in thecharacter of companion and friend.

We have as yet refrained from speaking of the Frenchwoman; but as shemay by-and-by play by no means an insignificant part in the great lifedrama we are relating, it is time that the reader should know more ofher.

Pauline Corsi was but seventeen years old when she first came to VillaMoraquitos as the preceptress of Camillia, then a child of six. She wastherefore thirty years of age at the time of which we write.

But although arrived at this comparatively mature period of life, shestill retained much of her girlish beauty of extreme youth.

Unlike most of her countrywomen, she was very fair, with large, limpidblue eyes, and a wealth of showery flaxen curls. Small and slender,with delicate little feet and hands, there was much in her appearanceto indicate patrician extraction. Yet she never alluded to her countryor her friends.

She told Don Juan that she was an orphan, homeless, penniless, andfriendless, glad to leave the shores of her sunny France for thechances of finding better fortune in the New World.

"And I have found better fortune," she would say, lifting herexpressive eyes to the dark face of her haughty employer; "for wherecould I have hoped to meet a nobler patron, or to find dearer friendsor a happier home than I have here. Ah, bless you, noble Spaniard, foryour goodness to the helpless stranger."

It was in the summer that Pauline Corsi first came to Villa Moraquitos,and it was in the winter of the same year that Don Tomaso Crivelliexpired in the arms of his brother-in-law.

We must request the reader to bear this in mind, for on the truth ofcertain dates hangs much of the tale of mystery and crime which we areabout to reveal.

The gossips of New Orleans were ready to insinuate that the Spaniard'sheart would surely be in a little danger from the presence of so youngand lovely a woman as the French governess, but they soon grew tiredof whispering this, for it was speedily perceived by all who knew DonJuan Moraquitos that his heart was buried in the mausoleum of his fairyoung wife, Olympia, and that all the love of which his proud naturewas capable of was lavished on his only child.

Some girls in the position of Pauline Corsi might have nourishedambitious hopes, and might have angled for the heart and hand of thewealthy Spaniard; but it was impossible to suspect the light-heartedand frivolous young Frenchwoman of the mean vices of the schemer. Shewas a thing of sunshine and gladness—gay and heedless as the birdsshe tended in her chamber, careless of the morrow as the flower thatperfumed her balcony. So thought all who knew Pauline Corsi.

The hideous skeleton, Time, whose bony hand lifts, inch by inch and dayby day, the dark and pall-like curtain that hangs before the vast stageof the future, can alone answer this question.

Camillia Moraquitos was much attached to her old governess. All hervaried accomplishments she owed to Mademoiselle Corsi; and, far toogenerous and high-minded to consider the handsome salary paid to theFrenchwoman a sufficient recompense for her services, she looked uponPauline's devotion to her as an obligation which could only be paid bygratitude and affection.

The young heiress had often endeavored to bestow some handsome presentupon her instructress (a valuable article of jewelry—a ring, a chain,a bracelet), but always to be firmly, though kindly repulsed.

"No, Camillia," Mademoiselle Corsi would reply, "I will take no giftfrom you but affection—that is a priceless treasure. Bestow that uponme, and you would amply reward me for a lifetime of devotion; the briefyears I have given to your instruction have been more than repaid by mypupil's love."

Haughty and reserved as Camillia was to mere acquaintances, she wasalmost foolishly confiding to those whom she loved.

She had never kept a secret from Pauline Corsi until within this lastyear, and even then she would have told all to her trusted companion,had she not been forbidden to do so by one whom she loved even betterthan the Frenchwoman.

"You will not breathe one word to a mortal of the vows which bind ustill death, will you, my Camillia?" said the young man, as, intoxicatedwith happiness, he pressed his betrothed to his wildly throbbing heart.

"To no one, dearest," answered Camillia, "until your position willwarrant you in asking my father's consent to our union. That is tosay," she added hesitatingly, "to no one but Pauline. I shall be soanxious to talk of you, and I know I can trust her."

"I mistrust no one," answered Lisimon; "yet, paradoxical as it mayseem, I trust scarcely any one. To give your secrets into the keepingof another, is to give your life—nay, the better part of life;for those secrets appertain to the inmost sentiment of your heart.No, Camillia, tell nothing until that day comes, when, proud andtriumphant, I can claim you before your father and the world."

"But you believe Pauline to be all that is good?" urged Camillia, heraffectionate nature wounded by the warning of Paul.

"Yes, since you tell me so, dearest; but, young as I am in the windingways of the world, I am older than you, and the experience of SilasCraig's office has taught me many iniquitous secrets."

Augustus Horton had, as our readers are aware, many businesstransactions with the attorney and usurer, Craig. Despising the manmost completely, it yet suited the young planter's purpose to employhim, for Silas was a master in the evil arts of chicanery; a usefullawyer for all business, but above all useful in such affairs as wereof too dark and secret a nature to bear exposure to the light of day.

He was the attorney employed by Augustus Horton, by Don JuanMoraquitos, and by most of the wealthiest men in the city of NewOrleans; men who affected ignorance of his character, because his styleof doing business suited their purpose.

The two men encountered each other in an office opening out of theprivate room occupied by the attorney.

Paul was seated at his desk copying a deed; he looked up only for amoment as the planter entered the apartment, and immediately returnedto his work. He knew that the visitor was his rival, Augustus Horton,but, secure in the love of Camillia, he was utterly indifferent tohis presence. Not so the planter. He looked long and earnestly at thehandsome and Spanish face of the young Mexican.

Simply as Paul was dressed, in the loose linen coat and trouserssuitable to the climate, with an open shirt collar of the finestcambric, under which was knotted a black silk handkerchief, there wassomething so distinguished in his appearance that Augustus Horton couldnot help wondering who this elegant stranger was who had found his wayinto Silas Craig's office. So great was his curiosity, that when hisbusiness with the lawyer was ended he lingered to ask a few questionsabout the strange clerk.

"In goodness name, Craig," he said, as he lit a cigar from a box ofallumerts upon the attorney's desk, "who is that young aristocrat whomyou have secured as a pigeon for plucking, under pretense of teachinghim the law?"

"Yes, a young man I saw in the next office. A Spaniard, I shouldimagine, from his appearance. Very dark, with black eyes and curlingblack hair."

"My articled pupil, a young Mexican, a protege of Don Juan's who isstudying for the law."

"That no one knows," answered Craig; "the brother-in-law of Don JuanMoraquitos, Don Tomaso Crivelli, brought him to New Orleans thirteenyears ago, when the little heiress was about six years old."

"Indeed!" muttered Augustus, biting his lip fiercely; "and the childrenwere brought up together, I suppose?"

"No matter," replied Augustus Horton; and, without another word to thelawyer, he left the apartment and passed once more through the officewhere Paul Lisimon was seated.

This time it was with a glance of intense malignity that he regardedthe young man, who, scarcely conscious of his presence, sat with hishead bent over his work.

"So," exclaimed the planter, when he found himself alone; "I thoughtthat you were an iceberg, Camillia Moraquitos, and that the burningbreath of passion had never melted your frozen nature. I never dreamtthat I had a rival; but the mystery is solved. This Mexican, thisnameless dependent on your father's bounty, is doubtless he for whomyou scorn the proudest suitors New Orleans can offer. I should haveknown that a woman is never utterly indifferent to a man's attentionssave when she loves another. No matter, Camillia, you will find it notrifle to brave the hatred of Augustus Horton. My rival is youngerand handsomer than I; it would be hopeless to attempt to win her lovewhile he is by to sue and be preferred; but before the year is out, Iwill have thrust him from my pathway as I would an insolent slave on myplantation."

From the hour in which Augustus Horton first looked upon the noble faceand form of Paul Lisimon, he entertained for the young Mexican thatdeadly and unrelenting hatred which jealousy alone can nourish.

Lovely as was the Spanish girl, there was one who, in the eyes ofAugustus, was yet lovelier; and that one was Cora, the daughter ofGerald Leslie, and the hapless quadroon slave, Francilia.

Yes, the fatal word which branded this lovely and innocent being iscontained in those three syllables. She was an octoroon, removed in theeighth degree from the African race, with a skin purely white as thetint of the lilies sleeping upon the lakes of her native Louisiana.One drop of the blood of a slave ran in her veins, poisoned her inmostlife, and stamped her with the curse of Cain.

Augustus Horton knew this. He knew also, that Gerald Leslie was aruined man; and he waited his time.

Cora had inspired in the proud heart of the planter one of thoseall-absorbing passions, which, in a bad man's heart, resemble the stormand tempest. They rage but to destroy. At any price, even at the priceof his own soul as well as hers, she must be his.

The insult she had inflicted upon him in dismissing him from herpresence had infuriated and humiliated him, but it had not abated onespark of the wild ardor of his guilty passion; notwithstanding this hewas determined upon becoming the husband of Camillia Moraquitos.

The reader is already acquainted with the laxity of Louisianian morals.The wealthy Creole thought there could be no shame to the Octoroon inbecoming his mistress. What was she but a creature of the inferiorrace, born to obey her master, the white man? With Camillia's fortune,added to his own ample wealth, Augustus Horton would have been oneof the richest men in New Orleans. But the planter felt that he haddiscovered his real and only rival in the person of Paul Lisimon, theMexican.

He was not slow to act upon this conviction. Early upon the morningafter his first encounter with Paul, he entered the office in which theyoung man was seated, and asked to see Silas Craig.

Paul Lisimon raised his eyes, and recognized one of the most constantadmirers of Camillia Moraquitos. But it was with a glance of supremeindifference that the Mexican regarded his rival. Augustus Horton feltthe sting of that careless look; it was the glance of one who, securein the affection of her he loves, is incapable of jealousy.

"Mr. Craig is within?" he inquired, addressing himself especially toPaul, though a colored lad at a desk near was the person who answeredall inquiries and ushered the clients into Silas Craig's office.

"He is," answered Paul, quietly, dropping his eyes upon his work, andnot lifting them as he spoke; "Marcus, take this gentleman's card toyour master."

Silas was seated at his desk, a ledger open before him, and on thetable by his side a large iron cash-box, the lid of which he droppedhurriedly as the young planter entered the office.

The ledger contained the secret accounts of the transactions of themysterious gambling-house in Columbia Street. The cash-box was nearlyfilled with bank notes, lost in that den of iniquity by the miserableand deluded votaries of the gambler's green cloth-covered altar. Silasclosed the ledger, which was secured with massive brass locks, the keyof which the usurer wore hanging to a thick gold chain, which was neverremoved night or day—the iniquitous volume was further secured bybeing placed in an iron chest, proof against fire and thieves.

The money gained by these shameful transactions was sent monthly to NewYork, where it was banked in the name of Craig & Co., solicitors.

This was done to prevent the possibility of the losers of this moneytracing it, by the numbers of the notes, into the hands of the usurer.

These precautions may seem superfluous, but they were no more thannecessary. Silas Craig felt that he was carrying on an infamoustraffic. He knew that were his name revealed as the proprietor ofa house which bore no very high reputation for fair play, and inwhich several deeds of darkness were strongly suspected to have beencommitted, universal hatred and execration would be heaped upon hisguilty head. More than this, there was a tribunal he dreaded morethan all the established courts of New Orleans; he knew that for suchan offense as his the infuriated citizens would have recourse to thehorrors of Lynch Law.

He glanced round suspiciously as Augustus Horton entered the room, andthrust the locked ledger into an open drawer in his desk.

"My dear Augustus," he said, with his accustomed conciliatory smile,"this is indeed an agreeable surprise. I scarcely expected to see youso soon again."

"I dare say not," answered the planter, coolly, taking out a cigar andlighting it at the taper by which Craig sealed his letters.

"And may I ask to what I owe the honor of this visit?" said Silas,looking, with considerable curiosity, at his client's thoughtfulcountenance.

"I'll tell you, Silas Craig. That young Mexican yonder; that Lisimon,or Lismion, or whatever his name may be—that hanger-on and dependentof Juan Moraquitos, must leave your office."

"Ay, you may stare," said Augustus; "never you mind my motives. I sayhe must go!"

"But, my dear young friend, my impetuous friend, that is utterlyimpossible. I have no particular affection for Mr. Paul Lisimon, Iassure you, but his articles have been signed."

Silas looked thoughtfully at his visitor, and then rubbing his hands,said, with a sly chuckle:

"But, my dear Mr. Horton, allow me to remind you that, in the firstplace, I have no excuse for canceling these articles, or for kickingPaul Lisimon out of my office; and that, in the second, I cannot seewhy I am bound to comply with any absurd whim which even my mostimportant client may happen to take into his head."

"I am not used," he said with a chilling hauteur, "to ask for anyservice for which I am not prepared to pay liberally. Send this youngman about his business—making it appear that he has been to blame inthe affair, and besides what you lose by canceling the articles I willgive you five thousand dollars."

"Yes, find this fellow out in some piece of low trickery or dishonor.He is not obliged to be really guilty, if he only appears so."

"In such a manner that Don Juan may cast him off?" asked Silas, withthe same meaning smile.

"Yes, do that, and I will double your reward. Instead of five thousanddollars I will give you ten."

"Yes, but a sort of business that I should think is scarcely new toyou, my worthy Silas," said Augustus, with a sneer.

That contemptuous curve of the lip was not lost upon Silas Craig; butthe usurer himself entertained a consummate disdain for these men whodespised his character, but were yet content to make use of him indeeds to which they would have been themselves ashamed to own.

"I think it can be done," he said quietly, "and I have no objection todo it, upon one condition—"

"That over and above the ten thousand dollars I am to receive on theday on which Paul Lisimon is dismissed from this office and from thehouse of his patron, Don Juan, you give me twenty thousand more uponthe day of your marriage with Camillia Moraquitos."

"How do you know that I have any thought of seeking to win CamilliaMoraquitos for my wife?" he asked, angrily.

"How do I know?" answered the usurer. "Augustus Horton, it may pleaseyour proud nature to despise me, although you come here to demand myservices. Despise my code of morality, if you will, but do not despisemy powers of penetration. There is not a client who enters this officewhose inmost thoughts I have not reckoned up before he has been fiveminutes in my company. It is a knack we lawyers acquire, if we are fitfor our business. Shall I tell you your motive in wishing to thrustPaul Lisimon from my office?"

"You dread a rival in this handsome young man. You would brand hisname, already an obscure one, with shame and infamy; you would causehim to be driven from the doors of Villa Moraquitos, and stamped withignominy in the eyes of the woman who loves him."

"Yes," cried Augustus, fiercely; "I would do all this! Dog, what righthas he to cross my path? I accede to your condition, Silas Craig, tenthousand down, and twenty thousand more upon my wedding day."

"That is well; Silas, lose no time in turning the fellow from yourdoors, and let me be the first to hear of his dismissal. I shall notgrudge you your reward."

As Augustus Horton left the office he once more flung a sinister glanceat the articled clerk; but this time there was triumph as well ashatred in the flash of the planter's eye.

As he glanced at Paul Lisimon the glitter of some gold ornamentshanging to the Mexican's watch chain caught his eye. Amongst these wasan oval locket, of dead gold, ornamented with two initials in purpleenamel.

The planter passed so close to Paul that he was enabled to distinguishthese initials.

"So!" he muttered, as he mounted the thorough-bred Arabian waiting himat the door of Silas Craig's house, "He wears a locket inscribed withher initials—a locket containing her portrait, no doubt. She lovedhim, then; but by the blue sky above me, she shall be taught ere longto despise and loathe him."

In order to carry it out, he had recourse to a plan as subtle as it wasdiabolical.

The lawyer's private office communicated, as the reader is aware, withan outer apartment occupied by clerks.

There was but this one door of communication between the two rooms, andthere was no other visible mode of entering the inner office.

But there was a secret entrance through the map of America, whichcommunicated with the passage leading into the house in Columbiastreet. The existence of this secret passage was known only to SilasCraig, William Bowen, and the banker and manager of the gambling-house.

It was by means of this very passage that the foul plot, which was toentrap Paul Lisimon, was to be carried out.

Three days after his interview with the planter, Silas Craig summonedthe young Mexican to his private office.

"My dear Lisimon," he said, motioning Paul to a seat, "for once in mylife I am tempted to desert business earlier than usual. I have anengagement to dine with my client, Mr. Horton. The dinner hour is five,and I have, unfortunately, an appointment here at half-past five witha wealthy old client of mine, who is going to bring me a few thousanddollars he wishes me to invest for him. Now, in this dilemma, I fancy,my dear Lisimon, that you can assist me."

Paul merely bowed. They were not alone in the office; one of the otherclerks, a young man of the name of Morisson, was standing at thelawyer's desk waiting for further orders.

"What I want you to do, Lisimon, is to remain here till half-pastfive and receive the money from my client. You will give him anacknowledgment for the sum, and you will place the money, whether itshould be in notes or gold, in this small cash-box, of which I willleave you the key. I shall also give you the key of the door of thisoffice, which you will carefully lock on leaving the place. As there isno other communication, all will be perfectly secure. You understand?"

"I thought you would be able to do this little bit of business forme," replied the lawyer, rising and locking his desk; "here are thekeys," he added, handing Paul the key of the door and the smallerone belonging to the cash-box; "you will keep the office key inyour possession until you see me to-morrow morning. Be very carefulof it, for I have no duplicate. It's now half-past four, so I havenot a minute to lose. You'll find my client, Mr. Graham, a curiouscountryfied old fellow, Lisimon, but I've no doubt you'll be able tomanage him. Good afternoon!"

Silas left the office, followed by the clerk, Morisson; and Paul,taking up one of the New Orleans papers, prepared to await the expectedvisitor. The client arrived, punctual to his appointment, at half-pastfive. He was an elderly man, a planter, whose estate lay at a distanceof several hundred miles from New Orleans, and who had the highestopinion of Silas Craig's professional and moral character.

"A worthy man," he would say, shaking his head wisely, when speakingof the money-lending lawyer; "a moral man, a church-going man, and acredit to New Orleans. I am sorry there are not more to follow hispious example."

"I have the numbers of the bills in my pocket-book," said the old man,as he handed the packet to the Mexican; "I'm rather a cautious oldfellow, you know, my dear sir."

"Perfectly correct, perfectly correct, my dear sir," Mr. Grahammuttered, as he read it over—'Received of John Graham, fifteenthousand dollars'—dated and signed. "Thank you, sir, and good evening."

Paul summoned the mulatto lad to show Mr. Graham out, and then, afterlocking the money in the cash-box—a small metal casket, which mighthave easily been carried in the ample pocket of Paul's loose linencoat—he left the office, and double-locked the door behind him.

"Then there's no likelihood of any one entering that room without yourbeing aware of it."

"Which, fortunately, you are not. Keep a sharp look-out, my lad, andI'll give you a half dollar to-morrow."

Paul left the office and returned to Villa Moraquitos, where, for oncein a way, he found Camillia alone with Mlle. Corsi. Her father wasabsent at a dinner party, given by Augustus Horton.

This very dinner party was a portion of the villainous plot, concoctedby Silas Craig and the planter, for the destruction of Paul Lisimon.

The evening flew by like some blessed dream to the young Mexican.Camillia was by his side; she sang to him wild and plaintive Spanishballads, whose mournful and harmonious cadence drowned his soul inrapture. The words written in the love-breathing language of thatSouthern land, from whose orange groves and palaces the ancestors ofCamillia had emigrated to Southern America.

A happy evening; alas! the very last of happiness that Paul was totaste for a long time to come.

But even in the society of Camillia Moraquitos, Paul could not quiterepress a certain uneasiness about the money he had left in the cashbox in Silas Craig's office.

He disliked the responsibility of the trust which had been forced uponhim by his employer, and was impatient to return the key of the officeto its owner.

Silas Craig did not enter the clerk's office till much later than hiscustomary hour for beginning business. Morisson and one or two othersbegan to speculate upon the probability of their employer having drankrather too freely at the planter's dinner table.

The attorney appeared in a peculiarly amiable temper that morning. Heshook hands with Paul, spoke to each of the clerks, commended theirwork, and then, holding out his hand, said, very graciously, "Now, mydear Lisimon, the key of the office. I suppose Mr. Graham lodged thatmoney in your hands last night?"

Silas nodded and unlocked the door of the inner office. "Oh, bythe bye," he said, "just step this way, Mr. Morisson; I have somedirections to give you."

The clerk followed his employer into the office. Five minutes afterwardMorisson put his head out of the door: "Mr. Lisimon," he said, "you arewanted, if you please."

Paul hastened to the inner office. The lawyer was looking very grave,but he spoke in his usual friendly tone.

He pointed, as he spoke, to the table upon which he had left the cashbox on the preceding evening.

"You must be mistaken, Lisimon; you very likely placed the box in someother part of the office?"

"No!" cried Paul, with energy, "I left it on that table, and nowhereelse. Come, Mr. Craig, this must be some jest of yours. You haveremoved the box since you entered the office, and are doing this tofrighten me."

"Was there any box on yonder table when we entered this room,Morisson?" said Craig, addressing himself to the clerk.

"You see, my dear Lisimon, it must be you who are jesting. Were youany other than the beloved protege of my respected client, Don JuanMoraquitos, I should positively begin to be alarmed."

"Jesting!" exclaimed Paul; "I swear to you that before leaving thisoffice last night, I locked the cash-box containing the dollar billsand placed it upon that table. Search where you will, Morisson,"he said, looking at the clerk, who, at a whispered order from hisemployer, had begun to search the office, "unless there has beenwitchcraft about, you will find it there and nowhere else, for there Ileft it."

"Come, come, Mr. Lisimon," said Craig, in an altered tone, "this isreally too absurd. We no longer believe in magic, or the juggleries ofthe fiend. You say you left the box in this apartment last night. Itmust therefore be here this morning, if you have spoken the truth."

"If I have spoken the truth!" echoed Paul, the hue of his cheekschanging from pale to crimson.

"Not a creature has entered this room since you left it," continuedSilas; "for there is but one key to the door, and that has been in yourpossession until within the last ten minutes. The boy Marcus sleeps inthe office; call him, Morisson."

"But he might have had something in his pocket," muttered Silas, in anundertone.

"No, Mr. Lisimon, it is rather too late in the day for insinuations,"answered the attorney, with a sardonic laugh, "you were left in chargeof a sum of money; you were told to place it in this room to whichno one but yourself had access. The fact is only too clear; you havedisgraced the bounty of your patron; you are a thief!"

"A thief!" shrieked Paul. The lawyer's gold-headed bamboo cane stood inone corner of the office; before the clerk, Morisson, could interpose,Paul Lisimon snatched this cane in his convulsed grasp, and boundingupon Silas Craig, struck him across the face.

"Liar!" he cried, "I see the drift of this double-dyed villainy. I amthe victim of a plot, so demoniac, that I shudder at the blackness ofits treachery. The money has been removed through your agency—removedin order that my name may be branded with a crime. I fear you not, vileschemer; be it yours to tremble, for Heaven looks down upon us, andwill defend the innocent."

He rushed from the office, and had left the house before Silasrecovered from the terror these words had struck to his guilty heart.

"Pursue him!" he cried, hoarse with fury; "pursue him, and drag him toprison. Yet, stay, it is too late now to overtake him. I know where tofind him—at the Villa Moraquitos."

Tristan, the negro, sat in his little chamber, in that quarter of DonJuan's splendid mansion, which was devoted solely to the slaves.

A dark and gloomy shadow rested upon the inky brow of the negro. Forsome time past the watchful eye of his mother, the old negress, Zarah,had detected her son's unhappiness, but she sought in vain to penetratethe cause. There was much of the savage in the character of this man,and even in his mother he sometimes inspired alarm and suspicion.

His was one of those natures, burning as Africa's skies, created,sometimes, like the venomous serpents of those tropical climes, only toterrify and destroy.

But he was a privileged being in the house of Don Juan Moraquitos. Hehad saved the life of the Spaniard's idolized daughter.

Yes, only one brief year before the period of which we write, Tristan,the negro, had by his courage and activity, preserved Camillia from afearful death.

Late one evening the young girl and her governess had sat talkingtogether in Camillia's luxurious boudoir. The slave Tristan had beenadmitted to the apartment to amuse the capricious beauty with his songsand antics. But Camillia had soon grown weary of this diversion and,turning to Mademoiselle Corsi, she said languidly:

Generous-hearted as was the Spanish girl, her education had taught herto look upon a slave as an inferior being, unblest with those finerfeelings which demand our courtesy and consideration. She dismissedTristan as she would have dismissed her lapdog when tired of hisantics. A black and gloomy frown obscured the negro's glittering eyesas he was thus unceremoniously ordered from the room.

The slave retired, but he did not go far. Between the boudoir and thesaloon there was an ante-chamber, the floor of which was covered with asquare Persian carpet—a carpet of immense value, thick as velvet pile.

Upon this carpet, close to the door of the boudoir, Tristan threwhimself like a dog on the threshold of his master's apartment.

"She sends me from her," he said, bitterly; "I am noisy, and I wearyher; it was not so in the days that are long gone by, when she and Iwere playfellows."

The negro gone, Camillia reclined upon a sofa, and amused herself bylooking over a pile of French novels, which had lately arrived fromParis. To do this she drew toward her a little inlaid table upon whichstood an elegant reading-lamp.

Pauline Corsi was seated at the other extremity of the apartment,working briskly at a large piece of embroidery, and lost in thought.She did not, therefore, observe the proceedings of her young pupil.

For some time Camillia read on undisturbed; but by-and-by, growingweary of her book, she cast it from her with an impatient exclamation,and stretched out her hand to reach another from the volumes on thetable beside her. In doing so she upset the reading-lamp.

The glass globe broke with a crash; the inflammable oil and burningwick were spilled upon the gauzy muslin folds of her voluminous dress.

She uttered a shriek of horror, for in one brief moment she foundherself in flames.

The negro heard that shriek; and, swift as the panther darting from hislair, he bounded from the threshold where he had been lying.

Losing all presence of mind, Camillia, followed by Pauline Corsi,rushed past the slave Tristan, and from the ante-chamber into thesaloon beyond.

The flames, fanned by the current of air through which she passed, rosetoward her head. In another moment she would have been lost.

With a yell of agony, like that of a wild beast in its death strugglewith the hunter, the negro flung himself upon the floor of theante-chamber, and tore up the heavy Persian carpet which covered theroom; then, rushing upon Camillia, he enveloped her slender form inthis massive fabric, and with his own hands extinguished the flames.

The Spaniard's daughter escaped unscathed from this terrible ordeal,but the hands of the slave were fearfully scorched and wounded.

Don Juan Moraquitos offered any reward he might choose to name to thedeliverer of his child, but, to the Spaniard's astonishment, Tristanrefused all his master's offers.

The Spaniard would have given him freedom, but the slave chose ratherto stay in the house in which he had been born.

All gifts of money he also refused—refused with a gloomy determinationwhich Don Juan and Camillia tried in vain to overcome.

"No!" he said, "let me stay with you, my master and my mistress. Thepoor slave, Tristan, asks no more."

In vain the old negress, Zarah, pleaded with her son, imploring him toask freedom for himself and his mother, that they might return to thenative shore from which the captain of a slaver had brought them. Herefused to listen to her entreaties, and turned from her with a gloomyscowl.

Don Juan and his daughter praised the fidelity of the slave, andpromised him every privilege that could render his service a happyone. Only one person in that household divined the secret clew to thenegro's strange conduct. That person was the seemingly frivolous andlight-hearted Frenchwoman, Pauline Corsi.

A depth of penetration lurked beneath that girlish exterior. She readthe true meaning of Tristan's conduct.

The slave—the negro—the thick-lipped, woolly-haired African—thelowest type of a despised and abhorred race, loved his mistress, thewealthy Spanish heiress, the beautiful and haughty Camillia Moraquitos!

Silas Craig was right in his conjecture. Paul Lisimon went straightfrom the lawyer's office to the Villa Moraquitos.

It was there, and in the eyes of her so dearly loved, and of thehaughty benefactor of his youth, that the young Mexican was eager todisprove the lying accusation brought against him.

His proud spirit revolted at the very thought of the base nature ofthe crime of which he was accused. Theft—the most contemptible, pettytheft—a theft upon the employer who had trusted him!

He found Camillia within doors, and, in the presence of Pauline Corsi,told her the story of his wrongs.

"We always hated this man, Craig, by instinct, Paul," she said; "thatinstinct did not deceive us."

Pauline Corsi appeared to sympathize sincerely with the lovers, andexpressed the utmost contempt for Silas Craig.

While Paul was seated by Camillia, her hand clasped in his, her largeblack eyes bathed in tears, yet lifted confidingly to his face, thesound of the footsteps of several men was heard upon the staircasewithout, and Don Juan Moraquitos entered the apartment, followed bySilas Craig.

The brow of the Spaniard was dark with passion, but beneath the redeyebrows of the lawyer, there sparkled the light of malice and cunning.

"Release the hand of that man, Camillia Moraquitos!" exclaimed DonJuan, with suppressed fury, as he beheld his daughter and Paul Lisimonseated side by side; "release his hand, or never again dare to call mefather!" The young girl raised her eyes to the face of the Spaniard andmet his angry gaze with a glance of calm defiance.

"Why should I take my hand from his?" she said, calmly; "we have beenplayfellows, companions, and friends from childhood. You have seen ourhands locked together ere to-day; why do you wish to part us now?"

Though the voice of the Spanish girl was calm and unfaltering, andalthough she met her father's gaze without one quiver of her snowyeyelids, her slender form trembled with emotion as she spoke.

"Because Paul Lisimon, the man whose boyhood has been spent beneaththis roof, whose education has been shared with you, who has ever beentreated as a son, rather than as a dependent, that man is a thief!"

Had Camillia been unprepared for this accusation, the blow might, for amoment, have paralyzed her. But she had heard all from Paul's own lips,and she was prepared for the worst.

"He is no thief!" she exclaimed, proudly; "were he that, he would nothave come hither to seek for sympathy from Camillia Moraquitos."

"Deluded girl, he has been discovered in an act of daringrobbery—robbery which is most contemptible, being allied to treacheryof the basest nature. He was trusted, and he betrayed his trust."

"Trusted!" she exclaimed, "trusted, did you say! Father, I ask you, byall your knowledge of mankind, by your faith in Nature's surest index,the human countenance, is that the man to trust any living creature?"

She pointed to Silas Craig as she spoke, and the lawyer quailed beneathher flashing glance. For a moment he shrank back abashed and powerlessto reply to the Spanish girl's disdainful words, then recoveringhimself with an effort, he said, with an assumed air of meekness:

"Donna Camillia is pleased to be severe. We lawyers are certainlynot over-trusting in our fellowmen—we are too often deceived; but Ithought I might safely trust the protege of Don Juan Moraquitos. I didnot think to find him a thief."

"Liar!" cried Paul Lisimon. "Dastard! You know I am no thief. You knowthe base plot which has been planned by you—from what motive I knownot—for my destruction. Now that all is past, I can see the basescheme from the very first. Your pretended confidence; your desirethat I should remain alone in your office to receive a sum of moneywhich you might have as well received yourself; your trusting me withthe key—of which, you say, you have no duplicate; your simulatedfriendship, and your affected surprise this morning upon missing thecasket containing the money; all these are so many links in the chainof infamy which you have woven around me; but through all I defy you.The money was taken from your office by no common robber; it wasremoved either by you, or by an agent in your employ."

"The inner office has but one door," answered Silas Craig, "youpossessed the only key of that door—nay, more, the mulatto boy,Marcus, slept in the clerk's office, and must have heard anybody whoattempted to enter the inner chamber. Heaven knows," ejaculated Silas,sanctimoniously, "how much grief I feel at the discovery of suchbaseness in the adopted son of my most respected client; but guilt suchas yours must not, for the benefit of society, go unpunished."

Paul Lisimon turned from him with a gesture of loathing, and addressedhimself to Don Juan.

"You hear this man," he said, "you hear him, yet you surely do notbelieve one word he utters. Look in his face, on which 'liar' isbranded in unmistakable characters, by the hand of Heaven; and thenbelieve him if you can. My patron, my benefactor, friend and protectorof my otherwise friendless youth, has any one action of my life, sinceI have shared the shelter of your roof, and eaten your bread—has anyone action of my life given you reason to believe me the base andguilty wretch this man would have you think me? Speak, I implore you."

The young Mexican waited with clasped hands for Don Juan's reply. TheSpaniard coldly averted his face. It seemed as if he, too, shrank frommeeting that noble countenance.

"Circumstances speak too plainly, Mr. Lisimon," he said; "facts areincontrovertible—they are stronger than words, and they force me tobelieve."

"They force you to believe that the man who has been reared beneathyour own protection, has been guilty of an act worthy of one of theswell-mobsmen, or experienced burglars of New Orleans. One word more,Don Juan Moraquitos—it is the last with which I shall trouble you."

"I appeal to you by the memory of the dead—by the memory of him whowas more than a father to me—by the memory of the last hour of DonTomaso Crivelli."

It seemed as if the sound of this name struck upon the most sensitivechord in the nature of the haughty Spaniard. He started as if he hadbeen shot, and dropping into a chair that stood near him, buried hisface in his hands. Silas Craig lifted his eyes with a glance of pioushorror.

"This is horrible!" he exclaimed; "the guilty wretch dares to call uponthe name of the dead, dares to wound his noble benefactor's sensitiveheart. Why delay any longer to reason with this hypocrite? The officersof justice are without, let them at once do their duty."

Silas Craig opened the door of the apartment as he spoke, and beckonedto three men who were waiting on the staircase.

"Yes; they have a warrant for your arrest," replied Silas Craig. "Youhave carried it with a very high hand, Mr. Paul Lisimon, but you willsleep in jail to-night."

The young Mexican did not condescend to answer this speech, but,turning to Don Juan, he said with quiet dignity—

"Since this man's accusation appears to you stronger than mydeclaration of innocence, I cannot blame you, sir, in believing him. Ifreely own that the chain of evidence forged against me is a damningone, but, sooner or later, the day will come when I will shatter thatchain, link by link, and prove yonder wretch the basest of his kind. Inthe meantime, I would ask one favor of you. I have papers and lettersin my room, which are of priceless value to me, suffer me to gatherthose together before they convey me to prison."

Don Juan had not once lifted his head since the mention of hisbrother-in-law's name. He replied to Paul's request, in a broken voice—

"Let him take the papers he speaks of," he answered, "I will beresponsible for him."

The principal police-officer bowed. "I will accompany you to yourrooms, Mr. Lisimon," he said, "and remain with you while you collectthose papers."

"Father, father!" exclaimed Camillia; "can you suffer this—can youallow the companion of my youth to be sent to jail as a common felon?"

"He merits no other fate," replied Don Juan; "he has proved himselfunworthy the name of an honest man."

"Your own instinct!" he exclaimed; "beware girl, do not force me tobelieve you have another reason for thus defending this man. Do notcompel me to despise you!"

While this conversation was passing between father and daughter, PaulLisimon and the officer proceeded to the Mexican's apartment, whichwas situated, as the reader is aware, upon the upper floor of VillaMoraquitos; but the Spaniard's elegant abode was only elevated onestory above the ground floor, so that the room occupied by Paul wasnot in reality more than eighteen feet above the garden, into which itlooked. The police-officer followed his prisoner into the room, andseated himself near the door, while Paul unlocked his desk and examinedits contents.

The papers which he wished to secure were a few brief notes that hadbeen written to him, at different periods, by Camillia Moraquitos. Theyoung girl had often slipped a few lines of affectionate encouragementinto her lover's hand at a time when the lynx eyes of strangersprevented their exchanging a word.

Paul Lisimon knew that, brief as these letters were, they containedquite enough to betray the secret of the lovers, and to draw down uponCamillia all the terrors of a father's wrath.

He secured the little packet with a ribbon, which the Spanish girlhad once worn in her hair, and, thrusting the packet into his bosom,prepared to accompany the officer.

As they were about leaving the apartment, a low rap sounded upon thepanel of the door.

"Let me speak to your prisoner—alone—if only for a few moments?" shesaid, pleadingly, and with all the fascination peculiar to her manner;"let me speak to him, monsieur, I implore!"

"You are welcome to speak to him, mademoiselle," replied the officer,"but I regret to tell you that whatever you have to say, must be saidin my presence."

"Nay, Mademoiselle Corsi," interposed Paul, who could not understandthe Frenchwoman's desire to see him alone, "you can have nothing to saywhich this man may not hear. Speak freely; I have no secrets."

"But perhaps I have," answered Pauline. "See, monsieur," she added,extending her plump little hand, upon one finger of which theresparkled a superb diamond ring, "tell me what you think of thosediamonds."

Paul Lisimon started, for he recognized the ring. It was one he hadoften seen Camillia wear.

"They are magnificent stones, are they not, monsieur?" repeatedPauline, still addressing the officer.

"The ring is worth eight hundred dollars, and it is yours for eightminutes private conversation with the prisoner."

"Eight hundred dollars for eight minutes. That is at the rate of ahundred dollars a minute."

"True, mademoiselle," replied the officer, "but if in those eightminutes my prisoner should take it into his head to jump out of thatwindow, I am a ruined man."

The officer reflected for a few moments, and then looking searchinglyinto the face of the young Mexican, he said, energetically, "I haveknown many a gentleman pledge his word and break it as if it was a bitof cracked china; but our profession teaches us to reckon up a man bythe cut of his phiz, and I think you're an honorable man, M. Lisimon,and I don't think you guilty of this business that's brought againstyou, so give me the ring, mademoiselle," he added, holding out his handfor the valuable trinket. "I'll step outside and wait while you saywhat you've got to say."

He walked out of the room and closed the door behind him, leavingPauline and the Mexican together.

"No; I come of my own accord. That ring is Camillia's; she gave it tome at my request, as a bribe for your jailer."

"Ay, noble girl!" exclaimed the Frenchwoman, bitterly; "because shegave one from the costly heaps of jewels her foolish father haslavished upon her; but I, whose brain devised the plan, deserve no wordof praise."

"Paul Lisimon," said Pauline, fixing her limpid blue eyes upon the faceof the Mexican, "you love Camillia Moraquitos?"

"Nay, why seek to dissemble? Do you think I have not read your shallowsecret from the very first? You sought to blind and hoodwink me, but Ilaughed at the pitiful deception. Paul, tell me, is this love a lastingone?"

"Since you know my secret," replied the Mexican, "concealment isuseless. It is a lasting love—eternal as yonder blue heaven."

"Yes; you have not one friend in this house, save her who now speaksto you. Camillia loves you, you will answer! Yes; but with the feeblepassion of a capricious beauty, which may change with to-morrow's sun.How long, think you, will her love endure when she hears every creaturein New Orleans brand you as a thief and ingrate? Will it outlast thehour when she sees you placed in a criminal dock, side by side, withthe lowest thief in the city? Will it survive degradation and shame?No; Camillia Moraquitos is proud, and from the hour that you leave thishouse with the clanking fetters on your wrists, she will despise andhate you—hate you for the very memory of her past love."

Paul Lisimon knew the pride which formed the leading principle inCamillia's character, and he felt that there might be truth in thesebitter words.

"Hear me, Paul. It is in my power to save you from these fetters andthis shame. It is in my power to bring Silas Craig and his haughtyemployer, Don Juan Moraquitos, groveling to your feet to implore youfor mercy—to entreat your forbearance to save them from the fate of afelon."

"Listen to me, Paul Lisimon, for these few minutes, bought from thevigilance of the officer without yonder door, must decide the fate ofboth of us. Thirteen years ago, Don Tomaso Crivelli expired in thearms of his brother-in-law, in an apartment at the end of the galleryoutside this door. You have often been in that room."

"I have. It is sacred to me, for it was there my earliest friendbreathed his last sigh."

"That chamber is hung with Indian embroidery of shells and feathersupon leather. These hangings are about two feet from the wall, leavingan aperture behind large enough to admit of a slender person's hidingbehind the embroidery. On the night of your benefactor's death I wasconcealed behind these hangings."

"Don't doubt that I had my reason—reasons which at some future time Iwill reveal. When I carried the child Camillia to her uncle's bedside Iheard a few words dropped which excited my curiosity; to gratify thatcuriosity I concealed myself at eleven o'clock that night behind thehangings of the dying man's bed-chamber. There I heard Tomaso Crivellidictate his last will and testament to the lawyer, Silas Craig, inthe presence of your father. The signature to that will was afterwardwitnessed by two persons, one a creature of the attorney's, the other adependent of Don Juan Moraquitos."

"Yes; and one by the aid of which I can save you from shame andhumiliation, and elevate you to the proudest position even your haughtyspirit could devise."

"You renounce forever all thoughts of Camillia Moraquitos; and that inthe hour when, through my aid, you are elevated to name and fortune,you will make me your wife."

"Yes. Is there anything so monstrous in the proposition? I am a fewyears older than you are, it is true. I have not the Spanish beauty ofCamillia, but flattering tongues have told me that I am not destituteof the power to charm—I am no love-sick girl, but an ambitious woman,with a brain to scheme and plot a glorious future—I ask no love fromyou, but a share in the future to which I can elevate you. Do yourefuse my offer?"

"I do," replied Paul. "Camillia Moraquitos may cast my image from herheart—may join with the rest and think me guilty; but, to the last,she, and she alone, will possess my love. Through the deepest abyss ofshame and degradation I will be true to the guiding star of my life.Keep your secret, Mademoiselle Corsi; it can never be mine at the pricewhich you propose."

"Fool!" cried the Frenchwoman, "you have refused rank, name, station,and wealth—nay, more than these, revenge! Be it so; abide by yourchoice. Perish in ignorance of the mighty secret which I have kept forthirteen patient years, and which will be a fortune to me if not toyou. Rot in a jail; die in a transport ship; drag out your life in apenal settlement; Pauline Corsi has spoken for the first and last time."

"You see," she said, "there has been no attempt at escape." Withoutone glance at Paul, she descended the staircase, and returned to thechamber in which she had left heart-broken Camillia.

That night Paul Lisimon was lodged in the jail devoted to the receptionof those accused of felony.

Upon the day following that on which the events occurred which we havedescribed in the foregoing chapter, the Selma steamer started from NewOrleans, laden with gay and fashionable company.

It was nine o'clock in the morning when the bell rang for the startingof the vessel—a gorgeous summer's day, the sky blue and cloudless, theMississippi dancing in the sunshine.

Amongst the passengers on board the boat were Augustus Horton, hissister Adelaide, Mrs. Montresor, Silas Craig, and William Bowen.

This latter personage had exchanged his ragged skin-jacket and patchedcotton shirt for a costume which aped that worn by the fops of NewOrleans.

He followed close at the heels of Silas Craig, to the evident annoyanceof the lawyer, who seemed, however, unable to shake him off.

Augustus and his party were bound for Hortonville, the plantation andvilla of which we have already spoken, and which was situated upon thebanks of the river, some miles beyond that belonging to Silas Craig.

The attorney was also bound for his plantation, whither he was takingWilliam Bowen, who was henceforth to act as his overseer.

Augustus Horton was elated at the success of his villainous plot. Hehad lodged the only rival whom he feared in a felon's jail; he feltthat Camillia Moraquitos might now be easily won; but his heart—if theprofligate who yields only to the dictates of passion can be said tohave a heart—was full of the image of Cora the Octoroon.

Just as the boat was about pushing off, two young men stepped onboard. The first was Mortimer Percy, the second Gilbert Margrave, theyoung engineer and artist, who carried a sketch-book under his arm. Hesaluted Augustus and his sister with a grave bow of recognition.

"So! Gilbert," said Mortimer, "you come armed with your pencils andsketch-book, in order, I suppose, to catch some of the beauties of theMississippi banks as we glide past them."

"To tell you the truth, my dear Mortimer, I have far graver reason forbeing here. I come to meet some one."

"Good Heavens, my dear Gilbert, are you in earnest? You know thisgirl's history?"

"I do; and in my eyes that very history renders her even more sacredthan a defenseless woman must ever be to the mind of an honorable man.I received a message this morning from Mr. Leslie's old slave, Toby,informing me that his young mistress is to come on board the boat atthe first station, and begging me to be there to meet her, as she mighthave need of my services."

"My dear Gilbert, I'm afraid you're very far gone," exclaimed Mortimer,laughing.

Adelaide Horton's heart sank as she received the young engineer's coldsalutation. She felt that he despised both herself and her brother fortheir conduct to Cora. Mrs. Montresor and Adelaide soon withdrew to thesaloon, for the sight of Gilbert Margrave was painful to the impetuousgirl.

The scene on board the Selma was a gay and animated one. In the centreof the deck a German band was stationed, and every now and then somesprightly waltz or polka sounded on the summer air.

Close against one of the paddle boxes a group of eager gamblers hadseated themselves round a card-table, and it was amongst these thatMr. William Bowen planted himself, while Silas Craig conversed in anundertone with Augustus Horton.

Gilbert Margrave and Mortimer Percy stood near the side of the vesseltalking on indifferent subjects.

Presently the bell rang again, and the steamer stopped at the firststation, which was situated at a short distance from Gerald Leslie'splantation.

"Miss Leslie knows nothing as yet of the fatal truth," said Gilbert. "Itremble lest she should ever learn it."

"Then tremble for her to-day on board this steamer," replied Mortimer,"these people know all, and they are pitiless."

"I shall be here to protect her, at the worst; but tell me have you anyidea how it was that this mulatto Toby applied to me above all people?"

"The instincts of the despised race are strong," answered Mortimer;"he knew, no doubt, that you felt no uncommon interest in his youngmistress. See, is not that Miss Leslie yonder, amongst the passengers,dressed in black?"

"I will leave you, then, my dear Gilbert," said Mortimer, and pressinghis friend's hand, he strolled into the saloon.

Cora Leslie was pale as a lily. Her black robes seemed to increase thisalmost unearthly pallor, but they could not take from her beauty. Sheadvanced slowly, looking about her with a glance of terror, while thefaithful mulatto followed close at her side. Presently she perceivedGilbert Margrave, who silently awaited her coming.

The crimson blush which suddenly dyed her cheek revealed how little shehad expected this meeting.

"Pardon me, Miss Leslie," replied the young engineer, "if I haveventured to make myself, without your permission, your companion uponthis journey—but the hope that I might be able to render you someservice has induced me even to brave your displeasure."

Cora looked earnestly at Toby; the faithful creature's eyelids fellbeneath that searching gaze. "Ah, Mr. Margrave," she said, "it was Tobywho told you of this journey?"

"Forgive me, dear young mistress," exclaimed the mulatto; "I thoughtthat I was doing right."

"I am deeply affected with this proof of your kindness, Mr. Margrave,"said Cora; "but I regret that Toby's indiscretion should have imposedupon you a task which will, as I believe, be useless."

"However that may be, Miss Leslie, it is a task which I accept withpride and joy."

At this moment the little group was approached by the captain of theSelma, whose sharp eyes had espied the dark skin of Toby amongst hisaristocratic passengers.

"Hello! what are you doing here, nigger?" he exclaimed; "don't you knowyour place is at the other end of the vessel?"

The mulatto retired without a word, but not without a push from theindignant captain.

"You see, Miss Leslie," said Gilbert, "the company of Toby would havebeen no protection to you."

"I should have gone with him, Mr. Margrave. Is not my place his? Am Inot an Octoroon?"

"A chance word from Mr. Percy revealed the secret to me, Miss Leslie,upon that very night when first I saw you."

"Oh, Mr. Margrave, I do not seek to deny my origin. See, I wearmourning for my mother, and my journey of to-day is a pilgrimage to hergrave."

A couple of chairs near Gilbert Margrave were unoccupied; one of thesehe offered to Cora, and, taking the other, seated himself by her side.

This group was composed of Silas Craig, William Bowen, and two or threeother passengers, all gathered round Augustus Horton, who was readinga paragraph aloud from a New Orleans newspaper. The following were thewords which greeted Cora's ears—

"The conduct of Mr. Leslie in daring to foist the child of one of hisslaves upon the highest circles of society, merits the punishmentwith which he has met. The citizens of New Orleans have shown theirindignation at his offense, by abandoning all communication with him.Gerald Leslie walks the streets, of his native city a stranger and aruined man."

"Oh, this is infamous," exclaimed Gilbert Margrave; "that man knowsthat you are here and he reads that paragraph on purpose to insult you.I will not endure it."

He was about to rush forward toward Augustus Horton, but Cora caughthis arm in her slender hands and arrested his steps.

"For pity's sake," she cried; "for my sake, Mr. Margrave, not one word!The sting of the insult will be lost if unnoticed. Let him think thosecruel words are unheard."

It was indeed as Gilbert Margrave had supposed. Augustus knew of Cora'spresence in the boat—he had seen her with Gilbert by her side, and hewas determined to be revenged upon her for the contempt with which shehad treated him.

This was the planter's love. The love of the profligate who seeks tohumiliate his victim in order that he may subdue her.

After Augustus Horton had read the paragraph in the New Orleanspaper—a paragraph whose every line was calculated to wound thesensitive nature of the Octoroon—he looked toward Cora to see whateffect the insult had had upon her and Gilbert Margrave.

They were seated side by side, and appeared engrossed in conversation,apparently unconscious of all that was passing around them. The planterthrew down the newspaper with a smothered ejaculation of rage.

"Curse her!" he muttered; "is there no way to humble that proud soul?He, the Englishman, is by her side, deferential as if he were talkingto a queen. No matter! my turn will come."

He withdrew to the saloon, with a crowd of friends and satellites, whoflocked around him as one of the richest planters of Louisiana.

William Bowen had lost a handful of dollars at the gaming-table, andfollowed his patron, Silas Craig, in order to obtain a fresh supplyfrom that gentleman.

The deck was therefore almost deserted. A few passengers, ladies andgentlemen, lounging here and there, upon the comfortable benches; theladies employed in some elegant needle-work, the gentlemen smoking;Cora and Gilbert Margrave sat apart, and out of hearing of the rest.

"Tell me, Miss Leslie," said Gilbert, as Augustus Horton left the deck,"why did you prevent my inflicting upon that man the chastisement whichhe so richly deserved? Why did you compel me to remain silent, andsuffer you to be insulted with impunity?"

"Because I would not have you resent that which, in Louisiana, isconsidered a justifiable prejudice. I pardon Augustus Horton as Ipardon his sister Adelaide, who was once my friend."

"Nay, Mr. Margrave! it is you who are mistaken in all this. You area stranger here, and your noble conduct of to-day may compromise youin the eyes of every colonist in Louisiana. Your place is not here bythe side of me, an Octoroon; you should be with Adelaide Horton, ahigh-born daughter of the European race."

"If nobility of race is to be judged of by the elevation of the soul,it is you, and not Miss Horton, who can claim the loftiest birth,"replied Gilbert, with emotion.

"You deceive yourself, Mr. Margrave," said Cora; "Adelaide has agenerous heart, and I know that in secret she regrets our brokenfriendship—you, above all others, should be indulgent to her faults."

"Yes," replied Cora, her long black eyelashes drooping beneath theEnglishman's ardent gaze; "amongst all her English admirers, there wasone alone for whom she felt any real regard. Do you know whom I mean?"

"No, Miss Leslie, nor do I wish to know," answered Gilbert, withenergy; "for amongst all the young girls who adorned the farewell ballgiven by Mrs. Montresor, there was one and one alone to whom my dazzledeyes turned as the star of the brilliant throng. Do you know whom Imean?"

Cora did not answer, but a vivid blush suffused her face at the youngengineer's question.

"See," continued Gilbert, opening his sketch-book; "do you rememberthe bouquet which you left upon a side table in the ante-room. Inthe center of that bouquet bloomed this tiny blue flower, which weEnglishmen call the forget-me-not. It is withered now. Say, Cora, canyou forgive the hand which stole the blossom?"

The blush faded from the cheek of the Octoroon, and, clasping her handsentreatingly, she exclaimed with earnestness—

"Oh, Mr. Margrave, reflect! An idle word, idly spoken, may occasionevil of which you cannot dream. It is to your honor I appeal! You wouldnot inflict new sorrow upon a heart already almost broken. What wouldthat flower say? that in its brief hour of bloom and freshness CoraLeslie was admired. The flower has withered, and the hopes of my lifehave faded like the frail petals of that poor blossom."

"Me!" cried Cora, with an exclamation almost of terror. "But do youforget who I am? Do you forget that I am an Octoroon, the daughter of aslave?"

"Do you not know that in this country it is considered a disgrace tobestow an honorable affection upon a creature of the despised race, andthat shame attached to me would attach itself also to you?"

"I know all, Cora, but I love you—I love you!" cried Gilbert, fallingon his knees at the young girl's feet.

"I do," she replied in faltering accents, "I feel myself so despisedand abandoned in this cruel country; and it is so sweet to hear wordsof love and consolation from—from one—"

"Cora, my adored," exclaimed Gilbert, with rapture, clasping her hand,and seated himself by her.

They had not been unwatched during this interview. The eyes of jealousywere upon the unconscious lovers, for Adelaide Horton had emerged fromthe saloon, and, gliding at the back of the little table, had heard thelatter part of their conversation.

She knew the worst now. This man—this man to whom she had given herheart, unasked and unsought, loved and was beloved by the despiseddaughter of a slave. Wounded pride, jealousy, revenge, humiliation, allmingled in the passionate emotion of that moment. Blind with anger, sheknew not what she did.

By this time the deck of the Selma was again crowded with passengers.Augustus Horton still carried the New Orleans paper in his hand, and hewas talking to Silas Craig about the attack upon Mr. Leslie.

"Confess now, you sly old fox," he said, laughing, "you are the authorof this article? Why be too modest to own so good a work?"

"Now, Cora," he whispered, "I can no longer remain silent. I have now aright to defend you."

"You were talking of the article in the New Orleans Messenger, are younot, gentlemen?" he said.

"We are, captain," replied Augustus, "and here is the author," headded, pointing to Craig.

"Then allow me to compliment you, sir!" said the captain, addressingSilas. "You have done a service to society, and I hope the colonistswill take warning."

"That they will never do," said Adelaide Horton, advancing to thecenter of the group, "while you permit a mulattress to take her placeon board your boat amongst the free citizens of New Orleans."

There was a simultaneous movement of surprise amongst the passengers,as if a pistol had been suddenly fired upon the deck.

As Adelaide uttered these words, Mrs. Montresor and Mortimer Percyemerged from the saloon, and watched the scene which was taking place.

"What do you mean, Miss Horton?" asked the captain. "Oh! Adelaide,Adelaide," murmured Mortimer, "this is despicable!"

Terrified at, and ashamed of, what she had done, the jealous girl hidher face in her hands and retired rapidly from the deck, followed byher aunt.

"I will tell you, sir, what Miss Horton meant," said Cora, advancingto the captain; "she would have told you that I am Gerald Leslie'sdaughter."

"That my place is with the slaves at the other end of the steamer.Pardon me, sir, for having forgotten my real position!"

With one proudly disdainful glance at Augustus Horton, Cora slowlyretired. The passengers watched her in silence, wondering how thestrange scene would end.

Gilbert Margrave advanced to Augustus Horton, and addressed him ina tone of quiet determination, far more impressive than the loudestpassion.

"Mr. Horton," he said; "the insult inflicted upon Miss Leslie wasoffered also to me, since I was by her side at the time. Whether hercause be just or unjust, I insist—you understand, sir, I insist uponan immediate reparation for an act which I consider an abominablecowardice."

"Why not throw the Englishman overboard?" said Craig, in an undertoneto some of the passengers.

"I allow no interference in this," he said; "the quarrel is mine alone.Percy, you will be my second?"

"Pardon me," replied Mortimer Percy, "as Mr. Margrave is a strangerin Louisiana, he may have difficulty in finding any one to assisthim in this matter. You will excuse me, therefore, if I give him thepreference."

Gilbert grasped the hand of his old friend: "Thanks, Mortimer," hewhispered, "your heart is generous as ever."

"Perhaps you won't mind having me for a second, Mr. Horton," saidWilliam Bowen; "I'm rather an old hand in that sort of affairs."

Augustus glanced at him with one brief look of contempt, but replied,after a pause, "Be it so, Mr. Bowen; I accept your services. Thisevening, then, Mr. Margrave. We meet at sunset, in the wood on theborders of Mr. Craig's plantation at Iberville."

While the Selma steamed proudly past the banks of the Mississippi, theinhabitants of New Orleans were occupied by the discussion of an eventwhich had taken place on the previous night, but which had only beendiscovered early that morning.

When Silas Craig and Augustus Horton took their places on board theSelma, they little dreamed that their victim had escaped them.

Nevertheless it was so. The turnkey who visited the cell occupied bythe young Mexican at eight o'clock on the morning after his arrest,found, to his bewilderment, that the dreary apartment was empty. Thebars of the narrow window had been cut away, and a file, left uponthe floor of the cell, told of patient labor which had occupied theprisoner in the silence of the night.

A rope, one end of which was attached to the stump of one of the bars,also told of the mode of escape.

One thing was sufficiently clear. Paul Lisimon had received assistancefrom without. He had been searched upon his entrance into the prison,and nothing of a suspicious character had been found about him; thefile and rope had, therefore, been conveyed to him by some mysterioushand.

The astonished officials of the jail looked from one to the other, notknowing what to suspect.

The escape seemed almost incredible; for, in order to regain hisliberty, the prisoner had not only to descend from the window of hiscell, which was thirty feet above the prison yard, but he had alsoto scale the outer wall, which was upward of twenty feet high, andsurmounted by a formidable chevaux de frise.

How, then, had Paul Lisimon accomplished a feat hitherto unattempted bythe most daring of criminals?

None suspected the truth of the matter. None could guess at the realclew to the mystery!

Paul Lisimon had neither descended from the window of his cell norscaled the outer wall of the prison. He had walked out of the jail inthe silence and darkness of the night, and in five minutes from leavinghis cell had found himself in the streets of New Orleans.

The person who had effected this miraculous escape was no other thanthe jailer, who had charge of Lisimon; and this jailer was one of themost trusted functionaries of the prison.

Sir Robert Walpole said that every man has his price; this man had beenrichly bribed by a mysterious visitor, who had gained admission to thejail on the evening of Paul's arrest.

The rope and file had been used in order to blind the governor of theprison to the real delinquent.

At daybreak on the morning after his imprisonment Paul Lisimon foundhimself free in the streets of New Orleans, but utterly ignorant as tothe mysterious being to whom he owed his release.

"I know nothing of the business," the man said, "except that I am wellpaid for my share in it, and that I shall be a ruined man if I am foundout."

He was free; but he stood alone in the world, without a friend—brandedas a thief—cast off by the protector of his youth—an escaped felon!

He hurried toward the lonely and deserted quay. Despair was inhis heart, and he yearned to rest beneath the still waters of theMississippi.

"There, at least," he murmured, "I shall be at peace. Camillia nowbelieves me innocent, and she will weep for my memory. Were I to waitthe issue of a trial, which must result in shame and condemnation, shemight, indeed, as the Frenchwoman insinuated, learn to despise me."

Heedless of all around him, absorbed in gloomy meditation, Paul Lisimonwas some time unaware of the sound of a footfall close behind him; butas he drew nearer to the water side this footstep approached him stillcloser, and presently, in the faint gray light of that mysterious hour,betwixt night and morning, he beheld the long shadow of a man's figureupon the ground beside him.

He started and turned round. As he did so, a heavy hand was laid uponhis shoulder, and a deep bass voice exclaimed:

"What do you want with yonder dark water, my lad, that you're in such ahurry to get to the river-side?"

Paul shook the man's hand away from his shoulder with a gesture ofanger. "By what right do you question me?" he said; "stand aside, andlet me pass!"

"Yes, mate, jail bird! you've no need to carry it off so fiercely withme. A file and a rope, eh? to blind the governor of the prison, and agood-natured turnkey to open the doors for you. That's about the sortof thing, isn't it?"

Paul Lisimon turned round, and looked the stranger full in the face. Hewas a big, broad-shouldered fellow, upward of six feet high, dressedin a thick pilot coat, and immense leather boots, which came abovehis knees. The pilot coat was open at the waist, and in the uncertainglimmer of the morning light Paul Lisimon caught sight of the butt endof a pistol thrust into a leather belt. The stranger's face had oncebeen a handsome one, but it bore upon it the traces of many a debauch,as well as the broad scar of a cutlass wound, which had left a deepwelt from cheek to chin.

"I know not who you are," said Paul, after looking long and earnestlyat this man, "nor by what right you have interested yourself in myfate; but it is evident to me that you have had some hand in mymiraculous escape of to-night."

"Never mind that, comrade," answered the stranger, linking his armin that of Paul Lisimon, and walking slowly toward the quay. "You'refree and welcome, as far as that goes; but I don't think, after anold friend had taken a good bit of trouble to get you out of thatthundering jail yonder—I don't think it was quite fair to go and tryto chuck yourself into the water."

"Never you mind whether I was or whether I wasn't. Do you know what itcost to get you out of prison?"

"Never you mind about that, I say again; those that paid the money foryou didn't grudge a farthing of it. As to being a stranger, perhaps I'mnot quite that."

"Fifteen years ago I knew a little, curly-haired, black-eyed chap, whoused to play about the gardens of a white-walled villa on the banks ofthe Amazon, and I fancy that you and he are pretty near relations."

"You knew me in my childhood; you knew me in the lifetime of myearliest and dearest benefactor."

"I did. It was only last night that I came ashore, and the first thingI heard in New Orleans was, that Mr. Paul Lisimon had been arrestedfor the robbery of his employer, one of the land sharks your genteelfolks call lawyers. Now, we seamen are not fond of that breed, so Iwasn't sorry to hear that for once a lawyer had been robbed himself,instead of robbing other people, so I asked who this Paul Lisimon wasthat had been too many guns for his employer, and they told me that hewas a young Mexican, who had been brought up by Don Juan Moraquitos.Now, I happen to know a good deal of Don Juan Moraquitos, and I hadnever heard before of Paul Lisimon; but I had heard of a little curlyhaired lad that was once a great favorite with Don Tomaso Crivelli, andDon Tomaso had been a good friend to me. So that's why your jailer wasbribed, and why you stand a free man in the streets of New Orleans thismorning."

"My generous friend," exclaimed Paul, "this is all so much a mystery tome that I know not how to thank you for your goodness."

"And I tell you that I want no thanks, so let's talk of business. Inthe first place, what made you so anxious to get to the water just now?I thought there was blood in your veins that never yet ran in those ofa coward."

"Ay, youngster; the man who has no better resource when he's down inthe world than to make away with himself isn't worthy of any othername."

"The right of a good sharp pair of eyes, my lad. But come, once more tobusiness. Do you see yonder craft at anchor there, to the right of theharbor?"

Paul looked in the direction to which the stranger pointed, andperceived the trim masts of a lightly-built schooner.

"Then you see one of the fastest clippers that ever sailed. No rottentimber, but green oak and locust from stem to stern, with not an inchof canvas that isn't meant for speed. Don't talk to me about your steamvessels; lumbering old Noah's arks, that can't go a good pace withoutbursting up and sending every soul to tarnation smash. See the Amazonfly before the wind, and then you'll know what fast sailing is. If weSoutherners come to handy grips with the North, let the Yankees lookout for squalls when the Amazon is afloat on the blue water."

"I'm her captain, mate, Captain Prendergills—a sailor by profession, arover by choice, and a privateer for plunder."

"Yes. You don't think the word an ugly one, do you? Now listen to me;you can't go back to Villa Moraquitos, can you?"

"Very well, then, why not join us? I may have more reasons than one fortaking an interest in you. You can't stay in New Orleans, for by eighto'clock this morning your escape will be discovered. I've a fancy thatyou'd make a smart mate on board yonder vessel. Will you come?"

"I will," answered Paul, grasping his new friend by the hand. "Youat least trust me—you do not fear to take me on board your vessel,though the hand of suspicion is upon me, and men have called me thief.Providence seems to have raised you up, as if by a miracle, to preserveme from disgrace, despair and death. I am yours for good or evil; inweal or woe I will serve you faithfully."

Don Juan Moraquitos was one of the first to hear of the escape of PaulLisimon. The reader must remember that the Spaniard knew nothing of theinfamous plot devised by Silas Craig at the instigation of AugustusHorton. He believed his protege to be guilty of the crime imputed tohim.

He had a secret reason for rejoicing in the disgrace of the youngMexican, and he had a still stronger motive in seeking the destructionof Paul, since he had begun to suspect the attachment between Lisimonand Camillia.

He hurried to his daughter's apartments, in order to inform her ofPaul's escape from prison.

"Now, Camillia, what think you of this haughty youth who so proudlydeclared his innocence?" said Don Juan, after relating the account hehad just heard of Lisimon's escape.

"Strange, then, that he should have fled," said Don Juan; "the innocentman generally awaits to meet the issue of his trial; it is only theguilty wretch who flies to hide himself from the avenging power of thelaw he has outraged."

Pauline Corsi had been present during this brief dialogue, but she hadremained silent, with her fingers busy with the rainbow silks of herembroidery, and her eyes bent over her work. She raised them, however,as the Spaniard uttered those words and looked him full in the face.

The Spaniard started and looked at Mademoiselle Corsi with a rapid, butfurtive glance.

"They sometimes remain for years upon the scene of their guilt.They defy the laws which they have outraged, and triumph in theirundiscovered and successful villainy."

Don Juan laughed mockingly, but a close observer might have detected anuneasy quiver of his mustachio-shaded lip.

"Mademoiselle Corsi appears to speak from experience," he said. "Shehas perhaps known such people?"

"I have known such people," answered the Frenchwoman in the same quiettone in which she had first addressed Don Juan.

"The daughter of so honorable a man as yourself, Don Juan," saidPauline, as if interpreting the thoughts of her employer.

While this conversation was going forward between Mademoiselle Corsiand the Spaniard, Camillia Moraquitos had strolled out onto thebalcony, to escape the watchful eyes of her father, and to concealthe relief she felt in her lover's escape. Pauline and Don Juan were,therefore, alone. Their eyes met. There was something in the glance ofthe Frenchwoman which told plainly that her words had no common meaning.

For some moments the gaze of Don Juan was rooted upon that fairface and those clear and radiant blue eyes—a face which was almostchildlike in its delicacy and freshness, and which yet, to theexperienced eye of the physiognomist, revealed a nature rarely matchedfor intelligence and cunning.

Don Juan crossed the apartment to the curtained recess in which PaulineCorsi was seated, and, placing himself in the chair opposite to her,grasped her slender wrist in his muscular hand.

"Say rather that you will not," replied the Frenchwoman, scornfully."You fear to commit yourself by an avowal which may seem like aconfession of guilt. Shall I tell you the meaning of those words?"

"Then listen to me. Those words have relation to an event whichoccurred thirteen years ago!"

"My memory is no longer that of a young man," answered Don Juan; "Icannot remember all the events which happened at that date."

"Perhaps not; but you can remember the death of your kinsman, DonTomaso Crivelli?"

This time the Spaniard started as if an adder had stung him. The coldperspiration broke out upon his bronzed forehead, and every vestige ofcolor fled alike from cheek and lips.

"I see you do remember," said Pauline Corsi. "You remember that willwhich was made on that night. The will which was witnessed by twomen; one of them a seafaring man whose name I know not as yet; theother, William Bowen, then captain of a slaver. You remember the sickman's confession. You remember his dying prayer, that those dear tohim should be protected by you; and lastly, Don Juan Moraquitos, youremember the draught mixed by Silas Craig, and which your wife'sbrother, Tomaso Crivelli, took from your hand, two hours before hisdeath!"

"I know more than this!" replied Pauline Corsi. "When the faint gray ofthe wintry dawn was stealing through the half-open shutters of the sickchamber, Tomaso Crivelli lifted himself from his pillow in the lastagonies of death, and uttered an accusation—"

"Hold! hold, woman, I entreat!" cried the Spaniard, "you know all!How you have acquired that knowledge, save through some diabolicalagency, I know not; for the door of the chamber was secured by a locknot easily tampered with, and those within were not the men to betraysecrets. But, no matter, you know all! Why have you kept silence forthirteen years?"

Don Juan paced the apartment backward and forward with folded arms, andhis head bent upon his breast. Presently pausing before Pauline Corsi'sembroidery frame, he said in a hoarse whisper:

"Is easy for you to grant. I am tired of dependence, even on yourgoodness. Make me your wife, and let me share the wealth acquired bythe guilt of whose secrets I know."

The plantation of Silas Craig, at Iberville, was situated, as wehave already said, upon the borders of a wood; a luxuriant forest,stretching for miles upon the banks of the Mississippi, varied everyhere and there by undulating dells and pools of water, lying hiddenbeneath the shadows of giant trees, whose branches had waved forcenturies above a solitude, broken only by the fleet foot of the Indian.

It was in this forest that the unhappy and martyred quadroon Francilialay in her quiet grave—a grassy mound, marked only by the rude woodencross erected at its head by the faithful mulatto, Toby.

Here, at least, the lovely child of an accursed and trampled race wasfree. Here no master dared molest her tranquil slumber. Death sets theslave and the prisoner alike at liberty.

The red sun sank in crimson splendor beneath the purple waters of themighty river; upon every forest tree gleamed golden reflections of thedying light; upon the bosom of each quiet pool the last sunbeams fadedand flickered in the shadowy twilight, while, calmly beautiful, themoon arose in her tranquil glory, bathing forest and river in a floodof silvery radiance.

The last glimmer of crimson light was slowly fading as two men advancedthrough one of the pathways of the wood—a pathway so overarched by therich spreading branches of the trees that it seemed one verdant arcade.

Each of these men carried a carbine upon his shoulder, and a powderflask slung at his side.

The first was William Bowen, the second, who closely followed hiscompanion, was Augustus Horton. They emerged from the arcade into anopen piece of turf, around which the trunks of the giant trees formed aspecies of a wall.

"Where, in the name of all that's diabolical, are you leading me,Bill?" said Augustus, looking about him.

"I guess you don't know your way in this here wood by moonlight, Mr.Horton," answered Bill Bowen, laughing; "but we're all right for allthat. That is the spot where we appointed to meet that young Englishmanand your precious cousin, Mr. Mortimer Percy, who ought to be ashamedof himself for taking a Britisher's part against his own countryman,and against his own flesh and blood, too, as far as that goes."

"Curse him, and welcome, sir, for my part—but this is where wepromised to meet him and his friend. We're close against Craig'splantation. You could see the nigger huts through the trees if theleaves were not so tarnation thick."

The rustling of the leaves announced the arrival of the two men forwhom they waited. They approached by the same pathway as that by whichAugustus and Bill had come.

"What's that?" echoed Bowen; "why, it's your cousin and his friend, Iguess; so keep your powder dry."

Mortimer Percy and Gilbert Margrave drew near them as William Bowenspoke. The four men bowed stiffly to each other.

"I fear that we have kept you waiting," said Mortimer. "We lost our wayin the dusk, and have wasted ten minutes in finding it."

"Bowen and I have only just arrived," answered Augustus. "Have youbrought your own weapons?"

"We couldn't get a pair of dueling pistols in the neighborhood,"replied Percy; "but I have brought a case of revolvers."

"Revolvers be hanged!" cried Bowen, advancing between Augustus Hortonand his cousin. "I'll tell you what it is, gentlemen; the best thingthat you can do is to fight with these here carbines—neither of whichhas ever missed fire since they came out of the gun-maker's hands.See yonder!" he added, pointing to a circular dell, shut in by thetrees which sheltered it, and light as day in the broad moonbeams;"see there, gentlemen, yonder bit of ground ain't above a hundred feetbroad, take it which way you will, so my advice is this, take up yourstand on each side of the circle, and at a given signal advance uponeach other. That'll give your duel the additional charm of the chase.What say you?"

"Then we are perfectly equal upon that point," replied Augustus Horton;"for Bowen will tell you that I never set foot here until to-night."

The young man carefully measured the instruments of death, and returnedone to his cousin's second.

"No," answered Bowen, handing him powder and ball. "Will you remain onthis side of the ground?"

"Good! then it is for you to cross over to the other side of yonderdell, I guess. Mr. Horton, come!"

"Shall be a shout from me," answered Bowen; "we'll give you ten minutesto load your weapon and bid your friend good-by, for if Mr. Horton'sanything as good a shot as I take him for, there ain't much chance ofyour seeing the Britisher again!"

"Miss Leslie knows nothing of this duel, I suppose?" said Mortimer,busy loading the carbine.

"Nothing!" answered Gilbert. "Poor girl, I allowed her to believe that,for her sake, I had renounced all thought of vengeance upon the man whohad insulted her!"

"Perhaps that's the wisest thing you could have done; for however thisaffair may terminate, I fear it will be a troublesome business for you.Men's minds are strangely excited just now; the Southern blood is up,and should you escape safe and sound from this duel, I doubt but youwill have to secure the protection of the British consul to save youfrom the fury of the populace. Once sheltered by the dreaded flag ofold England, neither North nor South dare touch a hair of your head;for if they should assail you, it would be the kindling of such a stormas would blot the stars and stripes of America from the universe."

"When a man sees a woman he loves insulted by a coward, he does notstop to reason," answered Gilbert; "the only thing that distresses mein this matter, is the thought that, instead of protecting my adoredCora, I have only brought upon her new dangers. You are the only man inAmerica whom I call my friend. You have already given me such powerfulproofs of your friendship, that I think I may venture to demand of youone last service."

"Speak, Gilbert, speak. We have indeed been fast and faithful friends;to-night, above all other nights, I can refuse you nothing."

"Listen, then. My first care on leaving the Selma, was to engage aboat, which is to carry us back to Lake Pontchartrain this very night.Promise me, that if I fall, you will yourself protect Cora, and restoreher to her father's arms?"

"But tell me, Gilbert," said Mortimer Percy, after a pause, "what wasMiss Leslie's motive for coming to Iberville?"

"Her mother died here. She comes to pay her first visit to the lonelygrave of Francilia, the quadroon."

"I left her with the mulatto, Toby, who was to conduct her to the spot.At ten o'clock she will return to the landing-place on the river, wherethe boat will wait for us."

"Enough," said Mortimer, in a voice broken by emotion, "whateverhappens I will be there to protect her."

"Take your weapon, Gilbert," said Mortimer, placing the carbine inMargrave's hand. "Augustus Horton is my cousin—you are my friend. Idare not pray for the safety of either, at the cost of the other'sdeath. The moonlit heavens are shining down upon us, and the eye ofProvidence watches the struggle. Farewell!"

They clasped each other's hands once more in silence. Then GilbertMargrave dashed forward through the brushwood, and disappeared in thedell below.

Mortimer Percy paced up and down the dewy turf, listening for thereport of their guns.

"What is this?" he exclaimed as he laid his hand upon his beatingheart. "For which of these two men do I tremble? This, then, isAmerica, of whose freedom her citizens so proudly boast! Here are twomen met together to shed each other's blood, because one of them hasdared to uphold the cause of a daughter of the despised race. Hark!"

It was for the report of the fire-arms that he listened, but the soundwhich met his ear was of altogether a different nature. It was theevening chorus of the negroes, floating upon the tranquil air. A sweetharmonious strain of melody, which breathed of peace and repose:

"Poor fellows," said Mortimer, "they are Craig's negroes, returning totheir cabins after the day's labor. They sing, poor simple creatures.The overseer's lash cannot destroy the quiet content of their honesthearts. How easily might a good master make them happy."

The voices slowly died away in the distance, echoing mournfully throughthe woodland glades, as the negroes passed out of hearing.

Mortimer Percy still listened—eagerly, breathlessly—for that otherawful sound which would announce the commencement of the combat.

"Nothing yet!" he exclaimed; "If I turn the corner of yon group oftrees I run the chance of being struck by a random bullet; but come theworse, I must risk it; I can endure this suspense no longer."

He sprang through the forest growth in the same direction as that takenby Gilbert Margrave.

He had not disappeared above three minutes when from the opposite sideof the wood two figures slowly approached, casting long shadows on themoonlit grass.

The first was a man, the second a woman. It was the mulatto slave,Toby, who came hither to lead the Octoroon to her mother's grave.

"That song which you heard just now, Miss Cora, has been sung many anight above your cradle to lull you to sleep."

"She did, she did! The sound of that song, my lady, will bring tears toToby's eyes until the hour when they close in death."

"You are sad, dear mistress, you are uneasy?" said the mulatto. Theintense watchfulness of the slave's affection enabled him to detectevery varying shade in Cora's manner. He saw that her mind wasdisturbed by some anxiety.

"I am anxious about Mr. Margrave, Toby," she replied; "he promised torejoin us ere this."

"The English gentleman may have had some difficulty in engaging a boat,dear mistress. You have seen the poor cabin in which your mother passedthe two last months of her life. It is near this spot she reposes."

The slave looked about him in the moonlight and presently paused atthe foot of an enormous oak. Pushing aside the wild overgrowth whichobscured it, he revealed a rough-hewn wood cross surmounting a humblemound of earth, which had been neatly turfed by the same faithful handthat had erected this simple monument.

Upon the cross this inscription had been carved in letters cut deepinto the wood:

"See, Miss Cora," said the mulatto, "this is a lonely spot, though sonear to the plantation. Few ever come here, for yonder dell is said tobe haunted by the spirit of an Indian who was cruelly murdered therea hundred years ago. No hand has disturbed this cross. It may be thatno human eye has ever seen the inscription, but the all-seeing eye ofProvidence has looked upon these words for fifteen weary years."

"Oh, spirit of my murdered mother!" exclaimed the young girl, liftingher clasped hands toward the effulgent sky. "Spirit of the unhappyand injured one, look down upon your daughter! May heaven forgive thesins of him who caused thy unhappy fate. May heaven pity and pardon mywretched father. I cannot curse him. Here on the grave of his victim,on the grave of a victim of a wicked and cruel prejudice, I pity andforgive him, for he needs all pity, since he has sinned."

At this moment the report of a gun sounded in the dell near at hand.Cora rose suddenly from her knees, pale and terrified. "Toby," shecried, "Toby, did you hear?"

Before the mulatto could reply, Mortimer Percy sprang through theparted branches that bordered the dell, and rushed toward where theystood. He recoiled upon seeing Cora.

"No, no, Mr. Percy!" cried Cora, wildly, "it is no hunter's carbine. Awoman's unfailing instinct tells me of danger to him I love. GilbertMargrave has been fighting a duel with your cousin."

Augustus Horton appeared as she spoke, walking backward and gazingintently into the dell.

"See, see!" cried Cora, "His antagonist is safe. It is he who hasfallen. Run, Toby, run to succor him."

Half fainting with terror and anguish, she would have fallen to theground had not Mortimer's extended arm caught her in time. He carriedher prostrate form to a rocky seat close at hand, on which she restedwith her head still lying on his shoulder.

Augustus Horton advanced toward them, and recognized the Octoroon inthe moonlight.

The passionate love of his guilty heart returned as he gazed upon theunconscious girl, and a thrill of jealousy vibrated through the darkrecesses of his soul, as he beheld the lovely head of the Octoroonresting upon Mortimer's shoulder.

"I am not surprised, Percy, at your sympathy for Gerald Leslie'sdaughter," he said, with a sneer; "she is, of course, one of yourfriends, for she dared to turn me out of her house, dismissing me fromher presence as if she had been a queen."

"Yes," replied his cousin, "because I had the impertinence to pay her afew idle compliments."

"Augustus Horton," said Mortimer, gravely, "you remember a clause inour contract of partnership, which provides for the agreement beingcanceled at pleasure, by either of the two partners?"

"Then I am the first to cancel that bond. From this night I cease to beyour partner."

"So be it!" replied Augustus. "It is not for me to object to sucha proposal, but have a care, Mortimer, and remember that by such aproceeding you lose half your estate."

"I shall have enough left to enable me to live far from a country whichI henceforth renounce. As to your sister, you can tell her that Irestore her her liberty."

"That is needless," answered Augustus, haughtily, "for she herself hasdeclared her intention of breaking with you for ever."

"She has presumed to fall in love with Mr. Gilbert Margrave, thegentleman who prefers an Octoroon to the heiress of one of the proudestfamilies in Louisiana."

"It was jealousy, then, that prompted her denunciation of Cora Leslie,"said Mortimer.

"So much the better for her. That, at least, is some excuse for herconduct. Hush! Here they come."

Bill Bowen and the mulatto appeared, as Percy spoke, carrying betweenthem the prostrate form of Gilbert Margrave. The young man was quiteunconscious, the breast of his shirt dyed crimson by the blood whichwelled from his wound. Toby and Bowen placed him upon the rocky seatwhich had been occupied by Cora.

"The ball has struck him in the side," said Bowen. "I guess it's aboutall over with the Britisher."

At the sound of these words of evil import, Cora Leslie opened hereyes, and, beholding the bleeding and prostrate form of her lover,flung herself on her knees at his feet.

"Gilbert, Gilbert!" she cried; "Dead; and I am the cause of this." Themulatto placed his hand upon the breast of the wounded man.

"Will you allow him to be carried to your father's villa, Miss Leslie?"said Mortimer; "I will accompany him thither."

"A hundred dollars for your trouble, Bowen, if you'll assist us incarrying this poor fellow to the boat," said Mortimer.

"A hundred dollars—I'm your man!" replied the American. "You'll excuseme, Mr. Horton, business is business, you know," he added, to Augustus.

Mortimer Percy and the mulatto gathered together several strongbranches from the fallen wood lying beneath the trees, and twisted theminto a rude litter on which they laid the unconscious Englishman.

One end of this litter was carried by Toby, and the other by WilliamBowen, Cora and Mortimer walking by the side of the wounded man.

In this order they started for the landing-place, where Gilbert's boatwas to await them.

Augustus Horton stood for some moments watching their receding figuresin the moonlight.

"My curses on them," he muttered; "I thought tonight's business wouldhave settled for my proud Cora's English lover, and I have but favoredmy rival's chance by what I have done. If this Gilbert Margrave shouldrecover, of course he will be all love and gratitude for his beautifulnurse, who will watch and tend him in his hour of danger. But, nomatter, Craig and I have a powerful hold on Gerald Leslie, and hisdaughter's love shall be the price of his safety. She would not liketo see her father penniless. Or, if to the last she refuses to hearreason, the public auction will soon settle her scruples. If I cannotwin her as my mistress, I can, at least, buy her as—my slave!"

The morning after the duel, Augustus Horton returned to New Orleans.Even in his jealousy of Gilbert Margrave and his guilty passion for thebeautiful Octoroon, he did not abandon the thought of more ambitiousschemes; and he was still determined to win the hand and the fortune ofCamillia Moraquitos.

The first intelligence that greeted him on his return was the news ofPaul Lisimon's escape from prison.

The trial, which was to have ended in his disgrace and condemnation,would, perhaps, never take place, and Camillia might still believe inthe honor and honesty of her lover.

That which he sought was to render Paul utterly contemptible in thesight of the haughty Spanish girl, and he felt that he had, in a greatmeasure, failed.

He dispatched a special messenger to Iberville with a letter for SilasCraig, informing him of the young Mexican's escape.

"Lose no time in returning to New Orleans," he wrote. "I need the helpof your craft in this business. There must be some mystery in thisLisimon's escape, and you are the man to unravel it."

This done, he ordered his horse, and attended by his groom, rode atonce to Villa Moraquitos. He was determined to precipitate matters,and enlist the Spaniard in his behalf. This he knew would be an easymatter, as Don Juan had always encouraged his address.

Augustus Horton found the Spaniard alone in an apartment, which wascalled his study, though little trace of studious habits was to befound within its walls.

The paneling of this chamber was adorned with weapons of every kind,arranged in symmetrical order upon the walls. Cutlasses, pistols, andcarbines, of polished steel, inlaid with gold and enamel, hung inglittering array, side by side with charts of that ocean upon which, ifscandalous tongues were correct, Don Juan Moraquitos had for many yearsbeen a rover.

When Augustus Horton entered this room the Spaniard was standing nearan open window, his arms folded, his head bent upon his breast, moodilypuffing a cheroot. He started as his visitor was announced, and,recovering himself as if by an effort, advanced to greet him.

"This is kind, my dear Augustus," he said, "but I thought you had leftNew Orleans for Hortonville."

"What, Don Juan! Can you not imagine that there may be a loadstarshining in this city, which draws me back to it in spite of myself?"

The Spaniard was silent for some moments, as if absorbed in thought.Then, turning to the planter, he said, gravely, "Augustus Horton, Ihave long foreseen this. I will freely own to you, that some timesince, I cherished more ambitious views for my only child. We Spaniardsare a proud race, and I once hoped that the husband of my daughtermight be one of the haughty nobles of my distant native land. But thatis past now," he added, with a sigh; "your rank is as high as that ofany man in Louisiana. You are no penniless adventurer who seeks toenrich himself by marriage. You are young, handsome, wealthy. Win her,then, you have my free consent."

"I cannot force her wishes. She is my only child, the sole treasure ofan old man's heart. If you cannot win her love, you must submit to herrefusal of your hand."

Augustus Horton retired with many expressions of gratitude andaffection, but once outside the chamber his brow darkened and heclinched his fist as he muttered with an oath:

"This Spaniard is like some foolish old woman. He cannot force hisdaughter's wishes, forsooth; and the double fortune of Don JuanMoraquitos and Don Tomaso Crivelli may go to any handsome adventurerupon whom Donna Camillia chooses to bestow her affection."

As these thoughts were busy in his brain, he crossed the spacious hallon his way to Camillia's apartments.

He did not stop to speak to her, but passed her with a carelessbow—such a salute as a man only bestows upon one whom he thinks farbeneath him.

It did not escape the keen observation of the Frenchwoman. "So," shemurmured, as she glanced back at the American, "I am a governess—adependent—unworthy of your notice. Mr. Horton, the day may come whenyou will find me no weak enemy!"

She broke into the merry chorus of a gay French song, as she finishedspeaking, and tripped away, warbling like some joyous bird.

None could have dreamed the dark thoughts that lurked beneath thatjoyous exterior.

Augustus Horton entered the boudoir, and lifting a rose-colored silkencurtain which shrouded the doorway, gazed in silence upon the occupantof the chamber.

The heiress was seated near the open window, her rounded elbow,firm and polished as unveined marble, resting on the cushion of herchair, her head leaning on her hand, her lustrous eyes veiled by thesilken lashes that curtained them; her whole attitude bespeaking theprofoundest melancholy.

The planter gazed upon her with admiration, but it was admirationunmingled with love.

It was with the same feeling he would have experienced in looking atsome gorgeous picture.

His eye was bewitched by the exquisite coloring, the perfect form; buthis heart was untouched.

Nothing could be more complete than the contrast between the Spanishgirl and the Octoroon.

Both were beautiful—both had eyes of deepest black, but the orbs ofCora Leslie were soft and pensive, while those of Camillia Moraquitosflashed with the burning flames of a southern clime.

Cora's oval cheeks were pale as the unsullied leaf of the water-lily;Camillia's glowed with a rich crimson blush, of that splendid hue,rarely seen save in the petals of the damask rose.

But each had offended the pride of the planter, and he determined thateach should pay a bitter penalty for having dared to prefer another.

Nay, more, he saw that not only was he utterly indifferent tothe Spanish girl—there was something beyond indifference in hermanner—something even more powerful than scorn—there was hatred!

Infuriated by this discovery, he determined to fathom her reason."Camillia Moraquitos," he said, with outward calmness, beneath whichraged suppressed passion, "you have rejected the offer of a devotedheart. Be it so! I cannot force your compliance. You love another; nodoubt some honorable man, whose unsullied name will shed a luster uponthe woman he weds."

She felt that he knew her secret, and the bitterness of the sneerwounded her to the heart.

"But this is not all," continued the planter; "not only do you loveanother, but you hate me. I ask you why this is so?"

"Shall I tell you?" she asked gravely, lifting her flashing eyes andlooking him full in the face.

"Heaven forgive me if I wrong you, Augustus Horton, but some secretinstinct tells me that you were associated with that pitiful wretch,Silas Craig, in the plot which brought disgrace upon the name of one—"

"Yes," she answered, proudly, "I have never before confessed my love toa mortal. I confess it now to you. It will at least prove my belief inhis innocence."

"Mr. Paul Lisimon is a very happy man to possess so fair a defender,"said Augustus, with studied sarcasm; "no doubt the escaped felon, therunaway thief, will return to New Orleans ere long to claim his bride,though I fear that the very first hour that he shows his face in thiscity he will find himself handcuffed and carried back to jail. In themeantime, I withdraw all pretensions to your hand. I cannot hope forsuccess against such a rival."

He bowed haughtily, and withdrew, laughing bitterly. In the ante-roomwithout, he found the negro, Tristan, lying on an embroidered rug,close against the boudoir door.

"Yes, dogs are sometimes useful. Have you ever seen a bloodhound huntdown a runaway slave, eh, massa? Ah! you have seen that. Many a time,I dare say, many a time have set the dogs on yourself to capture yourlost property. There are human bloodhounds, massa, who can hunt down anenemy as the dog hunts the poor slave. Your enemy is Tristan's enemytoo. Say, massa, shall we work together?"

"Love, massa, love and hate! We both love the same woman, we both hatethe same man."

Augustus laughed aloud, "You—you love Camillia Moraquitos?" heexclaimed, with consummate disdain.

"And why not?" cried the negro, striking himself upon the breast;"the heart within is of the same form, though the skin is of anothercolor. I love her, love her, not as you white men love—but with thepassionate fury of the African, which is stronger than death or fate.A jealous fever, which is close akin to hate and murder. I love her,and I know that she would look with loathing on this black face. I knowthat she can never be mine—but she shall not be his. No, no! I couldbetter bear to see her wedded to you, for she would not love you. Shewould pine and die, and I would kill myself upon her grave, and knowthat she never blest the man she loved. Say, massa, shall I help you?"

Augustus Horton gazed at the negro for some moments, with a look ofmingled surprise and disdain. There was something almost terrificin the fiery energy of the African. Something, which in its terrorapproached almost to sublimity.

"Yes," exclaimed the planter, "you shall be my bloodhound, and help meto hunt down my enemies."

In the far depths of a Californian forest, the timber roof of asolitary log-hut peeped through the trees.

It was a dreary dilapidated building, which had been deserted by formersettlers, and neglected by those who now dwelt in it.

The rough wooden shutters that sheltered the one solitary window wererotting upon their hinges; the wind whistled in shrill cadences throughthe crevices of the logs.

As far as the eye could reach there was no vestige of any humanhabitation, while the rustling of the leaves and the hungry howls ofthe wolves only broke the silence of the night.

It was difficult to imagine this place to be the dwelling of anycivilized being; but yet it was tenanted by two men, who had lived init for the best part of the year, attended by a negro slave, an honestfellow, who served them as faithfully in that dreary retreat as if theyhad dwelt in a palace.

The night had fallen; the winds shrieked, like some troubled spirit,amid the branches of the trees; red streaks of light gleamed throughthe cracks of the window shutters and the crevices of the rude timberedifice; the door of the hut is securely closed, though in that lonelyregion there is little need of bolt or bar.

The two men are seated on either side of a blazing fire of brushwoodand broken timber, while the negro sits on a low stool, at a respectfuldistance, waiting till his masters may have need of his services.

His honest face beams with good temper and contentment, even in thatdreary abode.

They are both smoking long cherry-stemmed meerschaum pipes, and theysit in silence, their eyes gloomily fixed upon the blazing fire.

It is impossible to judge of their rank in life, for they are bothdressed in cutaway velveteen coats, corduroy breeches, and greathob-nail boots—serviceable garments suited to their rude life, butwhich elsewhere would be worn only by laboring men.

They are both in the prime of life, and one is rather handsome; butthey have allowed their hair and whiskers to grow in the roughestfashion, and their faces are bronzed by constant exposure to everyvariety of weather.

"Well, Brown," he says, with a sigh of weariness, "nearly a year gonesince we set foot in this dreary district and no good done yet."

The younger man shrugged his shoulders as he removed his pipe from hismouth and knocked out the ashes of tobacco upon the rough stone hearth.

"Yes, a year, a year," he muttered, "and no hope of return yet. No hopeof justice being done to the innocent, and punishment and confusionbrought upon the guilty."

"Yes, we met in the streets of San Francisco; both penniless, yet bothdetermined to conquer fortune, and to wring from the bowels of ourmother earth the gold which should enable us to achieve the purposes ofour lives."

"You remember we formed a chance acquaintance, which afterward ripenedinto friendship."

"It did," answered the other man. "But at the same time we enteredinto a singular agreement. We resolved that whatever our past historymight be, it should remain buried in oblivion, so long as we dwelttogether in the wilds of California. We agreed that neither should tellhis companion the secrets of his life, or the purpose which he had toaccomplish in the future; that even our names should be unknown to eachother, and that though living together upon the footing of friends andbrothers, we should address each other merely as Brown and Smith."

"We further resolved that we would spend the last dollars we possessedin the purchase of a set of implements, and that we would penetrateinto the loneliest tract in the continent, into recesses never visitedby the herd of gold-diggers, whose labors exhaust the soil in districtswhere the precious ore has been found. We determined to search for ourprize where none had sought before us, and we resolved to brave everyhardship, to endure every peril, for the several ends of our lives."

"At San Francisco, we picked up our faithful Sambo yonder," said theman known as Brown, looking to the negro, "and we got a bargain."

"Lame or not, we found you a treasure, Sambo, and between us we sooncontrived to cure your lame leg, and made you as sound as the best ofus."

"Yes," cried the negro, grinning from ear to ear, "you did, massa, youdid. Kind good massa, Sambo never forget."

"Well, Smith, after eight good months' labor in this district we findourselves—"

"About as well off as when we came here," answered the other; "wecontrived to find a little gold dust during our first month's work, andthat has enabled us to pay for the supplies we've had from the nearestvillage, and to keep up the war all the time; but beyond that we've hadno luck whatever."

"None; therefore my proposal is that we leave this place to-morrow atdaybreak, and try a fresh district."

The eyes of the man who called himself Smith sparkled at thisproposition, but the negro interposed with an exclamation of terror:

"You'll nebber go to-morrow, massa," he cried; "'scuse poor niggerwhat ought to mind his own business, but surely massa will nebber goto-morrow?"

"An unlucky day, Sambo, is it?" answered his master; "faith, I thinkevery day has been precious unlucky to us for the last eight months."

"But," answered Brown, laughing, "if it's an unlucky day for leavingthis place, I suppose it's just as unlucky for staying and doinganother turn at the pickax."

"I'll tell you what, then," continued Brown, "suppose we take Sambo'sadvice, for once in a way, Smith, and put off moving to new quarterstill the day after to-morrow. We can spend to-morrow in digging theground about that little creek three miles to the east of this. Youremember our passing the spot once on our way home after a hard day'swork."

"Perfectly! A miserable, unlikely-looking place enough; I don't fancyif we dug for a twelvemonth we should ever get any good out of it.However, we've wasted so many days that we can't grudge one more, soI'm quite agreeable to stop."

"So be it, then," answered Brown. "Sambo, get our tools in order beforeyou go to bed, and be sure you call us early to-morrow morning."

The two friends flung themselves down upon a couple of rough strawmattresses, and the negro brought out a heap of dried grass andwithered leaves which served him as a bed, and upon which he laidhimself down after carefully preparing the tools for the morning's work.

The two diggers, before they lay down, offered up a short but heartfeltprayer, that heaven would be pleased to smile upon their honestendeavors and bless their labors.

During the eight months in which they had dwelt in that dreary regionthey had never once failed to make this supplication, and, fruitless astheir toil had been hitherto, their faith had never failed them.

They still trusted that a divine and gracious Providence would, in duetime, reward their efforts.

At daybreak the next morning the three men set out, and walked to thecreek at which they were to work before they eat their rough breakfast.

Then, after offering up another prayer, they took their spades andpickaxes and went to work with a will.

The negro, Sambo, worked untiringly, and cheered his masters' toil byhis merry songs and grotesque capers.

It grew toward evening, and Brown proposed that they should collecttheir tools and walk homeward, but Smith was anxious to work for halfan hour longer, and his companion was too good-natured to oppose hisfancy.

The half hour had nearly expired, the dusk was rapidly gathering aroundthem, the lower branches of the trees were streaked with crimson andgold by the last rays of the setting sun, and Brown was thinking sadlyhow many a day such as this they had wasted, and how many a sun hadgone down upon their disappointment, when he was aroused from hisreverie by a loud exclamation from Smith, and a wild shout of joy fromthe negro.

He had dug the precious lump of ore from its watery bed, and he hadfallen upon his knees in the clay and dirt to offer up a thanksgivingto that Eternal Being who alone can give or withhold all blessings.

The man called Brown clasped his hands and lifted his eyes to Heaven,"Oh, merciful Providence!" he cried, "we have waited Thy good pleasure,hopefully, for we knew Thy unfailing justice.

"It has pleased Thee to smile upon us, and the innocent may now berestored to the happiness of which guilt and chicanery have deprivedthem."

The three men worked till the moon rose high above their heads. Theyhad struck upon a vein of gold, and their labors were amply rewarded.

They returned home laden with the dull yellow metal, which is themaster key of all earthly power, the magic influence which can make allmen slaves.

They returned the next day to the same spot, and worked again, andcontinued to do so till they were rich beyond their wildest hopes.

Then they packed their wealth in such a manner as to escape suspicionfrom any unscrupulous travelers they might encounter, and stillfollowed by their faithful follower, Sambo, set out for San Francisco.

"When we once more set foot in the United States," said Brown, as theyturned their backs on the dilapidated log-hut, "I will tell you mypast history, the secret of my life, and the purpose I have to achievein the future. In the meantime let us remain as we have been before,ignorant of all concerning each other, save that we are both honest menwho trust in Providence. Shall it be so?"

"Yes," answered Smith; "friend, brother, it shall be as you say. Heavenshield those we go to save."

"I say, Massa Smith, Massa Brown, Nigger Sambo is a big old fool;nebber say Friday bery unlucky day again."

Let us return to New Orleans and to the Villa Moraquitos. An hour afterAugustus Horton left the boudoir of Camillia, the Spanish heiress andher companion Pauline Corsi were seated, side by side, in a deep recessof a window, looking out upon the shining waters of the Mississippi.

"Rejected him!" repeated the Spanish girl, contemptuously, "Could youever dream that I should do otherwise?"

"He may be all that," interrupted Camillia. "Yet I have no feeling forhim but indifference—nay, contempt."

"The secret is your love for another. Ay, that start and blush wouldbetray you had naught else already done so. My foolish Camillia,did you think to conceal the truth from one who had known you fromchildhood? On the day of Paul Lisimon's apprehension I told him that Ihad long known all."

"Forgive me, dear Pauline, if I have seemed wanting in candor," saidCamillia: "but it was Paul who bade me be silent."

"Yes, Paul, who feared that the governess might betray her pupil. Now,listen to me, Camillia. The story of my life is a strange one. The daymay come when I may choose to reveal it, but that day has not arrived.The history of the past may have done much to embitter a heart that wasnot once all base. I am ambitious—proud—though policy has taught meto conceal my pride—dependence, even on those I like, is painful tome; all this I have learnt to hide beneath a gay exterior."

"Pauline, you terrify me!" exclaimed Camillia, "This power ofconcealing your feelings—"

"Is akin to falsehood, is it not, Camillia? No matter. For the firsttime I speak the truth to you about myself. You have been kind,generous, affectionate. I should be worse than a murderess could Ibreak your heart, for to break your heart would be to kill you—andyet, Camillia, three days ago I should have been capable of thatinfamy."

"Ah, well may you open those large black eyes with that gaze of horrorand amazement. Yes, I repeat, three days ago I should have been capableof this; because I am ambitious, and the ambitious will trample onthe most sacred ties to attain the golden goal of their wishes. Butthis is past. Another road has opened to me, and henceforth, CamilliaMoraquitos, I will be your friend. Say, will you trust me?"

Pauline Corsi fixed her large, limpid blue eyes upon the face of herpupil, with an earnest glance of inquiry.

"Yes, Pauline! Your words have terrified and bewildered me, but I feelthat, whatever you may be, you are not deceiving me now."

"And for that love you are prepared to sacrifice all ambitious hopes?You, who have much of your father's haughty nature can reconcileyourself to a life of comparative poverty and obscurity for the sake ofhim you love?"

"It would be no sacrifice," answered Camillia; "poverty would have notrials if shared with him."

"But, remember, Camillia Moraquitos, think of his unknown birth—lowand obscure no doubt as are all mysterious lineages—would not thatcause you to blush for your lover—your husband?"

"Ay, but even then how bitter would be your trial! Do not forget thathis honor has been sullied by a foul suspicion—that he has beenbranded as a thief!"

"I forget nothing. I know that I love him and trust him. We cannot lovethose we do not trust."

"Enough," answered Pauline, "now listen to me. I tell you a new roadhas opened to my ambitious hopes. I shall win wealth and station,without sacrificing you or your lover. Nay, more, I promise you thatthe day that sees the fulfillment of my wishes, shall also see you thebride of Paul Lisimon."

"Seek to know nothing—only trust me. There are dark obscurities inthe pathway of guilt, which I would not have you to penetrate. I havepromised to befriend you in all things. What if the foul plot, which,as I believe, has been hatched by that villainous attorney, SilasCraig, were brought to light by my agency? Would you thank me for that,Camillia?"

"Thank you, Pauline? Oh, if you could but clear him I love from thevile accusations brought against him, I would be your grateful slave tothe end of life."

"I do not ask that—I only ask patience and confidence. I hold a powerover Silas Craig, which none other possesses, and on the day whichcrowns my hopes, he shall be made to confess his infamy, and withdrawthe charge against Paul Lisimon."

"Hush!" said the Frenchwoman, laying her finger on her lips, "Remember,patience and caution."

As she spoke, Pepita, Camillia's old nurse, entered the room. "Oh,missy," said the faithful mulattress, "there is a sailorman below,who has fine silks and laces to show you, if you'll only look at hismerchandise. Such bargains, he says, missy."

"But I don't want to see them," replied Camillia, indifferently; "tellthe man to take his goods somewhere else, Pepita."

"Ay, do, ma'moselle," said Pepita; "it will amuse poor missy. Poormissy very ill lately."

"Why do you wish to see this man?" asked Camillia, when the mulattresshad left the apartment.

"Because I have an idea that we should do wrong in refusing to admithim. We shall see whether I am right or not."

Pepita ushered the sailor into her mistress's presence. He was ablack-eyed, dark-haired fellow, with a complexion that had growncopper-colored by exposure to the wind and sun. He opened a bale ofsilks and spread its contents at the feet of the Spanish girl.

"But you will not refuse to buy something of a poor sailor, kind lady?"said the man, in an insinuating tone; "even if you do not wish for asilk dress, there may be something else among my stores that may temptyou to bid for it; see here!" he added, feeling in one of the pocketsof his loose trousers, "I've something here that perhaps you may take afancy to."

"Look here," he said, opening it and holding it toward Camillia, sothat she alone could see its contents. "You won't refuse me a dollar ortwo for that, eh, lady?"

Camillia could not repress a start of surprise. The case contained animitation gold chain of the commonest workmanship, coiled round in acircle, in the center of which was a note folded into the smallestpossible compass. Upon the uppermost side of this note was written theword "Fidelity," in a handwriting which was well known to the Spanishgirl.

Camillia opened an ormolu casket on a table near her, and took out ahandful of dollars, which she dropped into the ample palm of the sailor.

The sailor grinned; "I'll come if I can, my lady," he answered, andwith a rough salute he left the room, followed by Pepita.

"No, Pauline, I have no secrets from you henceforth," answeredCamillia, unfolding the precious scrap of paper.

Camillia Moraquitos obeyed the instructions contained in this briefepistle; and when Don Juan entered her boudoir half an hour afterward,he found his daughter apparently in her usual spirits.

Delighted at this change, he proposed that Camillia and Pauline shouldgo to the opera that evening, attended by himself, and the ladiesassented with every semblance of gratitude.

The Opera-House was thronged that night with all the rank and fashionof New Orleans. It was the occasion of the re-appearance of a brilliantParisian actress and singer who had lately returned to Louisiana aftera twelve-months' absence in France.

The box occupied by Don Juan was one of the best in the house, andamongst all assembled, there was none lovelier or more admired thanCamillia Moraquitos.

The Spanish girl wore a dress of rich amber silk, flounced with thecostliest black lace.

Her classically molded head was encircled by a simple band of gold,studded with diamonds.

They had not long been seated in the box when they were joined byAugustus Horton, who placed himself at the back of the chair occupiedby Camillia.

She was not a little surprised at this, after the interview of thatmorning, and the terrible and insulting repulse which the young planterhad received.

While she was wondering what could have induced him to forget this, hebent his head and whispered in her ear—

"Let us forget all that passed this morning, Donna Camillia," he said;"forget and forgive my presumption as I forgive your cruelty! Let us bewhat we were before to-day, friends and friends only."

Camillia raised her eyes to his face with a glance of surprise. Wasthis the man whose words that morning had breathed rage and vengeance?Had she wronged him in imagining him vindictive and treacherous?

Don Juan knew nothing of his daughter's rejection of Augustus Horton.He imagined, therefore, from the planter's presence in the box, thathis suit had prospered.

About half an hour after the rising of the curtain, a letter wasbrought by one of the boxkeepers addressed to Don Juan Moraquitos.

"A colored lad, sir, who said he was to wait for an answer," repliedthe boxkeeper.

It was from Silas Craig, and contained only a couple of lines,requesting to see his employer without delay, on business of importance.

"I am never permitted to enjoy the society of my only daughter for afew hours without interruption," he said, bending gently over Camillia."I am summoned away on some annoying business, but I will not be gonelong, darling."

In spite of the letter she had that morning received, Camillia, foundit impossible to simulate a gayety which she did not feel.

She was silent and absent-minded, and replied in monosyllables to thegallant speeches of her admirer. She was thinking of the events of theday—Pauline Corsi's promise and the letter from Paul Lisimon.

Once in looking downward at the crowd of faces in the pit of thetheatre, she recognized one which was turned to the box in which shewas seated, instead of to the stage.

It was the copper-colored visage of the sailor who had that morningbrought her Paul's letter.

She knew not why, but she felt a thrill of pleasurable emotionvibrating through her breast as she beheld the rough face of this man.He knew, and was known to Paul. He could not then be other than afriend to her.

The watchful eye of Augustus Horton perceived her start of surprise asshe beheld this man.

"One would think," he said, with something of a sneer, "that the lovelyDonna Camillia Moraquitos had recognized an acquaintance in the pit ofthe theatre."

Camillia did not reply to this remark. It was growing late and DonJuan had not returned. His daughter was unable to repress a feeling ofuneasiness at his lengthened absence. The Spaniard's affection for hisonly child was the one strong passion of his heart. No lover could havebeen more attentive than he to his daughter's slightest wish.

"Strange," murmured Camillia, as the after-piece drew to a close, "myfather never fails to keep his word, yet it is now three hours since heleft us."

"I will go and look for your carriage, Donna Camillia," said Augustus;"perhaps I may find your father waiting for you in the corridorwithout."

He left the box and returned in about three minutes to say that thecarriage was at the door. Camillia's anxious eye detected something ofagitation in his manner.

"No, no," he answered, in rather a confused manner, offering his arm toCamillia, "I have not seen him yet. But pray let me lead you to yourcarriage, the corridors and lobbies are terribly crowded."

He took no notice whatever of Pauline Corsi, who followed as she bestcould, but who was speedily separated from them by the crowd, and bythe rapidity with which Augustus hurried Camillia through the passagesand down the staircase.

By the time they had reached the portico of the theater, they hadcompletely lost sight of the French governess.

Augustus handed the Spanish girl so quickly into a carriage that shewas not able to take any particular notice of the vehicle; but whenseated inside, she saw, from the gleam of the lamps without, that thecushions and linings were of a different color to those of her ownequipage.

"Mr. Horton," she exclaimed, "this is not my carriage." Augustus wasstanding at the door as she spoke.

"No matter!" he said; "we have no time to lose, drive on," he added,addressing the negro on the box, and at the same moment he sprang intothe carriage and drew up the window.

"Mademoiselle Corsi must shift for herself," answered the planter, asthe carriage drove rapidly away, and turning out of the brilliantlylighted thoroughfare, plunged into one of the darkest streets in NewOrleans. "I have wished to spare you all anxiety, Donna Camillia, butconcealment can no longer prevail. Your father has been taken ill, andhas sent for you."

"But perhaps it is so. Oh, Heaven, my beloved and honored father—thatnoble and generous friend who never denied a wish of my heart—tellthem to drive faster, for pity's sake! Let us lose no time in reachinghim!"

At the very moment when she thus appealed to him, the carriage passed acorner of a street at which there was a lamp.

The light of this lamp flashed upon the face of the planter as theydrove rapidly by.

Brief as the moment was, Camillia fancied she detected a smile oftriumph upon the countenance of Augustus Horton.

A thrill of horror crept through her veins as she thought that perhapsthis alarm about her father was some vile subterfuge of her rejectedlover.

She had often heard—heard with a careless and unheeding ear, of deedsof darkness done in the city of her birth.

She knew that the wealthy members of New Orleans society were not overscrupulous in their gratification of their viler passions—and shetrembled as she thought of her helplessness—but she had the bravespirit of her father's race, and she had sufficient presence of mind toconceal her terror.

"Because Don Juan was not taken ill at the Villa Moraquitos. He wasattacked in a gaming-house at the other end of the city, and it isthither I'm taking you."

"My father stricken with illness in a gaming-house!" said Camillia. "Myfather a gambler?"

"Ay, that surprises you no doubt. There are many secrets in this cityof ours, Donna Camillia, and your father knows how to keep his. Itwas to avoid all scandal that I brought you away from the Opera-Houseby a species of stratagem. It would not have done for that brilliantassembly to know whither I was bringing you."

"All vices are infamous," answered the planter. "It is to the haunt ofthe rich and idle—the aristocratic and dissipated. But perhaps yourwomanly nature shrinks from this ordeal. If it be so, I will drive youhome without delay. There is no absolute necessity for your seeing yourfather to-night. To-morrow he may be well enough to return to the VillaMoraquitos, and in the meantime I do not think there is any seriousdanger."

These last words were uttered slowly and hesitatingly, as if thespeaker felt them to be untrue, and only spoke them in the desire tocomfort his companion.

"You do not think he is in danger?" she exclaimed. "Can you imagineCamillia Moraquitos so poor a coward as to shrink from visiting herbeloved father because he lies in a gambling-house? Had he beenstricken in the most infamous den in New Orleans, I would enter italone to comfort and succor him."

Had there been a lamp near to illumine the planter's face at thismoment, Camillia might have again beheld the triumphant smile which hadbefore alarmed her.

Five minutes after this the carriage stopped at a low door, in a darkbut highly respectable-looking street.

The negro coachman kept his seat, but Augustus sprang on to thepavement and handed Camillia out of the vehicle.

The door before which they had stopped appeared to be closed sosecurely as to defy all the burglars in New Orleans.

Yet Augustus Horton neither knocked nor rang for admission; there wasa brass-plate upon the door; he simply pressed his finger against oneof the letters engraved upon this plate, and the door opened slowly andnoiselessly.

The passage within was illumined by one ray of light. "Give me yourhand, Donna Camillia," whispered the planter. The brave-hearted girlobeyed, and Augustus led her cautiously onward.

They ascended a narrow winding staircase, at the top of which theyentered a long corridor, lighted by shaded gas-lamps, which emitted asubdued radiance.

At the end of the corridor Augustus Horton opened the door of a room,into which he led Camillia.

The apartment was handsomely furnished, and lighted with a lamp whichhung from the ceiling, and which like those in the corridor, shed asubdued and shadowy light; but it was empty.

Camillia looked hurriedly around her. All her suspicions had returnedat the aspect of the place to which the planter had brought her.

The door opening by its mysterious spring, the dark passage and windingstair, the strange silence of the place in which their footstepssounded as if they had been shod with felt—all combined to inspireterror.

"Heaven knows," answered Augustus, "perhaps searching for you in theportico of the Opera-House. Camillia Moraquitos, you are young and newto a world in which men have passionate and revengeful hearts. You havemuch to learn, but you will take a lesson, it may be, ere long. Thismorning you insulted me; to-night you are in my power!"

As the planter uttered the horrible threat, contained in our lastchapter, every drop of blood fled from the cheeks and lips of CamilliaMoraquitos, leaving them pale and colder than marble.

It was then as she expected—as she had feared. She wasentrapped—cajoled—in the power of a villain and a hypocrite.

She knew not even in what quarter of the city this mysterious house wassituated.

It might be the den of a band of thieves—the haunt of a gang ofmurderers—and she was alone, alone with a man who evidently hated herwith the vengeful hate of a wicked and vindictive soul.

Her high and noble spirit rebounded after the shock which had, for onebrief moment, depressed it.

She looked at Augustus Horton, gazing upon him with such a glance ofmingled horror and loathing, that the meanest hound would have shrunkfrom the contemptuous expression of her superb countenance.

"I thought you a villain," she said, with cold deliberation, unmixedwith terror; "but I did not think you were capable of such a deed asthis. There were depths of black infamy which I had yet to fathom. Ithank you for teaching me their black extent."

"I do not fear you," she murmured between her clinched teeth; "I cansuffer—but I can also die!"

Her small white hand wandered almost mechanically to the bosom of hersilken dress, where, concealed by the rich folds of black lace, lurkedthe jeweled hilt of a small dagger.

It was a glittering toy, a bauble which, after the custom of herSpanish ancestry, she wore sometimes when the whim seized her—but,plaything though it was, the blade was of the finest Toledo steel andworkmanship.

"I can die," she repeated, as her fingers entwined themselvesconvulsively about the gemmed hilt of this tiny weapon.

"Ay, lady," answered Augustus, with the bitter irony of some triumphantfiend, "you can die here, stabbed to the heart by your own hand, thatjeweled dagger buried in your breast. And when your corpse is foundhere to-morrow, by the astounded police, what think you will be said bythe scandalmongers of New Orleans? If you knew them, Donna Camillia,as well as I, you would be able to guess what they will say. They willwhisper to each other how the lovely and haughty daughter of Don JuanMoraquitos went to meet her lover at midnight, in one of the secretchambers of a certain gambling-house; where, on being pursued thitherby her infuriated father, the unhappy girl, overcome by despair, drewa dagger from her bosom and stabbed herself to the heart. This is whatwill be said, unless I am much deceived in human nature."

"And even should the worthy citizens of New Orleans fail to put thisinterpretation upon your death, a few judicious whispers dropped by mychosen friends—a smile of triumph, and a shrug of the shoulders frommyself will soon set afloat any report I please. So think twice beforeyou use that pretty plaything, Donna Camillia," added the planter,pointing to the hilt she grasped in her hand; "think twice if you areprudent, and remember that death to-night, and in this house, is notdeath alone—it is disgrace!"

The young girl buried her face in her hands. She shuddered, but she didnot speak.

Augustus Horton perceived that involuntary shudder, and an exclamationof triumph escaped his lips.

"Ah, proud Spanish woman, you whom the wealthiest and most aristocraticcreole of New Orleans is not worthy to wed, you no longer defy me then.You tremble though those stubborn lips refuse to entreat—those haughtyknees cannot stoop to kneel—you tremble! Now listen to me!"

Whatever struggle she had endured in these few brief moments, she hadconquered herself once more, and her face, though pale as death, wascalm as that of a statue.

"Listen to me, Camillia Moraquitos," repeated the planter, resting hishand upon the back of her chair and addressing her with deliberateand icy distinctness. "I sought to wed you for your beauty, youraristocratic bearing, and your wealth. You, amidst all the beauties ofLouisiana, were the only woman whom I should have wished to place atthe head of my table—to make the mistress of my house. Your beautywould have been mine—a part of my possessions; my pride, my boast. Itwould have pleased me to see you haughty and capricious—treading theearth as if the soil were scarcely good enough to be trodden by yourAndalusian foot. Your wealth would have swelled my own large fortune,and made me the richest man in New Orleans. This, then, is why I soughtto wed you. This is why I seek to wed you still."

"Not so fast, lady; we will test your resolution by-and-by. I have toldyou why I wooed you, but I have something yet more to tell you."

"I never loved you! No, beautiful as you are, I can gaze with raptureupon your gorgeous face, but it is the rapture of an artist who beholdsa priceless picture in some Italian gallery. I admire, and that isall. No throb of warmer emotion disturbs the even beating of my heart.I love—but, like yourself, who have stooped to bestow your affectionupon the obscure and penniless dependent of your father—I love onebelow me in station—below me so infinitely that even were I so weaka fool as to wish it, the laws of New Orleans would not permit me tomake her my wife. I love a daughter of the accursed race—a slave—anOctoroon."

"What motive!" exclaimed the planter; "A motive far stronger thanlove—that motive is revenge. You have insulted me, Donna Camillia, andyou have to learn that none ever yet dared to insult Augustus Hortonwith impunity. I threaten no terrible punishment," he added, looking athis watch; "it is now two o'clock; when the morning sun rises upon NewOrleans, and the streets begin to fill with traffic, I will reconductyou to the Villa Moraquitos. You will suffer from this night's businessin no other way save one, and that is your reputation, which you canonly repair by accepting your humble servant as a husband."

For a few moments Camillia remained silent, then, turning upon theplanter with a sudden energy that threw him completely off his guard,she exclaimed:

"Augustus Horton, you talk to me of prudence. Shall I tell you what youwill do if you are wise."

"You will kill me here upon this spot. You will conceal my corpse inone of the secret recesses with which this den of infamy no doubtabounds. If you have one spark of prudence you will do this, for Iswear to you by the stars of heaven that if I ever leave this placealive you shall pay dearly for your conduct of to-night."

"Ay, here, though this house were tenanted with murderers. Do youthink my father, Don Juan Moraquitos, will spare the destroyers of hisdaughter's unsullied name?"

"Don Juan will believe that which the rest of New Orleans will believe.You will tell your story, but your father, fondly as he may love you,will smile at its incredulity. Your midnight abduction, your beingbrought hither to a strange house—whose very locality you will beunable to name—your inability to call upon one witness to support yourstory—all will confirm the scandal; and your father, who, yesterdaymorning, refused to coerce your wishes, will to-morrow compel you tobecome my wife."

"Sooner than my father should think me the base and degraded wretchyou would make me appear, I will die by my own hand, even though thedisgrace of this haunt of crime were to cling to me in death; but Iwill not die without a struggle. Whoever the tenants of this housemay be, there may be one amongst them who yet retains one spark ofpity—there may be one who would not hear a woman's voice uplifted indistress without one attempt to succor."

As she spoke she perceived a gathering look of alarm in the face ofAugustus Horton. That look determined her.

"But you shall die in silence!" exclaimed the planter, springing towardher, and clutching the hand which grasped the dagger.

He was too late. Her voice rang through the building in a shrill andpiercing scream.

In the deadly silence of the night that sound seemed multiplied by athousand echoes.

To the planter's terrified ear it seemed as if the whole city of NewOrleans must have been aroused by that one woman's cry.

Desperate and infuriated he snatched the dagger from Camillia's grasp,and placing his hand upon her mouth, was about to bury the weapon inher breast, when the door was broken open by a tremendous blow fromwithout, and three men burst into the room.

These three men were Captain Prendergills, of the schooner Amazon, thesailor who had carried Paul's letter to Camillia, and Paul Lisimonhimself.

"So," exclaimed the Captain, "we're right, are we? This is where thenoise came from. What do you mean by it, you thundering landlubber? Howis it that a gentleman can't take a fling at the dice without beingdisturbed by a woman's squeal?"

Before Augustus could answer, Paul Lisimon pushed aside the Captain andclasped Camillia in his arms.

"My Camillia," he cried; "my beloved, how is it that I find youhere—here, in a gambling-house at this hour of the night?"

"Ask me no questions," muttered the Spanish girl, "only take me fromthis place. My brain is bewildered by what I have undergone."

"But this man—has he dared to insult you—to entrap you hither?" askedPaul, pointing to Augustus Horton, who stood at bay, while the Captainand the sailor threatened him with their drawn cutlasses.

"You hear this fainting girl," exclaimed Paul, still holding Camilliaclasped in his left arm, while with his right he felt for a pistol inthe pocket of his waistcoat.

"Prendergills—Joe!—you are witnesses of the place in which we havefound the only daughter of Don Juan Moraquitos! There is some foul plothere, and that man, Augustus Horton, is the mover of it. To-morrow,sir, you shall account to me for this."

The planter laughed mockingly. "Account to you, Mr. Paul Lisimon; toyou—a thief! an escaped felon! The citizens of Louisiana do not crossswords with such as you. You would have done wiser to keep clear of NewOrleans. Above all, it would have been better for you had you refrainedfrom crossing my path."

He touched a bell in the wall behind him, and it rang through the housewith a shrill peal.

A party of about twenty men crowded into the room. The bell hadsummoned them from the gaming-table.

"Gentlemen," cried Augustus Horton, "I call upon you as citizens of NewOrleans to secure the persons of these three men who have this momentmade a murderous attack upon my life, and endeavored to carry away thislady, who is here under my protection. One of them is an escaped felonfrom the jail of this city."

The gamblers, who were almost all in some degree intoxicated, made arush at Paul and his companions, but they were many of them unarmed,and those who had knives flourished them without aim or purpose.

"Prendergills—Joe!" exclaimed Lisimon, "follow me. Remember, it is forlife or death."

Then flinging the slender form of Camillia across his shoulder, theyoung Mexican flung himself in the midst of the infuriated crowd, and,pistol in hand, boldly made for the door.

This point gained, he stood upon the threshold with his back tothe passage, defending the ground inch by inch, until joined byPrendergills and Joe.

The rest was comparatively easy. The three men fought their waybackward along the passage, down the winding staircase to the streetdoor. Here they were for a moment baffled by the mystery of the springwhich closed the entrance.

But they were not to be so easily foiled; the Captain of the Amazonflung his gigantic frame against the door, the wooden panels cracked asif they had been made of glass, and the spring was burst asunder.

The door—which was used all the night through for the entrance andegress of the gamblers who frequented the house—was only fastenedby this spring, and therefore yielded to force more easily than anordinary barrier.

The gamblers dared not pursue them another step, for to do so wouldhave been to reveal the secret of the gaming-house, which, as thereader knows, held its ground in defiance of the laws of Louisiana.

Mad with baffled rage and fury, Augustus Horton returned to his ownhouse to await the coming of the morrow which would perhaps dawn upon adeadly encounter between himself and Don Juan Moraquitos.

To his surprise, he received no tidings from the Spaniard, but a littleafter noon his mulatto valet handed him two letters.

One was in the handwriting of Camillia Moraquitos. It breathed thecontempt which a noble mind feels for the cowardice of a dastard. Itran thus:

The second letter was from Paul Lisimon. It was even briefer than thatof Camillia.

The bullet wound which had prostrated Gilbert Margrave in the forest atIberville was a very serious one.

For many days and nights he lay in one of the apartments of thePavilion, near Lake Pontchartrain, in a state which was not entirelywithout danger.

But he had the best medical attendance which New Orleans could afford,and the tenderest care which affection can secure for the object onwhich it lavishes its wealth.

Night and day Cora Leslie and the mulatto slave Toby watched beside thepillow of the wounded man.

It was they and they alone who listened to the wandering accents ofdelirium; they who soothed and comforted in the hour of suffering; theywho cheered and animated when the danger was past, and the first faintglimpses of returning health re-illumined the cheek of the invalid.

Gerald Leslie was away from home. When the boat carrying GilbertMargrave, Cora, Mortimer and Toby reached the Pavilion, the planter hadalready departed for New York, leaving a few brief lines addressed tohis daughter, telling her only that urgent business had called him fromthe South.

The father and daughter had therefore never met since that hour inwhich the Octoroon had accused Gerald Leslie of being the cause of hermother's death.

The two months for which the bill, for a hundred thousand dollars dueto Silas Craig, had been renewed, were rapidly gliding away, and everyday made the position of Gerald Leslie more alarming.

Cora knew nothing of these pecuniary troubles. She thought that herfather had deserted his home rather than endure her reproaches, and shebitterly upbraided herself for the cruel words she had spoken to onewhose faults were rather those of circumstance, than inclination.

Gilbert Margrave recovered; but he still lingered beneath GeraldLeslie's roof; for the planter had written to him from New York,thanking him earnestly for his championship of Cora, and imploring himto remain at Lake Pontchartrain until his return.

Gilbert waited, therefore, until the presence of Mr. Leslie mightenable him to make the necessary arrangements for his marriage with theOctoroon.

He was well aware that he could not marry her in New Orleans; but heknew that in free England there is no barrier to separate an honorableman from the woman of his choice.

It was now upon the very eve of the date upon which the dreaded billof exchange was to fall due, and at eleven o'clock upon the nightpreceding the fatal day, Gerald Leslie returned to the Pavilion uponthe borders of Lake Pontchartrain.

Cora had retired to rest when her father arrived; but Gilbert Margravewas walking along upon the terrace, overlooking the lake upon which themoonbeams shed their soft lustre.

He was, therefore, the first to welcome Mr. Leslie, and he was not longin perceiving that some heavy trouble was weighing upon the mind ofCora's father.

"You must be fatigued after your long journey, Mr. Leslie," saidGilbert. "I feel called upon to play the host beneath your own roof.Pray let us go in. Toby will prepare you some refreshments."

"No, no, Mr. Margrave," answered Gerald; "I want nothing. I am toomuch excited to require even repose. Let us remain here—here we canconverse freely. Toby is a faithful fellow, but he knows too muchalready of my misfortunes. Where is Cora?"

"That is well. Poor girl! Poor girl!" He sighed heavily, and relapsedinto silence.

The two men walked side by side up and down the terrace for someminutes without uttering a word. Gilbert Margrave was the first tospeak.

"Pardon me, Mr. Leslie," he said, "but I fear you have some cause forunhappiness. Remember how dear you and yours are to me, and do notscruple to confide in me, do not hesitate to command my services. Theyare yours to the death."

"My noble boy, you have already proved that," exclaimed Gerald Leslie."Gilbert Margrave, I am a ruined man. My journey to New York hasbeen a useless one. I went to endeavor to raise a sum of money whichwould free me from my embarrassment, but I found trade in a state ofconvulsion from the threatened war between the North and South, and mymission failed. I have now but one hope. The house of Richardson, ofBroadway, have promised, if possible, to advance the sum I require.The money is to arrive by the next steamer. But even this is a forlornhope, for, when I left New York, dark rumors were afloat of theapproaching bankruptcy of that very firm. If this should happen, I amutterly lost. I shall remain to the very last to struggle against evilfortune, but I must remain alone. Tell me then, Mr. Margrave, do youstill persist in your proposal for my daughter's hand?"

"With a perfect knowledge of her story—remembering that she is theoffspring of a slave—that she is an Octoroon!"

"I remember nothing but that I love her, and would have her no otherthan she is."

"I was not mistaken in you, Gilbert Margrave," replied Mr. Leslie, withsuppressed emotion, "you are a man of honor, and it is to that honor Iconfide. You must fly from New Orleans with Cora. We must not exposeher to the violence of a populace, furious against her because of herfatal birth—because she is a slave. That word does not cause you thehorror it inspires in me, yet you are no doubt aware that the conditionof the child is the same as that of the mother."

"Affranchise her!" exclaimed Gerald Leslie. "Would the law permit me?No, I cannot purchase her freedom until she attains her thirtieth year,unless indeed I could have my motives approved by the magistrate ofthe parish and three-fourths of a jury. And do you think those motiveswould be approved at such a time as this, when the public mind isinfuriated against all those who would weaken the bonds of slavery? Youshudder to behold the love of a father powerless against the laws ofthis land. It is terrible, is it not?"

"You must leave Louisiana. Your marriage can only take place in a freeState, for here you cannot make Cora your wife without swearing thatyou have negro blood in your veins. See the British Consul, obtain fromhim the means of leaving in safety, and implore him to grant Cora ashelter at his house until you're ready to leave New Orleans. You canconduct her thither at daybreak to-morrow. Closely veiled, she will atthat hour escape observation. To you I confide the task of preparingher for this step. You will have little difficulty in persuading her,for she loves you, and she will leave Louisiana without one pang ofregret."

"For pity's sake not a word," he murmured. "At some future day, whenthe bitterness of all this suffering has become a memory of the past;when she is happy and—has well-nigh forgotten me—then recall to herthe name of her father; tell her—tell her that I loved her. It will bebetter for both that we should be spared the pang of parting; so I willsee her no more, though it is my very life which I lose in losing her.You will write to me, Gilbert?"

"Farewell, then, farewell, Gilbert, my son. You will be kind to her formy sake; you will love her dearly, will you not? Farewell."

He wrung the hand which clasped his, and then breaking from GilbertMargrave, rushed into the house.

The young engineer slowly followed him, and retiring to his own room,made all preparations for the journey.

At early dawn his arrangements were complete, and summoning Toby, hegave the faithful mulatto a message to carry to Cora's apartments.

This message was an earnest request that the young girl would meet himin the gardens below without delay.

He had not long to await; he descended to the terrace, and in less thanten minutes he was joined by the Octoroon, who looked pale and anxiousin the early morning light.

"My father arrived last night, Gilbert," she said, "and you and he weretogether for some time, were you not?"

"He communicated sad news to me, Cora! A thousand dangers threatenus. He trembles for you, and he commands our immediate departure fromLouisiana. It is for that purpose that I summoned you so early. We areto start this very morning."

"Yes, without him. He is determined to stay until the last, to fightagainst ruin; but he will not have you share his danger. The carriagewill be ready in a few moments, all arrangements are made. I am to takeyou from here to the house of the British Consul, and thence, pleaseHeaven, to a free State, where I am to make you my wife."

"But why does my father dismiss me thus—without one word of affectionor farewell?"

"Nay, Cora," replied Gilbert Margrave, "do not accuse him. His lastwords were words of love, broken by sobs of anguish."

"Oh, Gilbert, could you think me so base? Was it not to share myfather's sufferings that I came from England to Louisiana? and can hethink that I should be so pitiful a coward as to forsake him in hishour of peril? No, no; while he remains his daughter will stay by hisside; when he flies she will accompany him."

"Cora, Cora—angelic girl! Let it be as you will. I will obey you!"exclaimed the engineer.

"Go, then," said Cora; "go, but without me. Engage our berths in anEnglish vessel. We will leave Louisiana; but we will leave with myfather. This evening you will let us know the result of your mission."

"What can you fear? It is but for a few hours, and this evening weshall meet never to part again. See, here comes Toby to say that thecarriage is ready. Farewell, Gilbert, till you return to tell us thatall is happily arranged."

"The carriage is ready, massa," said Toby, appearing at the top of theterrace steps.

They descended the steps side by side, and traversed the windingpathway, followed by Toby.

At the door of the carriage Gilbert Margrave clasped the Octoroon inhis arms, and, pressing her to his heart, exclaimed with emotion,"Farewell, my beloved! Even this brief parting is pain and anguish tome. May Heaven bless and guard you!"

There had been a silent spectator of the interview between GilbertMargrave and Cora.

Gerald Leslie had been standing behind the striped blinds in hisapartment, which overlooked the terrace watching the meeting of hisdaughter and her lover.

He saw them descend the terrace steps, and the thought that Cora hadreadily consented to depart.

He heard the carriage wheels roll away upon the smooth gravel road, andthe bitterness of his feelings utterly overcame him. "She is gone!" heexclaimed; "gone, without casting one regretful look upon the home sheis leaving. She is glad to fly with this man; she loves him; she ishis! Ungrateful girl! But what then, was it not my wish? She is savedat last. Thank Heaven for that! She is saved, and I am alone! I shallnever see my child again."

Overpowered by his grief he sunk into a chair, while his head fellforward on his clasped hands.

He had remained thus for some moments, when the door behind him wasgently opened, and a soft footstep stole toward him.

She twined her arms about his neck, and he clasped her to his heartwith passionate emotion.

"Dearest father, how could you think that your daughter would consentto depart without you?"

"Nothing, nothing, Cora. Shall not I be here to guard and save you? MyCora, my darling, you love me then, you forgive me?"

"This moment repays me for all I have suffered," he exclaimed, "Oh,Heaven; I am too happy!" Then rising, with a gesture of terror, hecried, "Happy, did I say? Happy, when—hark!"

The voices of several men were to be heard in the vestibule below, andat the same time hurried footsteps sounded on the stairs. Toby rushedbreathless into the room.

"Oh, massa, massa, the dreadful day has come at last! Mr. Craigis below with the sheriffs; he has come to take possession of theestate—of all!"

The agitation of the morning had been too much for the Octoroon; thelast shock completely prostrated her, and she sunk, fainting, into herfather's arms.

"My daughter!" cried Gerald; "my child—Toby, the one you nursed—isthere no escape, no way to save her?"

The mulatto wrung his hands in silent anguish; then with a gleam ofhope illumining his dusky face, exclaimed,—

"Stay, massa; the garden below this communicates with the plantation;if we could reach that they could never find us. They are all below inthe vestibule—wait, wait!"

He rushed from the room, leaving Gerald Leslie in utter bewildermentas to what he was about to do; but in three minutes he appeared at theopen window of the apartment, standing at the top of a ladder.

"See, massa," he cried, "we will save her yet. Give her into Toby'sarms, and he will save her, though his own life pays the price of herliberty."

It was too late. As the faithful mulatto stretched forth his arms toreceive the prostrate form of the unconscious girl, a harsh voice inthe garden below exclaimed—

"What are you up to, there, you nigger? I see you. If you don't comedown quicker than a streak of greased lightning, I guess you'll get abit of lead in your precious carcass that'll bring you down a sightfaster than you went up. Come down, you old cuss, will you?"

The speaker was one of the men employed by the sheriff, who had creptround from the vestibule to the gardens to see if there were any doorsor windows by which some of the live stock might escape.

Human beings, with hearts capable of grief and affection, fidelity andlove—but in the eyes of the auctioneer, mere cattle to be knocked downby his hammer to the highest bidder.

Amongst the live stock was counted Cora, the Octoroon, the lovely andaccomplished daughter of Gerald Leslie, the destined bride of GilbertMargrave.

All hope of escape was over. The mulatto slowly descended theladder, muttering to the man below that he had only been making somealterations in the window shutters.

Cora Leslie re-opened her eyes to behold her father bending over her,his face almost ghastly with agitation.

The Octoroon was terrified by the pale and horror-stricken countenance."Is it all a dream?" she murmured, passing her hand across herforehead; "speak, dearest father, what has happened?"

"I am ruined, Cora," answered Gerald Leslie, in a hoarse whisper. "Butcome the worst, we love each other. There is no dark cloud between usnow. We may be penniless, but at least we are united."

The reader must understand that, as yet, the Octoroon was unaware ofall the miseries of her position. Educated in England—reared upon afree soil, where slavery is unknown, she never dreamt that she would besold because of her father's insolvency. She had neither seen nor heardof a slave sale. How was she to imagine that she, delicately nurtured,tenderly beloved, was to be sold with all the other goods and chattelsupon the estate?

He had no power to speak. Taking his daughter by the hand, he led herdown stairs into the largest apartment in the Pavilion, where SilasCraig, with the sheriff and his assistants, were assembled.

The hardest heart might have been melted as the father and daughterentered the room. Cora, pale and trembling, yet lovely in her pallor,robed in white, and graceful as those lilies which seemed the bestemblems of her delicate beauty.

Gerald Leslie, proud, calm, and erect, although despair was stamped onevery feature of his face.

But the brutal nature of Silas Craig was incapable of pity; he feltonly a fiendish joy in the humiliation of one who had always despisedhim.

"I expected to see you, Mr. Craig," said Gerald, addressing the lawyerwith icy contempt, "but I thought that you would come alone. May I askwhy you are accompanied by these people?"

"Merely as a matter of precaution," answered Silas; "I have no doubtthese gentlemen will find their presence useless; for of course you areprepared to meet your engagements. You have not forgotten that this isthe day that your acceptance for a hundred thousand dollars falls due.Mr. Horton has given me full power to act in his name as well as myown. Have you the money ready, my dear Mr. Leslie?"

Gerald Leslie felt the sting of the mocking sneer with which thesewords were accompanied.

"I am not yet prepared with the money," he answered; "but I have everyreason to hope the New York steamer will bring the required sum beforenight."

"It is from the house of Richardson you expect the money, I believe,"said Silas Craig.

"In that case I am sorry to inform you that a telegram has just reachedNew Orleans announcing the failure of that house."

"You see, then," continued the lawyer, "that the presence of thesegentlemen is not altogether useless. You can proceed at once tobusiness," he added, turning to the men.

"Why bow your head, dearest father?" she said, "if your ruin leaves nostain upon your honor. We do not fear poverty. Let us go!"

"I could have wished that your father had explained to you why youcannot follow him from this place, Miss Leslie," he said; "it will be apainful disclosure for me to make."

"My daughter was born in England, Mr. Craig," he said. "She has nothingto do with this business!"

"Your memory fails you this morning, Mr. Leslie," answered Silas; "yourdaughter was born on this plantation, and is the child of a certainQuadroon slave, called Francilia. The proofs are in my possession."

"What of that?" asked Cora; "what matters whether I was born in Englandor Louisiana?"

"Since your father will not enlighten you, Miss Leslie," he said; "thelaw must answer your question." He opened the book and read aloud fromone of its pages:

"'The children of a slave belong to the owner of the mother.' In otherwords," added the lawyer, as he replaced the book in his pocket, "Mr.Leslie is your master as well as your father; you are, therefore, hisproperty, and that of his creditors."

"Father!" cried Cora, wildly; "do you hear what this man says? You aresilent! Oh, Heaven, it is then true?"

"Alas, my poor child," answered Silas, with affected compassion, "youwill be sold with the others."

"Mr. Craig," said Gerald Leslie, "will not all that I possess sufficeto pay the debt I owe? Why this useless cruelty? Do you fear that theproduce of the sale will not be enough to repay you? If it should beso, I swear to you that I will employ the last hour of my life toendeavor to liquidate your claim. If, then, there yet remains onesentiment of pity in your heart, do not rob me of my child!"

"If I were disposed to grant your prayer, Mr. Leslie," answered Silas,"the law is inexorable. All must be sold."

"You forget," answered the lawyer; "you forget the fifty thousanddollars due to Augustus Horton; I am here to represent his interests aswell as my own."

"Augustus Horton," cried Cora; "you hear, father, you hear. It is todeliver me to him that they would separate me from you."

"Reassure yourself, Miss Leslie," said Silas Craig; "the law requiresthat the slaves upon a property shall be sold by public auction. Thatauction will take place at noon to-morrow. Mr. Leslie has only topurchase you if he can command the means."

The name of Augustus Horton awakened all her terror of the persecutionof a base and heartless profligate.

She imagined herself already in his power—his slave—his to treat ashis vile passion prompted.

"No, no," she cried; "do not abandon me. I shall die; I shall go mad.Do you forget that that man is the murderer of my mother?"

"I hope, Mr. Leslie," said Craig, as Cora still clung to her father,"that you will not oblige us to have recourse to violence."

"Kill her, master," he whispered; "better that than she should meet thefate of her mother."

Gerald pushed the slave from him with a gesture of horror. "No, no!" heexclaimed; "all hope is not yet lost! Between this and to-morrow surelysomething can be done. I will see Gilbert. We will save you. Cora, mybeloved; we will save you."

Two of the men approached the father and daughter to take the Octoroonfrom Gerald's arms.

Happily for the wretched girl, consciousness once more deserted her,and she sunk fainting in the arms of the brutal wretches whose businessit was to secure her.

Silas Craig looked on at this heart-rending scene with an evil lightshining in his red, rat-like eyes.

"For years and years, Mr. Gerald Leslie," he said, "you and the like ofyou have carried it with a high hand over me. But my turn has come atlast, I guess. You look rather small to-day. It's a hard thing for aman to be so poor as to have to sell his favorite daughter."

"Wretch!" cried the agonized father; "this is your hour of triumph; butremember that Heaven suffers such as you to prosper for a while thatit may the better confound them in the end. A being capable of infamysuch as this must be capable of crime. Guilty deeds long forgotten aresometimes strangely brought to light, and it may be your turn to grovelin the dust and ask for mercy of me."

In spite of his hardihood in crime the color forsook Silas Craig'sface, and left it of a dusky white. The random shot had struck him tooforcibly. The man of guilt trembled.

All things went on at the Villa Moraquitos as calmly as if nothingout of the ordinary course had happened. Camillia and her father metconstantly and the Spaniard still displayed his absorbing love for hisdaughter; but, a few days after the scene in the gambling-house, heannounced to her his intention of making Pauline Corsi his wife.

The young girl's surprise at this announcement knew no bounds. Nothingcould have been more remote from her thoughts than the possibility ofher father's marrying a second time.

She knew of his devotion to her mother—knew the anguish that had beencaused to him by Olympia's early death, and to hear that he was aboutto wed the young and frivolous Frenchwoman filled her with bewilderment.

This, then, was the fulfillment of the ambitious hopes to which PaulineCorsi had alluded.

Being utterly without avarice or mercenary feelings of any kind, theannouncement of her father's marriage gave no pain to Camillia.

On the contrary, it pleased her to think that he should win a companionfor his declining days, and her only prayer was that Pauline mightprove worthy of his affection, and might learn to make him happy.

Her innocent mind could little dream of the terrible secret which wasinvolved in this intended marriage.

Again, she remembered that no doubt her fortune would be much reducedby this unlooked-for event; there would be, therefore, less objectionto her union with Paul.

This thought filled her with hope, and she seemed to recognize the handof Providence in the turn which events were taking.

But we must retrace our steps, in order to throw a light upon thetimely appearance of Paul Lisimon, Captain Prendergills, and the sailorJoe, in the secret gambling-house in Columbia Street.

It will be remembered that Camillia Moraquitos had recognized thecopper-colored visage of the sailor in the pit of the crowdedOpera-house.

The beautiful Spanish girl had also been recognized by honest-heartedJoe, whose breast was overflowing with gratitude for the noble handfulof dollars which she had only that morning given him.

The Amazon was anchored in the harbor of New Orleans, and Joe had beencommissioned by Paul Lisimon to deliver the letter to Camillia, and hadat the same time received his Captain's permission to take a night'sholiday on shore.

With his pockets full of money the sailor was determined to enjoyhimself, and, attracted by the blaze of lights and brilliant crowd, hestrolled into the Opera-house.

Here, the entertainment being not very much to his liking, he amusedhimself by staring at the audience.

It was then he perceived Camillia Moraquitos. From the moment ofrecognizing her he scarcely ever took his eyes from the box in whichshe was seated. Was she not the sweetheart of his Captain's particularfriend, the new first mate of the Amazon, and was it not therefore hisduty to look after her?

He saw Augustus Horton leaning over Camillia's chair, and immediatelyset him down as an admirer of the lady, and a rival of Paul Lisimon.

By-and-by he saw the planter leave the box to order the carriage at theclose of the performance.

Determined to watch to the last, he quitted the pit at the same moment,and reached the portico before the theater in time to see Augustus andCamillia into the carriage that was waiting for them.

He also heard the brief dialogue that passed between them at the doorof the vehicle.

But the indignation of the honest sailor was unbounded when he sawAugustus take his seat in the carriage by the side of Camillia.

He thought that his Captain's new friend was betrayed, and immediatelyresolved to know the truth.

As the carriage drove off, he flung himself into the roadway, almostunder the hoofs of the horses of other vehicles, in order to followthat which contained Camillia and the planter.

Then, favored by the obscurity of the street and the darkness of thenight, he sprang forward, and, clambering like a monkey, contrived toseat himself on the board at the back of the vehicle.

He was sufficiently well acquainted with New Orleans to recognize thequarter through which they drove; and when the carriage stopped, heslipped noiselessly from his position, and, lurking in the shadow,watched Camillia and Augustus as they entered the gambling-house.

He saw enough to convince him that some description of treachery was onfoot, and that, in any case, Paul Lisimon's happiness was in danger.

The carriage drove off without the black coachman having noticed Joe;and the sailor had ample time to examine the exterior of the house, andthe street in which it was situated.

Then, without a moment's hesitation, he ran to the quay, and got a boatto convey him on board the Amazon.

They were both seated in the cabin, with a pile of charts before them,and the young lawyer was taking a lesson in navigation.

Joe lost no time in relating what he had witnessed; and ten minutesafterward Paul Lisimon and Captain Prendergills were on shore.

"Many a dollar have I lost within its accursed walls," he said, as thethree men hurried through the deserted city; "but that's in our favornow, for the keepers of the house know me, and I know the trick of thedoor, which is a secret only confided to the habitual visitors of thehouse; so we shall get into the infernal den without any difficulty,and once in we'll find out what all this means, and whether Don Juan'sdaughter is deceiving you."

"She deceive me!" exclaimed Paul indignantly; "she is all truth, allpurity; but if the man who was with her is he whom I imagine, she isthe victim of treachery as vile as that from which I am a sufferer."

Thanks to Captain Prendergills, they had no difficulty in penetratingthe mysterious building.

A man, seated in a little ante-room on the stairs took their hats fromthem, and told them which way to go to the gambling-saloons; but atthe very moment they reached the top of the principal staircase thethrilling shriek of Camillia Moraquitos echoed through the house.

The ear of Paul Lisimon, sharpened by anxiety, told him whence thisshriek proceeded. It came from a long corridor to their left.

They rushed down this corridor, and burst open the door at the end as asecond shriek pealed through the building.

The letter written by Silas Craig, which summoned Don Juan Moraquitosfrom the opera-box, was a part of the planter's base plot, and had beenplanned between him and the lawyer.

The business relations between Silas and Don Juan were so complicatedthat it was easy for the artful attorney to occupy the Spaniard indiscussing them till long after midnight.

The two men sat talking till nearly three o'clock in that veryapartment ornamented with the map of the United States, andcommunicating with the gambling-house in Columbia Street.

But the two houses were separated by a passage of considerable length,and Don Juan was too far from his beloved daughter to hear thatterrible shriek of distress which alarmed every player at the gamingtable.

Upon the day on which Silas Craig, accompanied by the limbs of the law,entered the house of Gerald Leslie, taking with him desolation andanguish, Pauline Corsi and Camillia Moraquitos were once more seated inthe boudoir of the Spanish girl.

The Amazon had sailed from New Orleans, carrying Paul Lisimon away fromdanger of apprehension—away also from her he loved.

Matters were rapidly drawing toward a crisis—within a few days theFrench governess was to become the bride of Juan Moraquitos.

He rarely entered the apartments of either his daughter or PaulineCorsi, but he spent his hours in gloomy meditation in his study, andadmitted no one to his presence.

Camillia was cruelly distressed by this change, yet she dared notinterrogate the haughty Spaniard.

Sometimes she imagined that he reproached himself for contracting asecond alliance which might lessen his daughter's wealth.

"If he knew how little I care for the gold which others so value," shethought; "if he knew how happy I could be in the humblest home sharedwith those I love, he would not fear to rob me of a few thousand."

The confidence commenced between Camillia and Pauline upon the day ofAugustus Horton's plotted defeat had never been discontinued, and itwas to the Frenchwoman alone that Camillia looked for hope and comfort.

Strange anomaly of human nature! The ambitious and unscrupulous beingwho could stoop to purchase a wealthy husband by means of a vile andguilty secret, had yet some better feelings left.

Pauline loved her pupil—loved her with the light love of a selfishnature it is true, but it is something that one spark of affectionremained in her perverted nature.

"You are sad, Camillia?" she said, as she looked up from her embroideryframe to watch the thoughtful face of the Spanish girl.

Camillia was seated with her hands lying idle in her lap, her eyesfixed vacantly upon the river, shining through the open window.

"Can I be otherwise," she said, "when I think of him? When I rememberthat he is away—I know not where—his name branded with disgrace, awanderer and an outcast."

"Silly child! Have I not already told you that the day which crowns myambition shall also crown your love?"

"And can you not believe me? Do I look like one who has no will toaccomplish her wish? Look in my face, and see if there is one line thattells of weakness there."

Camillia raised her eyes to the face of her late governess with anearnest and wondering gaze.

Youthful as was that countenance, delicate as were the features andcomplexion, brilliant though the azure of the eyes, there was a look ofdecision, a glance of determination rarely seen in the faces of strongmen.

There was a power for good or evil—terrible, incalculable, if employedfor the latter—the power of a great intellect and an unyielding will.

"Not so," answered the governess, her clear blue eyes dilating, her lipquivering with suppressed emotion. "Not so, Camillia; I am an injuredwoman."

"Yes. You, whose life has been smooth as yonder river, sleeping beneaththe sunshine that gilds its breast—you have never known what it is towrithe beneath a sense of injury—to feel that your whole existencehas been blighted by the crimes of others. There are wrongs that cantransform an angel to a fiend; so do not wonder when you see me cold,heartless, ambitious, designing. My nature was poisoned by the eventsof my youth. I said that I would one day tell you my story. Shall Itell it you now?"

"It is painful; but I feel a savage pleasure in the pain. I gnash myteeth at the remembrance of the old and bitter wrongs; but I love torecall them, for the thought of them makes me strong. Have you everwondered at my past history, Camillia?"

"I was born beneath a princely roof, cradled in the luxury of a palace;the man I called my father was a duke—the woman, whose gorgeous beautysmiled upon my infancy, was a duchess!"

"I was taught to think so. They were of the Italian race, and sprangfrom one of the most powerful families of the South—a family whosepride had become a proverb throughout Italy.

"They had been married for some years, and had grown weary ofhoping for an heir to the ancient name which, if they had diedwithout posterity, would have become extinct. Disappointed in hishope of perpetuating his noble race, the duke had grown indifferentto his beautiful wife; nay, something worse than indifference hadarisen—something bordering on dislike, which, in spite of his efforts,he was unable to conceal. The duchess came of a house almost as nobleas that of her husband. She was a haughty and imperious woman, andshe was not slow to perceive this change in the manner of the duke.She discovered that in the very prime of her youth and beauty she wasdespised by her husband. The bitterness of this discovery changed hervery nature. Every day she grew more haughty, more exacting, morecapricious. She shut herself from the gay world in which she had beenadmired, and abandoned herself to a mute but terrible despair."

"She did. She was wronged, but it did not make her more pitiful toothers when their time of suffering came. It hardened her nature, andmade her merciless, as all injustice must ever do. The duke observedthis gloomy silence—this dumb despair. He could not restore to her anaffection which he no longer felt; but he sought to revive her spiritsby change of scene, and by those hollow pleasures which are the soleresource of the idle."

"Ay, but her haughty soul would have rejected pity as the direst wrong.The duke left Italy, and took her to Paris, where, in the midst of thegay and frivolous, she might forget her domestic griefs; but in France,as in Italy, she refused to share in the pleasures of the world of rankand fashion, and obstinately shut herself in her own chamber."

"Sorrow does not kill. Even her beauty suffered no diminution. It wasstill in the full splendor of its luxuriance, dark, proud, commanding,queen-like. Have you ever heard, Camillia Moraquitos, of the secrets ofParis? Have you ever heard of the mysteries of that wonderful city, inwhich almost every street has its secret known only to the initiatedin the winding ways of civilized life? Three months after the arrivalof the duke and duchess in Paris, an event occurred which changed thewhole current of their lives."

"Apparently a very simple one; the lady's-maid of the duchess wasa frivolous girl, who had herself been educated in France, but whohad never before tasted the delights of the brilliant capital. Shewas intoxicated with rapture, and she ventured even to express heradmiration for Paris in the presence of the young duchess. Amongstthe other wonders of this marvelous city, Jeannette, as the girl wascalled, spoke of a fortune-teller who had related to her some ofthe events of her past life, and whom she looked upon as a powerfulmagician."

"She did! Despair is, perhaps, terribly near akin to madness. Shelistened at first from pure abstraction, scarce heeding what sheheard; but afterward eagerly. She asked the girl a thousand questionsabout this fortune-teller, and finally it was agreed upon between themistress and maid that the woman should visit the duchess late on thefollowing night, when the duke was absent at a political assembly, andall the servants of the establishment had retired to rest."

"Grief is sometimes capricious. The duchess doubtless, was ashamed ofher own folly, but she wished to hear what this woman would say ofthe future, which seemed so dark. What if she were to prophesy thecoming of an heir to that haughty house—an heir whose coming wouldrestore all the power of the now neglected wife? The duchess passed thefollowing day in a state of restless excitement, eager for the cominghour which would bring the fortune-teller.

"It was nearly midnight when Jeannette admitted the woman by a privatedoor at the bottom of the grand staircase.

"There was something terrible in the look of the woman who creptwith stealthy and silent tread over the luxurious carpets of thatpalace-like abode. She was old and haggard; her yellow skin disfiguredby innumerable wrinkles; her gray hair falling in elf locks abouther low and narrow forehead. Her small eyes were surrounded by redand inflamed circles, and almost hidden by the bushy eyebrows whichprojected over them. Her chin was fringed with terrible gray bristles;her mouth disfigured by two enormous teeth, which resembled the fangsof a wild beast. She was a creature calculated to inspire disgustand terror, and she seemed still more horrible by contrast with theelegance around her, as she entered the superb apartments of theduchess.

"There is little doubt that the maid, Jeannette, had told this womanall the secrets of her mistress. Her task, therefore, was an easy one.She described the troubles of the past, and foretold that, beforethe year had elapsed, a child would be born to the duke and duchess.On hearing this prophecy from the lips of a miserable impostor, thehaughty Italian fell at her feet, and burst into an hysterical flood oftears.

"The woman saw in that moment the first foreshadowing of a futurecrime. A week afterward she came again at the same hour. This timeshe saw the duchess alone, and remained with her for so long a periodthat Jeannette's curiosity was excited. She contrived to overhear theinterview.

"Once more the duchess seemed a transformed being. She no longer shutherself from the world. Gay and radiant she re-entered society; andin a few months the duke was informed that he would ere long become afather.

"On hearing this he was eager for an immediate return to Italy, inorder that the infant might be born upon the soil which it was by andby to inherit; but the duchess had a strange caprice upon this point.She was determined not to leave Paris, and her husband could not bringhimself to oppose her wishes at such a time.

"Within a twelvemonth from the first visit of the fortune-teller, achild was born and reared in the ducal mansion. I was that child.Caressed and indulged from my earliest infancy, nursed in luxury andelegance, I was happy, for I had much of the frivolous nature of mynative Paris; but, child as I was, I knew that I was not beloved.

"I saw the looks of other women as they hung over their children,and I knew that such glances of affection never rested upon me. Theduke loaded me with presents, but he never embraced me as I had seenother fathers embrace their children, and I felt that some gem waswanting in the diadem of happiness. Years passed; I grew to earlygirlhood, and for the first time I knew what it was to love. A youngartist, who had been engaged to paint my portrait, fell in love withme, and his passion was returned. For the first and only time I tooloved; devotedly, enduringly. The painter, though handsome, honorable,high-minded, distinguished, was driven from that ducal mansion withscorn and contumely. What greater sin could he have committed? He haddared to love the daughter of one of Italy's proudest noblemen.

"This was the first bitter wrong of my life. The pride of otherstrampled on my hopes of happiness, and at sixteen years of age mybreast was imbittered by a blighted affection. My lover wrote me aletter of despairing farewell and left the country for America. To thisday I know not to what part of the mighty continent he went."

"A twelvemonth after this, Jeannette, the servant of the duchess,died; and on her death-bed she sent for the duke and confided to him aterrible secret. I was not the daughter of the duchess, but a spuriouschild, born of low parents, and introduced into the ducal mansion bythe old Parisian fortune-teller."

"It was indeed terrible. The fury of the duke knew no bounds. Hewas a proud man, and for seventeen years he had been duped, fooled,imposed upon by the child of some wretched Frenchwoman—the child hehad introduced into the society of the noblest in the land, and whosebeauty and accomplishments had been his boast. He had never loved me;there was no link of affection between us to stay the torrent of hisrage. That rage was more terrific against me, the innocent! than eventoward the guilty duchess. He drove me from his doors with loathing,and, I, the pampered heiress, wandered forth into the streets of Genoa,a beggar and an outcast. Before I reached the gates of the town I wasovertaken by the steward of the duke, who brought me a pocket-bookfrom his master. It contained notes to the amount of three thousandpounds. My first impulse was to cast it in the dirt beneath my feet,and to bid the steward go back and tell his lord how I had treated hisgenerous donation; but a sudden idea took possession of me. This sum ofmoney would enable me to go where I pleased. I might go to America—Imight find him I loved. Two months after this I landed in New York. Itraveled from city to city, but nowhere could I obtain tidings of him Isought; and at last, wearied by my ineffectual search, my funds nearlyexhausted with the extravagant outlay of my travels, I found myself inNew Orleans. You know the rest."

At twelve o'clock upon the day after that on which Gerald Leslie andhis daughter had been parted by the pitiless attorney, the slaveauction commenced.

The sale was to take place in a public auction room in New Orleans; anapartment capable of containing upward of a hundred people.

At one end of this room stood the rostrum of the auctioneer, whileimmediately before his desk was stretched a long table of roughdeal, upon which one by one the slaves took their places, while theauctioneer expatiated upon their merits.

Round this table was placed benches, on which the buyers and lookers-onlounged during the auction.

The plantation hands were the first to be sold, and the sale had lastedfor some hours when Toby, the mulatto, slowly mounted the table, andtook his stand before the eager eyes of the buyers.

The countenance of the slave was sad and care-worn; and, as he ascendedthe table, he looked anxiously round the room as if seeking among allthose eager faces for some one he expected to see there.

But it was evident that he looked in vain, for, after a long andearnest scrutiny of that varied crowd, he sighed heavily, and his headsank upon his breast with a gesture of despair.

The bidding lasted for some time, and the most persevering bidder wasSilas Craig himself, who sat on a bench close to the table, and amusedhimself by whittling a stick with his bowie knife.

As the hammer of the auctioneer descended upon the desk, thusproclaiming that the bargain was complete, a singular expressionilluminated the face of the slave, Toby.

That expression seemed one of mingled hate and triumph; and, as hedescended from the platform, the hand of the mulatto mechanicallysought for some object hidden in his breast.

That object was the knife with which Francilia had stabbed herself—theknife which Toby had offered the day before to Gerald Leslie.

The mulatto slowly withdrew into a corner where some other slavespurchased by Silas Craig were huddled together, awaiting thetermination of the sale.

For some moments there was a pause. Several among the crowd asked whatthe next lot was to be. The voice of the auctioneer responded from hisrostrum, "The Octoroon girl, Cora!"

Again there was a pause. There were few there who did not know thestory of Gerald Leslie and his daughter, and every one present seemedto draw a long breath.

The Octoroon emerged from a group of slaves, behind whom she had beenhidden, and slowly ascended the platform.

Never in her happiest day—never, when surrounded by luxury, whensurfeited by adulation and respect, had Cora Leslie looked more lovelythan to-day.

Her face was whiter than marble, her large dark eyes were shroudedbeneath their dropping lids, fringed with long and silken lashes; herrich wealth of raven hair had been loosened by the rude hands of anoverseer, and fell in heavy masses far below her waist; her slenderyet rounded figure was set off by the soft folds of her simple cambricdress, which displayed her shoulders and arms in all their statuesquebeauty.

One murmur of admiration spread through the assembly as the Octoroontook her place at the table.

All there had heard of the loveliness of Gerald Leslie's daughter, yetfew had expected to see her so lovely.

Eyeglasses were raised, spectacles put on, and looks of insolentadmiration were fixed upon the unhappy girl.

But she saw them not—the center of every eye, she was scarcelyconscious of how much she had to endure. Her whole being was absorbedin one thought. Her father; would he come, would he rescue her?

When for one brief instant she lifted her eyes, the crowd of faces swambefore her, as if hidden from her by a veil of mist.

But that longed-for voice did not come, and she heard instead the harshaccents of the auctioneer dwelling upon the charms which were to besold to the highest bidder.

All the ready money that the ruined planter could command consisted ofa few thousand dollars, and Gilbert Margrave had only the sum which hehad brought with him for his traveling expenses.

To communicate with England was impossible, though the young man hadample resources there; he had also letters of credit on a banking-housein New York, but he well knew that nothing but ready money could saveCora from her infamous persecutors.

A laugh circulated among the assembly. "I guess you begun a bit toolow, stranger," said one of the planters.

"Guess we'll teach you what a slave sale is, Britisher," said anotherman near Gilbert, cutting a lump of tobacco and thrusting it into hismouth.

Gilbert Margrave's cheek grew pale; he felt that the man he had to dealwith was not to be beaten.

For a moment there was a pause; Gilbert drew his breath. For one briefinstant he thought that the planter's caprice might be less powerfulthan his avarice. He knew not that Augustus Horton's love for Cora wasfull of passionate determination.

Gilbert was silent. Throughout this scene the Octoroon had never oncelifted her eyes from the ground; but, at this ominous silence, sheslowly raised them, and looked imploringly at her lover.

"Strikes me your pretty well cleaned out, siree," said one of the menwho had spoken before.

The bidding continued, the excitement of the scene had become intense.Thirty, five-and-thirty, forty thousand dollars were bid; forty-five,fifty thousand.

The last bid came from Augustus Horton, and the auctioneer's hammerdescended with an ominous sound.

Gilbert Margrave sprang forward, as if he would have struck theplanter, but a friendly hand was laid upon his shoulder, and he wasdragged back by a group of Americans.

"Better keep your dander down, stranger," one of the men whispered inhis ear, "our folks are not over fond of your countrymen just now, andthey wouldn't make much work of taking out their bowie knives. Let himhave the gal. Was there ever such a noise about a handsome slave?"

Augustus Horton walked up to the place where Gilbert was standing,surrounded by these men.

"I've beaten you before to-day, Mr. Margrave," he said, with a sneer,"and I think I've had the pleasure of giving you a second licking thisafternoon."

Again Gilbert would have sprung upon him, but again he was restrainedby those about him.

"We've another duel to fight yet, Mr. Horton," said the Englishman,"and in that you may not come off so easily."

"We citizens of New Orleans don't fight about colored gals," answeredthe planter, turning upon his heel, contemptuously, and walking towardthe spot where Cora stood, side by side with Toby and the other slaves.

"I must follow him," he said, "I must speak to him. I pledge you myhonor that I will attempt no violence, but I tell you I must speak tohim. Life and death hang on this matter. How can I go back to GeraldLeslie, and tell the broken-hearted father that I was powerless to savehis only child?"

Gilbert found Augustus standing at a little distance from the groupof slaves contemplating Cora with the insolently admiring glance withwhich the master surveys his property.

She was no longer the woman who had scorned and defied him. She washis slave, his purchased slave, over whom the law gave him full andindisputable authority.

"Mr. Horton," said Gilbert, in a voice rendered hoarse by emotion, "letme speak to you a few moments?"

The planter bowed superciliously. "Well, sir?" he said, as theywithdrew to a solitary corner of the auction room.

"You are aware that had my means enabled me, I would have outbid youjust now in the purchase of Miss Leslie."

"Miss Leslie!" he repeated scornfully; "we don't call the slaves Missand Mr. down south. I guess you would like to outbid me for thisOctoroon girl, Cora, but I'm happy to say you weren't able to do it.Had you bid a hundred thousand dollars, I'd have outbid you, and ifyou'd doubled that I'd have outbid you still. No man comes cheaplybetween Augustus Horton and his will."

"Tell me," said Gilbert, "tell me, what do you want with Mr. Leslie'sdaughter. Why do you want to become her master?"

Again Augustus laughed, and the hot blood mounted to Gilbert's cheek ashe heard the mocking laughter.

"Then one answer will do for both of us," said Augustus. "I want herbecause I love her."

"No," cried Gilbert, "no, Mr. Horton. Do not sully the pure and holyname of Love by so base a blasphemy. Yours is the low passion of theprofligate who seeks to destroy that which he pretends to love. Mineis the honorable sentiment of the man who seeks to bestow upon her headores the sacred name of wife."

"You Britishers have another way of thinking to what we have inLouisiana," answered Augustus; "we don't marry our slaves. However,I've no wish to quarrel with other folks' opinions; the girl's mine andI don't mean to part with her, so good day to you, Mr. Margrave."

"One moment," he said. "The sum which I offered just now for MissLeslie was the extent of the ready money I possess; but it was notone-twentieth part of what I can command; communication with London, oreven with New York, will bring me the funds I require. I ask you—as agentleman appealing to a gentleman, upon a subject that is dearer tohim than life—I ask you to do a great and generous action. Accept mynote of hand for a hundred thousand dollars;—double the sum you havejust given—and let me restore Cora Leslie to her father?"

"I would be very glad to oblige you, Mr. Margrave," he said; "but as Idon't happen to want money just now, and as I've a fancy for keepingthe Octoroon, I beg to decline your liberal offer."

"I appealed to you as a gentleman," he said. "I was mistaken. You shallhear from me to-night."

On the night of the slave sale, Don Juan Moraquitos sat alone in theapartment which he called his study.

The following day was that appointed for the Spaniard's marriage withPauline Corsi, and preparations had been made for the celebration ofthe ceremony with the splendor worthy of such a wealthy bridegroom.

On one of the sofas lay the dresses of white satin and lace, which thebride and bridemaid were to wear upon the following morning.

On a table near stood a box, which contained the wreaths selected bythe Frenchwoman for herself and Camillia.

"Come, dearest Camillia," exclaimed Pauline; "have you no wish to seethe Parisian flowers which are to adorn that beautiful head to-morrow?You certainly are most devoid of that feminine weakness—curiosity."

"That's just as much as to say you don't care a straw about the matter;and that you are thinking of nothing but that stupid lover of yours,who is, no doubt, thousands and thousands of miles away."

Camillia sighed. Her face was averted, and she did not see the archsmile which lighted up the Frenchwoman's face. "However," continuedPauline; "I shall insist on your approving of my choice."

She unfastened the cord which was tied about the box; and, lifting thelid, took out the two wreaths.

They were both of the same pattern—coronet-shaped garlands of orangeflowers and buds, purely white amidst their glistening green leaves;as true to nature as if they had been gathered from a hot-house, andbreathing the delicious perfume of the flower.

"Because there will be two brides to-morrow. I never break a promise.To-morrow, Don Juan Moraquitos will divide his fortune; one-half hewill reserve for himself and his wife, the other he will give to hisdaughter and the husband of her choice."

"That is my secret. There is very little time left me for my work. Itis now nine o'clock, I must go out immediately."

She hurried from the room before Camillia could remonstrate further,and the Spanish girl, bewildered and amazed, seated herself near thetable, looking musingly at the two bridal wreaths.

He had seen Gerald Leslie's proud nature abased to the very dust, andthe darling child of a doting father sold to her most deadly enemy;for the slave has no greater enemy than the hardened profligate, whoseguilty passions her charms have awakened.

Silas Craig was a winner in the game of life—what cared he for darksecrets upon the cards he had played? He was rich, and he could defymankind. He had dined sumptuously after the fatigue of the slave sale,and the table before him was spread with glittering decanters of thechoicest wines.

This man reveled in the luxuries of a palace; but he had risen fromthe gutter; and his low and groveling soul still wore the degradationof the foul haunts in which he had been reared. He lounged in his easychair, sipping wine, which sparkled like melted jewels in the light ofthe shaded lamp.

He was disturbed from his reverie by the entrance of the slave whowaited upon him.

"No, massa, me wide awake. A lady, a very beautiful lady, with whitehands and rings, oh, golly! dey shine like stars."

"There are secrets which Silas Craig may wish to preserve; if so, hewill do well to see Mlle. Corsi."

Like all base creatures, Silas was a coward. The card dropped from histrembling hand, and his bloated face grew ashy pale.

During those few brief moments, Silas Craig had recovered from hisfirst impulse of terror.

Who was she but the paid dependent of Don Juan Moraquitos? He hadnothing to fear, therefore.

All the native insolence of his nature returned, and when the governessentered the room, he neither rose from his seat nor offered her a chair.

The impertinence did not escape Pauline Corsi. With a smile ofprovoking assurance, she seated herself opposite to the lawyer, andthrew back the dark veil that had shaded her face.

"We shall understand one another better, by-and-by, Mr. Craig," shesaid, quietly.

"We will come to that in good time, my dear sir," replied Pauline,laughing; "perhaps there are several motives. Suppose then, that webegin with motive number one."

"I must tell you, mademoiselle," he said, "that these ain't my businesshours, and that if you've anything particular to say to me, you'dbetter call another time. Though I should think," he added insolently,"that the governess of Don Juan Moraquitos can't have much businesswith lawyers."

"Yes, I see your client does not give you his entire confidence. I amto become Pauline Moraquitos before twelve o'clock to-morrow."

The lawyer's cheek once more grew ashy pale. Again a sudden terrorseized him. He felt that there was some mystery shrouded beneath thisbusiness, of which he now heard for the first time.

"I know the question which very naturally rises to your lips," saidPauline, with quiet deliberation. "You would ask what motive can haveinduced Don Juan Moraquitos to take such a step. I reply to thatquestion before it is asked: The motive is a most powerful one."

The guilty lawyer, versed in every art of lying and chicanery,trembled, he scarce knew why, in the presence of this frail girl.

"I do," he faltered, pouring out a glass of wine. His hand shook soviolently that the neck of the decanter rattled against the rim of theglass, and he spilled half the costly liquid as he raised it to hisquivering lips.

He had no reason to fear this Frenchwoman—but the strength of herindomitable will had a magnetic power over him, and his brutal naturebowed beneath its force.

"I will tell you, Silas Craig," answered Pauline; "there are somesecrets which, once known, give to the person who discovers them afearful and boundless power over the guilty wretches whom they concern.Secrets that are discovered when least the criminals fear detection.Words that are overheard, and cherished for years by the person whooverhears them. Words which have power to drag the guilty to thescaffold; words that can kill. Do you understand me?"

He spoke doggedly, but sat with his hands clasped upon the arms of hiseasy-chair, his rat-like eyes almost starting from his head as he gazedat Pauline.

"Think again, Silas Craig," said the Frenchwoman; "surely I have spokenplainly. Can you not understand me?"

"I must speak more plainly still then, it appears. Silas Craig,thirteen years ago it was my good fortune to become acquainted withsuch a secret as this!"

The lawyer raised one of his trembling hands and wiped the perspirationfrom his icy forehead.

"Yes; I see you remember the date. I was a penniless girl of seventeenwhen I discovered this secret. I am now thirty; I have kept it long andpatiently, have I not?"

"I have waited my time. I knew that this secret would bring me wealthand power whenever it was told. It concerns two men. Those two men aremy slaves! At a word from me, they stand before the tribunals of thiscity branded with crime—loathed by their fellow citizens. A word fromme, and they go from homes of luxury to the gloom of a prison, fromwhich but a few steps will lead them to the gallows. Shall I tell youwho those two men are, Silas Craig?"

He tried to speak with his accustomed insolent and mocking smile, butthe white lips refused to do his will, and his words came in a hollowwhisper.

The word seemed to whistle from her lips like the bullet from a pistol.The lawyer fell back in his chair as if he had received a blow.

"The secret concerns the night upon which Tomaso Crivelli died, and thewill which on that night was forged by you, after the real will hadbeen made away with. The secret also concerns the young man called PaulLisimon. The man whom you dared to accuse of theft."

"No matter how. Enough that I did make the discovery. Shall I tell younow the price I ask for my secret?"

All attempts at insolence or defiance upon the part of the lawyer wasnow abandoned.

Silas Craig cowered before the Frenchwoman as humbly as the criminalwho awaits the sentence of his judge.

"Don Juan Moraquitos will make me his wife and will share with me hisown fortune. From him I ask no more than this. We shall leave Americafor Paris, and in the delight of my native city I shall endeavor toforget the sorrows of my youth. But although I am ambitious, I am notutterly selfish, and in my triumph I wish to secure the happiness ofothers. Those others are Camillia Moraquitos and the young man it haspleased Don Juan to call Paul Lisimon."

"You shall hear. By a foul and infamous plot, the details of whichI do not know, but which is doubtless worthy of the person who hasconcocted it, you have contrived to brand the name of Paul Lisimon withinfamy. You will reveal that plot. You will withdraw that shamefulaccusation; and you will insert an advertisement in every paper printedin New Orleans declaring that young man's innocence. You may call yourplot a practical joke if you please. You are so universally belovedand respected that you will of course be believed. That is my firstcondition. Do you comply with it?"

"My second demand is that you produce the real will, signed by DonTomaso Crivelli, in which he leaves the whole of his estate to his onlyand legitimate son, Paul Crivelli, known in this city as Paul Lisimon."

"In conjunction with Don Juan Moraquitos, you will restore to thisyoung man the wealth of his father, which you divided into equalportions soon after Don Tomaso's death. You will find no difficultywith Juan Moraquitos. Pirate and adventurer as he has been, he is notso fortunate as you. He has still a conscience."

"It is. I think we understand each other a little better now than wedid half an hour ago. Good night."

She left the room before he could reply, and before he could summon thenegro to usher her from the house.

It was nearly eleven o'clock when Pauline Corsi left the lawyer'soffice, but the streets were lighted brilliantly by the full moon whichsailed high in the heavens. The Frenchwoman drew her veil closely overher face. She was dressed in dark garments, which shielded her fromobservation, and she hurried rapidly through the lonely streets.

About half way toward her destination she met two men walking side byside, smoking cigars.

Suddenly she stopped, and, clasping her hand upon her heart, lookedeagerly at the younger of these two men.

"It cannot be," she murmured; "it cannot be. It is the moonlight whichdeceives me."

At this moment they drew near a tavern, the door of which wasbrilliantly lighted.

The two men entered the tavern, and Pauline Corsi remained a few pacesfrom the threshold, looking after them.

"Can I be mistaken?" she said, "and yet it seems like some bewilderingdream. I might—after thirteen weary years—and to-night!"

The same moonlight which illumined the meeting of Pauline Corsi andthe strangers in the streets of New Orleans, shone on the smooth bosomof the Mississippi, and on the white walls of the villa residence ofAugustus Horton.

The house and plantation of Hortonville were some miles from the woodin which the duel between Augustus and Gilbert had taken place.

The scenery which surrounded the villa was exquisitely beautiful,and the building itself, seen beneath the light of the moon with itslamp-lit windows gleaming like pale gems in the glory of the summer'snight, had the appearance of some fairy palace rather than any earthlyhabitation.

You might almost have expected to see those white walls melt into thinair and fade away from your gaze.

The unhappy girl had been brought from the auction room to Hortonvillein Augustus's phaeton, the thorough-bred horses of which made briefwork of the journey from New Orleans.

Adelaide Horton and her aunt, Mrs. Montresor, were still at their cityresidence.

Cora scarce dared to think why Augustus had chosen to take her toHortonville, rather than to his town house.

Could there be any doubt as to his motive in choosing this lonely villafor the retreat of the Octoroon?

The chamber to which Cora had been conducted was even more luxuriouslyfurnished than her own tastefully decorated apartment in the pavilionon the borders of Lake Pontchartrain, but the Octoroon looked at thesplendor around her with a shudder.

She knew that it was not thus that slaves were ordinarily treated, andshe knew the sinister meaning of this seeming kindness.

The young mulattress who led Cora to her apartment informed her thatshe had been appointed to wait upon Miss Leslie.

"Alas, my poor girl," answered Cora, "I am no longer Miss Leslie. I ama slave like yourself, with no name save that which my master choosesto give me. He has bought me; bought me at the auction yonder. Name,fame, happiness, honor, ay, and even soul—as he thinks—are his."

In the bitterness of her despair she buried her face in her hands andsobbed aloud.

"My dear mistress, pray do not weep thus," she said. "You will beno slave here, I know, for our master has had these beautiful roomsprepared on purpose for you, and you are to be treated as a queen."

"A queen!" said Cora, hysterically. "Yes, the empress of a profligate'shour of pleasure, to be trampled beneath his feet when the whim haspassed. Go, my good girl; why should I distress you with my griefs. Youcan never understand my misery."

It was impossible, indeed, for this poor ignorant slave to comprehendthe feelings of the highly educated and refined woman, torn from afather she adored, and from him who was to have rescued her fromslavery, and made her a happy English wife.

Cora dried her tears; and, affecting a calmness which she did not feel,dismissed the mulattress.

The girl had lighted a shaded lamp upon an elegant little inlaid table,and had brought a tray loaded with delicacies for Cora's refreshment,but the Octoroon turned with a sickened heart from the rich food setbefore her. She had eaten nothing that day, and her lips and throatwere parched and burning with inward fever. She poured out a glass oficed water and drained the cool liquid to the last drop. Then, throwingopen the wide Venetian shutters, she looked out into the calm night.

She fell on her knees, and lifting her clasped hands, exclaimed in anoutburst of enthusiasm,—

"Oh, Merciful and Beneficent Creator! I cannot believe that Thouwouldst utterly abandon the meanest of thy creatures. Even here, on thebrink of terrors more hideous than the most cruel death, I still hope,I still believe that Thou wilt show me a way of deliverance!"

The Octoroon arose from her knees, a new creature after the utteranceof this heartfelt prayer. Her very countenance seemed as iftransfigured by the sublime emotions of the moment. A holy light shonefrom her tearless eyes; a faint flush of crimson relieved the pallor ofher cheek.

"My father abandons me to my fate. Even he who was to be my husband cando no more to save me. It is to Heaven, then, that I turn, and to Oneabove who is stronger than all earthly friends."

The apartment to which Cora had been conducted was on the upper floorof the villa; but the ceilings of the lower chambers were far fromlofty, and the window from which the Octoroon looked was scarcelyeleven feet from the ground. Under this window ran a rustic colonnadewith slender pilasters, round which hung the leaves and blossoms ofthe luxuriant creeping-plants familiar to the South. The roof of thiscolonnade formed a balcony before Cora's window.

For some moments the Octoroon stood at the open casement, gazing on thescene beneath her—lost in thought.

"If I remain in this house," she murmured, "I am utterly in the powerof that base man. Another moment, and he may enter this chamber; againI may hear those words which are poison to my soul; and this time hemay force me to listen to his infamous proposals. All those beneaththis roof are the slaves of his will—it were hopeless, then, to lookfor help from them; but beneath that purple vault I might surely besafer; and at the worst the river is near at hand."

She shuddered as she spoke. To this girl, religiously educated, therewas something horrible in the idea of suicide. It seemed a doubt ofProvidence even to think of this worst and last resource.

But on one thing she had determined, and that was to escape from thehouse to the gardens below; once there, she might find her way tosome adjoining plantation, where she might meet with some benevolentcreature who would interfere to shield her from her hated master.

The rope with which she had been bound still hung to one of her wrists.This rope might be the means of saving her.

She examined the door of her chamber and found that it was locked onthe outside.

"So much the better," she thought; "he believes his prisoner to besafe. He thinks that I would not dare a leap of a few feet even toescape from him. How little he knows of a woman's power in the momentof desperation!"

She hurried to the balcony, and attached the cord, which was about fivefeet long, to the iron railing, then with the help of this cord shedropped lightly to the ground.

She lighted unhurt upon the soft earth of a flower-bed, but the slenderropes broke with her weight, and the best part remained in her hand.She was free!

Swift as the wind she flew from the villa in the direction of theriver-side, scarce knowing which path she took in her eagerness toescape.

Her footsteps made no sound upon the dewy turf, and she did not hearanother footstep hurrying close behind her.

Her anxiety was to reach this friendly shelter, for the moonlightnight was bright and clear as day, and she trembled lest she should beperceived from the windows of the villa.

She was nearing the plantation when an iron hand was laid upon hershoulder, and turning round with a scream of mingled anguish andterror, she confronted Augustus Horton bare-headed in the moonlight.

He had watched her escape from the window of his own apartment, and hadlingered long enough to allow her to imagine herself free before he hadleft the house in pursuit of her.

"So, Cora," he said, "this is the way you repay me for my foolishindulgence. This is how you show your gratitude for being received atHortonville like a princess! Do you know how we treat runaway slaves inthe South?"

"They did," replied the Octoroon; "the free citizens of that landof liberty forgot to teach me that beneath God's bounteous heaventhere live a race of men who traffic in the bodies and souls of theirfellow-creatures! That was a lesson they forgot to teach me."

"Then I'm afraid you'll have to learn it here," said the planter; "andif you don't take care what you're about, it may be taught you inrather a rough fashion. But why, why, Cora, do you compel me to usethis language? It is not the right of a master that I would exercise,but that of a lover."

"You forget," replied Cora, with icy coldness, "that I love, and ambeloved by an honorable man, who would make me his wife."

"It is you who must forget that, Cora," answered Augustus, fiercely."Henceforth, Gilbert Margrave and you are strangers. You are mine, Ihave kept my promise; I have given the fifty thousand dollars owed meby your father as the price of this moment. But it is not as a masterthat I address you. The rigors of slavery are not for you. Reward mydevotion with one smile, one word of encouragement, and a life ofluxury shall be yours; but, if you value your own happiness, do notforce me to remember—"

"That I am your slave. Pardon me, Mr. Horton, it is that which I wouldnot forget; but, as my English education has left me very ignorant, Imust beg you to teach me the duties of a slave."

"Those duties are told in one word, Cora," replied the planter, "andthat word is submission! absolute and unquestioning submission to everywish of the master. Blind obedience to every word, to each command,however revolting to the will of the slave. Body and soul, Cora, youare mine. Shriek, and your voice will echo through the plantation, butwill awake no answer; for those who alone could hear it are slaves likeyourself, and powerless to help you. Cease this mad folly, then, andthus let me—"

He advanced as if to encircle her in his arms, but the Octoroon steppedback a few paces, and raising the cord which she held in her righthand, addressed him thus:

"One step further, and it is I who will inflict upon you thechastisement of a slave, by striking you across the face."

As Cora uttered these words, a whistle resounded through theplantation, near the spot upon which she and the planter stood, and inanother moment two dark figures emerged from the shade of the trees.

Before Augustus could interpose, Cora was seized in the arms of one ofthese men, and carried into the plantation, while the other grasped theshoulder of the planter with a hand of iron.

"Ay, Gilbert Margrave, the affianced husband of the woman you wouldhave destroyed. You refused to-day to accede to the appeal made by onegentleman to another. You gave me the answer of a ruffian; to-night itis I who use the ruffian's argument, force!"

"Be it so. I am an Englishman, and am willing to suffer the worstpenalty the laws of Louisiana can inflict upon me, rather thansacrifice the honor of my affianced wife."

The man who had seized Cora disappeared beneath the shade of the trees.Gilbert tried to follow him, but Augustus Horton sprang toward him,with an open bowie knife in his hand.

"I am armed," cried Gilbert, "and wrong has made me desperate, followme at your peril."

He bounded through the brushwood, and reached the bank of the river,by the side of which was moored a boat, with three men, who held theiroars, ready to strike the water at the first signal.

The man carrying Cora had already taken his place at the stern of theboat; Gilbert sprang in after them, the oars dipped into the water, andbefore Augustus Horton reached the brink of the river, the boat hadshot out toward the center of the stream.

Upon his own estate, and within a few hundred yards of a regiment ofslaves, the planter had been defied and defeated in his hour of triumph.

The Octoroon had fainted from the excitement of the moment, but thecool breeze from the river quickly restored her to consciousness.

When she re-opened her eyes she found herself reclining on the shoulderof the man who had seized her.

The two men whom Pauline Corsi had met on her way from the house ofSilas Craig to the Villa Moraquitos are not entirely strangers to us.

We saw them last in the solitude of California, living a life of labor,far from all civilized society.

They only reached New Orleans upon the evening after the slave auction,and when Pauline Corsi met them they were in search of an hotel wherethey could spend the night.

In outward appearance they were very much altered from the day when welast beheld them.

Their rough garments were exchanged for the fashionable attire ofgentlemen, and their bearing harmonized well with the change in theircostume.

They entered the hotel, and were immediately conducted to a handsomelyfurnished and brilliantly lighted apartment upon the first floor.

The elder of the two men, the one who had called himself Smith, flunghimself into an easy-chair, after dismissing the waiter with an orderfor a couple of bottles of claret and seltzer water, and lookedcomplacently round the room.

The younger man walked to the open window, from which he watched thereceding form of Pauline Corsi, who, after observing the two men enterthe hotel, hurried onward toward the end of the deserted street.

"That girl's figure reminds me—" he muttered, "but pshaw! what foolishfancies have addled my brain! She is far away on the shores of anothercontinent."

"What are you muttering about over there?" said Smith, who wasevidently in high spirits; "Come here, and drink a tumbler of claret,and let's talk of our plans. To-night has brought us to the end of ourjourney. The time for silence is past, the hour has come in which weare to speak freely."

"Remember; I ask your confidence from no spirit of idle curiosity, and,unless you can give it as freely as I shall give you mine, withhold italtogether."

"Friend, brother," he exclaimed, "there shall be no longer a secretbetween us. I will be the first to speak, light your cigar, and fillyour glass, for the story I have to tell will be a long one."

It was past three o'clock, when the two men retired to rest; they hadtalked long and earnestly, and the reader will soon learn the purportof their conversation.

But late as they sat up overnight, the two friends breakfasted togetherearly the next morning.

"Gracious Providence," he ejaculated, solemnly, "how mysterious are Thyways! I have but come in time. Cora, the beloved daughter of GeraldLeslie, sold in the public auction room! It is too horrible!"

He put on his hat, and after a few words to his friend, hurrieddown-stairs to the bar of the hotel, where he ordered a vehicle to begot ready for him, without delay.

It was strange, that, though so evidently anxious to depart, hepreferred waiting for this vehicle, to walking through the sunnystreets.

In ten minutes, a close carriage was at the door, and, slouching hishat over his eyes, the gold-digger hurried from the bar to the vehicle,into which he sprung, after giving a brief direction to the negrodriver.

Meanwhile his companion lounged over his untasted breakfast. The NewOrleans papers appeared to possess little interest for him. He lookedat them for a few moments and then threw them carelessly aside.

He had shaved off the bushy whiskers he had worn in the Californiasolitude, and his face was only adorned by a small brown mustache.

He was about five-and-thirty years of age, but so slim and elegant infigure as to look considerably younger; and it was easy to see that hewas not a native of America.

Half an hour after the departure of his friend, the waiter brought hima note which had been left at the hotel by an elderly mulattress.

At the first glance at the superscription on this note, the face of theman who called himself Brown, was convulsed by a tumult of emotion.

He tore asunder the envelope, and perused the few lines it contained,then snatching up his hat, he rushed from the house, to the alarm ofthe waiters, who were inclined to think the stranger had suddenly losthis senses.

It was now ten o'clock, and eleven had been appointed for theperformance of the marriage ceremony, but neither the bride norbridemaid had as yet assumed the attire prepared for the occasion, andthe elderly bridegroom, Don Juan Moraquitos, paced uneasily up and downhis solitary chamber.

The gold-digger was admitted by the mulattress, Pepita. It was she whohad carried the note to his hotel.

She conducted him to the elegant boudoir, usually occupied by CamilliaMoraquitos and Pauline Corsi, but which was now untenanted.

The stranger gazed around him in bewilderment, but before he could aska question of Pepita, she had hurried from the room.

"If Armand Tremlay would ascertain the fate of her whom he once loved,let him call without delay at the Villa Moraquitos."

He had read and reread these words, during the brief interval he had towait, before he heard a light footstep approaching the door of the room.

"Pauline," he exclaimed, "my beloved, my darling, what magic is this?How is it, that after thirteen weary years I find you here in America?"

"Because I came hither to see you, Armand! But tell me, before I sayanother word, have you been to France during the past thirteen years?"

"Seven years ago I was in Paris—seven years ago I returned to mynative country, wealthy and distinguished, to fling all at the feetof her, whom I dared to hope might still be faithful. A bitter blowawaited me on my arrival."

"Stay, Armand," said Pauline, laying her hand lightly upon her lover'slips; "tell me all, as it occurred from the first."

She pointed to a sofa and seated herself by the side of Armand Tremlay.Upon a table near her lay the bridal wreaths, which were to be worn byherself and Camillia. The Frenchman perceived the floral coronets, andasked eagerly:

"You shall know that by-and-by," she answered, with an arch smile; "notanother word, until I have heard your story."

An observer would have wondered at the transformation which thepresence of Armand Tremlay effected in Pauline Corsi. She was no longerthe cold and ambitious woman, but a loving and gentle girl, with thetender light of affection beaming in her blue eyes.

"Remember it," answered Pauline, "I have good reason to remember it.That day was the turning point of my life."

"And of mine. Reckless and desperate, I strode through the streetsof Paris, with my breast rent with contending love and hatred. Lovefor you, hatred for the conventionalities of rank, which elevated aninsurmountable barrier between genius and beauty; for I felt that Ihad genius, energy, and patience, to conquer fortune—all the giftswhich help to make men great, and which the haughty lordling dare notdespise, since they are the root of all aristocracies. The very airof France seemed hateful to me, for I despised a country in whichthe differences of rank could part those whom Heaven had created foreach other. I sailed for America, determined that in a free countryI would attain such eminence as might entitle me to sue for the handof a duke's daughter. So enraged was I against the fate which hadseparated us, that I threw aside my old name, and whatever small degreeof distinction might be attached to it, and called myself ForesterTownshend."

"And it was thus that my search for you was fruitless," said Pauline;"but go on."

"Under that assumed name I won considerable eminence as a portraitpainter, throughout the United States, and seven years after leavingFrance, had amassed a considerable fortune. I returned to my nativecountry, resolved, if I found you still true to me, to make one moreappeal to the Duke; and failing in obtaining his consent, to persuadeyou to agree to a clandestine marriage. On reaching Paris, my firstact was to go to the house you had occupied with your supposed fatherand mother. I was told that the family had removed to Milan. I lostnot an hour in traveling to that city, and there I heard from theDuke's steward, the story of Jeannette's death-bed confession, and theheartless way in which you had been treated, by those who for nearlyseventeen years had caressed you as their only child."

"No, dearest; it was an heir for a haughty title, and not a father'saffections, that they sought. Providence punished their ambition,and terrible retribution overtook them for their cruelty in visitingupon your innocent head the crimes of others. The duchess died,broken-hearted at the discovery of her guilty deception, and the Dukewas stabbed by an assassin in the streets of Milan. It is thought thatthis assassin was his kinsman and the heir to his fortune."

"This story is very terrible," she said, solemnly; "I had long agoforgiven their wrong to me, in casting me from home and shelter; but Ihad never forgiven them for parting me from him I loved."

"Dearest Pauline, the ways of Providence are indeed inscrutable. I leftMilan, after vainly endeavoring to ascertain whither you had gone afterleaving the ducal palace. My inquiries were vain, and my only thoughtwas to find you in Paris, to which city I imagined you would have fled.I remained in Paris for three months, during which time I insertednumerous advertisements in the papers, and applied to the police inorder to discover your retreat. At the end of that time I began todespair of ever finding you, and I was seized with a gloomy convictionthat you had committed suicide in the first moments of your anguish. Ileft my fortune in the hands of my mother, in whose care it has beenaccumulating year by year, and withdrawing only sufficient to pay myvoyage to America, I once more turned my back upon my native country."

"I did, but I was an altered man. I had no longer a purpose to upholdme—the motive for industry was gone. I traveled from city to city,earning plenty of money by my art, but spending it recklessly; and,forgive me, Pauline, wasting it often in the transient excitement ofthe gaming-table. I was too restless to remain in one place; I soughtfor change of scene, and for a life of action, for I was foreverhaunted by the memory of your unhappy fate; and one day I found myselfin San Francisco, homeless and penniless. I had flung away my lastdollar at the gaming-table. It was then that I resolved on accumulatinga second fortune, and returning to France once more to seek for you. Asudden inspiration seemed to take possession of my mind; I felt that inall I had done, I had not done enough, and I determined to redouble myefforts, and devote the remainder of my life to the search for you."

"Ay, Pauline, in so unlooked for a manner, that I almost doubt now ifthis is not some strange but rapturous dream."

She held out her hand to him as she spoke, and in the expression ofthat one word, "Armand," there was enough to tell him that he had nocause for fear. He lifted the little hand to his lips and covered itwith kisses.

He was interrupted by the entrance of the mulattress, Pepita, whobrought a sealed packet addressed to Pauline Corsi, in the hand ofSilas Craig.

The mulattress retired. Pauline broke the seals of the envelope, andtook from it a parchment document, folded in an oblong form. Upon theflap of the envelope were written these words:

"I send you that which you required of me. The advertisement appears into-day's paper.—S.C."

"Come, Armand," said Pauline, "I have changed much since you first knewme; the bitter wrongs of my youth had a terrible influence upon mywomanhood. I have been ambitious, heartless, mercenary, designing; butwith your return my old nature comes back to me, and the fresh feelingsof my girlhood revive."

"Shall be worn by me, but not to-day. Tell me, Armand, do you stilllove me, the nameless orphan, the spurious child, as you did, when youthought me the heiress of one of Italy's proudest dukes? Have yourfeelings for me undergone no change since you learned that secret?"

"Yes, my beloved, and the change is that you are ten times dearer to meto-day than you were ten years ago; for I have known what it is to loseyou."

They descended to the drawing-room, where Paul Lisimon was seated incompany with two of the most fashionable men in the city; guests whohad been invited to witness the intended marriage ceremony.

Every citizen in New Orleans had seen the advertisement in thatmorning's paper, an advertisement which declared the entire innocenceof Paul Lisimon of the crime imputed to him, and described the wholeaffair as a practical joke.

The young man rose as Pauline Corsi entered the room, and dropping hisface, said to her, "I received your letter from the hands of CaptainPrendergills, and am here in answer to your summons."

"When a woman has a powerful will, there is scarcely anything shecannot accomplish. When last we met, Paul Lisimon, I made you aproposal, which you rejected with scorn. In spite of my anger I honoredyou for that rejection; I am now about to avenge myself."

"I no longer address you as Paul Lisimon; that name is in itself alie; Paul Crivelli, read this document; it is the genuine will of yourfather, Don Tomaso."

As she spoke, she placed the parchment which had been sent her by SilasCraig, in the hands of the bewildered young man.

This brief dialogue had been spoken in so low a tone as to escapethe ears of the two visitors standing by the chimney-piece. It wasonly overheard by Armand Tremlay, to whom the entire conversation wasunintelligible.

At this moment a young mulattress entered the room, and announced"Captain Prendergills."

Augustus Horton left the plantation at daybreak on the morning afterthe scene between himself and Cora Leslie.

He knew that he had the law on his side, and that Gilbert Margravemight be made to pay dearly for his abduction of the Octoroon.

But what if Gilbert and Cora should escape, and make their way to theFree States of America?

He was almost mad with fury as this thought arose to his brain.Immediately upon his arrival in New Orleans, he dispatched a messengerfor his confederate and evil counselor, Silas Craig, and at nineo'clock the two men were seated opposite to each other at a wellfurnished breakfast table.

Augustus was terrified at beholding the change which the last twelvehours had wrought in the appearance of the attorney.

His face was almost ghastly in its corpse-like hue; purple circlessurrounded his bloodshot eyes, and his lips were black and dry, likethose of a sufferer in the worst stage of fever.

Throughout the weary night he had never ceased to pace up and down thenarrow space in his office, pondering upon his interview with PaulineCorsi.

The whole scaffolding of his life had fallen away, leaving himwell-nigh crushed amongst the ruins.

The dark labyrinth of crime was closing upon his steps, and he knew notthe end which lay before him.

But Augustus Horton was ignorant of the darker crimes which hadleft their foul stain upon the lawyer's life. He knew him to be anunscrupulous rogue, and associated with him because he was useful.

The first step taken by the two men was to communicate with the police,informing them of the abduction of Cora, and offering a large rewardfor the apprehension of the fugitives.

This done, Silas Craig told his employer of the advertisement whichhad been inserted in that day's paper, the advertisement which clearedthe character of Paul Lisimon, and described the whole affair of therobbery as a practical joke.

His rage and mortification knew no bounds. He declared that he had beenfooled, duped, played with, by Silas Craig; and demanded what right thelawyer had to serve him in this manner.

"Scoundrel!" he said; "you have been bribed by Camillia Moraquitos;that Spanish woman has paid you to betray me."

"You have no need to call hard names, Mr. Horton," answered Silas; "Ihave been paid by no one. It was necessary to my own welfare to dothis; and I have done it. Think yourself lucky that I did not betrayyou, and let the worthy citizens of New Orleans know your share in thetransaction."

Augustus Horton's cheeks and brow flushed purple with suppressed rage.He felt that he was in the attorney's power; and that a word from Silasmight blast his name forever.

"Come," he said; "the business is done, it seems; it is therefore toolate to talk of it. My first task must be to find this Octoroon and herlover."

"Escape!" cried Augustus, furiously; "I would sooner perish in theattempt to overtake them."

"Come, then! the St. Louis packet starts in ten minutes from this time.They may take that opportunity of leaving the city."

The two men hurried to the quay; but they were too late; the steamerhad started half an hour earlier than the time mentioned by Silas Craig.

They made inquiries of the clerks about the pier, but no one seemedable to give them any information.

As they were leaving the quay, Silas Craig uttered an exclamation ofastonishment on recognizing the lanky figure of William Bowen, who wasadvancing toward them at a leisurely pace.

The overseer wore a broad-brimmed straw hat, and the light linen coatand trousers customary throughout Louisiana.

"You here, William?" exclaimed Silas, with surprise; "I thought youwere at Iberville, where I left you in charge of my plantation."

"I know you did," he said; "but you see I've left those parts. I guessI wrote you a letter, Mr. Craig, a week or two ago."

"Ah, I don't mind Mr. Horton knowing our private transactions," saidBill; "I asked for the loan of a paltry thousand dollars, and yourefused me. Now, considering all these things, I thought this wasrather shabby conduct, so I've discharged myself from your employment,and I calculate you'll have to look out for another overseer."

Augustus Horton was prepared to see the attorney resent the insolenceof this speech, but to his surprise Silas seemed only anxious toconciliate Bowen.

"My dear William," he said, "you must remember that you have driven merather hard lately. However, suppose you call upon me at my office.We'll settle matters there."

"We will settle matters, I reckon, Mr. Craig," answered Bowen, and aclose observer might have detected a peculiar significance in his tone.

But Silas Craig was too much agitated to perceive this. He had notyet recovered from the extraordinary revealments made to him in hisinterview with Pauline Corsi. He felt like a man who walks blindfoldupon the verge of a precipice, and who knows that every new footstepmay hurl him to the gulf below.

Augustus and the attorney were leaving the quay when William Bowencalled after them.

"I guess you were up to something down here, gents," he said; "you werelooking after somebody, weren't you?"

"The gal as you're after is Gerald Leslie's daughter, the Octoroon,I'll lay a hundred dollars?" cried Bowen.

"I'm darned if I didn't calculate as much," he said; "then I'm sorry totell you, Mr. Horton, that the young lady's bolted with that Britisheras was so uncommon peart on board the Selma. They left by the St. Louispacket half an hour ago. I thought there was something in the wind, butI'd no authority to stop 'em."

"D—n!" muttered Augustus Horton; "that Englishman has foiled meat every turn. The next packet for St. Louis starts the day afterto-morrow. They'll have eight-and-forty hours start of us, and they'llmake their way to a Free State."

"If there's law in New Orleans," he cried, "I'll have them overtaken,and brought back."

"I think I managed that job rather neatly," he said, with a maliciouschuckle. "I've paid you out, Mr. Augustus Horton, for any impudenceI've ever taken from you; and in a couple of hours more, my friend,Silas Craig, you and I will have squared our accounts for the lasttime."

Augustus and the attorney walked back to the house of the former, aftermaking arrangements for the pursuit of Cora Leslie and her lover.The planter was maddened by his defeat, and utterly merciless to theunhappy girl who had, for a time at least, escaped from his power.

"I'll have her brought back," he cried, "and lashed as a runaway slave.I'll have her advertised in every paper in Louisiana. I'll spend everydollar I possess rather than let her escape me, and I'll make GilbertMargrave pay dearly for his insolence."

Silas and the planter found Adelaide Horton and Mrs. Montresor seatedbeneath the veranda on the morning room, which opened into a smallgarden.

The weather was so warm, that the two ladies had left the interior ofthe apartment for the airy shade of this veranda.

We have not seen Adelaide Horton since the scene on board theSelma—that disgraceful scene, in which the young girl had suffered thepangs of jealousy to goad her to an action unworthy the better feelingsof her impulsive nature. Bitter and immediate had been the punishmentwhich followed that action.

Despised by the man she loved, cast off by her cousin and affiancedhusband, Mortimer Percy; harassed with the tortures of self-reproach,the unhappy girl had ample cause for painful reflection and regret.

She would have made any sacrifice to recall her words of denunciationthe moment after their utterance.

The memory of her old friendship for Cora Leslie stung her to theheart, and the mildly reproachful gaze of the Octoroon haunted herperpetually.

Mrs. Montresor had done her best to console her niece; but Adelaide'sgayety and light-heartedness had entirely deserted her.

She was no longer the same high-spirited girl who had arrived twomonths before in New Orleans.

The ladies looked up from their work as Augustus and the lawyerapproached them. Adelaide perceived her brother's ill-concealedagitation, and asked the cause of it.

"They have," answered Augustus with an oath, "but they shall not longescape me. Listen to me, Adelaide; you may wonder at the passion Ifeel upon this subject, but my pride has been humiliated by the coolinsolence of the Octoroon, and whatever motive I may have had for myconduct at the slave sale yesterday, I have now no purpose but thatof bringing Cora Leslie's haughty spirit to the dust. I will have herfound and brought back to New Orleans, and I will give her to you asyour lady's-maid. I know that there is little love lost between you,and that I could not easily inflict a greater humiliation upon my finelady."

"I will. The girl cost me fifty thousand dollars, but I care fornothing now but revenge. Make her your lady's maid—bring her nose tothe grind-stone—let her feel what it is to be the slave of the womanwho hates her."

"I will gladly accept your gift, Augustus," said Adelaide, eagerly;"but I fear that you will change your mind."

"Then suppose you write a memorandum of your gift, and sign it in thepresence of Mr. Craig and my aunt."

"Willingly," replied Augustus, and seating himself at the tablescrawled a few lines, transferring the Octoroon to his sister, andafter signing the document, pushed it across to Silas Craig.

"Witness that, Craig," he said, "since my sister is so much afraid ofmy breaking my word."

Adelaide took up the paper, glanced at its contents, and placed it inthe pocket of her dress.

"I cannot tell you, my dear Augustus, how grateful I am to you for thisgift," she said, exchanging a look of peculiar significance with heraunt, Mrs. Montresor.

Five minutes afterward, Myra, the Quadroon slave, announced Mr. Leslieand Mr. Percy.

Augustus Horton started at the sound of those names. Mortimer Percyhad been absent from New Orleans since the night of the duel betweenhis cousin and Gilbert Margrave. A faint flush suffused the cheek ofAdelaide Horton; she felt that she was about to meet the man who hadonce loved, but now despised her.

Augustus was utterly ignorant that Gerald Leslie had assisted incarrying off the Octoroon; he had recognized no one but GilbertMargrave, upon the night of the abduction.

The planter received his visitors with cold politeness, but therat-like eyes of the attorney glanced with a look of hatred at GeraldLeslie.

Silas Craig started from his seat with an angry oath. "What brings youhere," he cried, "Toby?"

"Do not blame him, Mr. Craig," answered Gerald Leslie, quietly, "it isI who brought Toby here."

"Oh, it was you, was it? and by what right do you order my slavesabout, pray, Mr. Leslie?"

"You will learn that in due time; I have reason to think that Toby'spresence will be needed."

The attorney quailed beneath the steady gaze of Gerald Leslie. He feltthat some hidden danger was threatened by this visit.

"Pray, Mr. Leslie," said Augustus Horton, "may I venture to ask themotive which has brought you and my cousin to a house in which you canhardly expect to be welcome?"

"You will very soon know that, Mr. Horton," answered Gerald. "Our visitto-day is to Mr. Craig, rather than to yourself; and our motive incoming to this house is that you may learn the true character of theman whom you have chosen as your associate."

"I require no such teaching, Mr. Leslie," said Augustus, haughtily."Silas Craig, why do you sit there like a stock? Why don't you speak,man; and ask Gerald Leslie what he means by this?"

"Shall I answer that question, Mr. Horton," replied Leslie. "SilasCraig does not speak because he dares not; because he knows his ownguilt, and knows that the seizure and sale of my property, which tookplace yesterday, was an illegal one."

"Yes, illegal; because that seizure was made for a debt which I did notowe. The sole claim which that man, Silas Craig, had upon me, was adebt of one hundred dollars. That debt was paid to him a year ago by mylate partner, Philip Treverton."

Silas Craig laughed aloud; but it was a hollow and affected mirth,which could scarcely have deceived the most shallow observer.

"You are either a fool or a madman, Gerald Leslie," he said. "If PhilipTreverton had paid the money he would have had a document; who canprove the payment of the debt?"

"I can!" exclaimed William Bowen, emerging from the window of themorning room. "You refused me a paltry thousand dollars, Mr. SilasCraig; I reckon I've paid you out for your shabby conduct. Here's thereceipt—the genuine document—in your own handwriting, signed withyour own name, and given by you to Philip Treverton."

He thrust an open paper into the attorney's hand. Silas sat gasping atthe document, as if he had been rooted to the spot.

"Ay, you may stare," said Bowen. "You told me to burn that paper,didn't you, upon the night of Philip Treverton's death? And you sawme burn it as you thought; but I knew the slippery customer I had todeal with, and I changed the papers. You thought you heard footstepsoutside the door, and while you turned round to listen I substituted ablank sheet of foolscap for the receipt, and thrust it into the fire.You saw the blaze, and you were satisfied. I kept the genuine document,thinking it might be useful."

Paul Lisimon received the parchment from the hand of Pauline Corsi,with the bewildered manner of one who scarce knows whether he is awakeor dreaming; but the entrance of the Captain of the Amazon obliged theyoung man to recover from the temporary stupor into which he had beenthrown.

"It means," answered the Frenchwoman, "that you should guard thatpaper as dearly as your life. Ask me no questions till you have seenDon Juan Moraquitos, and come with me at once to his study. CaptainPrendergills, you will wait till I summon you?"

"You, Armand, will leave me for to-day," murmured Pauline, placing herhand in that of her lover; "I have a task to perform before I shall beworthy of your affection. In the meantime trust me, and wait."

"I will," answered the artist; "I will return to my hotel and be readyto attend you at any moment you may need my presence."

"Gentlemen," said the Frenchwoman, turning to the two visitors, whowere looking on with considerable wonderment, at a scene they had beenunable to comprehend, "I fear that we have sadly wasted your valuabletime. Events have occurred which will unavoidably postpone the ceremonyyou were invited to witness."

The two gentlemen expressed their regret and retired, accompanied byArmand Tremlay. Captain Prendergills seated himself in an easy-chair,and stretching his great legs upon an embroidered cushion, took a pipeand tobacco-pouch from his pocket, and prepared to enjoy himself.

"If you could send me a bottle of brandy to wet my lips with, while I'mwaiting, I should take it kindly, mademoiselle," he said.

Pauline promised that his request should be attended to, and left theroom followed by Paul.

But on the threshold of Don Juan's private apartment, she paused andhesitated for a moment.

"He knows nothing yet of what has happened," she said; "I better seehim alone. Wait!"

She entered the apartment and remained about a quarter of an hour. Thatperiod seemed an age to the young man as he paced up and down the hall.

He had thrust the parchment into the bosom of his coat. He was dying toperuse its contents, but refrained from doing so until he could gainthe solitude of his own chamber.

He did not perceive two glaring eyes which followed his every movementfrom a dark corner of the shady hall.

The eyes were those of Tristan, the slave, who stood concealed behindone of the pillars which supported the ceiling of the apartment.Pauline Corsi at last emerged from the chamber of Don Juan.

"He will not see you yet," she said; "but in two hours from this timeyou are to go to him, and all will be arranged. He promises that thepast shall be atoned for, at least as far as you are concerned. In themeantime you had better rest, for you look haggard and worn out, as ifyou had not slept for long."

"I have not," answered Paul; "my duties on board the Amazon and my owntroubles have hindered me from sleep."

"Then go to your own room and rest. Remember your interview with DonJuan will be a painful one, and you will need to be prepared for it."

"Not until you have seen her father. Nay, do not think me cruel; trustme, I act for the best. She has seen your name and character cleared tothe eyes of the world, and she is happy. You will forget the foolishwords I spoke to you when last we met in the house, and you will trustme, will you not?"

He retired to his old apartment. It had been undisturbed since the dayon which he quitted it. His books and papers all remained as he hadleft them, not a speck of dust had gathered upon any article in theroom.

He knew not that this was owing to the orders given by CamilliaMoraquitos to her favorite slave, Pepita.

He entered the chamber, and was about to secure the door before readingthe document given to him by Pauline, but he found, to his surprise,that there was no key in the lock.

He had always been in the habit of locking the door, and he knew,therefore, that the key had been removed since he left the villa.

Taking the parchment from his breast he seated himself near thewindow, beneath the shade of the Venetian shutters, and commenced hisexamination of the all-important document.

It was the last will and testament of Tomaso Crivelli, in which theSpaniard bequeathed his entire fortune to his only and beloved son,Paul Crivelli. Attached to the will was a letter addressed to Paul,in which Don Tomaso revealed to him that he was the son of a favoritequadroon slave, whom the Spaniard had married after giving her herfreedom.

The marriage had been kept a secret on account of the false pride ofDon Tomaso, which would not permit him to acknowledge as his wife onewho was known to have been a slave.

After reading these two documents the young man fell upon his knees inan attitude of thanksgiving.

"Providence, I thank thee!" he exclaimed. "I am no longer a namelessoutcast—a dependent on the charity of strangers. He whom I so dearlyloved was indeed my father, and humble though my mother may have been,her son has no cause to blush for her."

He would not trust them about his own person lest his uncle should havefound some plot to get them from him; he therefore secured them in asmall leathern portmanteau, the lock of which would have defied thecleverest thief in America.

The key he attached to a thin gold chain, which he wore under hiswaistcoat, and which held the locket containing Camillia's portrait;the locket which had been observed by Augustus Horton.

The whole business had occupied half an hour; he had therefore an hourand a half to wait before his interview with Don Juan Moraquitos.

Pauline Corsi had forbidden him to leave his apartments until summonedto that interview.

A low couch stood near the open window, and Paul threw himself upon thecushion, and abandoned himself to reflection.

He did not mean to sleep, but the morning was hot and sultry; andexhausted by excitement and by long nights of fatigue, his eyes closedand he fell into a slumber.

While he lay in that strange state of semi-consciousness, which isneither sleeping nor waking, he fancied that he saw a dark figure glidesoftly in at the door of the chamber and conceal itself behind theample folds of the window curtains.

This figure entered the room with so noiseless a tread and disappearedso quickly that Paul, whose eyes had been closed all the time, thoughtthe apparition formed part of his dream.

He fell into a deep slumber, from which he was suddenly aroused by theshutting of the door of his apartment.

This door had been closed so quietly, that the sound would have beenunheard by an ordinary sleeper; but the overstrained state of the youngman's nerves was such that a whisper would have awakened him.

The room was darkened by the closed Venetian shutters, which excludedthe burning sun, and left the apartment in shadow.

He tore aside the window curtains, but there was no one lurking behindtheir voluminous draperies.

He had placed it on a chair near the couch, on which he lay, but thechair was empty.

He rushed from the room, and to the hall below; the first person hemet was Pepita. He inquired of her, if she had met any one carrying aportmanteau.

"Tristan jes carry one out of de house den, massa; Pepita see him,"answered the mulattress.

Paul waited to hear no more, but rushed to the back premises, amongstwhich the wood-house was situated.

The wood-house was a rudely constructed building, in which timber waskept for the stoves. As Paul approached the door, he perceived wreathsof pale blue smoke issuing from the crevices in the wood work.

This smoke indicated the burning of timber in the hut. Paul tried toopen the door, but it was bolted on the inside. He flung himself withall his force against it, but it resisted his efforts.

He felt that the slave Tristan had taken the portmanteau into the hutfor some evil design.

"Tristan!" he cried, "Tristan! open the door, or I will shoot youthrough a crevice in the wood."

The negro only answered with a mocking laugh. Meanwhile the smoke,increasing every minute in volume, almost suffocated the young man withits stifling fumes.

Suddenly Paul remembered that on the other side of the wood-house therewas a small window which admitted light into the building.

The shutters were nailed together, but the wood was rotten and thehinges worn and rusty.

Paul wrenched them asunder with the rapidity of lightning, dashed hishand through the dingy glass of the window, flung it open and spranginto the hut.

A log fire was blazing in the center of the building, and Tristan, thenegro, knelt over the flames with the portmanteau in his hand.

Paul sprang upon him and tore the leather case from his grasp, but thenegro was the stronger of the two.

Again Paul flung himself upon him, and this time the struggle betweenthe two men was terrible in its intensity.

The face of Paul was white with concentrated rage, while the dilatedeyes of the negro glared like those of a fiend.

Tristan's superior strength had nearly mastered his opponent, when,with a desperate effort, Paul grasped the portmanteau, and with onewell-planted blow, brought the negro to the ground.

Paul returned to the house carrying the precious burden with him. Twohours had nearly expired, and the time approached for his interviewwith Don Juan.

He carried the portmanteau to his apartment, unlocked it, took out thedocuments and placed them once more in his bosom, determined to carrythem on his person at any risk.

He looked at his watch. Two hours had fully expired. The interview wasto take place at one o'clock. The hands upon the dial pointed to thehour.

He left his room in order to proceed to Don Juan's apartment; but uponthe landing-place his steps were arrested by a strange and appallingsound.

Paul was not the only person who heard the ominous sound. As hepaused for a moment motionless with horror and alarm, the door of theapartment opposite to him was opened and Pauline Corsi stood upon thethreshold.

She was not alone; close behind her appeared the pale face of CamilliaMoraquitos.

The Spanish girl endeavored to rush out upon the landing, but Paulinethrew her arms about her and arrested her steps.

"Keep her back," she cried; "if you love her, keep her back, Paul,while I go and see what that sound means."

Paul obeyed; he led Camillia back into her own apartment, andendeavored to calm her agitation.

But in vain. She would not listen to his attempts at consolation; butimplored him again and again to let her go to her father.

"I know that something dreadful has happened," she said; "you are allin league to deceive me. My father is in danger, and you are cruelenough to keep me from rushing to his side."

At this moment Pauline Corsi returned. The young man saw by her ghastlyface that something terrible had indeed occurred.

Camillia caught hold of her hand. "He can see my father. Ah, then he issafe; he is safe, Pauline?" she cried.

He followed her down the stairs; but on the threshold of Don Juan'schamber she paused, and took the young man's hand in hers, which wasicy cold.

"Prepare yourself for a fearful shock, Paul," she said, "for an awfulsight. Are you brave enough to encounter them?"

"Crime brings a fearful retribution," murmured the Frenchwoman, in anawe-stricken voice; "and however slow the footsteps of the avenger, heis not the less sure to overtake his victim. Your uncle has paid thepenalty of his sins."

Don Juan Moraquitos lay upon the rich Persian carpet, his face towardthe ground, and a pistol lying a few paces from his outstretched hand.

A more ghastly sight had never been shone upon by the bright summersun, whose beams stole into the apartment through the Venetianshutters, and illuminated the blood-stained floor, on which the suicidewas stretched.

Upon the table in the center of the room lay a letter addressed to PaulCrivelli.

The ink of the superscription was still wet, though the hand which hadfashioned the characters was now that of a corpse.

Paul tore open the envelope, and read the words written within. Thesuicide's letter ran thus:

Let us return to the moment at which Silas Craig received from thehands of William Bowen, his accomplice and tool, the document which hehad fully believed to be destroyed.

It is thus that the wicked are always deserted and betrayed by theirallies. The old phrase, "Honor among thieves," is a false and delusiveone.

Among the dishonest there can be no honor. The same impulse whichprompts them to cheat and deceive their victims, will, at another time,induce them to cheat each other.

Thus it was with the unscrupulous overseer, William Bowen; so long ashis employer had paid him for his silence he was content to suppressthe guilty secret of the money which Silas had received from PhilipTreverton, but on the first occasion of the attorney's refusing tosupply him with funds, he was ready to turn round and betray him.

It was with this view that he had contrived to substitute a blank sheetof paper, and to preserve the actual receipt written and signed bySilas Craig.

The wealthy attorney, the pretended Christian, stood convicted a cheatand a swindler.

"Bear witness, Mr. Leslie, and you, Mortimer," he said, "that I did notknow what this man was."

Silas Craig gnashed his teeth in silence; then crushing the paper inhis hand, he rose from his chair and looked about him.

It was the look of a wild beast at bay; the look of a fox that knowsthe chase is over and the dogs are round him.

He sees their glaring eyes, he feels their hot and hungry breath, buthe determines on concentrating the energy of his nature on one lasteffort.

"This receipt is a forgery!" he screamed, in a shrill and broken voice."I deny its validity!"

"Take care, Silas Craig," said his old accomplice, "I calculate lyingwon't save you. You'd better speak the truth for once in a way, Ireckon, and throw yourself upon the mercy of these gents."

"I deny its validity!" repeated the attorney; "it's an infamousforgery, fabricated by that man, William Bowen. I defy any livingcreature to prove that Philip Treverton paid me one hundred thousanddollars."

"Beware, Silas Craig!" said a voice from the interior of the apartment."You defy the living, do you also defy the dead?"

A man emerged from the shadow of the curtains about the window. Thatman was the elder of the two gold-diggers; but he was no stranger tothose assembled there.

Those present never forgot the expression of the attorney's face, aswith open mouth and protruding eyeballs, he stared at the newcomer.

It was but for a moment that they beheld the gaze of horror, for afterone brief glance he covered his face with his outspread hands.

"Yes, Gerald," answered the stranger, extending his hand to Cora'sfather; "that Philip Treverton whom you have been taught to think agamester and a cheat. That Philip to whom, when about to sail forEngland, you intrusted a large sum of money, to be paid by him to thatwretch yonder. You departed, secure in the belief that your friend andpartner was a man of honor, and that the money was as safe in his handsas in your own. On your return you were told that your friend was dead,and that the money had not been paid. I have only learned to-day, fromthe lips of Bowen there, your noble and generous conduct. You utteredno word of complaint, no syllable of reproach, but you bore up to thelast against the reverses brought upon you, as you thought, by thedishonor of another."

"Do not speak of that, Philip," said Gerald Leslie; "I attributed theloss of the money to some fatal moment of imprudence, and I never, evenin thought, accused you of dishonor."

"Imprudence would have been dishonor in such a case," answered PhilipTreverton. "Ay, Silas Craig, well may you hide your face from me—wellmay your eyes refuse to meet those of the man you would have murdered!"

"Murdered!" exclaimed Gerald and Mortimer, while the women listenedwith white and terrified faces to the disclosures of the returnedwanderer.

"Yes, murdered. It is a foul word to speak beneath the broad blue sky,and in the sunlight of yonder heaven, but it is the word for all that."

"Silas Craig," cried Augustus Horton, "have you no word to answer toall this? Can you sit calmly there and hear these accusations? Speak,man, speak, and give your accuser the lie."

"He cannot!" said Philip Treverton, pointing to the lawyer. "Is thatthe attitude of a man who is falsely accused? Look at him; look at himcrouching like a beaten hound beneath its master's whip."

"Do not speak of him," cried Gerald Leslie, impetuously, "but explainthis mystery. How is it that for a twelvemonth you have disappearedfrom New Orleans, to return at this moment of ruin and despair?"

"I will tell you," answered Philip Treverton; "and I call upon thisman, William Bowen, here, to bear witness of my truth, and on yonderwretch to contradict me if he dare. Upward of a year ago I was leftby you with the sum of one hundred thousand dollars in my hands—theamount of the loan advanced to our firm by the usurer, Silas Craig.This was to be repaid upon a certain date; that date fell about amonth after your departure for England. I held the money more sacredthan my life, and I laid it by in the strong box devoted to importantdocuments."

"I did; but I was by no means faultless. I was the victim of a vicewhich has brought dishonor upon men who never thought to blush beforetheir fellow men—I was a gamester! I devoted my days to businesscheerfully, conscientiously; but at night the demon of the dice-boxlured me from my quiet home, and led me to a secret gaming-house inColumbia Street—a house known to all the gamblers of New Orleans, butwhich flourishes in bold defiance of the law. I had known this housefor years, and had been a constant guest at its unholy altars, butthere was one thing concerning it that I did not know."

"Its owner! I did not know that Silas Craig, the lawyer, thatsanctimonious attorney whom men met every Sunday morning in the sacredtemple of Heaven; I did not know that this man was the proprietor ofthat earthly hell, the wretch that pandered in secret to the vices ofhis fellow-citizens. I did not know this, and I did not know that thegaming-house in Columbia Street communicated by a secret passage withthe office of Silas Craig."

"Ay, the secret has been well kept; and it was a secret that was onlyto have been known to me when the hand of Death was on my lips to sealthem to eternal silence. But the ways of Providence are inscrutable.The day arrived upon which our debt to this man became due. At twelveo'clock on that day I called, delivered to him the sum of one hundredthousand dollars in bills of exchange, and received his writtenacknowledgment of the money. This done I left as light as a feather.A load was removed from my mind, and I determined to spend a day ofenjoyment. I dined with some friends at an hotel, and after sittinglate over the table, and drinking a good deal of wine, we adjourned tothe gambling-house in Columbia Street."

There was a brief pause; but Silas Craig never stirred from his abjectattitude, never attempted by either word or gesture, to contradict thespeaker.

"We played for some hours, but my friends were not such inveterategamesters as myself, and they grew weary of the demoniac fever. Afterpersuading me to quit the place with them, they at last lost patiencewith my folly and departed, leaving me still at the fatal green cloth.It was by this time four o'clock in the morning. I had drunk a greatdeal, and I had been losing money. My head was bewildered; my braindizzy, and my temper soured by my losses. The room was almost deserted,but I still sat with my eyes fixed upon the game, madly endeavoring toretrieve my losses. At this crisis a great brawny fellow opposite tome, a Frenchman, ventured to insult me. Tipsy as I was, I was in nohumor to brook this. I sprung toward him to chastise his insolence, anda fight ensued, in which I was getting the worst of it, when one of thebystanders interfered, and suggested that we should resort to smallswords, and finish the business in a more gentlemanly manner."

"It was! A villainous and foul plot, concocted by yonder strickenwretch. Stupefied and bewildered, I let them do what they pleased withme, and I know nothing of what happened till I found a duelling swordin my hand, and saw that my adversary was armed in the same fashion.By this time the room was entirely deserted, except by my antagonist,the other man, and myself. This other man—the same who had suggestedour using swords—opened a door in the wall, a door which I had neverbefore perceived, and pushed me into a long dimly lighted corridor,which was also strange to me. The door closed behind us, and we hurriedalong the corridor for some distance, until we were stopped by thestranger who had taken upon himself the management of the business.He placed us opposite to each other, put the swords into our hands,and gave us the signal to begin. I felt in a moment that I was a lostman. My head spun round. In the dim light I could scarcely see myadversary's face, as the lamps were so arranged that what light therewas fell full upon mine. In vain I tried to parry his thrusts. I hadbeen twice wounded slightly on the shoulder, when the lights weresuddenly extinguished, and I felt the sharp pang of a stab from a longand slender sword.

"But this stab did not come from my opponent. Although I lostconsciousness upon the moment of receiving the stroke, I knew that Iwas stabbed in the back."

"When I recovered my senses I found myself in a lonely boat-house onthe banks of the Mississippi, four miles from New Orleans. I was lyingon a mattress, and my wound had been dressed by a surgeon; but I wastoo feeble, from loss of blood and the pain I had endured, to utter aword, or ask one question of the man seated by my side."

"No! William Bowen, the accomplice of Silas Craig, had repented of thehorrible work as soon as it was done; and, under pretense of carryingmy body to the river, had contrived to convey me to this lonely shed,which belonged to a friend of his."

"Stop a bit, Mr. Treverton," interrupted William; "when Mr. Craigsettled with me that we were to set that villainous Frenchman on toyou, get up a duel, and rob you of the receipt for the hundred thousanddollars, it was agreed that you were to be attacked in fair fight, andthat you were not to be seriously hurt. It was Mr. Silas Craig yonderwho couldn't be content with this; it was he who turned out the gasin the thick of the fight, and stabbed you in the back. You droppeddown like a dead man; but the lawyer there was too great a coward tomake sure whether you were really dead; he dared not approach within acouple of yards of his victim. He told me to ransack your pockets, andsecure the receipt; and then, assisted by the Frenchman, to carry thebody to the river."

"I did; but I contrived to get rid of the Frenchman as soon as wereached the quay, and then, dropping my bleeding burden into a boat, Irowed down to the boat-house, where I sought a surgeon to look at mypatient. Mr. Treverton knows the rest."

"I do, William," answered Philip Treverton; "I know that you attendedme faithfully and patiently; and then when I recovered you assisted meto get off to California, whence, after nearly a twelve-months' toil, Ireturn so rich a man as to be able to recompense the noble conduct ofmy old friend, Gerald Leslie. As for yonder wretch," he added, pointingto Craig, "defeat has followed so utterly upon his career of crime thatI doubt if the law can do much more to punish him. He will refund thehundred thousand dollars of which he has defrauded his victim."

"I will," gasped the unhappy wretch, rising, and staggering towardthe door; "I am rich; take what you will. I shall leave New Orleansforever—"

He stopped suddenly, and passed his handkerchief across his lips; whenhe removed it, it was stained with patches of crimson.

A deathly and terrible gloom reigned in the Villa Moraquitos after theawful catastrophe which had closed the life of Don Juan.

It was impossible to keep the entire truth from Camillia. She was toldthat she was fatherless, but that the report which she had heard wasthe result of an accident. The poor girl was made to believe that DonJuan had perished through an accident which had occurred to him whilecleaning the fire-arms that ornamented his study. Pauline Corsi watchedover her with the tenderness of an elder sister; but the stricken girlabandoned herself to a grief which seemed almost inconsolable.

Late in the afternoon, Paul Crivelli left the house of death, andproceeded to the hotel at which Armand Tremlay was staying.

He was the bearer of a letter from Pauline Corsi; and he informed theartist of the terrible event which had happened since that morning.

"It will be, therefore, some months before I can hope that my cousinCamillia will assume the right to a still dearer name," said Paul,after they had talked for some time of the awful event.

"I imagine so," answered Armand; "and Pauline tells me that I must bepatient, as she will not consent to our marriage taking place on anyday but that appointed for yours."

The two young men left the hotel and walked through the more retiredstreets, until they left the city behind them, and emerged upon thebanks of the river.

So much, too, had the terrible event of the day broken down thebarriers of ceremony and restraint, that they seemed already like oldfriends.

They walked on, talking of the singular occurrences which had checkeredtheir two lives, until the sun was sinking into the bosom of theMississippi, and until they found themselves at a considerable distancefrom the city.

In order to regain New Orleans by a shorter route, they struck into awood that bordered the river.

The sun was fading behind the trunks of the trees, and the wood waslonely as some primeval forest.

They had walked for some little distance, when they came suddenly uponthe figure of a negro, reclining at the foot of an immense American oak.

He started to his feet as they approached, and Paul recognized the manwith whom he had that morning struggled, Tristan, the slave belongingto the late Don Juan.

"It is you," he cried, "you—you! You haunt me wherever I go. I hadcome here to die."

"Yes. I have poison here," he said, clutching at some object in thebreast of his shirt. "I overheard all this morning, and I should havebeen your ruin, had you not overpowered me. I would have burnt theevidence of your birth. I would have prevented your union with CamilliaMoraquitos—with her I love?"

"Yes, I am mad. What can that slave be but mad who dares to love hismistress? I would grovel upon the earth, and suffer her foot to trampleupon my neck. I would die a thousand deaths, but I am mad, and I loveher. I have loved her from those happy hours when she was a littlechild by yonder sunny river, and I was her plaything, her dog, herslave, but still her companion; and now she loathes and despises thewretched slave, and loves another, and mad Tristan has come into thisforest to die."

The glaring eyes of the negro had so much of the fire of insanity intheir savage light that the two young men thought he was indeed mad.

"Beware," cried the slave, snatching a knife from his breast. "Bewarehow you cross my path! You are unarmed, and, strong as you are, feebleagainst the strength of madness. Avoid me, if you value your ownsafety; you, Paul Crivelli, above all others, should shun me, for Ihate you. Avoid me, then, if you would not tempt me to destroy you."

He uttered a wild cry, and sprang toward Paul, with the knife upliftedin his powerful right hand, but the two young men were prepared for theblow, and while Armand Tremlay seized the hand holding the dagger, Paultwisted a silk handkerchief into a bandage, with which they bound thearms of the negro.

The violent paroxysm of madness had passed, and the wretched man was asquiet as a child.

They took him to the Villa Moraquitos, where they placed him under thecare of his mother, assisted by a powerful negro, belonging to thehousehold.

"Restore him to reason, Zarah," said Paul, "and as soon as he hasrecovered, I will give you both your liberty."

Gerald Leslie, William Bowen, and Philip Treverton accompanied SilasCraig to the attorney's office, where the wretched man refunded thehundred thousand dollars, and wrote a long and detailed confession ofhis guilt, which he signed in the presence of three witnesses.

This done, Gerald and his partner returned to the house of AugustusHorton, where they had left Mortimer Percy.

They found Augustus, Adelaide, and Mrs. Montresor seated in abrilliantly lighted apartment, communicating with the morning room thatopened upon the garden.

Mortimer Percy was seated a little distance from his cousin, and it wasevident that no reconciliation had taken place between them.

Adelaide and Mrs. Montresor were both engaged in some elegantneedle-work, which afforded them an excellent excuse for silence.

It was thus the group was occupied when Gerald Leslie and PhilipTreverton returned from the lawyer's house.

"You will be surprised, perhaps, to see me again, Mr. Horton?" he saidto Augustus.

"I will freely own that I am so," answered the planter; "though theconduct of my cousin, Mr. Percy, has made me accustomed to surprises.The revelations of this morning have nothing to do with me, and Icannot imagine what can have brought Mr. Leslie and Mr. Treverton tothis house."

"I do not," answered Augustus. "I have very good reason to rememberthat fact, Mr. Leslie. The purchase of the Octoroon slave, Cora, costme fifty thousand dollars, and there appears considerable chance of mylosing every cent."

"Not if I can recapture her. No, let her once fall into my hands, andit shall be my fault if she escapes again. As for the Englishman,Gilbert Margrave—"

"By Heaven I will not. We Southerners are in no humor just now to putup with any of your abolitionist tricks, and Mr. Margrave shall paydearly for breaking the laws of Louisiana."

Augustus walked up and down the room as he spoke, and every accentrevealed his rage, at the defeat and humiliation he had sustained sincethe preceding night.

"Mr. Horton," said Gerald Leslie gravely, "Philip Treverton and I hada very serious purpose in coming to you here this evening. We come tomake an appeal to your generosity, and your sense of manly honor. Willyou listen patiently to that appeal?"

"You are free to speak," replied Augustus, haughtily, and throwing awayhis cigar, he folded his arms, and placed himself against a pillar thatbordered the window, as if prepared to listen, but as if determined notto be convinced.

"I appeal to you, then, in the presence of your sister and your cousin,and in that of Mrs. Montresor, whose sentiments, I know, are opposedto the cruel system of barter, which has in my case deprived a fatherof his beloved and only daughter—I appeal to every better feeling ofyour nature, and I ask if my child Cora is to suffer for one hour forthe infamy of that man, Silas Craig? Restore her to freedom, before Iinstitute proceedings to invalidate the illegal sale of my property,which was seized upon for a debt I never owed."

"All this is very fine," he said; "but as Miss Cora Leslie has chosento run away from her rightful owner, it is not in my power to give herup—even if I wished it!"

"You would not? Remember, we are rich, and I would give back your fiftythousand dollars, or double that sum if you pleased."

"Curse your paltry dollars!" cried Augustus. "It was revenge I wantedto buy with my money; revenge for the insult your slave-daughter daredto inflict upon me. And am I to be balked of that revenge to the verylast? No, I repeat, that were Cora recaptured to-night, I would notgive her up."

"Yes, to my sister Adelaide, yonder, who has good reason to hate her,and who will make her feel what it is to be a slave. Trust a womanfor that! With me she would have lived the life of a duchess; as mysister's property she will be a lady's-maid—a drudge. Heaven knows howlow she may sink. It may please her mistress to send your brilliant andaccomplished daughter to the kitchen to wait upon the cook."

"Miss Horton," he exclaimed, "surely, surely your woman's naturerevolts at such words as these. Why do you not speak? You were once mydaughter's friend; for pity's sake remember that!"

During the whole of this dialogue, Adelaide Horton had sat perfectlystill, her head bent over her work, as if she heard nothing of what wasgoing forward; but a close observer might have perceived that her bosomheaved with suppressed emotion, and that her small hand trembled as sheendeavored to continue her work.

This had not been lost on Mortimer Percy, who had been for some timeintently watching his cousin.

"I can only answer you in the words of my brother, Mr. Leslie," shesaid; "I cannot restore Cora Leslie to you even if I would, for she isno longer mine. I, too, have given her away."

"Yes! You gave her to me for a lady's-maid. I had been long seekingfor an opportunity of repairing the injury which I did her upon thatfatal day when I allowed a school-girl's folly to get the better of myreason. I have given her to her husband, Gilbert Margrave!"

She rose as she said this and opened the door of an adjoiningapartment, and beckoned to some one within.

"My brother did not think of searching his own house for the runawayslave," said Adelaide, smiling. "The abduction of last night wasplanned by Mr. Margrave and myself, and it was agreed that he shouldbring her here as the last place in which her pursuers would be likelyto seek her."

Mortimer Percy started from his chair, and, crossing the room, claspedhis cousin in his arms.

"Did you indeed do this, Adelaide?" he exclaimed; "did you indeed? Andwill you forgive me for my conduct? Heaven knows what pain it has givenme, for I have always loved you dearly."

"I deserved all I have suffered, Mortimer," replied Adelaide,disengaging herself gently from her cousin's enthusiastic embrace; "butI have done all in my power to repair the error of a moment. Cora isfree; free to sail for England with her betrothed husband."

"Dear, generous girl," murmured the Octoroon, taking Adelaide's hand inhers; "far away, in that free and happy country, I shall remember yournoble conduct."

"And you shall see us in England before long, my dear Miss Leslie,"said Mortimer, "if my cousin will allow her most penitent swain toconduct her on a bridal tour through Europe. Mr. Leslie, you, Isuppose, will accompany your daughter to England."

"I shall," replied Gerald; "thanks to the providential return of mydear friend and partner here, I shall be rich enough to establishmyself on British ground, leaving to him the cares of the plantation."

"Which will be heavy enough to keep him out of gambling-houses," saidPhilip Treverton, with a smile.

He had no alternative but to put the best possible face upon thematter, and he was wise enough to accept this alternative with atolerable grace.

"Mr. Margrave," he said, "let all ill will be forgotten between us.Miss Leslie will tell you that all is fair in love as in war. We haveplayed a desperate game for the sake of yonder lady's smiles, and Ihave lost. So be it. I can but submit to my defeat, and congratulateyou on your superior fortune. There is my hand."

Gilbert and Augustus shook hands. Both men felt the hollowness of theceremonial.

Gerald Leslie's carriage, with Toby as the driver, was in waiting toconvey the happy trio to Lake Pontchartrain; and in three days theywere to leave Louisiana in an English steamer.

Philip Treverton asked permission to accompany his old partner to thepavilion. Mortimer Percy remained with his cousin Adelaide.

The ceremonial took place thus hurriedly in order that Cora—theOctoroon, the once despised slave—might officiate as bridesmaid at herold schoolfellow's wedding.

The bride was given away by her brother Augustus, and Gilbert Margraveacted as "best man" to the bridegroom.

On the day following, Gilbert, Cora, and Leslie were to bid adieu toNew Orleans.

The marriage ceremony was performed with great splendor, anda sumptuous banquet was given by Augustus Horton to the mostdistinguished inhabitants of New Orleans.

It had been intended that Cora Leslie should appear at this banquet;and there was considerable curiosity felt upon the subject by theguests who knew the leading particulars of her story, and who wereanxious to see the heroine of such romantic adventures.

They were disappointed, however, for, just as the bride was taking herplace at the table, the Quadroon slave, Myra, slipped a note into herhand.

The reader may, perhaps, guess the duty which called Cora Leslie fromthat festive party.

Deep in the bosom of that wood at Iberville, in which Gilbert Margraveand Augustus Horton had met some months before, Cora knelt with herlover beside the wooden cross, which alone marked the spot where themartyred Francilia lay.

Mournful were the tears which the freeborn Englishman and his betrothedbride wept upon the grave of the victim of slavery.

But the star of hope shone above the tomb and a prophetic whisper inthe hearts of both, told of a day when the terrible institution whichenables man to traffic in the body and soul of his fellow men, shouldbe only a dark memory of the past.

Early next day a happy group stood upon the deck of a large steamer,which was speeding away from New Orleans.

Already the Queen City of the Mississippi was fading in the horizon,the white walls of villas, and the steeples of churches melting in thedistance.

Cora Leslie stood with her arm linked in that of her father, and withher betrothed husband by her side.

A little way behind them, laden with shawls, parasols, and books, andproud to be of service to his young mistress, stood Toby, the mulatto;no longer a slave, but a happy attendant on those he loved.

A few weeks after this another vessel steamed out of the New Orleansharbor, bearing some who have been familiar to us; but this steamer wasbound for the sunny shores of France.

Paul Crivelli and his cousin Camillia decided on leaving New Orleansuntil the Spanish girl had recovered from the shock of her father'sdeath. They had consented therefore to accompany Armand Tremlay andPauline, who, after considerable persuasion, had been induced to becomethe wife of her old lover without further delay.

Silas Craig left New Orleans in the dead of the night. None knewwhither he went, and few cared to discover. He had so contrived as toconvey away the whole of his wealth, and if the possession of gold,each coin of which is branded with meanness and dishonor, can bringhappiness, the usurer may be a happy man. But let him not hug himselfin the security of his hiding place, the bloodhounds of the law are onhis track. His departure revealed the secrets of his past life. Thegambling-house in Columbia Street, and all the nefarious practiceswhich had been permitted in that haunt of vice, were brought to thelight of day. A warrant was issued for the lawyer's apprehension, andhis pursuers do not yet despair of dragging him to justice.

Heaven help him, should he ever be so rash as to return to New Orleans!Once in the hands of his infuriated fellow citizens, Silas Craig wouldhave to endure the horrors of Lynch law.

We have little more to say. Those of whom we have written, live toreceive the reward of their own actions.

Cora is a happy wife in our own dear native land—happy in the societyof the father she loves, secure in the devotion of her proud Englishhusband.

Camillia and Paul are the stars of a Parisian circle. Rich,accomplished, and handsome, the young Spaniard and his wife are admiredand caressed by all who know them, but they have no friends whom theyregard with the same affection as Armand and Pauline Tremlay.

We have not been dealing with the shadowy woes of fiction, but with thereal sorrows that have wrung and tortured human hearts, the hearts ofour oppressed brothers and sisters.

If any line which we have written has gained one convert to the causeof freedom, we have not written in vain, and the feeling of regretwith which we bid adieu to the kind and indulgent readers who havesympathized with the sufferings, of which we have told, will be mingledwith the happy consciousness that our labor has not been wasted,and that we have made friends for the great cause of Liberty versusSlavery, as well as for CORA, the OCTOROON.

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I.	CORA.
II.	THE FATAL RESOLVE.
III.	THE USURER'S BARGAIN.
IV.	CORA'S WELCOME.
V.	A FAMILY PARTY.
VI.	PAUL LISIMON.
VII.	PRIDE OF CASTE.
VIII.	TOBY TELLS THE STORY OF THE MURDERED FRANCILIA.
IX.	THE DAUGHTER'S ACCUSATION.
X.	THE YOUNG LOVERS.
XI.	PAUL LISIMON'S RUIN IS PLOTTED BY HIS ENEMIES.
XII.	TRISTAN'S SECRET.
XIII.	PAULINE CORSI OFFERS TO REVEAL A SECRET.
XIV.	AUGUSTUS HORTON TRIES TO AVENGE HIMSELF.
XV.	THE CHALLENGE.
XVI.	CAPTAIN PRENDERGILLS, OF THE AMAZON.
XVII.	REVELATIONS OF GUILT.
XVIII.	THE DUEL IN THE MOONLIGHT.
XIX.	THE HUMAN BLOODHOUND.
XX.	HEAVEN HELPS THOSE WHO TRUST IN PROVIDENCE.
XXI.	THE ABDUCTION.
XXII.	THE ENCOUNTER IN THE GAMBLING-HOUSE.
XXIII.	THE FATAL DAY.
XXIV.	THE SEPARATION.
XXV.	THE STORY OF PAULINE CORSI.
XXVI.	THE SLAVE SALE.
XXVII.	THE EVE OF THE WEDDING.
XXVIII.	THE ABDUCTION.
XXIX.	THE MEETING OF THE LOVERS.
XXX.	THE SUPPRESSED DOCUMENT.
XXXI.	THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE AVENGER.
XXXII.	THE DEAD RETURNED TO LIFE.
XXXIII.	TRISTAN.
XXXIV.	FAREWELL TO LOUISIANA.

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The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Octoroon

The Octoroon

CONTENTS

THE OCTOROON.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXVI.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CHAPTER XXIX.

CHAPTER XXX.

CHAPTER XXXI.

CHAPTER XXXII.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE