THE CHEAPEST UNABRIDGED EDITION EVER PUBLISHED!

 

 

 

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Copyrighted 1877, by BEADLE AND ADAMS.

BEADLE AND ADAMS,

No. 98 Witi1aM Street, New York.

Vol. IL.
The Octoroon.

Author of “Lady Audley’s Secret,” “Leighton Grange,”
“Lost for Love,” etc., published in this series.

Complete in
this Number.

admirers.
Adelaide Horton was a gay and light-hearted

turbed her infant slumbers; for the costly man-
sion in which the baby heiress was reared was
far from the huts of the helpless creatures who
worked sometimes sixteen hours a day to swell
the planter’s wealth. No groans of agonized
parents torn from their unconscious babes; no
cries of Outraged husbands severed from their
newly-wedded wives had ever broken Adelaide’s
rest. She knew nothing of the slave-trade; as
at a very early age the planter’s daughter had
been sent to England for her education. Her

CHAPTER I.
CORA.
THE last notes of a favorite waltz resounded
through the splendid saloons of Mrs. Montresor’s |
rkling eyes |

mansion in Grosvenor Square; s
and glittering jewels flashed in the lamplight;
the rival queens of rank and beauty shone side
by side upon the aristocratic crowd; the rich
perfumes of exotic blossoms floated on the air;

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rier of icy reserve, which often repelled their

being. Born upon the plantation of a wealthy |
father, the cries of beaten slaves had never dis- |

 

_ No. 16

relatives could have wished—elegant, accom-
lished, fashionable, well-bred; a little frivo-
ous, perhaps, but what of that, since her lot in
life was to a smooth and easy one? Mrs,
Montresor was delighted, aud expressed her
gratification very warmly to the Misses Beau-
| mont, of West Brompton, in whose fashionable
| seminary Adelaide had been educated.
| In an antechamber leading out of the crowd-
|.ed ball-room—an antechamber where the at-
| mosphere was cool, and where the close neigh-

borhood of a fountain plashing into its marble
basin in an adjoining conservatory refreshed
the wearied ear, two young men lounged lazil
upon a satin-covered couch, watching the dan-
cers through the open ball-room door,

wor
Vs Att Ao ds
CA es
al
AW hss
Wore —CO8- *

‘MOBY, YOU WILL CONDUCT THIS GENTLEMAN TO THE GATES OF MY FATHER’S GROUNDS, AND REMEMBER THAT IF HE EVER AGAIN DARES TO PRESENT
HIMSELF HERE, IT WILL BE YOUR DUTY TO REFUSE HIM ADMITTANCE. YOU HEAR ?’—Page 8,

brave men and lovely women were met together | father had died during her absence from Ameri-
to assist at the farewell ball given by the wealthy | ca, and she was thus left to the guardianship of
American, Mrs. Montresor, on her departure |, an only brother, the present possessor of Horton
to New Orleans with her lovely niece, Adelaide | Ville, as the extensive plantation and magnifi-
Horton, whose charming face and sprightly | cent country-seat were called.
manners had been the admiration of all London |. On Adelaide attaining her eighteenth year,
during the season of 1860. ;
The haughty English beauties were by no | York, and the widow of a rich merchant, had
means pleased to see the sensation made by the | crossed the Atlantic at Augustus Horton’s re-
charms of the,vivacious young American, whose | quest, for the purpose of giving her niece a sea-
brilliant. and joyous nature contrasted strongly | son in London, and afterward escorting her
with the proud and languid daughters of fa- | back to Louisiana, .
shion, who intrenched themselves behind a bar- She found Adelaide all that her most anxious

| her aunt, Mrs, Montresor, an inhabitant of New |

| The first of these young men was a Southern-
er, Mortimer Percy, the partner of Augustus
Horton, and the first cousin of the planter and
| his pretty sister Adelaide.

Mortimer Percy was a handsome young man.
| His fair curling hair clustered round a broad
and noble forehead; his large clear blue eyes
sparkled with the light of intellect; his delicate
aquiline nose and chiseled nostrils bespoke the
refinement of one who was by nature a gentle-
man; bnt a satirical expression spoiled an oth-
erwise beautiful mouth, and an air of languor
and weariness pervaded his appearance, He

 
 

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2 THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

seemed one of those who have grown indifferent
to life, careless alike of its joys and sorrows.

His companion contrasted strongly with him
both in appearance and mamner. With a com-
fexiog bronzed by southern suns, with flashin

lack eyes, a firm but flexible mouth, shad
with a silky raven mustache, and thick black
hair brushed carelessly back. from his superb
forehead, Gilbert Margrave, artist, enginéer,
philanthropist, poet, seemed the very type of
manly energy.

The atmosphere of a crowded. ball-room.ap-
peared unnatural to him. That daring spirit
was.out of place-amidst the narrow convention-
alities of fashionable life; the soaring nature
‘Heeded wide savannas and lofty mountain tops,

it rivers and sounding waterfalls; the art-

ist and poet mind sighed for the beautiful—not

the beautiful- as we see it in a hot-houseflower,

imprisoned in a china vase, but as it lurks in the

fee cup of the Victoria regia on the broad
som of the mighty Amazon.

But Gilbert Margrave was one of the lions of
1860. An invention in machinery, which had
enriched both the inventor and the cotton-spin-
ners of Manchester, had_ made the young engi-
neer celebrated, and when itwas’ discovered
that he belonged to a good Somersetshire fami-
ly, that he was handsome and accomplished, an
artist and a poet, invitations flocked in upon
him from all the fashionable quarters of the
West-end.

He had been silent for some time, his gaze riy-
eted upon one of the brilliant groups in the ball-
room, when Mortimer Percy bs d him lightly
on the shoulder with his gloved hand.

“Why; man, what are you dreaming of?” he
said, Taughing; “‘ what enchanted vision has en-
chained Your artist glance? whatfairy form has
bewitched your poet soul? One would think
i were amid solitudes of some forest on the

nks of the Danube, instead of a ball-room in
Grosvenor Square. Confess, my Gilbert, con-
fess to your old friend, and reveal the nymph
whose spells have transformed you into a
statue.”

Gilbert smiled at his friend’s sally. The two

‘oung men had met upon the Continent, and had

raveled together through Germany and Switzer-
land.

“The nymph is no other than yonder lovely

irl, talking to your cousin, Miss Horton,” said
Gilbert; “‘Jook at her, Mortimer; watch the
graceful head, the silky-raven hair, as she bends

own to whisper toher companion. Is she not
lovely?”

Few who looked upon the young girl, of whom
Gilbert Margrave spoke, could well have an-
swered otherwise than in the affirmative. She
was indeed lovely! In the first blush of youth,
with the innocence of an angel beaming in every
smile; with the tenderness of a woman lyin
shadowed in the profound depths of her almond-
shaped black eyes. Features, delicately mold-
ed and exquisitely proportioned; a tiny rose-
bud mouth; a Grecian nose; a complexion fair-
er than tho ungathered Bae acing deep in an
untrodden forest; it was difficult for the imagi-
nation of the poet, or the painter, to picture
aught so beautiful,

Is she not lovely?’ repeated Gilbert Mar-

grave,

The young Southener put his head criti-
cally on one side, with the calculating glance
with, which “a connoisseur in fine arts re-
gards a valuable picture. The used-up Morti-
mer ane: made it a rule never to commit him-
ora i . anything or anybody.

“Hum—ha!” he muttered, thoughtfully; “‘ yes,
she’s by no means bad-looking.”

_“* By no means bad-looking,’” cried Gilbert
Margrave, impatiently ; ‘‘ you cold-hearted auto-
maton, how dare yor of womanly perfec-
tion in. such a manner? She’s an angel, a

oReyemelpthire atfettendkt anki ran
Fe ve an ai if a e: Ve.
& you go on in this way,” bold Martinen lata

@ Can you tell me who she is?”

“No, ‘But I can do more. I can tell you
what she is!” :

. “What do you mean?’

“T mean that your angel, your nymph, ‘your
goddess, your siren, is—a slave.”

A slave! exclaimed. Gilbert. :

““Yes. The African blood runs in thase pur-

le veins. The hereditary curse of slavery
overs over that graceful and queenlike head.’
-‘* But her.skin is fairer than the lily,”

“What of that? Had you been a planter,
Gilbert, you would have been able to over
as I did, when just. now I stood close to tha:
lovely girl, the fatal signs of her birth. At the
extreme corner of the eye, and at the root of the
finger-nails, Southern. gentlemen can always
discover the trace of slavery, though but one
drop of the blood. of the cere race tainted
the object. upon whom he looked.” - |

‘‘But. this girl seems an intimate friend of

our Sonat alelat de; who can she be?’ asked

Vos

that
Adelaide must be utterly ignorant of her n,
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,

is the very thing that, puzzles me. |

 

she will be able to tell us all about her beautiful
est.
eae Montresor was still a handsome woman.
She bore a family likeness to her nephew, Mor-
timer, who was the only son of her sister, while
Adelaide and Augustus Horton wére the ¢hil-
dren of ‘her brother. Her fair ringlets had, as
yet, escaped the hand of Time. No telltale
streaks of gray had stolen amid the showering
locks. Her blue eyes were as bright as those of
a girl, and shone with the light of good-humor
and beneyolence....She..was..not ae a hand-
some woman, she was a lovable one. The
young instinctively clungto.her, and felt that
within that ample bosom | beat a kindly heart,

which a long summer of prosperity had never

rendered callous to the woes of others.

‘Come, gentlemen?” she said gayly, as she
approached the two friends;“‘ this is really too
bad! Here are you lolling on a sofa, ‘ wastin:

our sweetness on the desert air,’ while

ave, at least, half a dozen pretty girls wait-
ing for bo partners for the next waltz. As
for you, Mortimer,” she added, shaking her per-
fumed fan, threateningly, at her nephew; “‘ you
are really incorrigible; poor Adelaide does not
even know you are here,”

‘‘T came in late, my dear aunt, and I saw
that both you and my cousin were so surround-
ed by admirers, it was’ quite impossible to
approach you.”

Ax retty excuse, sir, which neither I nor
Adelaide will accept,” said Mrs. Montresor,
laughing.

“And then again, I wanted to havé @ chat
with Gilbert.”

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

‘Tam not a very good dancer; I am apt to
tread upon the ladies’ lace flounces, and get my
heels entangled in the spurs of young dragoons.
Tireally thought my cousin would rather be
exe ir
‘Indeed, ‘sir’ exclaimed Mrs. ‘Montresor,
evidently rather annoyed by her nephew’s in-
difference; ‘‘I should not be surprised if Adel-
aide should one day ask to be excused from
marrying you.”

“Good gracious,” cried 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 I ever
met with.” :

“My dear aunt,” said Mortimer, apologetical-
ly, “I will freely own that I am not a very
sentimental person. But what of that? My in-
tended marriage with my cousin, Adelaide, is
by no means a romantic affair. In the first
place, Augustus Horton and I are partners. My
marriage with his sister is therefore advisable,
on the ground of commercial interests. That is
reason number one not very romantic to begin
with. Reason number two is: you have two
nephews and one niece; you wish your favorite
nephew (meaning me), to marry your niece, in
order, that one of these days, you may leave
them the bulk of your fortune. There’s noth-
ing particularly romantic in this. You say to
the two young eee, ‘Marry!’ and the two
you ople say ‘ Very well, we're agreeable!’
and old the business is settled. Very advis-
able, and very proper, no doubt, but not a
subject for romance, my dear aunt.”

“Bah, Mortimer, you’re incorrigible; but I
know that at the bottom of your heart you’re
very much in loye with your pre cousin,
notwithstanding your pretended 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,” 4

‘Indeed, and pray who is the lady?”

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

“The daughter of Mr. Gerald Leslie, of New
Orleans.” ;

‘* Indeed!” exclaimed Mortimer.

“Yes. But you seem surprised.”

“T am a little,” replied the young man,
thoughtfully, ‘‘I did not Imow Leslie had a
daughter.” :

‘« But you see he has, since she is an intimate
friend of Adelaide’s.” hes a

“How did they become acquainted?”

“They were educated at the same school.”’

“Tndeed. She is a very lovely girl, and ye
must be good enough to introduce us to her, by-

and-by.”

“Take care, Mortimer,” said his aunt, wa
oe say, not going to fall in love with M

ie
‘Not the least danger, my dear aunt. Though
I would ot say as much for poor Gilbert,

“Pshaw! Mortimer,” exclaimed i ee
artist, reddening; ‘‘it is the painter’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
and arrows, called Cupid, steps in; the painter
forgets his privilege, and the man falls in love
withthe ee el.” es

“Well, I must leave you, gentlemen,” said
Mrs. Montresor; “I think T see Adelaide and
Miss Leslie coming this ware so if you want an
introduction to the young Southerner you must
obtain it through my niece. Aw revoir, naughty
boys!

e Stay, my dear aunt; you will forgive Mr.
Margrave when. I. tell you that heis as deter-
mined an abolitionist as es or any of your
friends in New York. € means sailing for the
Southern States in a month, armed with some
new inventions in machinery, which he declares
ought to supersede slave-labor.”

‘Yes, madam,” said Gilbert, earnestly;
‘es — nephew well knows my opinion upon this
subject; and though his interests may be allied
to the hateful barter, which should call a blush
to the cheek of are honest American, I know
that his heart is with us.”

“Let me shake hands with you, Mr. Mar-
grave,” exclaimed Mrs. Montresor; ‘I’ declare
to you that so hateful to me is the slave-trade,
and all connected with it, that were it not ne-
cessary for me to-escort my niece home and as-
sist at her marriage with this hair-brained boy.
I would never again set foot upon the accurse
soul of Louisiana; but I must not-say more to
you, now, for here come the young ladies.
‘Adelaide is but a child, as yet, and has never
thought seriously of the matter; while her
brother, Augustus, like his father before him, is
a determined advocate of slavery. Once more,
adieu!” and the elegant, although portly Mrs.
Montresor, glided from the room, her rich robes
of sky-blue moire antique rustling round her, |

“Gilbert,” said Mortimer, hurriedly, as sdon
as his aunt was out of hearing, ‘remember, I
beg; do not breathe to a mortal one hint of what
I just now told you, with regard to Miss Leslie’s
origin. I suspect some painful mystery here,
ant I would not, for the world, that any idle
talk of mine should cause this poor girl’s gentle
heart one throb of sorrow, or one thrill of
shame.”

“You may rely upon me, Mortimer,” ex-
claimed Gilbert, with enthusiasm. ‘My lips
are sealed forever.”

He had scarcely spoken when the two young
girls approached, arm-in-arm.

There was a. marked contrast between the two
friends. Young as Adelaide Horton was, she
had already all the finished elegance and easy
confidence of a woman of fashion. Frivolous,
capricious, and something of a coquette, she was
born to charm in a ball-reom, and to shine in a
crowd, ‘Cora Leslie was a creature of an ut-
terly different nature. Like some wild flower
from the luxuriant forests of her native South,
she seemed destined to bloom with a sweeter
perfume in loneliness. To blossom for the silent
stars and the midnight skies; to expand her
Po petals to the sunshine of one loving

eart.

“‘T do not care to see my cousin just now,”
said Mortimer, ‘so I will leave you, Gilbert, to
make yourself agreeable to the young ladies,
while I go and smoke a cigar in the balcony
opening out of the conservatory.”

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

room. | r

“Here, at least, my dear Cora, we shall be
able to breathe,” said ‘Adelaide, ax the two girls
a spas Gilbert. ‘* Ah, Mr, Margrave,’ she
a led, perceiving the young artist, “it is here,
then, that you have been h ding yourself while
a hundred lion hunters have been trying to chase

tar tes allow me to introduce you to Mr.

ilbert argrave, engineer, , poe
lion! Mr. Margrave, allow me to present you
to Miss Cora Leslie, my friend, and the most
are »Waltzer in my aunt’s crowded as-
sem ;

“T beg, Mr. Margrave,” said Cora “Leslie,
“that you will not listen to Miss Horton’s asser-
tions; she-only grants me this eulogy because
she knows that she waltzes better than I.”

“Will you permit me to be the judge of that,
Miss Leslie,” said Gilbert; ‘‘and in order that t
may 8 so, grant me your hand for the next
Ww

“Oh, yes, yes!” cried Adelaide, laughing;
“‘we'll waltz with you. ‘I promise for Cora.
Now, pray go back into the ball-room, Mr. Mar-
grave, and satisfy those good people who are

ining to stare you out of countenance, which is

e only English tribute to genius. Go now,
yous summon Cora as soon as the first notes
of the waltz strike wu : :

"99 ‘ X
“ Aw revoir, Miss Leslie, till I come to claim |

your hand.”

Gilbert bowed and left the anteroom, not
without one enthusiastic glance at the innocent
face of the fair Louisianian. 5 2
“There goes another of your admirers, Cora,”
cried Adelaide, as she flung herself into oné of
the luxurious easy-chairs, while Cora seated

on a sofa, a few paces distant, and laid
her bouquet of hot-house flowers on a tiny table

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THE OCTOROON.

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at her side; ‘“‘I declare, Miss Cora Leslie, that 1
begin to 1 did a very unwise thing in
persuading my dear, good-natured aunt to give
this farewell reunion to our English friends, for
9% had only to make your appearance in order

steal every admirer I have. It isa general
desertion to the camp of the enemy. I should
not wonder if Mortimer himself joined the rene-
gades, and left me to sing willow for my incon-
stant swain,”

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

“ Oh, no indeed,” said Aledaide, with an im-

tient sigh; ‘‘ you are right there, my dear

ora; never was there such a cold-hearted,
matter-of-fact. being as that cousin and future
husband. of mine. If he pays me a compliment,
it is only an artful way of drawing attention to
one of my defects, which, I will own, are rather
numerous. If he ever utters an affectionate
word, I always feel convinced that he is laugh-
ing at me. agine now, my dear Cora, was it
not flattering to my Promealy vanes to hear
him say, when we arrived in London a month
or two ago, after a separation of four, years,
‘My dear Adelaide, my aunt has taken it into
her head. that you and I ought to.marry; I
don’t want to oppose her, and I, suppose you
don’t, either.’”
‘* And you replied—?” ’
“¢Oh, no, my dear cousin; I’ve no Oeste
mar. ou. . But; don’t ask anything else,’ ”
‘‘But why did you give your consent?” asked
Cora.

“T scarcely know, I am impetuous, rash,

assionate, capable of doing even a, wicked ac-
ion under the influence of some sudden im-
pears Iam daring enough, heaven knows, but

ere is one species of courage I lack—the cour-
age which, gives the power of resistance, I
could not 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
myself to dreams that can never be realized?
Again, as the wife, of my cousin, Mortimer, I
shall never be an exile from. my dear native
South. If yousee me gay and happy, Cora, in
spite of m epemneonin marriage, it is that I
8 hold the blue skies of my beloved
Louisiana.”

“Forgive me, dearest Adelaide,” said Cora
Leslie. “ but from a. few words that escaped you
just now, I fancy that I have a secret of your

eart.. Has Mr. grave by any chance made
an pap enens in that quarter?”

“You are very inquisitive, miss,” replied
Adelaide, blushing; ‘‘ Mr. Margrave is an accom-
plished, young man, but his manner to me has
never gone beyond the bounds of the most cere-
monious. politeness.. Perhaps, indeed, had he
betrayed any warmer sentiment toward me, I
might— But do not, I implore you, force me
to reflect, my dear Cora, Is it not decided that
Tam to marry Mortimer? I will present, him to
you this peaniogs if he makes his ap’ ‘ance,
and you shall tell me what you think of him.”

‘*T 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 to him about my brother
and my native country, that I forgot. to make
the inquiries you charged me with. There now,

to

you are angry with me, I know; I can see it in

‘

your eyes.”

“No, Adelaide, no!” .answered Cora, ‘that
which you see in my eyes is not anger, but
anxiety. It is nearly three months since I have
received any letter from my dear father, and
this long silence is so unlike his affectionate con-
sideration that it has filled me with alarm.”

“Nay, my dear Cora, the cares of business,
no doubt, have prevented his WEI or per-
haps he is coming. over to England, and
wishes to. give you a delightful surprise. Did
you not tell me that Mr. Leslie meant to sell his

lantation, and take up his abode in England?
ut here comes Mortimer, and you can yourself
make all the inquiries you, wish.”

 

CHAPTER II.
THE FATAL RESOLVE.

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

“ At last!” exclaimed Adelaide; ‘‘ so you have
actually condescended to honor my aunt's as-
sembly with your gracious presence, my dear

in. Perhaps you were in hopes you would
not see me.” fi

i Egppope you were in hopes I would not
come,” retorted the young man. t

“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 of Miss Leslie, that I wished to see you.
Mr friend is anxious to ask you about her

“T was just about to beg you to introduce me
to Miss Leslie,” replied Mortimer. —

“Mr, Mortimer, Percy, cotton merchant and
slave proprietor, my cousin and my future hus-
band, as my aunt says—”

 

“Stop, Adelaide, this is no time for jesting,”
said Mortimer, gravely.

“Ts your news bad, then?” exclaimed his
cousin.

in It is not altogether as favorable as I should

‘“Oh, in heaven’s name, speak, Mr. Percy!”
cried Cora, pale with agitation; ‘‘ what has hap-
pened to my father?”

‘Reassure yourself, Miss Leslie,” replied Mor-
timer; ‘when I left New Orleans your father
was rapidly recovering.”

“He has been ill, then?’

“He was wounded in a revolt of the slaves on
his plantation,”

“Wounded!” exclaimed Cora. ‘‘ Oh, for pity’s
sake, do not deceive me, Mr, Percy, This wound
—was it dangerous?”

“Tt was no longer so when I left Louisiana,
I give you my honor,”

Cora sunk into a chair, and buried her face in
her hands.

“You see, Adelaide,” she murmured, after a
few moments’ silence, “‘ my penn were
not unfounded... Dearest father, and I was not
near to watch and comfort you!”

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

“Strange,” thought Mortimer Percy, as he
watched the two girls, ‘‘ one word from me, and
my cousin would shrink from this lovely and in-
nocent creature with loathing and disdain,”

The prelude of a waltz resounded at this mo-
ment from the orchestra and Gilbert Margrave
appeared to claim his partner,

‘ Ah!” exclaimed, Adelaide, ‘it is you, Mr.
Margrave? My poor friend has just heard some
sad news.”

“Sad news, Miss Horton!”

“Yes, there has been a revolt of. the slaves,

in which her father well-nigh fell a victim,

Thank heaven, the result was less terrible than
it might have been.” ‘

While Adelaide was speaking to Mr. Mar-
grave, Mortimer Percy approached the chair on
which Cora was seated, and bending over her
for a moment, said, in a low voice, ‘‘ Let me
speak to you alone, Miss Leslie,”

‘““ Alone!” exclaimed Cora, with new alarm,
then turning to Gilbert, she said, 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 next waltz. I-wish to
speak to Mr. Percy about this sad affair.”

‘Cora, insists upon it, Mr, Margrave,” said
Adelaide, ‘‘ and you must therefore resign your-
self,‘ But remember,” she added, turning to
Cora, ‘‘that we only consent on condition that
we find you smiling and altogether restored to
good spirits on your return, Now, Mr, Morti-
mer Percy, after this I suppose you will leave off
praising the virtue of your pet negroes.”

“What would. you have, my dear cousin?” re-
pee Mortimer; ‘‘ when Ogs are too violently

aten, they are apt to bite,

“ They should be tied up, then,” retorted Ade-
laide, as she took. Gilbert’s arm and hurried to
the ball-room, where the dancers were already
whirling round in valse-a-deux temps.

Cora rose\as she found herself alone with the
young planter, and no longer attempting to con-
ceal her agitation, exclaimed anxiously :

“ And am I indeed to believe what you say,
Mr. Perey, do you really mean that it is ill-
usage which has urged my father’s slaves to this

reyolt??

Fr , Miss Leslie,” replied the young Amer-
ican, ‘‘the planter finds himself between the
horns of a terrible dilemma; he must either
beat his slaves or suffer from. their laziness. I
will own to a PR that Mr. Leslie is not consider-
ed too indulgent a master; but he only follows
the example of a greater number of our colo-
nists. 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 was seriously ;wounded; but let me
once more assure you that he was entirely out
of danger when I left. New Orleans,”

* And did he give you no message for me—no
letter?’ asked Cora,

‘No, Miss Leslie.”

‘What, not a word?”

“Your father did not know that I would see
you,” replied Mortimer, “and it is on this very
subject that I wish to ask you.a few ReCeEOR,
not, prompted, by any;vain curiosity, believe me,
but because you inspire me with the warmest in-
terest.

seg Speak, Mr. Percy,” said Cora, seating her-
self,

Mortimer drew a chair to the side of that on
which Cora was seated, and. placing himself
near her, said pranelys

“Tell me, Miss Leslie, in what.manner do you
wey. morte your father's Ree bos *

; 0 one oO c who
lives at Boctheaien: nea

au Then they are not directly addressed to you.”

a They are not, - ;
pare) you very young when you left Louisi-

“‘T was only five years old,” replied. face
Bo pounel ne eee Ne acti
ing that occurred at that time, I suppose?”

 

‘*Oh, yes,” answered Cora; ‘‘ but memories so
confused that they seem rather to resemble
dreams. But there is one recollection which no
time can efface. It is of a woman, young, beau-
tiful, who clasped me in her arms, sob! as
she strained me to her breast. I can still hear
her,sobs when I recall that scene.”

“Has Mr, Leslie ever spoken to you of your
mother?” asked Mortimer,

‘Was it she?” cried Cora, eagerly,

“T do not know, Miss Leslie, for at that time
I was still in England, where, like you, I re-
ceived my education.”

“ Alas,” exclaimed Cora, her beautiful eyes
filling with tears, ‘‘ who could it be if it was not
she? No, Mr, Percy, I have never known even
the poor consolation of nearing people of
my mother, Every time Lhave ventured to ad-
dress my father on the subject, he has replied
in harsh and cold tones that have chilled my
heart, All that ever I could learn was that she
died young, at New Orleans, I dared not speak
upon a subject which caused my poor father
such painful emotions.”

“ But he has always_evinced the greatest af-
fection for you, Miss Leslie, has he not?” asked,
Mortimer.

“Oh, Mr, Percy,” replied Cora, her eyes kind-
ling with enthusiasm, ‘‘ what father ever better
loved his, child? Every, whim, every childish
wish has been gratified, but one; alas, that one
prayer he would never grant.”

“And that prayer was—?”

“That I might join him in New Orleans, On.
his last visit to England, a year ago, I implored
him to take me back with him: but lhe was deaf
to all my entreaties. ‘It is because I love you,’
he said, ‘that I refuse to take you with me,’
Perhaps it was the climate of Louisiana that he
feared; that climate may have been the cause
of my mother’s death,” .

“T was sure of it,” thought Mortimer, ‘she is.
entirely ignorant of her o y?

“All that I could obtain from him in answer
to my prayers,” continued Cora, ‘‘ was a prom-
ise that this separation should be the last; that
he would sell his plantation at the earliest op-
poy and come and establish himself in

and.

And since then,” said Mortimer, “has he re-"
newed that promise?” So nds

“ With reservations that have made me trem-
ble,” replied Cora; ‘‘T fear that his affairs are
embarrassed, and will detain him from me ]
after the promised time of our reunion.”

“Alas, Miss Leslie, you. are not deceived,”
said Mortimer, earnestly; ‘‘ Mr, Leslie has ex-
perienced great losses. The death of Mr, Tre-
verton, his partner, who was killed in a duel a

ear ago, af the very time of your father’s re-
urn from England, revealed’ deficiencies that
he had never dreamed of. He was obliged to
have recourse to heavy loans; and since that,
the revolt of his slaves, in damaging the har-
vest, has given the finishing blow to his difficul-
ties.

“Then my father is ruined, Mr, Percy?” cried
Cora, Seay her hands; ‘oh, donot imagine.
that. the aspect of pov alarms me; it is not
of that I think, but of him. What a life of.
anxiety and effort he has endured, in order to
establish a position, which he only seemed to
value on my account. Never has he allowed me
to hear one expression of uneasiness drop from
his lips; never has he denied the most ¢ va-
gant of my caprices, Ah, if he but knew how
gladly I. would exchange all this worthless
splendor for the happiness of ee my head
upon his noble. breast! If he could b how.
dear the humblest home would be to me after
the long isolation of my youth! "Who can tell

how long our se) tion may endure?”
me Nast tates Leslie,” said Mdetheiar, soothing:

7, ‘eran fathar’e positon. fe far frém desper-

I
ate, though it may a long time and con-
siderable courage to extricate himself from his

difficulties,
aie A long time! Some years, perhaps?” asked

ra.

« Amv dering this heart-rehdin strugel » @x-

uri is ren @x-

claimed the young sith ‘the no} eae a
creature near hin comfort or to. sustain him,
And if new dangers should menace bhim—for
this revolt has been avenged by: the blood of the
slave-leaders, has. it nott—and fresh
may cause new rebellion, Oh, heayen!, tl
thought makes me’ tremble! No, my fai
shall not be alone to struggle! If he suffers, I
will console him; if he is in danger, Iwill share
it with him,” :

_ What do you mean, Miss Leslie?” cried Mor-

timer. ‘
“You leave England in a few days with Mrs,
Montresor and your cousin, Adelaide, I will
0 eBuby you.

the young dens

ee canta nothing but that my is
in , and that.a daughter’s | his
side, here comes, Mrs. Montresor; I
en tae ra

        
 

Leslie, remember!” Temonstnayed ,

   
    
    
   
  
 
 
    
  
   
  
   
    
   
   
   
  
    
   
  
 
    
  
   
   
   
  
   
   
    
   
   
     
    
 
   
   
    
    
  
   
    
   
  
   
   
  
    
   
   
  
  
     
 
   
   
  
   
    

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4 : THE. FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

‘¢we shall certainly not allow this matter-of-fact
nephew of mine to deprive us of the belle of
the room.”

“Oh, my dear Mrs. Montresor,” exclaimed
Cora; “a great misfortune has happened to my
father.”

“T know it, my dear child,” replied Mrs.
Montresor, ‘‘but, thank Heaven, that misfor-
tune is not an irreparable one.”

“No, madam, nothing is irreparable, but the
time which we pass far away from those we
love in their hour of trouble. I implore you to
take me back to him.”

‘But, Cora,” answered Mrs. Montresor, ‘‘ do
ou forget that your father formally expressed
is wish that you should remain in Hngland?”

“Yes, madam; but the motive of my disobe-
dience will render it excusable, 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. “Your
father may have some very serious motive for
forbidding your return to New Orleans.”

“What motive could a father have for sep-
arating himself from his only child?. But stay,”
added Cora, struck by the earnestness of Mr.
Percy’s manner, ‘‘ perhaps there is some secret
some mystery which you are aware of. Tell
me, sir, is it so? Your manner just now—the
strange questions which you asked me, all might
lead me to suppose—”

“Those questions were only Look re ine by my
interest in you, Miss Leslie,” replied Mortimer,
“but it is the same interest which bids me urge

‘ou to abandon the thought of this voyage.
Four father’s welcome may not be as warm as
you would ey

“T know his heart too well to fear that,” ex-
claimed the excited girl; ‘‘be it as it may, my
resolution is irrevocable; and if you refuse to
take me: under your charge, Mrs. Montresor,”
she added, ‘‘ I will go alone.”

“What!” cried Adelaide, who had entered the
antechamber, followed by Gilbert, in time to
Fes ee ee eee ee 0 Jour, dapasteacel

‘ora? and who, then, 0 your de ure
We will go together: will we not, dear aunt?”
exclaimed the impetuous girl.

“Yes, Adelaide, since your friend is deter-
mined on leaving, it will be far better for her
to accompany us,” replied Mrs. Montresor; ‘‘ but
I must own that I do not willingly give my con-
sent to Miss Leslie’s disobedience to her father’s
west: father’s thanks shall f

ut my father’s s repay you for
all, dear iain,” said Cora; ‘‘I shall never
forget his goodness.”

“Come, come then, naughty child, let us re-
turn to the ball-room. ‘You must bid adieu to
all your acquaintances to-night, for our vessel,
the Virginia, sails in three days. Come, chil-
dren, come.” : ;

Mrs. Montresor led the two girls away, while
Mortimer Percy flung himself on a sofa, Gilbert
Margrave watching him sou

a did you not tell Mrs. Montresor the
truth?” asked Gilbert.

“ What would have been the use? since I can-
not tell it to Miss Leslie. That is what seals my
lips. Her father has concealed from her her
real origin. She thinks she is of the European
race—I discovered that in my interview with
her—and I dare not reveal a secret which is not
inine to tell.”

“And you fear that her return to New Or-
leans will cause sorrow to herself?” said Gilbert.

oh MU, iam the yo! American; ‘‘every
door at which she dares to knock will be closed
against her. Even my cousin, her friend, will
turn from her with pity, Pore but with con-
tempt. You, who dwell in a d where the
lowest beggar, crawling in his loathsome rags,
is as free as your mightiest nobleman, can never
guess the terrors of slavery. Genius, beauty,
wealth, these cannot wash out the stain; the
fatal taint of African blood still remains, and
though a man were the greatest and noblest
upon earth, the curse clings to him to the last.

e is of the helot race.”

CHAPTER III.
THE USURER’S BARGAIN.
Cora’s father, Gerald Leslie, was the owner
of a fine estate upon the banks of a lake about
two miles out of New Orleans, and also of a

 

handsome house inthat city. It is at this latter
residence that we will introduce him to the
reader.

Gerald Leslie was in the very prime of life.
Scarcely yet forty-five years of age, time had set
no moan upon his thick chestnut hair or his
handsome face, save a few almost imperceptible
wrinkles which the cares of the last year or two
had ae in rigid lines about his well-shaped
mou!

- His features were massive and regular; the
brow broad and intellectual; the large hazel
eyes a but yet thoughtful; and there was a
shina melancholy in the wets expression

: a peculiar charm

to fhe face of Gerald Leslie. i Jom Hiw e12
It was the face of one who had suffered. It
‘was the face of one who found himself a lonely
man in the very prime of life; in that hour of
all other hours in which a man yearns for the

- of the countenance which len

 

smilés of loving eyes, the warm pressure of
friendly hands. _It was the‘face of one who had
discovered too late that he had sacrificed the
happiness of his life toa mistaken principle.
hile the good ship Virginia is ad awa

from the dim blue shores of the fading En, lish
coast, bearing Mrs. Montresor, her nephew
and niece, and Cora Leslie, to their far South-
ern home, let us enter the planter’s luxuriously-
furnished study, and watch him as he bends
over his desk.

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

It is not a pleasant task which occupies the
planter. His brow contracts as he examines
the papers, pausing every now and then to jot
down two or three figures against a long row of
accounts, which look terribly formidable even
to the uninitiated. At last he throws down a
heap of documents with a weary sigh, and fling-
ing himself back in his chair, abandons himself
to gloomy. thought.

“Yes, the truth is out at last,” he muttered;
“no hope of a settlement in England; no chance
of a happy home on the other side of the blue
Atlantic with my Cora, my only one. Nothin;
before me but the weary struggle of a rahied
man, with difficulties so gigantic that, struggle
as I may, they must close in upon me and crush
me at the Jast. Oh, Philip Treverton, but for
the cruel deception you practiced upon me, I
should not be in this position.”

Philip Treverton was Gerald Leslie’s late part-
ner. e had been shot a twelvemonth before
the opening of our story, in a sanguinary duel
with a young Frenchman, who had. insult-
ed him in a gaming-house. But the two men
had been more than partners, they had been
friends; true and sincere friends; and Gerald
Leslie no more doubted the honor of his friend
Philip ‘Treverton, than he would have doubted
his own.

Among the debts owed by the two planters,
there was one of no less than one hundred thou-
sand dollars due to a lawyer and usurer,
one Silas Craig, a man who was both dislike:
and feared in New Orleans; for he was known
to be a hard creditor, unscrupulous as to the
means by which he enriched himself, pitiless to
those who were backward in ying hin.

In an evil hour Gerald Leslie and Philip Tre-
verton had had recourse to this man, and bor-
rowed from him, at acruelly heavy rate of in-
terest, the sum above mentioned. Treverton
was, unlike his partner, a reckless speculator,
and, unfortunately, not a little of a gamester;
he therefore thought lightly enough of the cir-
cumstance. Not soGerald Leslie. The thought
of this loan oppressed him like a load of iron.
and he was determined that it should be repaid
at any sacrifice. He hee tase together the
money before leavin, ew Orleans to visi this
daughter in England, and intrusted the sum to
his partner, Treverton, with special directions
ne it should be paid immediately to Silas

raig.

Gerald Leslie knew that his er was a
gamester, but he firmly believed him to be one
of the most honorable of men, and he had ever
found him strictly just in all their commercial

ote Sopaitied; theref
e erefore, ha: in the thought
that the debt was paid, and that Silas Graig,
the usurer, could no longer rub his fat, greasy
hands, and chuckle at the thought of his power
over the haughty planter, Gerald Leslie. He
departed it tan the thought that his next
voyage wou to convey him to an English
home, where the tyranny of prejudice 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 Ger-
ald ie landed. Hehad died at midnight in
a wretched chamber at a gambling-house.
There was a mystery about his death—his last
hours were shrouded in the darkness of the
silent secrets of the night.. None knew who
had watched beside him in his dying moments.
The murderer had escaped; the mutilated body
of 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 gentle-
men, intellectual, highly educated, they had
been united in the bonds of a sincere and heart-

felt ership.

What thes were Gerald Leslie’s feelings when
he found that his friend, his partner, his associ-
ate, the man whom he had fully trusted, had
deceived him; and that the money, left by him
in Treverton’s hands, had never been paid to
Silas Craig.

In vain did he search among his friend’s pa-
pers for the receipt; there was not one memo-
randum, not one serap of paper containing any
mention of the hundred thousand dollars; anda
week after Gerald Leslie’s return, he received a
visit from the usurer, who came to claim his
debt, The planter gave him a note at a twelve-

‘

  

 

 

month’s date, the heavy interest for the period
fearfully increasing the debt. This note came
due on the very day on which we have intro-
duced Gerald Leslie to the reader, and he was
now every moment expecting to hear the usurer
announced.

He was still without funds to meet his ac-
ceptance. Many other debts were pressing
upon him; and he felt that in a few months his
plantation must be sold, and he left a ruined
man. But as the drowning wretch catches at
the feeblest straw, or the frailest plank, so he
clung to the hope furnished by delay.

“Once more,” he muttered, as he leaned his
head upon his hands in the attitude of despair,
“once more must I humiliate myself to this
low-minded wretch, and beg the delay which he
may grant or refuse, as it_pleases his base na-
ture. Heaven help me! I little dreamed that
Gerald Leslie would ever come to sue to Silas
Craig.”

At this moment a cheerful-looking negro en-
tered the apartment, bearing a card upon a sil-
ver salver,

“Massa Craig, please, massa,” he said.

“Tell him to walk in.”

‘Into this room, massa?”

“Yes, Caesar.”

The negro departed, and in a few moments
returned, ushering in a fat man, of about fif
years of age, dressed in the loose and light-
colored coat and trowsers fashionable in New
Orleans. .

This summer costume, which was becoming to
many, accorded ill with the fat and awkward
figure of Silas Craig. The loose, open collar
displayed a bull neck that bespoke the brute
eee a sensual nature. eee ree im-
possible to imagine a more y repulsive a

arance than that of the usurer of New Or-
eans; repulsive not so much from natural
ugliness as from that hidden something dimly
revealed beneath the outward features that told
the nature of the man, and caused the close ob-
server and the eae
him with instinctive abhorrence.

Cruelty leered out of the small, rat-like, gray
eyes; hypocrisy and sensuality alike were vis-
ible in the thick lips and wide animal mouth.
The usurer’s hair, of a reddish yellow, was
worn long, parted in the middle, and pushed
behind his ears, giving a sanctimonious expres-
sion to his face. For it must be known to the
reader that Silas Craig had always contrived to
preserve a character for great sanctity. His
voice was loudest in expressing horror at the
backslidings of others; his presence was unfail-
ing at the most frequented places of worship;
and men who knew that the usurer would strip
the widow or the orphan of the utmost farthing,
or the last rag of clothing, beheld him drop h

dollars into the plate at the close ot every char-
ity sermon. f
By such pitiful artifices as these the world is

duped; and Silas Craig was universally respect-
ed in New Orleans—respected in outward seem-
ing by men who in their inmost soul loathed
and execrated him.

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

“Charming weather, Mr. Leslie,” he said.

“Charming,” answered Gerald, absently.

“T trust I see you well, my dear friend,”
murmured Silas Craig, in the fat, oily voice pe-
culiar to him; ‘and yet,” he added, almost
affectionately, ‘‘I do not think you are looking
well—no, decidedly not; you look a little har-
assed, a little care-worn, as if the business of
this life was pressing too much upon you.”

“T have good need to look ikraaaed and care-

worn,” answered. Gerald Leslie, impatiently. —

= ae Mr. oe ny us ae sent = time
upon fine speeches and s y which we can-
not either of us expect #0" feel I know what
Sms have come here for, and you know that I

ow it; so why beat about the bush? You
have my acceptance, due to-day, in your pock-
et, and you come to claim payment.”

“You are as proud as ever, Mr. Leslie,” said
the usurer, an angry gleam shooting out of
his small eyes in spite of the affected smile upon

his -

“Why should I be less proud than ever?” an-
swered the planter, haughtily. ‘‘If you call a
contempt for falsehood anda loathing of hy-
pocrisy pride, I am certainly among the
proudest.”

Gerald Leslie knew that every word he ut-
tered was calculated to infuriate Silas Craig,
and that at the moment when he had to ask a
favor of him; but the haughty spirit of the plant-
er could less brook to stoop now than ever—the
bee fact of having to ask this favor stung him
to the quick, and urged him on to show his con-
tempt of the man from whom he had to ask it.

 usurer sat for some few moments in si-
lence, rubbing his hands slowly one over the
other, and looking furtively at any

“You ask me why you should be less proud
to-day than ever, Mr. ie,” he said, with a
malicious grin. ‘Shall I tell you why? Be
cause the anaaae turned ‘ore ee ea
you passed Silas Craig in the streets ew
Orleans, as if he had been one of the ‘slaves on
your plantation ; when you spurned him as if

omist to shrink from |

 

 

 

   
 

her two fair charges arrived at New Orleans.

procured for her, requesting him to give the

THE OCTOROON.

Be

 

 

 

be hadsheen:thé dixt-heneath your feet. Tknovw |
what you said of me in those days: I came by |
my money by crooked ways; I was a rogue; a |
usurer; my illgotten wealth would bring me to |
the gallows some day. These are the sort of |
things you said, and I took them quietly enough;
for I am of a patient disposition, and I knew
my turn would come. It has come. The times
are changed since then. My wealth was ill- |
gotten was it? You were glad enough to bor- |
row a hundred thousand dollars of it, illgotten
as it was, and now when I come to-day to ask
you for the payment of that paras he take
such a high tone that I can onl ieve you
have it ready for me in your cash-box yonder.”

It was with a malicious chuckle that he utter-
ed these concluding words; for the crafty
wretch well knew the nature of Gerald Leslie,
and he had suspected from the first that the
money was not forthcoming. _

“Not one penny of it!” cried the planter;
‘not one penny of it, Mr. Craig.”

“Indeed!” said Silas. ‘‘ Then I’m extremely
sorry to hear it; as, of course, under those cir-
cumstances, I can no longer delay putting an
execution upon your property, and sending the
Leslie plantation and your valuable lot 0 nig-
gers to the auctioneer’s hammer.” '

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

Gerald Leslie’s was a gloomy face to look
upon in that moment: but it neither expressed
grief ne humiliation, and his enemy was disap-

inted.

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

The planter sat for some minutes in perfect
silence, as if he were revolving some plan in his
mind. Presently he looked up, and, without
any alteration of his former manner, addressed
the usurer thus:

“Silas Craig, sooner than ask a favor of you,
I would see every scrap of property I possess
sold in the public sale-room, and would leave
my native land a beggar. I do not ask youa
favor, then; I offer you a bargain. If my prop-
erty is sold to-day, it will be sold at a loss. You
will be paid, itis true, but others, for whom
(pardon me) i feel a great deal more concern, will
lose. Two months hence that same property
will, for certain commercial reasons known as
well. to you as to me, realize a much larger
amount. Besides which, I have friends in the
North who may come forward in the mean time
to save me from ruin. Renew your bill at two
months from to-day, and for those two months I
will give you double the enormous interest I
have been i a ruinous bargain
for me, and as valuable a one for you. But no
favor; remember that! Do you accept?”

“T do,” said Silas, after a few moments’ de-
liberation. ‘The interest ought to be trebled,
though.”

The planter laughed bitterly.

“T have offered you the utmost farthing I
mean to offer,” he said.

“T accept it,” answered Silas. ‘‘Give me
pen, ink and paper, and ’ll draw up the docu-
ment.

 

CHAPTER Iv.
CORA’S WELCOME. :
Waite the difficulties of the planter were
becoming every day more painful to encounter,
and more perilous to his future prospects of
happiness, the good ship Virginia reached her
destination, and in due time Mrs. Montresor and

Cora Leslie had given her father no warnin;
of her coming. It had pleased the loving gir
to think that she should creep to his side when
he least expected her, and that the happy sur-
prise of her arrival would come upon him in the
midst of his troubles.

It was growing dusk on a lovely summer’s
evening, when the travelers reached New
Orleans. Bidding a hasty adieu to Adelaide
Horton and Mrs. Montresor, with a promise to
call upon them early the next day, Cora Sern
into the carriage which Mortimer Percy

address to the driver.
“Your father is in town, Miss Leslie,” said

the young man. ‘“ You will have scarcely ten
minutes’ drive.”
“Ten minutes!” cried Cora, eagerly. ‘In

ten minutes, then, I shall see my father!”

Her lovely countenance glowed with enthusi-
asm as she spoke, while her tiny hands were
cl in an ecstasy of delight.

ortimer Percy’s face grew ereraely’ mourn-
ful as he looked upon the excited girl. ,
~“Qne moment, Miss Leslie,” he exclaimed
earnestly, pausing with his hand upon the car-
riage door. ‘You remember what I said to
you in Grosvenor Square, on the night of my
pens — es

“Yes, perfectly,

“You Senienaibat that I then told you I feared
your father’s welcome might not be so warm a
one as your loving heart would lead you to de-
sire. If to-night you should find it so, remem-
ber my , and do not doubt your father’s

 

affection, even should he receive you somewhat
coldly. Remember, too, that come what may,
and should the hour of trouble fall upon you as
it sometimes does on the youngest and the fair-
est; remember that you have always a friend
in Mortimer Percy, and do not scruple to ap-
peal to him.”

He clasped her hand in his as he spoke, and
she returned the friendly pressure.

“There is a mystery in your words which I
seek in vain to fathom, Mr. Percy,” she said;
“and I know that your warnings fl me with a
strange fear; but I know, too, that you have
been very good to me, and should sorrow come, I
will not hesitate to appeal to youand your cousin
Adelaide.”

“ Adelaide is a good little girl,” answered
Mortimer with a sigh; ‘“‘but I shall be better
able to serve you than she. Good-night, miss.”

He released her slender hand, gave some di-
rections to the driver, and in another moment
the horse started, and Cora felt that she was on
her way to her father’s residence.

The sun was sinking in a bed of crimson glory
and the dusky shadows closing in the streets o:
New Orleans.

The houses and public buildings were dimly
visible in the declining light, as Cora looked out
of the carriage window. The place seemed
strange to her after her long residence in Eng-
land. She had no memory of anything she saw,
and felt that she was an utter stranger in her
native land.

But she had not long to think of these things.
The carriage drew up before her father’s house,
and the door was opened by the black servant,
Cesar. Without ean to ask any questions,
she hurried into the hall, after dismissing the
driver; but as she was about to inquire for her
father, another negro servant entered from one
of the other doors opening into the hall, and ad-
vanced to meet her.

He was past middle age. His hair was griz-
zled with patches of gray, and his face had an
expression of settled melancholy rarely seen upon
the negro countenance. He was dressed in a
loose linen jacket and trowsers, and his manner
and appearance altogether denoted his station.
which was that of confidential man and general
servant, factotum to his master, Mr, Leslie. —

This man’s name was Toby. He had served
the pecker faithfully for five-and-twenty years.

“Mr. Leslie can see no one’this evening,” he
said as he approached Cora,

“He will not refuse to see me,” murmuréd
the young girl; ‘“‘he cannot deny himself to his
daughter.”

“His daughter!” exclaimed the negro, with
an irrepressible burst of enthusiasm; ‘ his
daughter, Miss Cora, that was away across the
sea—yonder, in the free country? Cora, the
child I used to nurse in the years that are gone

| by? ah, forgive me, forgive the poor old negro

slave, who is almost wild at the sight of his
young mistress!”

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

‘¢- You remember me then?” said Cora.

‘‘T remember the little child that I used to carry

in my er not the beautiful young lady from”

the happy English land; but the young lady has
still the soft voice and the sweet smile of the
little child, and she is not angry with poor Toby
because he is beside himself with joy to see her
once again?” —

“Angry with you!” exclaimed Cora; ‘ but
tell me, tell—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. ‘Your father, Miss
Cora! He thinks you still in the free English
country, and when he hears that you have re-
turned—” The negro paused, with an embar-
rassed countenance, as he uttered these words.

“What then?’ cried Cora. ‘If I have re-
returned without his knowledge, am I not his
daughter? and who, in his hour of sorrow, has a
better right to be at his side?”

“Yes, Miss Cora, but—

“Tell me, where is he?”

“In that room, Miss Cora,” answered the
negro, gravely, pointing to the door of the
study.

ithout waiting for another word Cora soft-
ly opened the door, and gliding into the room,
stood for a moment mutely regarding her fa-
ther. The Venetian shutters were clo and a
shaded lamp burned upon the planter’s desk—a
lamp that left the room in shadow, and threw
its full light upon the careworn face of Gerald
Leslie. The papers before him lay unheeded on
his desk, with a half-burned cigar by their side.
His finely molded chin rested upon his hand, his
brow was contracted by painful thoughts, and
his dark brown eyes were fixed gloomily upon
the ground.

He had not heard Cora’s entrance. The young
girl crept softly to his side, and dropping on her

ees at his feet, clas her hands about his
left arm, which hung loosely over the arm of
his chair,

‘‘ Father,” she murmured, ‘dearest father!”

 

 

— planter turned and beheld his only daugh-
r.

“Cora!” he exclaimed; ‘‘ Cora, you here!”

_ “Yes, dearest father. I know—I know that
it is against our commands that I have come,
but I felt that it could not be against your
wishes.”

' Gerald Leslie’s head drooped upon his breast
with a gesture of despair.

“*Tt needed but this,” he murmured, ‘to com-
plete my ruin,”

These words were uttered in a voice so low as
to escape the ear of Cora; but she could still

reeive that her coming had not given her

ather the pleasure she had fondly hoped to
have seen written in his face, when ‘he first be-
held her. .

‘*Father, father,” she cried piteously, clasp-
ing her arms about his neck, and gently draw-
ing round his head, so as to be able to look in
his a) ‘father, can it be that you do not love
me?

_‘* Not love you, Cora, my darling, my dar-
ling?’ Clasping his child to his breast, id
Leslie burst into a passion of sobs.

This was her welcome home,

 

CHAPTER V, .

A FAMILY PARTY. ;

Ler us turn from the residence of Cora’s
father to the splendid mansion inhabited by
the wealthy young planter, Au, us Horton,
in one of the best streets of New Orleans.

It is upward of a week after the arrival of
Mrs. Montresor with her two fair charges. It
is a bright summer morning, and the family
party are assembled in an elegantly-furnished
apartment, opening into a cool veranda, filled
with exotic plants.

Mrs. Montresor, who, even in that’ warm
climate, is too energetic to be idle, is seated at
her embroidery. Her nephew, Augustus, lolls in
an easy-chair, reading the New Orleans papers,
while Adelaide Horton reclines in a hammock
near the open window. Mortimer Percy, with
his hands in the pockets of his light trowsers,
and a cigar in his mouth, leans against the win-
dow talking to his cousin.

“Say what you will, Mortimer, it is most ex-
traordinary that Cora should not have called
here since our return,” exclaims Adelaide. ‘

“But do I not tell you; my dear cousin,” an-
swered the young man, ‘that Mr. Leslie has
taken his daughter to his country seat upon the
plantation?”

“What of that?’ replied Adelaide. “Mr,
Leslie’s villa is but half an hour’s drive from
New Orleans. Nothing could have been easier
than for him to have brought Cora here.”

At this moment a female slave entered, an-
nouncing Mr. Craig.

‘* Show him in,” said Augustus, without rais-
ing his eyes from the newspaper he was reading.

‘Silas Craig!” exclaimed Mortimer, with a
shudder of disgust. ‘What in Heaven’s name
induces you to encourage the acquaintance of
that man, Au ?? of

““Pshaw, Mortimer, I have none of your ro-
mantic notions, Mr. Craig is a very respectable
member of society.” .

“Respectable! Yes; the man who makes
money is respectable, no matter by what shame+
ful means he makes it. Usurer, oppressor of the
helpless, trafficker in human flesh—what mat-
ters it by what hideous trade the ae is got?
The yellow guineas will not sparkle less—the
hollow world will not be less ready to bow to
the respectable member of society.” ;

“Craig is here. Do you wish him to know
your opinion of him?” cried Augustus, angrily.

Mortimer shrugged his shoulders, and Ye-
we his conversation with his cousin Ade-
aide.

Silas Craig saluted the ladies with ceremo-
nious politeness, and, after the first
exclaimed with a face expressive of sanctimo-
nious grief and pious horror: '

““Of course, ladies, you have heard the
news?” (

“The news! What news?” cried Adelaide
and her aunt eek.

“What! is it ble that you have not heard
of Mr. Gerald e’s conduct? All New Or-
leans is ringing with the scandal.”

“What scandal?”

‘“* Ah, ladies, you may indeed well ask what
scandal; for who could believe that Mr. Leslie
one of the principal planters of Louisiana, should

have been puilty of such a treason against

interests of society at large?”

“Treason! Mr. Leslie! What do you mean,
Mr. Craig?” exclaimed Au, Horton,

“T mean that Gerald le has been dis-

covered, within these last few days, to have
educated in England the child of ‘one of his
slaves, a Quadroon called Francilia; whom he
sold tome some fourteen years ago. ‘The girl
has been brought up in England, where she fas
received the education of a princess, and it is
only through her unexpected return to New Or
leans that the secret has been discovered.”

“Merciful Heaven!” cried Adelaide, hiding
her face in her hands; ‘‘ Cora a slave!”

‘There was one spark of feeling, at least,”

 

It was with no exclamation of joy, but with | muttered Mortimer, as he watched his cousin’s
acry of something nearer akin to agony, that |! emotion, , ;
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6 3 ___THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY

 

“Now,” pursued the pitiless usurer, ‘‘ accord-
ing to the Louisiana law, it is criminal to teach
a slave to read. What, then, must be the of-
fense of Mr, Leslie, in sending this girl to a
first-class English boarding-school, and having
her taught the accomplishments of a lady of the
highest irth?”

‘A terrible offense indeed, Mr. Craig,” said
Mortimer, bitterly; “but this 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 less his slave,”

“T understand, . As a, worthy member of. so-
ciety, then, as a;Christian and a gentleman—in
the sense in which we regard these. things—he
may send his daughter to toil sixteen hours a
day on his plantation; he may hand her to his
overseer to flogged, if she is too weak (or
too lazy, as it will most ukely be called) to
work; he may sell her, if he will, no matter to
what degradation—no matter to what infamy;
but let him dare to love her—let him dare look
upon her with one thrill of fatherly affection—
let him attempt to elevate her mind by educa-
tion, to teach her that there is a free heaven
above, where slavery cannot be—let him do this,

’ and he has committed a crime against society

* eve:

and the laws of Louisiana.”

“Exactly so,” replied Craig, rubbing his.oily
hands, ‘‘I see you understand the law of the
land, Mr, Percy. No wonder that Gerald Les-
lie is a ruined man; he has wasted a princely
income on, the education. of, this girl—this
slave.”

“Poor Cora!” exclaimed Adelaide.

“What, Miss Horton, did you know her?”
asked Craig.

“T did, indeed,” replied Adelaide; ‘‘ we were
educated at the same school—we were bosom
friends,”

“Merciful Heaven!” exclaimed Craig, sanc-
timoniously ; “to what pollution are our daugh-
ters exposed, when the children of slaves are
foisted see society in this manner!”

“No, Mr. Craig,” cried Mortimer, with a bit-
ter laugh; ‘‘ the pollution is in the very atmos-
phere of a clime in which a father’s duty to
society is to trample on the laws of humanity—
the ties of flesh and blood.”

“ Hold your tongue, Mortimer,” said Augustus
Horton, ‘‘you know nothing of these things.
Gerald Leslie has acted disgracefully, and this
girl must pay the penalty of her father’s folly.”

“That is Louisiana justice.”

“Excuse me for two or three minutes, Mr.
Craig,” said Augustus, rising; ‘‘I have a few
wi to say to. my cousin: will rejoin you
almost immediately; in the mean time the
Jadies willamuse you. Come, Mortimer.”

The aes man followed his cousin, after
bowing coldly to Craig. The truth of the mat-
ter was, that Augustus Horton wished to get
his imprudent partner out of the way, as he
felt that Silas — would take care to spread
the report of Mortimer Percy’s revolutionary
principles among the outraged Southerners.

Left alone. with the two ladies, Silas Craig
- himself very much at a loss for conversa-

on.

He had never married, and he was always
silent and ashamed in female society. Accom-
perhee hypocrite as he was, he trembled before

keen instincts of a woman, and felt that his
real nature stood unmasked.

But on this occasion he was relieved from his
embarrassment in a manner that he had little
e ted. Just as he was preparing himself to
utter, some commonplace remark, a stentorian
voice resounded through the vestibule without.

“Oh, you needn’t announce me,” said the in-

truder, ‘‘everybody knows me. It’s old Craig,
oe lawyer, want to see, and I know he’s
re

A close observer might have noted that Silas
Gnge face grew considerably paler at the
sound of his voice; but before he could make
any remark, the owner of it had dashed into the
room, banging open the door with a noise of
thunder,

Well might the ladies start with an exclama-
tion of amazement at the apparition that stood
before them, The new-comer was a tall, lanky,
rawboned looking man, with long hair, which
streamed in rough locks from under his fur cap.
He wore a bear-skin jacket, very much the
worse for bad usage, loose Knickerbocker trow-
‘sers, leather gaiters, and great nailed boots; his
red-striped shirt was torn and ragged and a tat-
tered cloak hung loosely over his shoulder.
When we further add that he carried a musket
under his arm, the reader will be able to under-
stand the astonishment of Mrs. Montresor and
her niece at beholding such an intruder in their
elegant apartment.

a ghost risen from the grave had stood be-
fore him, Silas Craig could scarcely have ap-
peared more terrified than he did at the sight of
this man.

‘So I’ve found you at last, my worthy Craig,
have I?” cried the stranger. ‘“T’ve been over
inch of ground in New Orleans, I think,
looking for you. At last somebody told me you
were at Mr. Horton’s. ‘Very well, then,» says

I, ‘here goes for Mr. ee s,’ and here Lam;

‘but_how is my dear Craig? You don’t seem

to see me.”

 

“Wis dear Craig! Vulgar ruffian!” muttered
Silas in an undertone; and then, with an effort
to overcome his embarrassment, he said, ‘‘ Why,
as for being glad to see you, my dear Bill, of
course, I’m glad but you see—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 I soon spent all I took with me. So,
knowing I had tg friends in New Orleans,
I thought the best thing I could do would bo to
come back and throw myself once more on their
generosity.”

Silas Craig bit his thick under lip till the blood
started beneath his teeth,

* But I say, Craig,” said the stranger, looking
at the two astonished women, ‘‘ where’s your
manners? Ain’t you going to introduce me to
the ladies?”

“Oh, to be sure,” replied Silas, with increas-
ing embarrassment. ‘* My dear Mrs. Montresor,
my dear Miss Horton, allow me to introduce to
you Mr. Bill Bowen, formerly captain of a
slaver.”

“ Captain of a slaver!” exclaimed Adelaide.

“Don’t be frightened, miss,” said Bill; ‘‘ your
brother was one of my best customers, I’ve
done many @ bit of business in the nigger trade
with him.”

The young girl shuddered as she turned away
from the speaker,

‘““T 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-stained clothes;
“but we'll soon set that all to rights. My friend
ig will recommend me to his tailor, and lend
me the money to pay his bill, if it comes to that,
won't you, Craig?”

“Oh, certainly, as far.as that goes, in con-
sideration for past services.”

“Yes, ‘in. consideration for past services,’ ”
gaa Bill Bowen, rather significantly. ‘I
fen yeo what, Mr, Craig, as you seem doing the
civil to these ladies here, and as you don’t seem
over much to relish my company, I’ll slope now,
and drop in and take a bit of dinner with you
at your own house by-and-by. What’s your
hour?”

‘‘Six o'clock,” muttered Craig, with ill-con-
cealed vexation,

‘Six o’clock. .I shall be sure to be punctual,”
said Bill Bowen, “for I have a pretty sharp ap-
petite. Good-morning, ma’am; good-morning,
miss,” he added, nodding familiarly to the two
ladies, as he strode out of the room.

“What a horrible creature!” exclaimed Mrs.
Montresor ‘‘How can you tolerate him, Mr.
Craig?”

“Why, the truth is,” replied Silas, ‘‘the man
has been of use to me in some trifling matters of
business. He has served me for a long time, one
way and another, and [I’ve got used to his queer
ways. He’s an eccentric sort of animal, and he
works all the better for being humored, so I
look over his uncultivated manner.”

“‘T would not advise you to encourage him in
running after youinto people’s drawing-rooms,”
said Mrs. Montresor, pointing to the clay left
by Bill Bowen’s boot upon the rich colors of the
Persian carpet.

Silas reddened, and an angry frown contract-
ed his sandy eyebrows. ;

“Tl not forgive him if he PAA PIA me this
trick _— ” he muttered. ‘You are quite
right, y Montresor; Mr. William Bowen re-
qerree % be Ben a lesson, and I think Silas

raig is the man to teach him, Pray excuse the
ere at x have been subjected to, and
permit me to wish you good-morning.”

*T cannot tell you how I dislike hat man!”
exclaimed Adelaide, when she and her aunt were
alone; ‘‘he inspires me with a disgust for which
I 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,
or any of our servants. The ee between
us is broken forever, and henceforth I dare not
look upon her as = equal.

The iron hands of prejudice had so strangled
every warmer emotion of the soul, that this girl,
whose heart was naturally good and generous
was prepared to abandon forever the friend an
companion of her youth, because the taint of
African blood was in her veins, the brand of so-
ciety was stanines against her name—because
she was a slave ;

CHAPTER VI.
PAUL LISIMON,.

TwENTY years before the period of which we
are writing, a certain wealthy Spaniard, calling

mself Juan Moraquitos, came to New Orleans
and took up his abode in a superb villa residence
sufficiently removed from the din and bustle o
the city, and yet commanding a view of the wide
sweep of waters, and the dense forest of masts
that thronged the levee.

He brought many slaves, and a young wife—a
pale Spanish beauty.

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

a old female slave whispered strange stories
of the past.

For six years, the father scarce noticed the

’

 

babe, who reminded him of his wife. He had a
small estate on the banks of the Mississippi. It
was a little paradise. Here, under care of two
women, the infant was placed: the slave Pe-
pita, “who had nursed Olympia, the mother of

amillia, in her childhood, and had attended
her in her death-hour, and another female slave
called Zarah, 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
active negro boy of about six years old. Those
two women, with a couple of stout negro slaves,
who worked in the garde, composed the en.
tire establishment of the baby heiress.

Time passed; the ey, lips began to form half
articulate murmurs, then gentle and lovin;
words. The baby learnt to speak her nurse’s
name, to prattle with the negro lad—Zarah’s
son.

Pepita, the infant’s fostey-mother, loved the
child with devotion.

Zarah attended to tie household work and
waited on the nurse and her foster-child.

As the baby, Camillia, grew into a oauine

irl, the young negro loved to amuse the little

eiress by indulging in all kinds of rough and
impish gambols for her gratification.
epita, often left Tristan, the negro boy, to
watch the slumbering child. It was six years
after the death of Olympia when the stern fa-
ther’s heart first relented to his orphan child.

He would see her! ;

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

She awoke at the sound of the Spaniard’s
footstep, and uttered a scream of terror.

i ane oneliness of her life had made the child
imid.

“You are not frightened of me, are you, Ca-
millia?” ,

“ No.”

“Yet you screamed when I first saw you! A
strange welcome for your father, Camillia,”

“Father? Are you my father?”

“Yes, my Camillia, will you love me?”

“T will try,” answered the child, quietly.

Don Juan clasped his child to his breast,

“T have a playfellow here,” said the child,
pointing to the young negro.

“Tristan is no fit playfellow for my little
Camillia. Tristan is a slave.”

The young negro heard every word.

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

A week after this, Camillia, the nurse, Pepita,
Zarah, and the boy, Tristan, were removed to the
xe Moraquitos, in the suburbs of New Or-
leans. yr

Camillia was now under the care of a govern-
ess, a Frenchwoman, Mademoiselle Pauline Cor-
si. This lady took no pleasure in the antics of
Tristan—so he seldom saw Camillia. .

It was in the depth of the brief winter when
the brother-in-law of Don Juan Moraquitos ar-
rived at the Villa.

He was the only surviving relative of the
Spaniard’s dead wife, her older brother, dearly
beloved by her, but he who had forced upon
her the pe with his friend, Don Juan.
His name was Tomaso Crivello,

He had come from Mexico on a tour through
the United States, and had arrived at New Or-
leans—to die. t

‘Yes; the hand of death was upon him.

Three days after, he expired in the arms of
his brother-in-law. ;

Half an hour before he died he became con-
scious, and implored Don Juan to send for an at-
nea It was necessary that he should make a
will.

other than Silas Craig.

On the reading of the will it was found that
Don Tomaso had left his entire fortune to his
brother-in-law, Don Juan. But Don Tomaso
had not come to the villaalone. He had brought
a boy—about eight years of age. He was
named Paul.

This Paul was a handsome boy. None knew
whence he came, or who he was. :

Camillia was the only one from whom he
would take comfort.

re My child, come hither,” said the Spaniard,
one day, addressing Paul. “Tell me your
proper name—besides Paul.” .

‘“They called me Paul Lisimon.”

“Lisimon it shall be. Do you remember
your mother?”

lived with my father, Don Tomaso.”

household of the Spaniard, Camillia and Paul
taking lessons side by side from Mademoiselle
Pauline Corsi.

Bill Bowen was at the house of Silas Craig
precisely at six o’clock.

After dinner, Silas and the visitor retired to
the lawyer’s private office. ;

 

 

| ‘Now we arealone. Mr. Bowen, what want
you?” .

The attorney sent for by the Spaniard was no —

‘She died when I was a baby, and I always —

‘Do not fear, my child; your future will be
my care,” °:

And Paul Lisimon was brought up in the

 

 

eer

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

“A thousand dollars,”

“T gave you a thousand——”

vs The day after Gerald Leslie’s partner, Philip
Treverton, DIED!”

“Come, come, Bowen, don’t excite yourself,”
said Silas, ‘‘ You shall have the money.”

‘‘Tisten to what people say of Mr. Trever-
ton’s death. He lost heavily at play; he could
not pay up; he was insulted by a stranger, and
stabbed in a kind of duel—the murderer’s party
carrying off the body. A fortnight afterward
the body was found in the Mississippi. The
face could not be recognized; but from papers
found in the pocket the corpse was. known to be
that of Treverton. It was therefore buried in
the Treverton vault, The police failed to dis-
cover the murderer. On Gerald Leslie’s return.
from Europe he examined the papers of his
partner, which had been sealed up. That for
which Leslio looked most anxiously was a Cer-
tain document, a receipt for one hundred thou-
sand dollars paid to Mr. Silas Craig, attorney
and money-lender. He did not find it.”

“You shall have the money, William,”

“T ain’t in no hurry,” replied Bowen. ‘Now
I want to take a squint at whatever lies behind
yonder map.”

Silas suppressed a half-muttered oath, but
reluctantly touched a spring. door flew
back. They entered a long, narrow passage.
At its end was a window, having a view of a
large gambling saloon.

CHAPTER, VIL.
PRIDE OF CASTE,

NEARLY a month had elapsed since the ar-
rival of the Virginia in the harbor of New Or-
leans, and still Adelaide Horton and Cora Leslie
had not met.

The young Creole, generous-hearted as she
was, had _ never felt the same affection for her
old schoolfellow since the fatal revelation made
by Silas Craig. It was in vain that the gener-
osity of her nature would have combated with,
the prejudices of her education; pride of caste
was the stronger, and she could not but despise
Cora, the lovely descendant of slaves. In the
meantime, the two girls had failed to meet.
The nature of 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 of her days in a rocking-chair,
reading a novel, while fanned by her favorite
slave Myra. j

Mortimer Percy was, as we, know, by no

 

‘means the most attentive of lovers, although

living in the same house as that occupied by his
fair cousin, He saw her but seldom, and then
evinced an indifference and listlessness which
often wounded the volatile girl.

“How weary and careless he is!” she thought,
“How different to Gilbert Margrave, the artist,
the poet, the enthusiast!”

Alas, Adelaide, beware of that loye which is

iven without return! Beware of the bitter

umiliation of finding that he whom you have
secretly admired and reverenced — he whose
image you have set. upon the altar of your
heart, and have worshiped in the sanctity of
silence and of dreaming—that even he, the idol,
the beloved, looks on you with indifference,
while another usurps the earnest devotion of
his poet soul. 5 ,

Adelaide Horton had ample time for indulg-
ence in those waking dreams which are often so
dangerous.. A school-girl, young, romantic and
frivolous, ignorant of the harsh ways of the
world, she built fairy castles in the air—ideal
palaces in a lovely dreamland, which were only
too soon to be shattered to the ground,

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

6 came well furnished with letters of intro-
duction from powerful men in England, to the
pe and merchants in New Orleans; but,

hough he met with much politeness and hospi-
tality, the Louisianians shrugged their shoulders
and shook their heads when he revealed his
opinions, and tried to win their approval of his
plans. They looked upon the young ro oe
with a feeling something akin to pity. He was
an enthusiast, and, like all enthusiasts, a little
of a madman.

One of the first houses at which Gilbert Mar-

ave presented himself, was that of Augustus

orton. He found ‘Adelaide and her aunt alone
in their favorite morning room; one lounging in

her Pe the other, as usual, busy at |

an embroidery frame.

 

The young Creole looked very pretty in her |

loose and floating morning robe 0:
lin, richly trimmed with Valenciennes lace, and
ass ored ribbons. Her hair was arranged
clusters of short ringlets, which trembled in
the summer breeze, waftedin through the Vene-
tian blinds of the veranda.
As the name of Gilbert Margrave was an-

- nounced, the animated ie sprue from her
own

easy-chair, and, flinging er book ran for-

ward to receive the long-looked for visitor.
“At last!" she exclaimed. ‘‘I was sure you

would come, but I have looked out for you so

India mus- |

APE OLTORGON:

anxiously—I mean we -all have,” she added,
blushing. ;

‘A thousand thanks for your kind welcome,
Miss Horton. Believe me; your house is one
ta the very first to which IT have directed my
steps. .

Pitow good of you to remember us!’

“Say, rather, how selfish,” replied Gilbert.
“Do you think it is no happiness, in a foreign
country, to find one eircle at least where one is
not a stranger?”

“Nay, Mr. Margrave,” said Mrs. Montresor;
“will you not call us a circle of friends?”

“But pray sit down, exclaimed Adelaide
pointing to a low chair near a stand of perfumec
exotics in one of the windows, ‘‘sit down and
tell us all your adventures by land and sea, es-
pecially the latter, and how you have survived
the hair-breadth ’scapes, and ventures of the
briny Atlantic.”

Gilbert Margrave told, in a few words, the
particulars of his voyage, which had .been a
rapid anda pleasant one, ‘‘ So rapid a passag6,”
he continued, with a smile, “ that I trust. Iam
yet in time to assist at the wedding of Miss Hor-
ton and my old friend Mortimer Percy,

A shade of vexation crossed Adelaide’s pretty

ace,

“‘Treally do not see,” she said, “why all the
world should be in such a hurry for this mar-
riage. _ There is surely time enough. One would
think I was in danger of becoming an old maid,
or else that everybody was desirous of getting
rid of me.” ,

“T do not think there is much fear of either
contingency,” replied Gilbert, laughing,

“The truth is, Mr, Margrave,” said Mrs.\Mon-
tresor, ‘‘ that my dear little Adelaide is a spoilt
child; and because her cousin happens to a
sensible, high-principled young man, but not/ex-
actly a hero of romance, she thinks herself called
upon to affect a contempt for him. But I know
her better than she knows herself, and I am cer-
tain that, at the bottom of her heart, she
cherishes a very sincere affection for Morti-
mer.

“* How can you know what’s at the bottom of
my heart, when I don’t know myself, aunt
Lucy?’ exclaimed Adelaide, impatiently; ‘‘upon
my word, I think no girl was ever so cruelly
used.as I haye been, Other people make up a
marriage for me, other people tell me whom I
love, when I ow ht to: know a great 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 dis-
covered that her anger was not so much aroused
against her aunt as against Gilbert Margrave.
for the indifferent manner in which he ha
spoken of her approaching marriage. a3;

Anxious to quell the storm, of which he did
not divine the cause, the young engineer en-
deavored to turn the conversation, and in order
to do so, he asked a question which had been
trembling on his lips from the very first.

“Your friend, Miss Leslie,” he said; ‘the
star of your farewell assembly—you often see
her, I suppose, Miss Horton?”

Gilbert Margrave little knew that this very
question only added fuel to the fire already ra-
ging in the breast of the impetuous girl.

“Thave never seen Cora Leslie since our ar-
rival in New Orleans,” she answered, coldly,

“Indeed! But I thought you such intimate
friends. Miss Leslie—she is not ill, I eee

His evident anxiety about Cora terribly irri-
tated Adelaide Horton. :

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

“May I ask why this is so, Miss Horton?”

“Because Cora Leslie is no fit associate for
the daughter of Edward Horton.”

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

“Tn Heaven’s name, Miss Horton,” he ex-
claimed, ‘‘ what would you insinuate; surely
nothing against the honor of—”

“T insinuate nothing, Mr. Margrave,” an-
swered Adelaide. ‘I simply tell you that the
—the person of whom you speak is no compan-
ion for me. Whatever friendship once existed
between us is henceforth forever at an end—Co-
ra Leslie is a slave!”

A choking sensation had risen to the throat of
the young engineer during this speech, Unut-
terable anguish possessed him at the thought
that he was about to hear of some stain upon
the character of Cora. What, then, was his re-
lief at finding how much he had wronged her
purity, even by that fear?

“¢ A slave!” he reps

“Yes; African blood flows in her veins. She
has never been emancipated; she a Pagina
as much a slave as the negroes upon her father’s
plantation.” 7

“T was led to believe something to this effect
on the very night of your aunts ball in Grosve-
nor Square, Miss Horton. So far from this cir-
cumstance jessenin; my r t for Miss Leslie,
I feel that it is rather exalted thereby into a
sentiment of reverence. She is no longer sim-
ply a beautiful woman; she henceforth es
“2 Jovely representative of an oppressed peo-
pis. P

   

 

+ \, 5 er

 

 

‘Your opinions are rather Quixotic, Mr, Mar-
ave,” replied Adelaide, with a sneer; “and I
ear you, will find yourself almost in as painful
a position as the Spanish knight, if you venture _
to make them known in New Orleans.”
_ ‘Whatever danger I may incur of either be-
ing ridiculed.or persecuted, I shall never conceal
my detsetation of prejudice and tyranny, and,,
my sympathy with the weak,” answered Gilbert
prowaly. “Pardon me if. 1 speak warmly on
this subject, Miss Horton; it is mot to. be
Saar that you and I should think allke,
‘ e. represent the opposite sides of the Atlan-
ic.

“Nay, Mr. Margrave,” replied Adelaide,
whose brief burst of anger had passed liké a
thunder-cloud in a sunny sky, “it is I who
should ask pardon, I fear I am a passionate
and heartless creature, but I cannot help feel-
ing some indignation against Mr, Leslie for the
cheat he has put on us,”

Adelaide Horton scarcely dared to own.to her-
self that it was jealousy of Gilbert’s evident
partiality for Cora, rather than anger against
the young girl herself, that had been the causo
of her cruel, words,

Augustus Horton entered the room at this mo-
ment, and Adelaide presented her brother to the
young engineer.

There was little syaop ay between, Gilbert
Margrave and the planter of New Orleans. . Au-
gustus had never quitted the Southern, States,
except on the occasion of one or two brief visits
to New York. His ideas were narrow, his pre-
judices deeply rooted. He was by no means
free from the vices of his fellow-citizens; he was
known to frequent. the gambling-houses, which
in spite of the law promulgated for their su
pression, still existed in New. Orleans; but. he
was known, also, to be prudent, even in the
midst. of his dissipation, and never to. haye
= rdized the splendid estate left him by his

ather,

But hospitality is a universal virtue. with. the.
Creoles, and Augustus bade the young engineer
a hearty welcome to his house, :

They conversed for some time on. indifferent
subjects, and Gilbert, having accepted an invi-
tation to dinner for the following day, wi
about to take his leave, when he was prevanias.
by. the entrance of the slave, Myra.

The girl approached her mistress with an em>,,

assed manner unusual. to her. yn

‘“What is the matter with you, Myra,” said
Augustus, impatiently. ‘‘ What are you stand-
ing there for? Why don’t you speak?”

‘Qh, if you please, massa,” stammered the
girl, “there is a young person below who asks

see my mistress, and who calls herself. Miss
Leslie

“Gerald Leslie’s daughter here?” exclaimed
Atigustus, “This is toogmuch. This is what
her father exposes us to in not teaching this girl
her real position.”, 5

“on is to be done?” asked Adelaide, turning
pale.

“ Can youask?” replied her brother, ‘‘ Surely
hie ig one CORP: re ask Myra, here,”

6 added, pointing the yo uadroon,
“Tell ier girl, what did you thinkot fispotig ,
person?” :

“Why, massa, I—I—thought, in spite of the
whiteness of her skin, she must be—’

“Of the same rank as yourself; is it not so?”

“Yes, massa.”

“Very well, then; do you think it possible —
that your mistress could receive her as a visitor,
—as an equal?’

“Oh, no, massa!” exclaimed. the girl. ;
‘a That is enough. ‘You can let her know

is.

Myra curtsied, and. was about to leave the
room, when Gilbert Margrave arrested her by
an imperious motion of his. hand. ey

“Stay!” he exclaimed. ‘Pardon me, Mr,
Horton, if I presume to say that this must not
be. Ihad the honor of meeting Miss Leslie one
evening at the house of. your aunt. Permit m
therefore, to spare her an insult which I sho
feel myself a dastard in tolerating, Allow me
to carry your answer to Miss Chi :

“You, sir!” exclaimed A) us Horton,

“Oh, pardon me, Mr, Horton, if I appear to
make a bad return for the kind welcome you
were so ready to offer to a stranger; but re--
member that the customs and prejudices of the
South are new to me, and forgive me if I say
that the conduct which on your part would be
only natural, would become on mine an abomin- -
pHa comarnical. iii He ;

ir!” cried the gnani ee
Before he could reas Gilbert Margrave
had bowed deferentially to the ladies, and to the
anery planter himself.
Oh, it is too clear—he loves her!” exclaimed
ae Poe oe were an es
even if he does,” said her aunt anid ;

‘what difference can it poainy mak Mine. .
Adelaide Horton that is—Mrs. Mortimer Percy
that is to be?” - aif

Crimson blushes mounted to Adelaide’s face
at this remark. She made no answer, but.
aa an angry look at her aunt, hurried from

e@ room, — — cs Fe

This display of emotion had not escaped
penetrating eye of her brother. fehl 2 -

vari > \

7

 
PO TY

y

   

\

‘
a
e
i

Pie sh oe

ee

roa

p

 

  
  
    
    
  

» The summer afternoon was hot and sultry,

», within.
‘« “ All is silent,” he said sorrowfully

my horse?”
% A visitor!” exclaimed Cora.

8 | THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

a

 

 

“Pray, what is the meaning of this, my dear
aunt?” he asked, $

“T very much fear, Augustus, that your sis-
ter has no t inclination to marry her cousin,
Mortimer Percy.” .

“ And the cause of this disinclination is some
foolish preference for the insolent. European
who has just left us?”

“Unhappily, yes.”

“This is too humiliating,” exclaimed Au-
gustus, walking rapidly up and down the apart-
ment; ‘‘ my sister degrades herself by evincing
a marked predilection for a man who is in-
different to her, and the object of her admira-
tion does her the honor to prefer—a slave!”

 

CHAPTER VIII.

TOBY TELLS THE STORY OF THE MURDERED
FRANCILLA.

On an elevated terrace, fifty feet above the
mar, of a lake, was situa’ the summer
fk ion occupied by the once wealthy planter,

rald Leslie.

Thick shrubberies of magnolia and arbutus.
intersected by winding pathways, and varie
by rockeries, lay between the terrace and the
aoe waters below... Tall spread their
feathery branches above the roof of the pavil-
ion, and exotic flowers bloomed beneath the
colonnade of bamboo work which surrounded
the light edifice. A flight of marble steps led
from the glass door of the pavilion, and a bal-
ustrade of the same pure white material
stretched the whole length of 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 rustic
table and some garden chairs were placed be-
neath the luxuriant shade of a banana tree.

Seated on the steps leading from the pavilion,
faithful as a dog who listens for the footsteps of
his beloved master, the slave oohy might have
been seen on the day oe at on which
Cora had paid her unwelcome visit at the house
of Augustus Horton.

Gerald Leslie was at his office in New Orleans,
where business often detained him when the
best wishes of his heart would have kept him by
his daughter’s side.

and all the windows were open. The slave
seemed to be listening eagerly for some sound

; ‘‘ that
Bee, bird singsno more. What has happened?

ing, I know. I saw by her sad face when
she returned from New Orleans yesterday, that
all was not well with the sweet young mistress.
The sorrows of those hé loves cannot escape the
old eyes of poor Toby.”

At this moment a light footstep sounded be-
hind him, and Cora Leslie emerged from the

ilion.
Pethe young girl was dressed in the thinnest
white muslin, which floated round her graceful
figure aerial as some vapory cloud in a summer
sky. She was pale, and a mournful shadow
dimmed the orient splendor of her large black
eyes. She descended the marble steps slowly.
without perceiving the faithful slave who had
risen at her approach, and who stood aside re-
garding her earnestly. .

“Miss Cora is sad,” he said presently; “will
= forgive the poor slave if he presumes to ask
why?

e started at the sound of the mulatto’s
voice, and turning toward him held out her
hand silently. ee poe
eee took the little hand in his and raised it

ips.
ma co Cora does not deny that she is sad,” he
re ;
. “Not so much sad, Toby, as bewildered,” re-
lied the young girl. ‘““My reception at the
Potie of my old school-fellow has filled my
mind with Pp lexity. What could be the mean-
ing of Adelaide Horton’s conduct?”

‘Forgive me, Miss Cora, if I remind you that
= father particularly requested you not to
ive the house during his absence.”

“T know, Toby, I know. But that uest?
Why am I prisoner here? Why is my father’s
manner more indicative of sorrow than joy at
my return 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
te 99 explained the reason of that, Miss

ra,

“No, Toby; Mr. Margrave endeavored to ex-
tee but in doing so he only revealed his em-
mt. There is some secret in all this.

Some mystery that— Hark!”
__ The sound which arrested Cora’s attention was
the tram of a horse’s hoofs upon the car-

riage drive below the terrace.
‘* Hulloa!” cried a voice from the same direc-

tion. “ Hulloa, there! Is there any one to hold

“Tt is Mr, A Horton,” said Toby, look-
over the balustrade.
_* Adelaide’s brother! Then I will see him.”

 

 

“But in ror father’s absence, Miss Cora?”
murmured the slave, anxicuay:

“T will’ see him,” repea Cora, “‘he may
comeé to offer an explanation—Heaven knows it
is needed.”

‘Hulloa! is every one asleep here?” cried the
voice below.

‘Coming massa,” answered Toby, running
down the terrace steps.

Three minutes afterward Augustus Horton
made his appearance in the flower-garden, where
Cora awaited him. He bowed carelessly to the
young girl without raising his hat, but fixing
upon her lovely face a gaze of ardent admiration.

He carried a light ee HP in his hand
and was smoking a cigar, which he did not re-
move from his mouth.

“‘ Miss Cora Leslie, I presume?” he said.

Cora bowed.

“Mr. Leslie is not at home, I understand?”

“Tam expecting his return at any moment,
Mr. Horton,” answered Cora.

Something in the planter’s familiar manner,
and in his ardent gaze, filled the young girl with
indignant surprise, and she looked at him with
a glance of astonishment as he flung a sealed
packet upon the table, and seated himself, with-
out invitation, in one of the rustic chairs.

“T have some papers to restore to your fa-
ther,” he said; “but that is not the whole ob-
ject of my visit. a told me that you
were lovely, Miss lie, but I now perceive

that in such a case a woman never tells more
than half the truth,”
Cora had remained standing during this

speech. She now seated herself in the chair op-
posite to that taken by the young planter, and
said, calmly:

“Pardon me, Mr. Horton, but I imagined
that the object of your visit here—”

‘“Was to reply to the letter addressed by you
to my sister, Adelaide? Yes, Miss Leslie, that
letter Rye to us that Mr. Margrave had not
properly acquitted himself of the commission
which he undertook.”

rN so, sir?” 4

“My sister much regretted not being able to
receive you yey and I should have shared
those regrets, had she not chosen me to bring
you her excuses.”

“Tt is not an excuse which I regal, Mr.
diomty. but an explanation,” replied Cora, with

igni ;
gusts shrugged his shoulders.
es at further explanation can you uire,
Miss Leslie,” he said; ‘‘the preparations of her
approaching marriage. A little touch of head-
- ne perhaps. Is not this sufficient to explain
a

“No, sir, it is not. Because I would rather
hear the truth, bitter as that truth may be,
than these courteous mockeries which put me to
the rack. Mr. oes opposition to my return
to America; my father’s emotion on_beholding
me; the strange isolation in which I am kept:
and lastly, your sister’s extraordinary conduct
of yesterday—all these prove to me that some
terrible fatality overshadows me; a fatality of
which I am ignorant, but which I am deter-
mined to discover.” :

“Nay, Miss Leslie, what is that you would
seck to know? why not be content to reign by
your grace and beauty? for the fatality of
which you speak can cast no cloud upon your
loveliness; and even the jealousy of our wives
and sisters cannot rob you of your sov-
ee
“YT do not understand you, sir.”

““And yet I endeavored to make myself un-
derstood. Ah, Miss Leslie! we are but strangers,
newly met within this hour; but we Creoles are
the children of a southern clime, and our pas-
sions are gigantic as the palms which wave
above your head—rapid in growth as the lilies
on the breast of yonder lake. Love, with us, is
a flame; suppressed, it is true, yet needing but
one spark from the touch of beauty to cause a
conflagration.”

“Sir!” cried Cora, indignantly.

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

“Nay, hear me, hear me, Cora,” continued
Augustus Horton; “ there is, perhers, a secret;
there is, it may be, a fatality which over-
shadows your young life. Be mine, and none
shall ever taun' you with that fatal secret; be
mine, and you shall be the proudest beauty in
Louisiana, the a of New Orleans, the idol
of esr lover’s devoted heart; be mine, and the
debt owed me by your father shall be canceled;
be mine, and I will tear into a hundred frag-
ments the bill which I hold for fifty thousand
dollars, and which it will half ruin Gerald
Leslie to pay.”

Her eyes flashing, her bosom heaving with
offended. modesty, Clara Leslie rose from her
¢e

i
“Toby,” she called, without even replying b:
so nitich pb a look to the planter’s appeal. =e

“Cora Leslie, what would you do?” exclaimed
the Creole, rising.

“Toby!” repeated Cora.

“ Beware, young lady!”

The mulatto appeared in answer to the sum-
mons of his young mistress,

,

 

“Toby, ‘you will conduct this gentleman to
the gates of my father’s grounds, and remember
that if he ever again dares to present himself
here, it will be your duty to refuse him admit-
tance. You hear?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Go, sir,” said Cora, looking at Augustus for
the first time since she had risen from her seat;
‘“‘T am but a stranger in New Orleans, and you
have done much to enlighten me as to the char-
acter of its inhabitants. You have done well to
choose the hour of a father’s absence to insult
his only daughter. Go!”

“T obey you, Miss Leslie,” answered Augus-
tus, white with rage, and trembling in eve
limb with suppressed passion. ‘“‘ Believe me,
shall not forget our interview of to-day, and
shall take an opportunity to remind you of it on
some future occasion. For the present I am
your debtor; but trust me, the hour of settle-
ment will come between us, when you shall pay
dearly for this insolence. In the mean time,” he
added, turning to the mulatto, “in order to
teach your young mistress her proper position,
be good enough to relate to her the story of
Francilia.”

With one savage glance at the indignant girl,
he hurried down the terrace steps, sprung into
the saddle, put spurs to his horse, and rode off
at a rapid gallop. 7

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

The mulatto hung his head, and was silent.

“Speak, I say,” repeated Cora.

“ Francilia—was—a slave, belonging to Mr,
Leslie, Miss Cora.”

“Well, then, what could she have in common
with me? Why did that man cast her name in
my face as an insult?” :

‘oby made no reply.

“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 in her slender hand, “‘ Toby, ak!” 5

The mulatto fell on his knees at the feet of his
young mistress, and cried eplotey

“Miss Cora, in the name of mercy do not look
at me thus.” P :

“Toby, tell me,” murmured Cora, in a voice
hoarse with emotion; ‘‘who was my mother?”

“Mistress, dear mistress, for pity’s sake do
not ask me. I have promised not to reveal—”

“You said just now that you loved me,” an-
swered Cora; “if you spoke the truth, prove
your affection; tell me who was my mother?”

“Your mother—” faltered the slave; ‘no, no,
I cannot, I dare not.”

“But { command you—nay, I implore.”

“Your mother—was called—Francilia,”

“Oh, merciful Heaven, have pity upon me!”
cried Cora, hiding her face in her hands; then,
after a lon eee said sorrowfully:

“And I did not even know the name of my
mother. Francilia! a slave! this then is the se-
cret of my life. Alas! she is dead, is she not?”

“She is.”

“Dead, far from her child, who was not even
permitted to weep for her.”

“Thank Heaven that you do not curse her
memory,” murmured Toby rising,

“Curse her!” exclaimed Cora; ‘would that I
could embrace her, as I do you,” she added,
throwing her arms about the old man’s neck.

“Me, Miss Cora! me, a mulatto!” remon-
strated Toby, gently repulsing her.

“What of that? Does not the same blood flow
in our veins? are we not of the same down-trod-
den 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 to sit down, placed her-
self at his feet, her hand in his, her eyes raised
to his face.

“Francilia was but fifteen years of age,”

Toby began, ‘‘when a slave merchant brought
her to Mr. Leslie; she was a Quadroon, beautiful

as you 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 again
in yours. She was at first employed in the ser-
vice of Mrs. Leslie. Oh, Heaven! poor child,
how happy and light-hearted she then was;
her joyous voice warbling the soft melodies
of her nation; her merry laugh ringing through
the corridors of the house. I saw her, and I
dared to love 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 that belongs to another, One day, Fran-
cilia left for St. Louis, with her master and
mistress, They were to be absent some weeks.
I was to remain behind. In bidding me fare-
well she left me this silver ring, which I wear
on my finger. I would aye it you, dear mis-
tress, but I have sworn to keep it till my death.
When Francilia—returned—she—”
The slave paused, overcome by. emotion.
eS , Speak, Toby !” said Cora,

‘Oh, for pity’s sake, do not accuse her! You
know not what it is to be a slave, bound to
obey, body and soul, the commands of a master.
Is not even resistance a crime? When :
cilia returned she had become your father’s
mistress. She confessed all to me, with tears,

7

 

 

 
ennai tt ma

 

; seers: and she awakes, perhaps, to find the
] :

. always encountering the same melanchol,

 

is

THE OCTOROON.

 

 

 

and heart-rending
sessed me!
that_ moment.
me, I know that I should have become a mur-

ief! A terrible rage oye’ |
I was like a drunken man! If, in
Mr. Leslie had appeared before

derer. But the habit of suffering teaches _re-
signation to the slave. This first fury past, I felt
my energy abandon me, and I could only weep
with Francilia over our vanished happiness.
Alas, poor child, she no longer laughed, she no
longer sung!”

“Poor girl, poor girl!”

“Tt was only when you came into the world,”
continued Toby, ‘‘ that she seemed to re-attach
herself to life, and I ate on you all the
deep devotion that I had felt for her-—forgive
me, Miss Cora, I loved you as if you had been
my own child.”

‘*Dear Toby.”

“But she—oh, how she loved you! With
more than a mother’s love; with the love of the

_ Slave, who knows that even lier child is not her
own, but is a ‘slave like herself—and who dares
not slumber beside the cradle of her infant, for
they take away tho children while the mother

cradle empty.”

“Oh, cruel, cruel!”

“But this was not the fate with which you
were threatened. Mr. Leslie had married a
vain and capricious woman. They had no chil-
dren, and his life was not a happy one. His
love for you was intense—all the more intense,
as he was compelled to conceal from all an
affection which would have been considered a
weakness. Your father’s love for you had re-
assured Francilia, when one day (you were then
four years old) he announced his determination |
of taking you to England. Francilia did not
utter a word; the silent tears filled her mourn-
ful eyes. But when they tore you from her
arms, she burst into a tempest of sobs, and fell
insensible to the ground.”

‘¢Yes, yes, I remember.” 7

“ But all that is nothing,” cried the slave, his
eyes flashing with vengeful fury, ‘‘nothing to—

et, no, no! I have no more to tell.”

“But” I insist on knowing all,” exclaimed
Cora, vehemently. ‘What became of my un-
happy mother? How did she die?’

‘On his return from Europe, Mr. Leslie
found her tranquil, and apparently resigned;
but the glance of those mournful black eyes be-
came an eternal reproach, which irritated and
tormented him. e sent her to work on:the
plantation; but for some reason or other, go
where he would, he was always mecHng De
OOK,
seemed to ask him’ for her child. At
He sold her.”

whic
last he could endure it no longer.
“‘Oh, Heaven!” exclaimed Cora. ‘
“He sold her to a man of the name of Craig—
a bad man—who, under the mask of a sancti-
monious life, concealed the base heart of a pro-
fligate and a villain. He thought, on purchas-

 

a

ing the slave, that he would succeed her late
master in her good graces; but finding that he
could obtain nothing by persuasion, he would

have had recourse to violence, when Francilia
seized a knife and buried its blade in her heart.”

“Oh, my mother, my murdered mother!”

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

Cora sunk on her knees, the tears streaming
from her eyes, her clasped hands uplifted to
Heaven.

“Alas, beloved mother!” she cried, . “‘ martyr
to the base and cruel laws of this accursed land,
it is after fifteen years that your daughter
learns your unhappy fate; after fifteen years
that she weeps for your memory!”

CHAPTER IX.
THE DAUGHTER'S ACCUSATION. :
NerrHer Cora nor Toby were aware: that
there had been a listener during the latter part
of their conversation; but it was not the less:a
fact. Gerald! Leslie had returned unobserved
by either of the excited speakers, and; arrested
by the passionate gestures of the mulatto slave,
had lingered in the background, anxious to dis-

cover the cause of his agitation. r

His anger was terrible when he found that the
fatal secret, which it had been the business of
his life to conceal from Cora, was now revealed.

But he still lingered, anxious to hear all.

“Toby,” murmured Cora, rising from her
knees; ‘‘tell me, where did they bury my

-mother?” oid)

“ Her ve is half-hidden in the thickest |
depths of a wood of magnolias upon the bor-

ders of Silas Craig’s plantation. I carved a
rustic cross and placed it at the head.”

“You will conduct me to the spot, Toby?”

asked Cora. E

At this moment Gerald Leslie rushed forward,
and, springing toward. Toby, lifted. his riding-
whip as if about to strike the mulatto, when

Cora flung herself between them.

_ “Strike me rather than him!” she exclaimed ;
then turning to the slave, she said alah “Go,
Toby! Iswear to you that while I live none
shall harm so much as a hair of your head.” |

The mulatto lingered for a moment, looking

 

 

 

 

imploringly at Gerald Leslie.
e Fo re me, master, if I have spoken,” he
_ Inurmured ingly.
ae

“T will not have yeu excuse yourself,” ‘said
Cora; “you have only done your duty. Go!”
Toby bent his head and slowly retired. Cora

| stood motionless, with her arms-folded, her eyes
| fixed upon Gerald Leslie, ’

“Well,” she said, ‘‘ why do you not strike

/me? Whoam I that your hand has not already
| chastised my insolence?, Your daughter?. No!

The child of Francilia, a Quadroon, a slave!
Prove to me, sir, that 1 am before my master ;
for if I amindeed your daughter, I demand o
you an account of your conduct to my mother.”

“You accuse me! . You, Cora!” exclaimed
Gerald Leslie.

“T am ungrateful, am I not? Yes, another
father would have allowed his child to grow up
to slavery; while you, ashamed of your pater-
nal love, as if it had been a crime, you tore me
from my mother’s arms, in order that I might
forget her; in order to withdraw me from the
curse which rested upon me; to efface, if possi-
ble, the last trace of this fatal stain!”

“What could I have done more than this,
Cora?”

“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
they taught me in that free country? They
taught me that the honor of every man, the love
of every mother, are alike sacred.”

» “Ttis then, with my affection that you would
reproach me!” replied Gerald Leslie mournfully.
‘‘T would have saved you, and you accuse me
as if that wish had been acrime! I snatched

ou from the abyss that yawned before your
infant feet, and in return you curso me! Oh
remember, Cora, remember the cares which |
lavished upon you! Remember my patient sub-
mission to your childish caprices; the happiness
I felt in all your baby joys; my pride when

your little arms were twined about my neck, |

and ae rosy lips peenonded to my kisses!”

‘“No, uo!” exclaimed Cora; ‘‘do not remind
ae of these things. I would not remember
them, for every embrace bestowed upon you
was a theft from my unhappy mother.’ :

**Your mother! Hold, girl! do not speak to
me of her! for though I feel that she was inno-
cent of the hazard of her birth, I could almost
hate her for having transmitted to you one drop
‘of the accursed blood. which flowed in her
veins.”

“Your hatred was satisfied,” replied Cora bit-
terly. ‘“ Yousold her! The purchase-money. which
you received for her perhaps served to pay for

he costly dresses which you bestow upon me!

The diamonds which have glittered upon my
neck and arms were pera bought with the
price of my mother’s blood!’

“Have a care, Cora! Beware how you goad
me to desperation. I have tried to forget—nay,
T have forgotten that that blood was your own,
Do not force me to remember.”

“And what if I do remind yous 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 me rather. You |-

may thus repair your ruined fortunes. Are
you aware that one of

thousand dollars that you owe him as the price
of your daughter’s honor?”

“Oh, Heaven!” exclaimed Gerald Leslie; “all
this is too terrible!” then flinging himself upon
his knees at. Cora’s feet, he clas her ‘hands
passionately in his own, “‘ Cora, Cora, have pity

upon me! hat would you ask of me? What
would you have me to do? My crime is the
crime of all. Is the punishment to fail upon me
alone?- Am I alone to suffer? 1, who have

sacrificed my honor—yes, Cora, my honor as a
citizen—to the claim. of, paternal love? Do you
know. that every citizen in New Orleans would
blame and ridicule me for my devotion to you?
Do you know that I am even amenable to the
jaws for having dared to educate your mind
and enlighten Bs understanding? See, I am
on my knees at-your feet. 1, your father, hu-
miliate myself to the very dust. Do not accuse
me; in mercy, do not accuse me!”

ora’s beautiful face was pale as ashes, her
lange dark eyes distended, but tearless.

“Upon my knees, beside ey einen grave,”
she said, solemnly, ‘I will her spirit if she
can forgive you.

She released herself from her father’s grasp,
and hurried into the house before 43 could ar-
rest her. Thé planter rose from the ground and

looked po after his daughter, but he did

not attempt to fo

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

e one crime of his youth had risen to tor-
ture his remorseful soul—ghastly and horrible
shadow, it pursued the sinner in évery place; it
appegred at every moment. Bapentarics only
could lay the phantom to rest, and he was now
ony. learning to repent.

e had never before looked upon his conduct
to the beautiful roon, Francilia, in the
light of crime. t had he done which was
not done every day by others? What was she,

ow her.

 

   

our creditors, Augustus |
Horton, offered not only an hour ago the fifty ‘

 

lovely and innocent being as she was, but a slave
—his property—bought with his sordid gold—
his to destroy as oer eased.

Her melancholy death he looked upon as an
unhappy accident, for which he himself was in
no way responsible. That crime rested upon
Silas Craig’s overburdened soul.

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

But now the consequences of his crime had
overtaken him in a manner he had never dream-
ed of: Cora, his beloved, his idolized child, ac-
cused and cursed him as the murderer of her
mother.

It was too horrible, ;

He dared not remain at the summer ‘pavilion.
He dared not meet the reproachful Mer of
those eyes which appeared to him as the , Eng
orbs of the late Francilia. No, alone in his of-
fice, surrounded by the evidences'of commerce,
and the intricate calculations of ‘trade, he en-
deavored to forget that he had a daughter, and
a daughter who no longer loved him,

And where all this time was Cota? ‘With the
Venetian shutters of her rtmént closed,
with the light of day exchuted from her luxuri-
ous apartment, she lay with her head buried in
the satin cushions of her couch, weeping for the
mother whose mournful face she could scarcely
recall—weeping ‘for the father whose youthful
sins she so lately learned.

Bitter, bitter were the thoughts of the young
girl, whose life had heretofore been one long
suhimer’s sunshine. ;

She, the. courted, the caressed, the admired
beauty of a London season—she was a slaye—an
‘Octoroon—a few drops only of the accursed
blood of the African race were enough to taint
tet nature and change the whole current of her

e,

Her father loved her, but he dared only love
her, in -secret. _The proud slaveholdérs would
yee tae aloud at the planter’s affection
for his half-caste daughter. Andhe, too, Gilbert
Margrave, the poet Seer he, whose every
glance and every word had breathed of admira-
tion, almost touching upon the borders of love;
he would doubtless pra ghee know all; and he,
Sad oh, bitter misery, would despise and loathe

er ;

‘Thank Heaven, the unha) 1 wronged the
noble nature, of the Englis Peeve She knew
not that to the Briton there is no such word as
slavery. She knew not that in a free count
the lowest, laborer in the fields has as‘full a ri é
to daw. and. justice as the proudest noble in the
and,

 

CHAPTER X.
THE YOUNG LOVERS,

CAMILLIA atid Paul Lisimon were no 1o
children. -'The young heiress had attained her
nineteenth ‘year, while Don Juan’s protege was,
as our redders are aware, two years her senior.

Paul still lived at the Villa Moraquitos.. He
Seale a small’ but neatly-furnished apart-
ment, a the Hpese floor... Here were ar-
ranged the books he loved; here he of ‘sat
absorbed in study till the aay morning hours
sounded from the clocks of New, Orleans, and
the pale stars faded in the purple river. ;

Deep in the quiet night, when all the house-
hold were perc gh when the faintest footfall
awoke a ghostly echo in the awful stillness of
the house, the young student, forgetful of the
swiftly-passing hours, toiled on, a steady trav-
eler on the stony road which leads to greatness.

It was to Silas Pris: the attorne
Juan, Moraquitos had articled his protege.
much to the dislike of the young man, Wwhd had
a peculiar aversion to the usurer, *

“Let me be with any other lawyer in New
Orleans rather than that man,” he said; “T can

never tell you how deep a contempt I have for ~

his character.” ;

Don Juan laughed aloud. . _ me

“His character! my dear Paul,” he replied;
‘“what in mercy’s name have you, to do with
the man’s character? Silas “Craig is.a
crite! a profligate, who covers his ETE ‘ices
with the all-sheltering cloak of religion, Grant-
ed! He is not the less one of the cley
lawyers. in New Orleans, and the fittest mn
to be intrusted with the cultivation of your
AO inteliect.” Bitty aie gh it

ese conversations were é recur-

ring between Don Juan and he Precape Migr to
the signing of the articles which were to bind
Paul Lisimon to the detested attorney; and the
young man, finding that all his remonstrances

io ethyl aticed ts Bhar eee
stron; cle as i
the Taniaittee route terminate in bei

1 ing com-
pelled to lead a life of hopeless idleriess, made
be fur cy eout laa
weeks a: © signin e ;
his seat in the office of Mr, a vs. i
Tt was not long before Paul discov-
ered that there was a decided mation on
the part of the attorney to initiate him even
in the merest rudiments of. pag. ye eseinn, He
reading the pres

niet have sat in the office
and lolling in a -chair all day if he had

gee.) ‘
x vO) ¢

    

 

, that Don —

 
 

 

RSE

: the country which had given him birth—Paul

a

q NG To him she was all gen‘

__ take the sting from his position.
ward.

x
be

ed ius, whose name is never heard by pos-

——

410

THE, FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

pleased, but whenever he sought for employ-
ment he was put off with some excuse or other,
more or less plausible.

An idle young man would have been delight-
ed with this easy life—not so Paul Lisimon,
Kind and liberal as Don Juan Moraquitos had
been to him, the proud spirit of ‘the young
man revolted against a life of dependence. e

earned not only to achieve a future career,

ut to reper the obligations of the past—to erase
the stain of dependence from his youth; to pay
for the education which had been given him by
favor, Thus, where another would have rejoic-
ed in the idleness of Silas Craig’s office, where
another would have abandone himself to the
dissipated pleasures that abound in such eee
New Orleans, where another would have snatch-
ed the tempting chalice which youthful passion
offered to his lips, Paul Lisimon, in very defi-
ance of his em loyer, ene but surely ad-
vanced in the knowledge of the profession
whose ranks he was predestined to arg

Strange to say, Don Juan, instead of praising
and encouraging the industry of his protege
laughed and ridiculed him for his determine

bors.

“You are the most extraordinary young man
Lever met with, Paul,” said the Spaniard.
“Where others of your age would be haunting
the ing-house, which, in spite of our laws
for their suppression, secretly exists in New Or-
Jeans—where others would nightly visitants
of the theater and the cafe, you are forever
brooding over those stupid books.”

“Other men are perhaps born to fortune,” an-
swered Paul, with quiet dignity; “‘ remember,
dear sir, I have to achieve it.”

“Nay, Paul; how do you know what inten-
tions a certain elderly Spanish gentleman ma:
have with regard to a document called a will?”

‘‘ Heaven forbid, sir,” replied Paul, “that I
should ever seek to fathom those intentions; and
if you allude to yourself, permit me to take this
opportunity of declaring that I would not ac-
cept one dollar, even were your misguided
generosity to seek to bequeath it to me,”

“Santa Maria, Mr. Lisimon, and why not,
pray?” asked Don Juan, laughing at the young
man’s impetuosity.

“Because I would not rob her who has the
sole claim upon your fortune.”

“My little Camillia; she will be rich enough
in all conscience. Ah, Paul,” added the Span-
iard, looking somewhat searchingly at Lisimon,
‘it, 4s a serious matter for a father to have such
a daugter as Camillia Moraquitos to dispose of;
a beauty and an heiress! ere in all New Or-
leans shall I find the man rich or noble enough
to be her husband?”

Paul Lisimon winced as if he had received a

from a dagger.

“You will consult your daughter’s heart, sir,
I trust,” he murmured hesitatingly; ‘‘even be-
fore the claims of wealth?”

The old Spaniard’s brow darkened, and his
somber black eyes fixed themselves upon Paul’s
face with a sinister and penetrating that
boded little good to the young man. No more
was said upon the subject between the two men.
Paul did not relax his industry by one iota af-
ter this conversation. The enervating pleas-
ures of the rich could not win him from the
stern routine of toil and ey

Perhaps the reader has already guessed the
fatal truth.

Paul Lisimon, the unknown dependent upon
a rich man’s bounty, the penniless lad who
knew not even the names of his parents, or of

loved the peerless daughter of the wealthy Don
Juan. Moraquitos; and was it to be wondered
that he loved her? .

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

more accomplished. o
She it is true, much of the pride of
her father’s haughty race; but that pride was
tempered by the sweetness of Olympia Crivello;
and it was a high and generous sentiment that
led the young girl to hate a meanness or a false-
with even a deeper loathing than she

ould have felt for a crime. :
But to. Paul Lisimon, Camillia was never
leness;, all con-
ing affection. The very knowledge of his'de-
ndence, which had been dinned into her ears
yy Don Juan, rendered her only the more anx-
ious to evince a sister-like devotion which should

Instmctively she knew, that spite of all out-
“ts g that ‘tion TG g oes the
Prout . vely she fe at nature in
ctor & Paul Lisimon had never intended him
to a subordinate position. He was one of
those who are born for greatness, and who, con-
strained by the cruel trammels of circumstan-
ces, and unable to attain their per level,

h in the flower of youth, withered by the

ehted hand of d “

died the poet Chatterton, a victim to the

suicide’s rash madness. So dies many a neglect-

Paul loved the heiress; loved her from the
first hour in which she had soothed his boy-
ish anguish at the loss of his patron Don

¥ a oR z

 

 

‘gled with the resolute obstinacy

Tomaso; loved her in the tranquil years of their
outhful studies: loved her with the deep devo-
ion of manhood, when his matured passion

burst forth in its full force, and the flickering

light became an unquenchable and steady
flame,

He did not love in vain.

No, as years passed on, and the bud changed
to the lovely blossom, Camillia’s San chang-
ed toward her father’s protege. °
could she greet him with a sister’s calm smile of
welcome. The ardent. gaze of his dark eyes

brought the crimson blush to her cheek and |

brow; her slender hand trembled when it rested
in his—trembled responsive to the thrill which
shook the young man’s strong frame; her voice
faltered as she addressed him, and her southern
eyes vailed themselves beneath their sheltering
lashes, and dared not uplift themselves to his.

She loved him!

Happy and cloudless sunshine of youth. They
loved, and earth became transformed into a
paradise—the Py aroof of sapphire glory; the
sunny river a flood of melted diamonds. The
magic wand of the young blind god, Cupid,
changed alk es round them into splendor.

They dreamed not of the future. They
thought not of the stern policy of a father, im-
placable in the pride of wealth. No, the distant

storm-cloud was hidden from their Yadiant |.

eyes.
oO Camillia!” exclaimed the young man;
“think you I can fail to achieve greatness when
your love is to be the crown of the struggle?
hink you I can falter on the road that leads to
success, when your eyes will be the lode-stars to
guide my way?”

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

It is not to be expected that Camillia Mora-

uitos was without suitors among 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 knee
before the charms of her father’s wealth, and to
declare the heiress an angel. But when it is re-
mémbered that her future fortune was only ex-
ceeded by her glorious beauty, it will be thought
little marvel fhat she hada host of admirers
ever ready to flock round her at her father’s
soirees, to attend her in her drives, to haunt her
box at the opera or the theater, and to talk of
her beauty in all the coffee-houses of New Or-
leans, Our readers must remember that there
is much in this chief city of Louisiana which re-
sembles rather a French than an English town.
The inhabitants are many of them of French
extraction. The coffee-houses—or cafes as they
are called—resemble those of Paris; the gam-
bling-houses and theaters are Parisian in ar-
rangements, and the young men of the upper
classes have much of the polish of our Guhtic
uiehhors, mingled with not a little of their fri-
vo

ity.

i atibi the many suitors for the hand of Ca-
mnillia. Moraquitos was no less a person than Au-
gustus Horton.

But the young planter did not love the Span-
ish beauty; there was something terribly repel-
lent in the haughty spirit of Camillia to those
whom she did not love, and Augustus Horton’s

ride was wounded by the thought that his’ at-
tions could ibly be disagreeable to any
woman whom he condescended to honor by a
preference. It was not love, therefore, which
made him so constant in his attendance 6n the
young beauty. No; mercenary motives, min-
of wounded
pile He would not confess, even to himself,
hat there was any fear of his failing to attain
the prize. He despised the young fops who
whispered soft speeches and high-flown compli-
ments into the nes of the disdainful
girl, and, thinking these his only rivals, dreamt
not of defeat.

In all the planter’s visits to the Villa Mora-
quitos he never yet encountered Paul Lisi-
mon.

The ong Mexican scrupulously held himself
aloof from the rich and frivolous tiests who as-
sembled in Don Juan’s splendid mansion. a

In vain did the Spaniard bid his protege join
in the festivities at the villa. In vain did Ca-
millia aw her lover with coldness and ne-
glect, Paul was inexorable. :

“No, Camillia,” he said, when the young girl
remonstrated with him, ‘‘T should hear your
father’s guests ask each other in the superb dis-
dain of their Creole insolence, ‘ Who is this Mr.
Lisimon? I await the time, Camillia, when my
own exertions shall have made this simple and
now unknown name of Lisimon familiar to every
citizen in New Orleans.” - .?

While the soft echoes of piano and guitar
floated through the luxurious saloons; while the
rich contralto yoice of Camillia, mingling with
the chords of her guitar enchanted her obsequi-
ous listeners, Pa‘ toiled in his lonely chamber,
reve looking up now and then from his books
and papers, to listen for a few brief moments
' to the sounds of laughter and reyelry below.

“Laugh on!” he exclaimed, as a sarcastic

longer |

| smile curved his finely-molded lips; | ‘ laugh
| on, frivolous and ignorant ones—whisper un-
| meanin@ compliments, and. murmur inanities to
my peerless Camillia! 1 do not fear you; for it
is not thus she will be won.”
| Augustus Horton was a rich man; he belonged
| toone of the best families in New Orleans, and
| the old Spaniard knew of no one better suited as
| a husband for his beloved daughter,
Don Juan therefore encouraged the; young
| planter’s addresses, though at the same time
| thoroughly resolved to throw him off, should
any richer or more aristocratic suitor present
himself.

Camillia knew nothing of her father’s inten-
tions. All her admirers were alike indifferent
to her, for her heart was irrevocably re and
her faith irrevocably pledged, to Paul Lisimon,

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

White hairs were mingled in the; black locks
of the mulatto woman Pepita; the negress Zarah
was bent with age, and Tristan, the negro lad,
had become aman—a man with powerful pas-
sions and a subtle and cunning nature, hidden
beneath the mask of pretended ignorance and
simplicity. ;

e could sing grotesque songs, and dance
half-savage dances, as in the early days of his
young mistress’ youth, when he was Camillia’s
only playfellow. He knew a hundred tricks of
jugglery, sleight of hand by which he could
amuse an idle hour, and even now he was often
admitted to ae his accomplishments before
the Spanish girl, her devoted attendant Pepita,
and her old governess, Mademoiselle Pauline
Corsi, who still remained with her, no longer as
an instructress, but in the character of com-
panion and friend.

We have as. yet refrained from eee of
the Frenchwoman; but as she may by and by
play by no means an an eieer part in the

eat life drama we are relating, it is time that
he reader should know more of her.

Pauline Corsi was but seventeen years old
when she first came to Villa Moraquitos as the

receptress of Camillia, then a child of six.
jhe was therefore thirty years of age at the
time of which we write.

But although arrived at this comparatively
mature period of life, she still retained much of
the girlish beauty of extreme youth.

Unlike most of her countrywomen she was
very fair, with large, limpid: blue eyes, and a
wealth of showery flaxen curls. Small and
slender, with delicate little feet and hands, there
‘was much in her ee to indicate patrician
extraction. ‘Yet she never alluded to her coun-
try or her friends. it

he told Don Juan that she was an orphan,
homeless, penniless, and friendless, glad to leave
the shores of her sunny France for the chances
of finding better fortune in the New World;

*¢ And T have found better fortune,” she would
say, lifting her expressive eyes to the dark face
of her haughty employer; “‘ for where could I
have hoped to meet a nobler patron, or to find
dearer friends or a happier home, than I have
here? Ah, bless you, noble Spaniard, for your
goodness to the helpless stranger.” }

It was in the summer that Pauline Corsi first
came to Villa Moraquitos, and it was in the win-
ter of the same year that Don Tomaso Crivello
expired in the arms of his brother in-law. 4

e must request the reader to bear this’ in
mind, for on the truth of certain dates han
much of the tale of mystery and crime whic’
we are about to reveal.

sinuate that the Spaniard’s heart would surely
be in a little danger from the presence of so
young and lovely a woman as the French gov-
erness, but they soon grew tired of whispering
this, for it was speedily perceived b who
knew Don Juan Moraquitos that his heart was
buried in the mausoleum of hisfair young wife,
Olympia, and that all the love of which his
proud nature was capable was lavished on his
on child.
me girls in the position of Pauline Corsi

might have nourished ambitious hopes, and
| might have angled for the heart and hand of
the wealthy Spaniard; but it was impossible to
suspect the light-hearted and frivolous young
Frenchwoman of the mean vicesrof the schemer.
She was a thing of sunshine and gladness—gay
and heedless as the birds she tended in her cham-
ber, careless of the morrow as the flower that

rfumed her balcony, So thought all who

ew Pauline Corsi. -

Did oh them of know her rightly?

The hideous skeleton, Time, whose bony hand

of the future, can alone answer this question.
Camillia Moraquitos was much attached to
her governess. All her varied accomplishments
she owed to Madamoiselle Corsi; and, far too
generous and highminded to consider the hand-
somesalary paid tothe Frenchwoman a sufficient
recompense for her services, she looked upon
Pauline’s devotion to her as an obligation which
could only be repaid by gratitude and affection.

 

The young heiress had often endeavored to

The gossips of New Orleans were ready to in-

lifts, inch by inch and day by day, the dark and —
pall-like curtain that hangs before the vast stage

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

of,
-

 

THE OCTOROON.

a

 

 

bestow some handsome present upon her in-

structress (a valuable article of jewelry—a ring,

a chain, a bracelet), but always to firmly,

though ly repulsed.

“No, Camillia,” Madamoiselle Corsi would re-
ply ‘ 1 will take no gift from you but affection,
—that is a priceless treasure. Bestow that upon
me, and rn would amply reward me for a life-
time of devotion; the few brief years I have
given to your instruction have been more than
repaid by my pupil’s love.” _

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

She had never kept a secret from Pauline
Corsi until within this last year, and even then
she would have told all to her trusted compan-
ion, had she not been forbidden to do so by one
whom she loved better than the Frenchwoman.

This secret was.the engagement between her-
self and Paul Lisimon.

**-You will not breathe one word to a mortal
of the vows which bind us until death, will you,
my Camillia?” said the young man, as, intoxi-
cated with aa he pressed his betrothed
to his wildly throbbing heart,

"To no one, dearest,” answered Camillia,
“until your position will warrant you in asking
my father’s consent to our union. That is to
say,” she added, hesitatingly, ‘‘to no one but
Pauline. I shall be so anxious to talk of you,
and I know I can trust her.”

“Not one word to her, Camillia, as ‘you love
me,” exclaimed Paul, with energy.

‘What? you mistrust my faithful Pauline!”

“T mistrust no one,” answered Lisimon ;
‘yet, paradoxical as {t may seem, I trust
scarcely any one. To give your secrets into the
keeping of another, is to give your life—nay,
the better of life; for those secrets apper-
tain to the inmost sentiment of your heart. No,
Camillia, tell nothing until that day comes,
when, proud and triumphant, I can claim you
before your father and the world.”

“Buf you believe Pauline to be all that is
good?” urged Camillia, her affectionate nature
wounded by the warning of Paul.

“Yes, sincé you tell me so, dearest; but, young
as I am in the winding ways of the world, I am
older than you, and the experience of Silas
Craig’s office has taught me many iniquitous
secrets.”

Augustus Horton had, as our readers are
aware, many business transactions with the at-
torney and usurer, Craig. Despising the man
most completely, it yet suited the young plant-
er’s purpose to employ him, for Silas was
a master in the evil arts of Ear a useful
lawyer for all business, but. above all useful in
such affairs as were of too dark and secret a na-
ture to bear exposure to the light of Cia

He was the storey Pate by Augustus
Horton, by Don Juan ores and by most
of the wealthiest men in the city of New Or-
leans; men who affected ignorance of his char-
acter, because. his style of doing business suited
their purpose. on
It was at Silas Craig’s office that Augustus
Horton first saw Paul Lisimon,

The two. men encountered each other in an
office. opening out of the private room occupied
by_the attorney. -

Paul was seated at his desk, copying a deed;
he looked up only for a moment as the planter
entered the apartment, and immediately re-
turned. to his work, He knew that the visitor
was his rival, Au Horton, but, secure in
the love of Camilli , he was utterly indifferent
to his presence. Not so the planter, He looked
long and earnestly at the handsome and Spanish
face of the young Mexican. :

, Simply as Paul was dressed, in the loose linen
coat and trowsers suitable to the climate, with
an open shirt collar of the finest cambric, under
which was knotted a black silk handkerchief,
there was something so distinguished in his a
e that Augustus Horton could not help
woadering who this elaaoe stranger was who
had found his way into Silas Craig’s office. So
great was his curiosity, that when his business
with the lawyer was ended, he lingered to ask a

_few questions about the strange clerk.

“In goodness’ name, Craig,” he said, as he lit
a from a box of allumertes upon the attor-
ney’s desk, ‘‘ who is that young aristocrat whom
yom have secured as.a pigeon for plucking, un-

er pretense of teachin the law?”

‘A young aristocrat!”

“ Yes, a young man I saw in the next office,
A Spaniard, I should i 6, from his appear-
Sure nee dark, with Ik eyes and curling

Silas Craig laughed aloud,

* An aris! !” he exclaimed, ‘‘ why, surely
you must mean Paul Lisimon?”

ae eee en Si ai

thou: ou were a Co!
pe forasts r hae
_“Tam-so,” re ugustus. ;
© And Fee have never met Paul Lisimon?”

“Never, man! Don’t question me, but answer

Mei Bee is this a i ye acy edible
a xi

Don Juan’s ne is studying for the law.”

‘Who is he, and where did he come from?”

y
Augustus, eagerly.

 

“That no one knows,” answered Craig; ‘‘the
brother-in-law of Don Juan Moraquitos, Don
Tomaso Crivelli, brought him to New Orleans
thirteen years ago, when the little heiress was
about six years old.”

“Indeed!” muttered Augustus, biting his lip
fiercely; ‘‘and the children were brought up to-
gether, I suppose?”

“They were.”

“That explains, all,” said the planter, striding
toward the door.

“ All what?” asked Craig.

‘*No matter,” replied Augustus Horton; and,
without another word to the lawyer, he left the
apartment and oe once more through the
office where Paul Lisimon was seated.

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

‘“So,” exclaimed the planter, when he found.
himself alone; ‘‘I thought you were an iceberg,
Camillia Moraquitos, and that the burning
breath of passion had never melted your frozen

nature. never dreamt that I had a rival; but
the mystery is solved, This Mexican, this name-
less dependant on your father’s bounty, is doubt-

less he for whom you scorn the proudest suitors
New Orleans can offer.’ I should have known
that_ a woman is never utterly indifferent to
man’s attentions save when she loves another.
No matter, Camillia, you will find it no trifle to
brave the hatred of Augustus Horton. _My
rival is younger and handsomer than I; it
would be hopeless to attempt to win her love
while he is by to sue and be preferred; but be-
fore the year is out, I will have thrust him from
my pathway as I would an insolent slave on my
plantation.”

f CHAPTER XI.
PAUL LISIMON’S RUIN IS PLOTTED BY HIS
" NEMIES.

From the hour in which Augustus Horton first
looked mpop the noble face and form of Paul
Lisimon, he entertained for the young Mexican
that deadly and unrelenting hatred which jea-
lousy alone can nourish.

Be it distinctly understood, the planter did not
love Camillia Maraquitos.

Lovely as was the Spanish girl, there was one
who, in’the eyes of Augustus, was ‘yet lovelier;
and that one was Cora, the daughter of Gerald
ate and the hapless Quadroon slave, Fran-

Cora, the OcToROON!

‘Yes, the fatal word which branded this lovely
and innocent being is contained in those ‘three
syllables. She was an Octoroon, removed in the
eighth degree from the African race, with a
skin purely white as the tint of lilies sleeping
upon ‘the es of her native Louisiana. One

‘rop of the blood of a slave ran in her veins,
poisoned her inmost life, and stamped her with
the curse of Cain.

She was an OCTOROON!

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

Cora had inspired in the proud heart of the
planter one of those all-absorbing ions,
which, in a bad man’s heart, resembles the storm
and tempest. They rage but to destroy. At an
price, even at the price of his own soul as we
as hers, she must be his.

The insult she had inflicted upon him in dis-
missing him from her presence, had infuriated
and humiliated him, but it had not abated: one
spark of the wild ardor of his guilty passion;
notwithstanding this he was deterniined upon
becoming the husband of Camillia Moraquitos.

The reader is already acquainted with the
laxity of Louisianian mo) The wealthy
Creole thought there could be no shame to the
Octoroon in becoming his mistress. “What was
she but a creature of the inferior race, born to
obey her master, the white man? With Camil-
lia’s fortune, added to his own ample wealth,
Augustus Horton would have been one of the
richest. men in New Orleans. \ But the planter
felt that he had discdvered his real and only
rival inthe person of Paul Lisimon, the Mexican.

He was not slow to act upon this conviction.
Early upon the morning after his'first encounter

with Paul, he entered the office in which the | smil

oung man was seated, and asked to see Silas

aig. :

Paul Lisimon raised his eyes, and recognized
one of the most constant admirers of Camillia
Moraquitos. But it was with a glance of su-

reme indifference that the Mexican regarded

is rival. Augustus Horton felt the sting of
that careless look; it was the game of one who,
secure in the affection of her he loves, is incapa-
ble of jealousy. ;

“Mr. Craig is within?” he inquired, address-
ing himself especially to Paul, though a colored
lad at a desk near was the person who answered

inquiries, and ushered clients into Silas

's office. ‘
He is,” answered Paul, quietly, dropping his
eyes upon his work, and ~ ye
ke, ‘* Marcus,

. take this gentleman’s card to pove the ten thousand dol-
wore master.” Sea : i a I am: to: wraeke day on which —
Silas was seated at his desk, a ledger open be- | Paul Li is dismissed from this office and»
fore him, and on the table by his. side a large | trom the house of ron, Don Juan, you —
e.. “le . oy goa ree i Paes oe
ae % % a : ‘ a ie we
c 7 ofa eh al f RR. , ee om . » . ed

lifting them as he |.

iron cash-box, the lid of which he dropped hur-
riedly as the young planter entered the office.

The ledger contained the secret accounts of
the transactions of the mysterious gambling-
house in Columbia street. Tho cash-box was
nearly filled with bank notes, lost in that den of
iniquity by the miserable and deluded votaries
of the gambler’s green cloth-covered altar, Silas
closed the ledger, which was secured with mas-
sive brass locks, the key of which the usurer
wore hanging toa thick gold chain, which was
never remoyed night or day, The iniquitous
volume was further secured by being placed in,
an iron chest, proof against fire and thieves,

The money gained by these shameful transac-
tions was sent monthly to New York, where. it
roe banked in the name of Craig & Co., solici-

ors, . 5

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

These precautions may seem superfluous,
but they were no more than necessary. Silas
Craig felt that he was carrying on an infamous
traffic. He knew that were his name revealed as
the proprietor of a house which bore no very
high reputation for fair play, and in which sev-
eral deeds of darkness were stron ly suspected
to have been committed, tect atred and
execration would be heaped upon his guilty
head. More than this, there was a tribunal h
dreaded moré than all the established courts o:
New Orleans; he knew that for such an offense
as this the infuriated citizens would have re-
course to the horrors of aynch Law,

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

““My dear Augustus,” he said, with his accus-
tomed con¢iliatory smile, ‘this is indeed an
agreeable surprise. I scarcely expected to see
you so soon again.” 1

““T dare say not,” answered the planter, cool-
ly, taking outa cigar and lighting it at the taper
by which Craig sealed his letters,

'“ And may Task to what I owe the honor of
this visit?” said Silas, looking, with considerable
curiosity, at his client’s thoughtful countenance,

“Tl tell you, Silas Craig. That young Mexi-
can yonder; that Limison, or Leiian: or what-

. ever his hame may Dorr wes hanger-on and de-

pendant of Juan
office.” ;

Silas started and stared wonderingly at the
planter.

“ Ay, you may stare,” said Augustus; ‘never
you mind my motives. . I say he must go!”

“But, my dear young friend, my impetuous
friend, that is utterly impossible. I haye no
particular affection for Mr. Paul Lisimon, I as-
sure you, but his articles have been signed,”

Let» them be canceled, then; let the fellow
be kicked out of the office.” F

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

‘But, my dear Mr. Horton, allow me to re-
mind you that, in the first -pincesd have no ex-
cuse for canceling these articles, or for kicking
Paul Lisimon out of my office; and that, in the
second, I cannot:see why [am bound to comply
with any absurd whim which even my most im-

ay client: may happen to take into his

ead,

Augustus Horton. threw his cigar aside with a
contemptuous and impatient gesture,

“Tm not used,” he said, with a chilling hau-
teur, ‘‘to ask for any service for which I am not
prepared to pay liberally, Send this young man
about his business—making it appear that he
has been to blame in the affair, and besides what
you lose by canceling the articles I will give |
you five thousand dollars.” . ¢

‘‘Send him about his business?” ;

“Yes, If possible, in such a manner as to
disgust Don Juan with his protege. Lot art

A strange smile. illumina’ i
crafty countenance, ;

“Disgust Don Juan with his protege?” he

oraquitos, must leave your

low trickery or dishonor. ;He is not obliged to
be really guilty, if he only appear 80...)

“Tn such a manner that Don Juan may cast
him off?” asked Silas, with the same meaning

ward. tead of five thousand
give 7 ten.” i
if = »s rather a eritical business”
‘ es .
think is scarcely new to you, my w:
said Augustus, with a sneer. ,

e. FY)
“Yes; do.that, and I will double your.re-
dollars, L, will

1 Silas,”

lost upon Silas Craig; but the usurer him:
entertained a consummate disdain for these
who despised his character, but were yet con-
tent to make use of him in deeds to which they
would have been themselves ashamed to own,
“T think it can be done,” he quietly,
eS ee have’ no, objection to do it, upon one

con c 3
“And that is—?”_ ‘ neg
“That over and above.

 

 

id. 3 a
“Yes, Find this fellow out in some piece of

+

Silas Craig’s —

but. a sort of business weld, should —

That contemptuous curve of the lip was not

 
 

Ee

‘

RE PP

_ Be very

toa seat, ‘‘for once in m
desert

12

give me twenty thousand more upon the day of
your marriage with Camillia Moraquitos.”

The planter bit his lip, and his brow grew
crimson with vexation.

“ How do you know that I have any thought
of seeking to win Camillia Moraquitos for my
wife?” he asked, angrily.

“How do I know?’ answered the usurer.
‘* Augustus Horton, it may please your proud
nature to despise me, although you come here to
demand my services. Despise my code of mor-
ality, if you will, but do not despise my powers
of penetration. There is not a client who en-
ters this office whose inmost thoughts I have
not reckoned up before he has been five minutes
inmy company. It isa knack we lawyers ac-
quire, if we are fit for our business. Shall I
tell you your motive in wishing to thrust Paul
Lisimon*from my office?”

“Yes, if you can.”

“You dread a rival in this handsome young
man. You would brand his name, already an
obscure one, with shame and infamy; you would
cause him to be driven from the doors of Villa
Moraquitos, and stamped with ignominy in the
eyes of the woman who loves him.”

“Yes,” cried Augustus, fiercely; “‘I would do
all this! Dog, what right has he to cross my

th? I accede to your condition, Silas Craig,

nm thousand down, and twenty thousand more
on my wédding day.”

“Then the business shall be done.”

“ Soon ”

‘*Very soon.” i

“That is well; Silas, lose no time in turning
the fellow from your doors, and. let me be the
first to hear of his dismissal. I shall not grudge
you your reward.” -

As Augustus Horton left the office he once
more flung a sinister glance at the articled clerk;
but this time there was triumph as well as ha-
tred in the flash of the planter’s eye.

As he glanced at Paul Lisimon the glitter of
some gold ornaments hanging to the Mexican’s
watch-chain caught his eye. Among these
was an oval locket, of dentl gold, ornamented
with two initials in purple enamel.

The planter so close to’ Paul that he
was enabled to distinguish these initials.

They were a C. and an M.

“So!” he muttered, as he mounted the thor-
oughbred Arabian awaiting him at the door of
Silas Craig’s house, ‘‘he wears a locket inscribed
with her initials—a locket containing her por-
trait, no doubt. She loves him then; but, by
the blue sky above me, she shall be taught ere
long to despise and loathe him.”

Silas Craig was not long in putting his foul
plot into execution.

In order to carry it out he had recourse to a
plan as subtle as if was diabolical. :

The lawyer’s private office communicated, as
the reader is aware, with an outer apartment
occupied by the clerks.

There was but one door of communication be-
tween the two rooms, and there was no other
visible means of entering the inner office.

But there was the secret entrance through the
map of America, which communicated with the
passage leading into the house in Columbia
street. The existence of this secret was
known only to Silas Craig, 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 to entrap Paul Lisimon,
was to be carried out.

Three days after his interview with the plant-
er, Silas Craig summoned the young Mexican
into his private office.

“My dear Lisimon,” he said, motioning Paul

life Tam_ tempted to

business earlier than usual. I have an

e ement to dine with my client, Mr. Horton.

The dinner hour is five, and I have, unfortunate-

ly, an appointment here at half-past five with a

wealthy old client of mine, who is going to

bring me a few thousand dollars he wislies 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 other clerks, a young man
of the name of Morisson, was standing at the
Whe desk waiting for further orders.

‘* What I want you to do, Lisimon, is to remain
here till half-past five and receive the mone
from my client. You will give him an acknowl-
edgment for the sum, an i will place the
money, whether it should be in notes or gold, in
this small cash-box, of which I will leave you
the key. I shall also give you the key of this
office, which you will carefully lock on leaving
the place. As there is no other communication,
all will be ages secure. You understand?

“Completely, Mr. Craig,” said Paul.

it you would be able to do this little

for me,” replied the lawyer,
rising, and locking his desk; “here are the
keys,” he added, tone, ee the key of the
door and the smaller one bel to the cash-
box; “‘ you will keep the office key in your pos-
session until you see me to-morrow morning.

j 1 of it, for I have no duplicate.

It’s now half-past four, so I have not a minute
tolose, You'll find my client, Mr. Graham, a

 

curious, countryfied old fellow, Lisi

 

 

on, but Pye | den!

‘THE FIRESIDE) LIBRARY.

no doubt youll be able to manage him. Good-
afternoon.” ’

Silas left the office, followed by the clerk,
Morisson, and Paul taking up one of the New
Orleans pt one prepared to await the expected
visitor. The client arrived, punctual to his a
pointment, at half-past five. He was an elderly
man, a planter, whose estate lay at a distance
of several hundred miles from’ New Orleans,
and who had thehighest opinion of Silas Craig’s
professional and moral character.

“A worthy man,” he would say, shaking his
head wisely, when speaking of the money-lend-
ing lawyer; ‘‘a moral man, a church-going
man, and a credit to New Orleans. I am sorry
wwe are not more to follow his pious exam-
ple. A

Paul received the money, which was in the
shape of a rollof bills.

‘“T have the number of the bills in my pocket-
book,” said the old man, as he handed the packet
to the Mexican; ‘‘I’m rather a cautious old
fellow you know, my dear sir.” ;

Paul wrote an acknowledgment of the sum,
and handed it to Silas Craig’s client.

‘* Perfectly correct, perfectly correct, my dear
sir,” Mr. Graham muttered as he read it over—
“Received of John Graham, fifteen thousand
dollars’—dated and signed. Thank you, sir,
and good-evening.”

Paul summoned the mulatto lad to show Mr.
Graham out, and then, after locking the mone
in the cash-box—a small metal casket, whic
aie have Conny been carried in the ample
pocket of Paul’s loose linen. coat—he left the
office, and double-locked the door behind him.

“T think that’s all right, Marcus,” he said to
the boy.

‘““Tss, massa.”

“You sleep in this office, don’t you?”

‘‘Tss, massa.” ’

“Then there’s no likelihood of any one. enter-
ing that room without your being aware of it.”

‘No, massa; not unless Marcus was. very
deaf.” :

““Which, fortunately, you are not. Keep a
sharp lookout, my lad, and [’ll give you a
dollar to-morrow.”

Paul left the office and returned to Villa Mora-
quitos, where, for once in a way, he found Ca-
millia alone with Mdllé, Corsi. ’ Her father was
absent at a dinner-party, given by Augustus
seria di t rtion of th

is very dinner-party was a portion of the
villainous plot, concocted by 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 sung to him wild and plaintive Spanish
ballads, whose mournful, and harmonious ca-
dence drowned his soul in rapture. The words
written in the love-breathing language of that
land, from whose orange groves and palaces the
ancestors of Camillia had emigra to the
Southern States of America.

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

But even in the society of Camillia Moraqui-
tos, Paul could not quite repress a certain uneasi-
ness about the money he left in the cash-
box in Silas Craig’s office.

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

. For this reason he was at his post earlier than
usual the following morne

Silas Craig did not enter the clerk’s office till
much later his customary hour for begin-
ning business. Morisson and one or two others
began to Spernlan upon the probability of their
employer having drank rather too freely at the
planter’s dinner-table.

The attorney appeared in a peculiarly amiable
temper that morning. He shook hands with
Paul, spoke to each of the clerks, commended
their work, and then, holding out his hand,
said, very iously: ‘‘ Now, my dear Lisimon;
the key of the office. I suppose Mr. Graham
lodged that money in your hands last night.” .

f He did, sir. You will find it in the cash-

X,

Silas nodded and unlocked the door of the
inner office. 7

“Oh, by the by,” he said, “just step this way,
Mr. Morisson; ave some directions to give

‘ou.

The clerk followed his employer into the
office. Five minutes afterward Morisson put
his head out of the door. ;

“Mr. Lisimon,” he said, ‘‘ you are wanted, if
you please.”

Paul hasted to the inner office. The epee
was looking very grave, but he spoke in hi
usual fri 'y tone.

““ Where did you say you put the money, my
dear Lisimon?” he as!

“Tn the small. cash-box,” replied Paul—
“there.”

He pointed, as he spoke, to the table upon
which he had left the pees on the precedi
evening. 2

It was no longer there.

‘The young Mexican’s olive cheek grew sud
ly white.

y ;

This fact was observed by the clerk, who .

| stood aghast looking on.

“You must be mistaken, Lisimon; you very
likely placed the box in some other part of the

| ottice.’
“No,” cried Paul

with energy 5 “T left it on
| that table, and nowhere else. ome, Mr. Craig,
this must be some jest of yours. You have re-

moved the box since you entered the office, and
are doing this to frighten me.”

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

‘*No, sir.”

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

“Jesting!” exclaimed Paul. ‘I swear to you
that before leaving this office last night I locked
the cash-box containing the money and placed’
it upon that table. Search where you will,
Morisson,” he said, looking at the clerk, who.
at a whispered order from his emplover, had
begun to search the office, ‘unless there has
been witchcraft about, you will find it there and
nowhere else; for there I left it.”

“Come, come, Mr. Lisimon,” said Craig, in
an altered tone, “this is really too absurd. We
no longer believe in magic, or the juggleries of
the fiend. You say you left the box in this
apartment last night. It must therefore be
here this: morning—if you have spoken the
truth.” ;

“Tf have spoken the truth!” ‘echoed Paul,
the hue of his cheeks changing from pale to
crimson.

“‘Not a creature has entered this room since
you left it,” continued Silas; ‘‘for there is but
one key to the door, and that has been ‘in your
en until within the last ten minutes.

he boy Marcus sleeps in the office. Call him,
Morisson.” ° ;

The mulatto lad made his a: pearance.

“Marcus,” said his master, “did any one en-
ter this room last night?’

‘No, massa; the door was locked.”

“T know that; and no one entered by any
means whatever?” .

“No one, massa, unless de debil go through
de keyhole.”

“When Mr. Lisimon left here last night, had
he ayes in his hand?”

“ Not’ing, massa.”

“But he might have had something in his
pocket,” muttered Silas, in an undertone.

Paul Lisimon turned upon his employer with
indignant fury. ;

Seen. Craig,” he exclaimed, ‘could you dare
to insinuate—”

“No, Mr. Lisimon; it is rather too late in the
day for insinuations,” answered the attorney,
with a sardonic laugh; ‘‘ you were left in char
of a.sum of money; you were told to place it in’
this room, to which no one but yourself had ac-
cess. The fact is only too clear; you have dis-
graced the, bounty of your patron; you are a

ie

“ A thief!” shrieked Paul. ;

The lawyer’s Brien bamboo ¢ane stood
in one corner of the office: Before the clerk,
Morisson, could interpose, Paul Lisimon snatched
this cane in his convulsed grasp, and, bounding
upon Silas Craig, struck him across the face.

“Liar!” he cried, “I see the drift. of this
double-dyed villainy. I am the victim ofa
plot, so demoniac, that I shudder at the black-
ness of its treachery. The money has re-
moved through your peered, aemoved in order
that my name may be branded with acrime. TI
fear ro not, vile schemer; be it yours to trem-
ble, for Heaven looks down upon us, and’ will
defend the innocent.” : 9

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

“Pursue him!” he cried, hoarse with fury;
“pursue him, and drag him to prey. Yet,
stay, it is too late now to overtake im. Iknow
where to find him—at the Villa Moraquitos,” ~

 

CHAPTER XII.

TRISTAN’S SECRET. | f

TRISTAN, the negro, satin his little chamber,
in that quarter of Don Juan’s splendid mansion,
which was devoted golely to the slaves.

A dark and gloomy shadow rested upon the
inky brow of the negro. For some time past
the watchful eye of his mother, the old ne
Zarah, had detected her son’s unhappiness but
she sought in vain to penetrate the cause. ere
was much of the savage in the character of this
man, and even in his mother he sometimes in-
spired alarm and suspicion. : ;

He was one of those natures, burning
Afric’s skies, aselee, rotinar? rime ; the
venomous serpents of those trop: climes, onl.
to terrify and destroy. cor ee Na :

But he was a privileged being in the house of
Don Juan Moraquitos. He had saved’ the tite
of the Spaniard’s idolized daughter,

Yes, only one brief year before the period of
which we write, Tristan, the negro, had by his

 

 

 

 

 

  
 

Sys.

 

 

 

©

THE OCTOROON.

13

 

courage and activity preserved Camillia from
a fearful death. .

Late one ee young girl and her gov-
erness had sat talking together in Camillia’s
luxurious boudoir. The slave Tristan had been
admitted to the apartment to amuse the capri-
cious beauty with his songs and antics. But
Camillia had soon grown weary of this diver-
sion, and turning to Mademoiselle Corsi, she
said, languidly:

“Tell Tristan to leave us, Pauline; he is noisy

-and he wearies me.”

Generous-hearted as was the Spanish girl, her
education had taught her to look upon a slave
as inferior being, unblest with those finer
feelings, which demand our courtesy and con-
sideration... She dismissed Tristan as she would
have dismissed her lap-dog whén tired of his
antics. A black and gloomy frown obscured
the negro’s pitering eyes as he was thus un-
ceremoniously ordered from the room.

It was unobserved by Camillia, but not un-
marked by Pauline Corsi.

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

Upon this carpet, close to the door of the bou-
doir, Tristan threw himself, like a dog on the
threshold of his master’s apartment.

““She sends me from her,” he said, bitterly.
“Tam noisy, and I weary her; it was not so in
the days that are long gone by, when she and I
were playfellows.”

The negro gone, Camillia reclined upon asofa.
and amused herself by looking over a pile o
French novels, which had lately arnovadl from
Paris. To do this she drew toward her a little
inlaid table upon which stood an elegant read-
ing lamp.

‘auline Corsi was seated at the other extrem-
ity of the pe amg working briskly at a large
are of embroidery, and lost in thought. She

id not therefore observe the proceedings of her
young pupil.

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

The glass globe broke with a crash; the in-
flammable oil and burning wick were spilled
upon the gauzy muslin folds of her voluniinous

ress.

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

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

Losing all presence of mind, Camillia, fol-
lowed by Pauline Corsi, rushed past the slave
Tristan, and from the antechamber into the
saloon beyond.

The flames, fanned by the current. of air
through which she passed, rose toward her
pend. In another moment she would have been

lost.

But the preserver was at hand,

With a ie of agony, like that of a wild beast
in its death-struggle with the hunter, the negro
flung himself _ the floor of the antechamber,
and tore up the heavy Persian carpet which
covered the room; then, rushing upon Camillia,
he enveloped her slender form in this 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 the deliverer of his
child, but, to the Spaniard’s astonishment, Tris-
tan refused all his master’s offers.

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

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

“No!” he said, ‘let me stay with you, my
master and my mistress. The poor slave, ‘Tris-
tan, asks no more,”

In vain the old negress, Zarah, pleaded with
her son, imploring him to ask freedom for him-
self and his mother, that they might return to
the native shore from which the captain of a
slaver had brought them. He refused to listen
to her entreaties, and turned from her with a
gloomy scowl. ;

Don Juan and his daughter praised the fidelity
of the slave, and promised him every privilege
that could render his service a happy one.
Only one person in that household divined the
secret clue to the negro’s strange conduct. That

rson was the seemingly frivolous and light-

earted Frenchwoman, Pauline Corsi.

A depth of penetration lurked beneath that
girlish exterior. She had read the true mean-

of Tristan’s conduct. ok HT ~

‘he slave—the ne the ae wool-
ly-haired African—the lowest es of a despised
and abhorred race, loved mistress, the

: wees Spanish heiress, the beautiful and

haughty Camillia Moraquitos!

 

CHAPTER XIII.
PAULINE CORSI OFFERS £0 REVEAL A SECRET.

Smas CraiG was right in his conjecture.
Paul Lisimon went straight from the lawyer’s
office to the Villa Moraquitos.

It was there, and in the ae of her he so
dearly loved, and of the haugh y benefactor of
his youth, that the young Mexican was eager
“as isprove the lying accusation brought against

im. .

A THIEF! ;

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

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

The lovely eyes of the Spanish girl flashed

with indignant fire.

‘““We always hated this man Craig, by in-
stinct, Paul,” she said; ‘that instinct did not
deceive us.”

Pauline Corsi appeared to sympathize sincere-
ly with the lovers, and expressed the utmost
contempt for Silas Craig.

While Paul was seated by Camillia, her hand
clasped in his, her large black eyes bathed in
tears, yet lifted confidingly to his face, the
sound of the footsteps of several men was heard
upon the staircase without, and Don Juan

Se entered the apartment, followed by
Silas Craig.

The brow of the Spaniard was dark with pas-
sion, but beneath the red eyebrows of the
lawyer, there sparkled the light of malice and
cunning.

‘Release the hand of that man, Camillia
Moraquitos!” exclaimed Don Juan, with sup-
—- fury, as he beheld his daughter and Paul

isimon seated side by side; ‘‘release his hand
or never again dare to call me father!”

The young girl raised her eyes to the face of the
ee and met his angry gaze witha glance
of calm defiance.

" should I take my hand from his?” she
said, calmly; ‘‘we have been playfellows, com-
panions, and friends from childhood. You have
seen our hands locked together ere to-day; why
do you wish to part us now?”

hough the voice of the Spanish girl was calm
and unfaltering, and although she met her fa-
ther’s gaze without one quiver of her snowy eye-
lids, her slender form trembled with emotion as
she oe

‘Shall I tell you why?” asked her father.

* Yes; I wait to learn.”

‘ Because Paul Lisimon, the man whose boy-
hood has been spent beneath this roof, whose
education has been shared with you, who has
ever been treated as a son, rather than as a de-
pendent, that man is a thief!”

Had Camillia been unprepared for this accu-
sation, the blow might, for a moment, have

alyzed her. But she had heard all, from
aul’s own lips, and she was prepared for the
worst.

‘“‘He is no thief!” she exclaimed, proudly;
“were he that, he would not come hither to seek
for sympathy from Camillia Moraquitos.”

‘“Deluded girl, he has been discovered in an
act of daring robbery—robbery which is most
contemptible, being allied to treachery of the
basest nature. He was trusted, and he betrayed
his trust.” ‘

The lip of the Spanish girl curled with unut-
terable scorn.

“Trusted!” she exclaimed, ‘‘ trusted, did you
say? Father, I ask you by all your knowledge
of mankind, by your faith in Nature’s surest in-
dex, the human countenance, is that the man to
trust any living creature?”

She pointed to Silas Craig as she spoke, and
the lawyer quailed beneath her flashing glance.
For a moment he shrunk back abashed,
and powerless to reply to the Spanish girl’s dis-
dainful words, then recovering himself with an
effort, he said, with an assumed air of meek-

ness.

‘‘ Donna Camillia is pleased to be severe. We
lawyers are certainly not over trusting in our
fellow men—we are too often deceived: but I
thought I might safely trust the protege of Don
Juan Moraquitos. I did not think to find him a

ef’.

“Liar!” cried Paul Lisimon. ‘ Dastard! You
know that I am no thief. You know tho
base plot which has been planned by you—from
what motive I know not—for my destruction.
Now that all is past, I can see the base scheme
from ar first. Your pretended confidence;
your desire that I should remain alone in your
office to receive a sum of money which you
might have as well received: yourself; your
trusting me with the key—of rea eet say,
you have no duplicate; your simulated friend-
ship, and your affec ae this morning
upon missing the casket containing the money:

these are so many links in the chain of in-
famy which you have woven around me; but
through all I ane you. The money was taken
from your office by no common robber; it was
removed either by you, or by an agen’ jin your
employ.” _— ; :

“The inner office has but one door,” answer-

 

ed Silas Craig; ‘‘ you possessed the only key of
that door—nay, more, the mulatto of Mi -
cus, slept in the clerk’s office, and must have
heard anybody, who attempted to enter the in-
ner chamber. Heaven knows,” ejaculated Silas,
sanctimoniously, ‘‘how much grief I feel at the
discovery of such baseness in the adopted son of
my most respected client; but guilt’ such as
yours must not, for the benefit of society, go
unpunished.”

‘aul Lisimon turned from him with a ges-
tome of loathing, and addressed himself to Don

uan.

“You hear this man,” he said, ‘‘ you hear him,

et you surely do not believe one word he ut-

rs. Look in his face, on which ‘liar’ is
branded, in unmistakable characters, by the
hand of Heaven; and then believe him if you
can. My patron, my benefactor, friend and
pevers of my otherwise friendless youth

as any one action of my life, since I have sha
the shelter of your roof, and eaten your bread
—has any one action of my life sven your rea~
son to believe me the base and guilty wretch
this man would have you think me? Speak, I
implore you.”

e young Mexican waited with clasped hands
for Don Juan’s reply. ‘The Spaniard coldl,
averted his face. It seemed as if he, too, shrun
from meeting that noble countenance,

‘Circumstances speak too plainly, Mr. Lisi-
mon,” he said; ‘‘ facts are incontrovertible—
they are stronger than words, and they force
me to believe.”

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

ou.

‘‘T listen,” replied the Spaniard.

“T appeal to you by the memory of the dead
—by the memory of him who was more than a
father to me—by the memory of the last hour
of Don Tomaso Crivelli.” ’

It seemed as if the sound of this name struck
upon the most sensitive chord in the nature of
the haughty Spaniard. He started as if he had
been shot, and dropping into a chair that stood
near him buried his face in his hands. Silas
Craig lifted his eyes with a glance of pious
horror.

“This is horrible!” he exclaimed; ‘the guilt
wretch dares to call upon the name of the dead,
dares to wound his noble benefactor’s sensitive
heart., Why delay any longer to reason with
this hypocrite? the officers of oe are with-
out, let them at once do their duty.”

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

“The police!” exclaimed Paul,

“Yes, they have a warrant for your arrest,”
replied Silas cate “You have carried it with
a very high hand, Mr, Paul Lisimon, but you
will sleep in jail to-night.”

The young Mexican did not condescend to an-
swer this speech, but turning to Don Juan, he
said with quiet dignity: » ;

“Since this man’s accusation appears to
you stronger than my declaration of inno-
cence, I cannot blame you, sir, in believing
him. I freely own that the chain of evidence
forged against me is a damaging one, but,
sooner or later, the day will come when I
will shatter that chain, link by link, and prove
yonder wretch the basest of his kind. In the
meantime, I would but ask one favor of you. I
have papers and letters in my own room, which
are of priceless value to me; suffer me to gather
those together before they pnt me to prison.”

Don Juan had not once lifted his head since
the mention of his brother-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 be responsible for him.”

The principal officer bowed—‘‘I will accom-
pany you to your rooms, Mr, Lisimon,” he said,
‘and remain with you while you collect, those

papers.” ;

‘Father, father!” exclaimed Camillia; “can
you suffer this—can you allow 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 himself unworthy the name of
an honest man,” /

“He has not done so,” cried Camillia; ‘‘he
is innocent!”
‘What leads you to believe in his innocence?”

‘My own instinct,” replied the fearless girl.

Again the brow of Don Juan grew dark with

fury.

Your own instinct!” he exclaimed; ‘ be-
ware, girl, do not force me to believe you have
another reason for thus defending this man. Do
not compel me to despise you!”

While this conversation was passing between
father and daughter, Paul Lisimon and the offi-
cer ed to the Mexican’s apartment,
which was situated as the reader is aware upon
the upper floor of Villa Mo itos; but the —
Spaniard’s elegant abode was only elevated one
story above the nd-floor, so that the room

occupied by Paul was not in reality than
eightson foet above the garden, into which it

+ ee Semen

 

   

sea enemies

 
   

ae

slr

save her who now

414

THEA

«

IRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

looked, The police-officer followed his prisoner
into the room, and seated himself near the door,
while Paul unlocked his desk and examined its
contents,

The papers which he wished to secure were a
few brief notes that had been written to him, at
different periods, b Camillia Moraquitos. e
young girl had often slipped a few lines of
affectionate encouragement into her lover’s
hand, at a time when the lynx eyes of strangers
prevented their exchanging a word.

Paul Lisimon knew that brief as these letters
were, they contained quite enough to betray the
secret of the lovers, and to“draw down upon
Camillia all the terrors of a father’s wrath.

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

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

The person who thus demanded admittance
was the French governess, Pauline Corsi.

“Tet me speak to your prisoner—alone—if
only for a few moments,” she said, ficadingly,
aint with allthe fascination peculiar to her man-
ner; ‘‘let me speak to him, monsieur, I im-
plore.”

“You are welcome to speak to him, made-
moiselle,” replied the officer, ‘but T regret to tell
you that whatever you have to say, must be
said in my presence.”

The Frenchwoman shrugged her shoulders
with a graceful Roars of vexation.

“That is very hard, monsieur,” she said, look-
ing thoughtful.

“Nay, Mademoiselle Corsi,” interposed Paul,
who could not understand ‘the Frenchwoman’s
desire to see him alone, ‘‘ you can have nothing
to say which this man may not hear.’ Speak
freely, I have no secrets.”

“But. perhaps I have,” answered Pauline.
“See, monsieur,” she added, extending her
pone little hand, upon one finger of which

here sparkled a superb diamond ring, “tell me
what, you think of those diamonds,”

Paul Lisimon started, for he recognized the

‘ring. It was one he had often seen Camillia

‘wear.

The French governess had been sent to him
then by the devoted girl?

' “They are magnificent stones, are they not,
monsieur?”. repeated Pauline, still addressing
the officer.

“They are, mademoiselle.”

“The ring is worth eight hundred dollars, and
it is yours for eight minutes’ private conversa-
tion with the prisoner.”

“‘Tmpossible, mademoiselle.”

__ “Wight hundred dollars for eight minutes.
That is at the rate of a hundred dollarsa minute,”

“True, mademoiselle,” replied the officer,
“but if in those eight minutes my prisoner
should take it into his head to jump out of that
window, I am a ruined man.”

“T pledge you my honor I will make no at-
tempt to escape!” said Paul, eagerly.

The officer reflected for a few moments, and
then looking searchingly into the face of the
ours Mexican, he said, energetically, “‘’ve

own many a gentleman pledge his word, and

_break it as if it was a bit of cracked china; but
our profession teaches us to reckon ‘up a man by
the cut of his phiz, and I think you’re an hon-
orable man, M. Lisimon, and I don’t think you
guilty of this business that’s brought against
you, so fre me the ring, mademoiselle,” he ad-
ded, holding out his hand for the valuable trink-
et. ‘Tl step outside and wait while you say
what you've got to say.”

He walked out of the room and closed the

door behind him, leaving Pauline and the Mexi-

can together.

“Paul Lisimon, I came to save you,” said
Mademoiselle Corsi.

“You come from Camillia?”’

“No; Icome of my own accord, That ring
is Camillia’s; she gave it to me at my request,
as a bribe for your jailer.” &

* Noble girl!”
“Ay, noble girl !” exclaimed the Frenchwo-

bitterly: ‘because she gave one from the
costly heaps of jewels her foolish father has
ioviahs ed upon her; but I, whose brain devised
the pan deserve no word of praise.”

“Pardon me, Mademoiselle Corsi, believe me,
Tam not ateful.”

‘*Paul Lisimon,” said Pauline, fixing her lim~
pid blue ae eee the face of the Mexican,

‘you love Camillia Moraquitos?”
Love her—?” :

“Nay, why seek to dissemble? Do you think
I have not read your shallow secret from the
very first? You sought to blind and hoodwink
me, but I laughed at the pitiful deception.
Paul, tell me, is this love a lasting one?”

“g ou know my secret,” replied the
Mexican, “concealment is useless. It is a last-
ing love—eternal as yonder blue heaven.”

“Foolish boy, Then ruin and destruction
will track your footsteps.”

“Ruin! ugh my love?”

‘Yes; you have not one friend in this house,

¢ to you. Camillia
loves you, you wil! answer! Yes; but with the
“toe ie passion of a capricious beauty, which

Sat

 

 

 

may change with to-morrow’s sun. How long,
think you, will her love endure when she hears
every creature in New Orleans brand you as a
thief and ingrate? Will it outlast the hour
when she sees ya placed in a criminal dock,
side by side wit! the lowest thief in the city?
Will it survive degradation and shame? No;
Camillia Moraquitos is proud, and from the
hour that you leave this house with the clank-
ing fetters on your wrists, she will despise and
hate you—hate you for the very memory of her
past love.”

Paul Lisimon knew the pride which formed
the leading principle in Camillia’s character,
and he felt fiat there might be truth in these
bitter words.

“Oh, Heaven!” he cried, ‘‘this is indeed ter-
rible!”

“Hear me, Paul. It is in my power to save
you from these fetters and this shame. It is in
my power to bring Silas Craig and his haughty
employer, Don Juan Moraquitos, groveling to
your feet to implore you for mercy—to entreat
your forbearance to save them from the fate
of a felon.”

“You are mad!” exclaimed Paul. ‘‘ What in
mercy’s name mean you by these words?”

“Listen to me, Paul Lisimon, for these few
minutes, bought from the vigilance of the officer
without yonder door, must decide the fate of
both of us. Thirteen years ago, Don Tomaso
Crivelli expired in the arms: 0: his brother-in-
law, in an apartment at the end of the gallery
outside this door. You have often been in that
room.

“T have. It is sacred tome, for it was there
my earliest friend breathed his last, sigh.”

‘That chamber is hung with Indian embroid-
ery of shells and feathers upon leather. These
hangings are about two feet from) the wall,
leaving an aperture behind. large ene to ad-
mit of a slender person’s hiding behind, theiem-
pe On the night of ‘your benefactor’s
death J was concealed behind these hangings.”

“You, a spy! But for what reason?’

“Don’t doubt that I had my reason—reasons
which at some future time I will reveal, /When
I carried the child Camillia to her uncle’s bed-
side I heard a few words dropped which excited
my: curiosity; to gratify that curiosity, I con-
cealed myself at eleven o'clock that night be-
hind the hangings of the dying man’s cham-
ber. There I heard Tomaso Crivelli dictate his
last will and testament to the lawyer, Silas
Craig, in the presence of your father. The sig-
nature to that will was afterward witnessed by
two persons, one a creature of the attorney’s,
ori other a dependent of Don Juan Mora-

uitos,

et But what has all this to do with me?” asked

‘aul.

‘‘Tt may have much to do with you. That
night I learned a secret—”

“A secret!”

“ Yes; and one by the aid of which I can save
you from shame and humiliation, and elevate
you to the proudest position even your haughty
spirit could devise.”

‘You can do all this?”

“Tan.”

“And you will?”

**On one condition.”

“ That is’

“You renounce forever all thoughts of Ca-
millia Moraquitos; and that in the hour when.
through my aid, you are elevated to name and
fortune, you make me your wife.”

“You—my wife!” exclaimed: Paul, thunder-
struck by the words of:the Frenchwoman.

“Yes. Is there anything so monstrous in the
proposition? I am a few years older than you
it is true. I have not the Spanish beauty of
Camillia, but flattering tongues have told me
that I am not destitute of the power to charm—
Tam no love-sick girl, but an ambitious woman,
with a brain to scheme and plot a glorious fu-
ture—I ask no love from you, but a share in the
future in which I can elevate you.. Do you re-
fuse my offer?”

“T do,” replied Paul. ‘‘ Camillia Moraquitos
ar cast my image from her heart—may join
with the rest and think me guilty; but, to the
last, she, and she alone, wil my love.
Through the deepest abyss of bame and degra-
dation I will be true to the guiding star of my
life. Keep your secret, Mademoiselle Corsi; it
can never be mine at. the price which you pro-

“Fool!” cried the Frenchwoman, ‘“ you have
refused rank, name, station, and wealth—nay,
more than these, revenge! Be it so; abide by
your choice. Perish in ignorance of the mighty
secret I have kept for thirteen patient years,
and which will be a fortune to me if not to you.
Rot ina jail: Pauline Corsi has spoken for the
first and last time.”

She walked to the door of the apartment, and,
opening it, admitted the officer.

“You see,” she said, ‘there has been no at-
tempt at escape.” Without one glance at Paul,
-she descended the staircase, and returned to the
chamber in which she had left heart-broken Ca-

millia. ;
. That night Paul Lisimon was lodged in the

Ped devoted to the reception of those accused of
elony.

robes seemed

 

CHAPTER XIV.

AUGUSTUS HORTON TRIES TO AVENGE HIMSELF.

Upon the very day following that on which
the events occurred which we have described in
the foregoing chapter, the Selma steamer start-
ed from New Orleans, laden with a gay and
fashionable company. 2

It was nine o’clock in the morning when the
bell rung for the starting of the vessel—a gor-
geous summer’s day, the sky blue and cloudless,
the Mississippi dancing in the sunshine,

Among the mgers on board .the boat
were Augustus Horton, his sister Adelaide, Mrs.
Montresor, Silas Craig, and William Bowen.

This latter personage had exchanged his
ragged skin-jacket and perches cotton shirt for
a costume that aped that worn by,the fops of
New Orleans,

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

Augustus and his party were bound for, Hor-
tonville, the plantation and villa of which we
have already spoken, and which was. situated
upon the banks of the river,.some miles beyond
that belonging to Silas Craig.

The psowuay was also bound for his planta-
tion, whither he was taking William Bowen,
who was henceforth to act as his overseer. :

Augustus Horton was elated at the success of
his villainous plot.. He had lodged, the onl
rival. whom he feared in a felon’s jail; he felt
that, Camillia Moraquitos mule now be easil
won; but his heart—if the profligate. who yie
only to the dictates of passion can be said to
have.a heart—was full of the image of Cora, the
Octoroon.

Just as the boat was about pushing off, two
young men. stepped.on, board. The first was

ortimer Percy, the second Gilbert, Margrave,
the young engineer and artist, who, carried a
sketch-book under his arm. He saluted Augus-
tus and his sister with a grave bow of recogni-
tion,

“Sol, Gilbert,” said Mortimer, ‘‘you, come
armed with your pencils and sketc -book, in
order, I. suppose, to catch some of the beauties
of the Mississippi banks as we glide past them.”

“To tell you the truth, my. dear Mortimer, I
have far graver reason for being here. I come
to meet some one.” ‘

‘* And her name is—?”

‘¢ Miss Cora Leslie.”

‘*Good Heavens, my dear Gilbert, are you in
earnest?’ You know this girl’s history?”

“T do; and in my eyes that very history ren-
ders her. even more sacred than 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
at the first station, and begging me to be there
to meet her, as she might have need of my ser-
vices.”

And em took the hint.”

“ Gladly—proudly.” ‘ .

“My dear ilbert! I’m afraid you are very far
gone,” exclaimed Mortimer, laughing.

Adelaide Horton’s heart sunk as she received
the young engineer’s cold salutation. She felt
that he despised both herself and her brother
for their conduct to Cora, Mrs. Mortimer and
Adelaide soon withdrew to the saloon, for, the
sight of Gilbert Margrave was painful to, the
impetuous girl.

e scene on board the Selma was a and
animated one. In the center of the deck a Ger-
man band was stationed, and every now and
then some sprightly waltz or polka,sounded on
the summer air.

Close against one of the paddle-boxes a group
of eager gamblers had seated themselves roun
a card-table, and it was among these that
Mr. William Bowen planted himself, while Silas
Craig conversed in an undertone with Augustus

orton.

Gilbert Margrave and Mortimer Percy stood
near the side of the vessel, talking on indifferent
subjects. :

Presently the bell rung again, and the steamer
stopped “8 the first. station, which was at a
short distance from Gerald Leslie’s plantation.

“Miss Leslie knows nothing as yet of the fatal
truth,” said Gilbert. ‘‘I tremble 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.” nk

“T shall be here to protect her, at the worst
but tell me have you soy, idea how it was thay
mo mulatto Toby applied tome above all peo-
ple

“The instincts of the despised race are strong,”
answered Mortimer; “he knew, no doubt, that

ou felt no uncommon interest in his young mis-

ress. See, is not that Miss Leslie pronder,
among the passengers, dressed in black

“Ttis; she is comune snls way with Toby.”
en will i you then, 1 dear Gilbert, sail

ortimer, and pressing 's hand, he
strolled into the saloon.

Cora Leslie was pale as a lily. Her black

to inerease this almost apeazthly.
lor, but they could not take from her beauty,

 

Pn

 
 

: Eoothered ejaculation of

 

She advanced slowly, looking about her with a
—— of terror, while the faithful mulatto fol-
owed close at_her side, Presently she per-
ceived Gilbert Margrave, who silently awaited
her coming.

The crimson blush which suddenly dyed her
cheek, revealed how little she had expected this
meeting.

“Mr, Margrave!” she exclaimed.

“Pardon me, Miss Leslie,” replied the young
engineer, “if i have ventured to make myself,
without your permission, your companion upon
this journey—but the hope that I might be able
to render you some service has induced me even
to brave your displeasure.”

Cora looked earnestly at Toby; the faithful
creature’s eyelids fell beneath that searching
qeze. “‘Ah, Mr. Margrave,” she said; ‘it was

‘oby who told you of this journey?” :

“Forgive me, dear young mistress,” exclaim-
ed the mulatto. “I 'thought: that t was doing
right. .

“Tam ar affected with this proof of your
kindness, Mr. Margrave,” said Cora; ‘but I re-
gret that Toby’s indiscretion should have im-

upon you a task which will, as I believe,
useless.”

“However that oa be, Miss Leslie, it is a
task which I accept wit oe and joy.”

At this moment the little group was approach-
ed by the captain of the Selma, whose sharp
eyes had espied the dark skin of Toby among
his aristocratic passengers. | .

“Hullo! what are you doing here, nigger?” he
exclaimed; ‘‘ don’t you know your place is at the
other end of the vessel?”

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

“*Poor Toby,” murmured Cora, as she follow-
ed with her eyes the faithful slave.

“You see, Miss Leslie,” said Gilbert, ‘the
company of Toby would have been no protection

to you.

ay should have gone with him, Mr. Margrave.
Is not my place his?) Am I not an Octoroon?”

rs Y oti chow all, then?”

“Yes. Alas! I see that it was only I who
was ignorant.”

‘*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 wear mourning for my mother,
anil: my journey of to-day is a pilgrimage to her
grave.

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

A noisy laugh from a group on deck at this
moment arrested their attention.

This group was composed of Silas Craig,
William Bowen, and two or three other passen-
gers, all gathered around Augustus Horton, who
was reading a pereeaen aloud from a New Or-
leans newspaper. The following were the wrds
which greeted Cora’s ears;

“The conduct of Mr, Leslie in daring to foist the
child of one of his slaves upon the highest circles
of society, merits the punishment with which he has
met. The citizens of New Orleans have shown their
indignation at this offense, by abandoning all com-
munication with him. Gerald Leslie walks the
streets of his native city a stranger, and a-ruined
man,”

“Oh, this is infamous,” exclaimed Gilbert
Margrave; ‘‘that man knows that you are here
and. he reads that paragraph on purpose to in-
sult you. I will not endure it.”

He was about to rush forward toward
Augustus Horton, but Cora caught his 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
those cruel words are unheard.”

It was indeed as Gilbert Margrave supposed.
Augustus knew of Cura’s presence in the t—
he had seen her with Gilbert by her side, and he
was determined to be revenged upon her for the
contempt with which she had treated him.

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

CHAPTER XV.

THE CHALLENGE,

Arter Augustus Horton had reached the par-
ph whose every line was calcula to
wound the sensitive nature of the Octoroon—he
looked toward Cora to see what effect that in-

sult had had upon her and Gilbert Margrave.
They were seated side by side, and appeared
engrossed in conversation, apparently uncon-
scious of all that was passing aroundthem. The
lanter threw down the newspaper with a

 

‘Curse her!” he muttered; “is there no way
to humble that proud soul? He, the English-
man, is by her side, deferential as if he were
talking to a queen. No matter! my turn will
come.

come.
He withdrew to the saloon, with a crowd of
friends and satellites who flocked round him as

one of the richest planters of Louisiana.
_ William Bowen had lost a handful of dollars.

 

THE OCTOROON.

at the gaming-table, and followed his patron,
Silas Craig, in order to obtain a fresh supply
from that gentleman.

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

“Tell me, Miss Leslie,” said Gilbert, as Au-
gustus Horton left the deck, ‘‘ why did you pre-
vent my inflicting upon that man the chastise-
ment which he so richly deserved? Why did
you compel me to remain silent, and suffer you
to be insulted with impunity?”

“* Because I would not have you resent that
which, in Louisiana, is considered a justifiable
prejudice. I pardon Augustus Horton as I par-
don his sister Adelaide, who was once my
friend.”

“Oh! do not speak of her, Miss Leslie; my
contempt—”

“Nay, Mr. Margrave! it is you who are mis-
taken in all this. ou are a stranger here, and
your noble conduct of to-day may compromise
you in the eyes of every Virginian. Your place
is not here, by the side of an Octoroon; you
should be with Adelaide Horton, a high-born
daughter of the European race.”

“Tf nobility of race is to be judged of by the
elevation of the soul, itis you, and not Miss
Horton, who can claim the loftiest birth,” re-
plied Gilbert, with emotion.

“You deceive yourself, Mr. Margrave,” said
Cora; ‘‘ Adelaide has a generous heart, and I
know that in secret she regrets our broken
friendship—y ou, above all others, should be in-
dulgent to her faults.”

‘

“Yes,” replied Cora, her long black eyelashes
drooping beneath the Englishman’s ardent gaze;
‘‘among all her English admirers, there was
one alone for whom she felt any real regard.
Do you know whom I mean?”

“No, Miss Leslie, nor do I wish to know,” an-
swered Gilbert, with energy; ‘‘for among all
the young girls who adorned the farewell ball
given by Mrs. Montresor, there was one and one
alone to whom my dazzled eyes turned as the
star of the brilliant throng. Do youknow whom
I mean?”

Cora did not answer, but a vivid blush suffused
her face at the young engineer’s question.

‘* See,” continued Gilbert, opening his sketch-
book; ‘‘do you remember the bouquet which
you left upon a side table in the anteroom? In
the center of that bouquet bloomed this tiny
blue flower, which we Englishmen call the for-
get-me-not. It is withered now. Say, Cora,
can a forgive the hand which stole the. blos-
som

The blush faded from the cheek of the Octo-
roon, and, clasping her hands entreatingly, she
exclaimed with earnestness:

“Oh, Mr. Margrave, reflect! An idle word,
idly spoken, may occasion evil of which you can
not dream. It isto your honor Iappeal! ‘You
would not inflict new sorrow upon a heart al-
ready almost broken, What would that flower
say? that in its brief hour of bloom and fresh-
ness Cora Leslie was admired. The flower has
withered, and the in of my life have faded
like the frail petals of that poor blossom.”

** No, Cora, no! The flower has but one mean-
ing—sa) B, * T love you!”

‘Me!” cried Cora, with an exclamation almost
of terror. ‘But do you forget who Iam? Do
you forget that I am an Octoroon, the daughter
of a slave?”

“T forget all, but that I love you.”

“Do you know that in this country it is con-:
sidered a disgrace to bestow an honorable affec-
tion wee acreature of the despised race, and
‘that the shame attached to me would attach it-
self also to you?”

‘‘T know all, Cora, but 1 love
you!” cried Gilbert, falling on his
young girl’s feet.

Cora sunk into a chair and covered her face
with her hands.

‘Cora, you weep!”

“T do,” she replied, in faltering accents. ‘TI
feel myself so despised and abandoned in this
cruel country; and it is so sweet to hear words
of Jere ve get ee eT

, Cora, spea' —spe implore you

“Fyrom one we love!” ‘ %

“Cora, my adored!” exclaimed Gilbert, with
raptors clasping her hand, and seating himself

er.

‘They had not been unwatched during this in-
terview. The eyes of jealousy were on the un-
conscious lovers, for Adelaide Horton had
emerged from the saloon, and gliding at the
back of the little table, had heard the latter part
of their conversation.

She knew the worst now—this man—this man
to whom she had given her heart, unasked and
unsought, loved and was beloved by the despised
daughter of a slave. Wounded pride, jealousy,
revenge, humiliation, all mingled in the f°
ate emotion of that moment. Blind with anger,
she knew not what she did. ‘ .

ou—I love
ees at the

 

«By this time the deck of the Selma was again
crowded with aengarkert Augustus Horton

 

+5

still carried the New Orleans papertin his hand,
and he was talking to Silas Craig about the at-
tack upon Mr, ie.

“Confess, now, you sly old fox,” he said
laughing, ‘‘ you are the author of this article?
Why be too modest to own so good a work?”

Gilbert Margrave started from his seat.

‘‘Now, Cora,” he whispered, ‘‘ I can no longer
remain silent. I have now a right to defend
you.

The captain of the Selma at this moment
joined the group round Augustus Horton. i

““You are talking of the article in the New
Gees Messenger, are you not, gentlemen?” he
sald. i
“We are, captain,” vee A tus, ‘fand
here is the author,” he added, pointing to Gus

“‘Then allow me to compliment you, sir!” said
the captain, addressing Silas, ‘‘ You have done
a service to society, and I hope the people
will take warning.” ;

“That they will never do,” said Adelaide
Horton, advancing to the center of the group;
‘“while you permit a mulatress to take her place
on board your boat among the free citizens of
New Orleans.”

She payee as she as to Cora, who had.ad-
vanced with Gilbert Margrave.

There was a simultaneous movement of sur-
prise among the passengers, as if a pistol had
suddenly been fired upon the deck,

As Adelaide uttered these words, Mrs. Mon-
tresor and Mortimer Percy emerged from. the
saloon, and watched the scene which was taking

place.

“What do you mean, Miss Horton?” asked
the captain.

‘*Oh! Adelaide, Adelaide,” murmured Morti-
mer, ‘‘this is despicable!”

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

“T will tell you, sir, what Miss Horton
meant,” said Cora, advancing to the captain:
‘she would have told you that I am Gerald Les-
lie’s daughter.” , f

“In that case, madam,” replied the captain,
‘vou must be aware—”

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

With one proudly disdainful glance at Augus-
tus Horton, Cora slowly retired. The passen-

gers watched her in silence, wondering how the —

strange scene would end,

Gilbert Margrave advanced to Augustus Hor-
ton, and addressed him in a tone of quiet deter-
mination, far more impressive than the loudest
passion. 5

‘Mr. Horton,” he said; ‘‘the insult inflicted
upon Miss Leslie was offered also to me, since I
was by her side at the time. Whether her cause
be just or unjust, I insist—you understand, sir,
L insist upon an immediate re ition for an ac
which I consider an abominable cowardice.”

** As you pldaee, sir,” replied the planter.  ‘T
shall land at Iberville.” ‘

“Enough. LIalsowilllandthere.”, |.

‘ Why not throw the Englishman overboard?”
said Craig, in an undertone to some of the pas-
sengers. i . ; {
Augustus Horton overheard the words, and
turned fiercely upon the lawyer: :

“T allow no interference in this,” he said; —

‘the quarrel is mine alone. Perey, you will
my second?” }

‘Pardon me,” replied Mortimer, Percy, “as
Mr. Margrave is a stranger in Louisiana, he
may have difficulty in findmg any one to assist
him in this matter. You will excuse me, there-
fore, if I give him the preference.” x

“ As youplease,” answered Augustus, indiffer-

ently. f

Gilbert the hand of his old friend;
“Thanks, Mortimer,” he whispered, ‘(your
heart is as generous as ever.” : {

“Perhaps you won't mind having me fora
second, Mr, Horton,” said William 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, This
evening, then, Mr, Margrave. We meet at sun-
set, in the wood on the borders of Mr. Craig’s
plantation at Iberville.”

‘We shall be punctual,” answered Gilbert.

CHAPTER XVI. .

CAPTAIN PRENDERGILLS, OF THE AMAZON.

Wuiix the Selma steamed proudly past the
banks of the Mississippi, the inhabitants of New:
Orleans were coounies by the discussion of an
event which had taken place on the previous
night, but which had only been discovered early
that morning. :

Paul Lisimon had — rea from prison.

their places on board the

dreamed that their victim had 5 at
Nevertheless it was so. (The kev vis-

ited the cell occupied by the y 1 at

eight o’clock on the.

ee ao his havaianas
partment was empty.

window had been cul away, and a file,

 

*

  

 
   

+
|

 

    
 
   
      
   
    
 
    
     
 
  
  
 
 
   
   
    
  
   
   
   
 
   
 
  
  
  
  
  
    

 
     
 

certain glimmer of the morning light Paul Lisi-

Z long and earnestly at this man, ‘‘ nor by
what Sight

16.

 

THE. FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

the floor of the cell, told of patient labor which
ee a the prisoner in the silence of the
night. f

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 Lisi-
mon had received assistance from without. He
had been searched upon his entrance into the
pan: and nothing of a suspicious character

ad been found about him; the file and rope
had, therefore, been conveyed to him by some
mysterious hand. vis

he astonished officials of the jail looked from
one to the other, not knowing what to suspect.

The escape seemed almost incredible; for, in
order to regain his liberty, the prisoner had not
only te descend from the window of his cell,
which was thirty feet above the prison yard,
but ‘he had also to scale the outer wall, which
was upward of twenty feet high, and sur-
mounted by a formidable chevaun de Srise.

How, then, had Paul Lisimon accomplished a
feat hithertc unattempted by the most daring
of criminals?

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

Paul Lisimon had neither descended from the
window of his cell, nor scaled the outer wall of
the prison. He had walked out of the jail in the
silence and darkness of the night, and in five
minutes from leaving his cell had found himself
in the,streets of New Orleans.

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

Sir Robert Walpole said that every man has
his price; this man had been richly bribed by
a eae visitor, who had gained admission
to the jail on the evening of Paul’s arrest.

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

At daybreak on the morning after his impris-
onment, Paul Lisimon found himself free in the
streets of New Orleans, but utterly ignorant as
a the mysterious being to whom he owed his re-

lease.

The jailer had refused to give him any infor-
mation about this person.

“T know nothing of the business,” the man
said, ‘except that I am well paid for my share
in ity and that. I will be a ruined man if I am
found out. ?

Paul Lisimon was free! ist cht
{ He was free; but he stood alone in the world,
without a friend—branded as a thief—cast off
by the protector of his youth—an escaped felon!

He hurried toward the lonely and deserted
quay. Despair was in his heart, and he yearned
-to’ rest beneath the still waters of the Missis-

sippi.

TP here, at least,” he murmured, ‘‘T shall be at
peace. Camillia now believes me innocent, and
she will weep for my memory. Were I to await
the issue of a trial, which must result in shame
and condemnation, she might indeed, as the
French woman insinuated, learn to despise
me.

Heedless of: all around him, absorbed in
gloomy: meditations, Paul Lisimon’ was some

i unaware of the sound of a footfall close
behind him; but as he drew nearer to the water
side this footstep Beeeet bim still closer.
and presently, in the faint gray light of that
mysterious hour, betwixt night and morning, he
beheld the long shadow of a man’s figure upon
the ground beside him.

He started and turned around. As he did so,
a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a
tk voice exclaimed—

‘What do you want with yonder dark water,
my lad, that you’re in such a hurry to get to the
river side?”

Paul shook the man’s hand away from his
shoulder with a gesture of anger.‘ By what
right do you questionme?” he said; “‘stand aside
and let me pass!” 3

“Not till we’ve had a few words, my jail-
bird,” answered the stranger.

“ Jail-bird!”

“Yes, mate, jail-bird! you’ve no need tocarry
it off so fiercely with me. A file and a rope, eh?
to blind the governor of the prison, and a good-
natured turnkey to ot the’ doors for you.
That's about the sort of thing, isn’t it?”

Paul Lisimon turned round, and looked the
stranger straight in the face. He was a big,
broad-shouldered fellow, upward of six feet
high, dressed in a thick pilot coat, and immense
leather boots, which came above his knees. The
pilot coat was open at the waist, and in the un-

mon caught sight of the butt end of a pistol
thrust inte a leather belt. The stranger’s face
had once been a han @ 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
deep welt from cheek to chin.

: at know not who you are,” said Paul, after

‘ you have interested yourself in my
fate; but it is evident to me that you have had
some hand in my escape of to-

night.”

 

 

 

mst
a
4

“Never mind that, comrade,” answered the
stranger, linking his arm in that of Paul Lisi-
mon, and walking slowly toward the quay.
“Yowre free and welcome, as far as that goes;
but I don’t think, after an old friend has taken
a good bit of trouble to get you out of that
thundering jail yonder—I don’t think it was
quite fair to go and try to chuck yourself into
the water.”

“You, then, were my deliverer?”

“Never you mind whether I was or whether
I wasn’t. Do you know what it cost to get you
out of prison?”

a Well, near upon a thousand dollars, my

“ And you paid this mney! ‘You, an utter
stranger to me, bribed my jailers?” ‘

“Never you mind about that, I say again;
those that paid the money for you don’t grudge
a farthing of it. As to being a sranger, perhaps
I’m not quite that.”

‘You know me, then?”

“Fifteen years ago I knew a little, curly-
haired, black-eyed. chap, who used to play about
the gardens of a white-walled villa on the banks
of the 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 my earliest and dearest
benefactor.” f

‘“T did. It was only last night that I came
ashore, and the first thing I heard in New Or-
leans was, that Mr. Paul Lisimon had been ar-
rested for the robbery of his employer, one of
the land sharks your genteel folks call lawyers.
Now, we seamen are not fond of that breed, so
I wasn’t sorry to hear that for once a lawyer
had been robbed himself, instead of robbing
other people, so I asked who this Mr. Paul Lisi-
mon was that had been too many guns for his
employer, and they told me that he was 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 had never
heard before of Paul Lisimon; but I had heard
of a little curly-haired lad that was once a great
favorite with, Don Tomaso Crivelli, and. Don
Tomaso had been a good friend to me. So
that’s why your jailer’ was bribed, and why
you stand a free man in the streets of New Or-
leans this morning.”

‘““My generous friend,” exclaimed Paul, ‘‘this
is all so much a mystery to me 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, In the first. place, what made
eo so anxious to get to the water just now?

thought there was blood in your veins that
never yet ran in those of a coward.”

* A coward ??,

“Ay, youngster; the man who has no better
resource when he’s down in the world than to
make away with himself isn’t worthy of any
other name.”

“And what right had you to suppose that I
contemplated suicide?’

“The right of a good sharp pair of eyes, my
lad. But come, once more to business... Do you
see yonder craft at anchor there, to the right of
the harbor?” )

Paul looked in the direction to which the
stranger poin and perceived the trim masts
of a lightly-built schooner.

“ 3 do.”

‘Then you see one of the fastest clippers that
ever sailed. No rotten timber, but green oak
and locust from stem to stern, with not an inch
of canvas that isn’t meant for speed. Don’t talk
to me about your steam vessels; lumbering old
Noah’s arks, that can’t go a good pace without
bursting up and sending every soul to tarnation
smash. See the Amazon fly before the wind,
and then you’ll’know what fast sailing is. If
we Southerns come to handy grips with the
North, let the Yankees look out for squalls when
the Amazon is afloat on the blue water.”

“And you, my friend, are you one of her
crew?” asked Paul. ,

“Tm her captain, mate, Captain Prendergills,
—a sailor by profession, a rover by choice, and
a privateer for plunder.”

‘* A privateer?”

“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?”

0.

“And you and Don Juan have parted com-
pea a long spell?”

‘“ ‘We have.”

“Very well, then, why not join us? I may
have more reasons tham one for taking an inter-
est in you. You can’t stay in New Orleans, for
by eight o’clock this TORR escape will
be discovered.» I’ve a ney that you’d make a
smart mate on board yonde ‘Will you
oT willy” answered. Paul ing his

will,” answe aul, graspin; new
friend by the hand. ‘ You at least foust me—
you do not fear to take me on board your ves-
sel, though the hand of icion is upon me,
and men have called me thief. Providence
seems to: have raised you up, as if by a miracle,
to preserve me from ace, despair and death.
I am yours for or evil; in weal or woe I
will serve you faithfully,”

r vessel,

  

| Frenchwoman, scornfully.

 

CHAPTER XVII.
REVELATIONS OF GUILT.

Don Juan Moraguiros was one of the first
to hear of the escape of Paul Lisimon. The
reader must remember that the Spaniard knew
nothing of the infamous plot devised by Silas
Craig at the instigation of Augustus Horton.
He believed his protege to be guilty of the crime
saps to him.

e had a secret reason for rejoicing in the
ote of the young Mexican, and he had a
still stronger motive in seeking the destruction
of Paul, since he had begun to. suspect the at-
tachment between Lisimon and Camillia.

He hurried to his daughter’s. apartment in
order to inform her of Paul’s escape from prison.

‘* Now, Camillia,. what think, you of, this
haughty youth who so proudly declared his in-
nocence?” said Don Juan, after relating the ac-
count he had. just heard: of. Lisimon’s escape.

“T think as I have ever thought,” answered °
Camillia,

“That he is innocent?”

“Yes!” replied the Spanish girl.

“ Strange, then, that he should have fled,”
said Don Juan; “the innocent man generally
awaits to meet the issue of his trial; it is only
the guilty wretch who flies to hide himself from
the avenging power of the law he has out-
raged.”

auline Corsi had been present during this
brief dialogue, but,she had remained _silent,
with her fingers busy with the rainbow silks of
her embroidery, and her eyes bent over her
work, She raised them, however, as the
Spaniard uttered those words and looked him
full 4 the ae ai siti ;

§ e guilty do not always. fi on Juan
Moraquitos,” she said chy ae ;

The Spaniard started and looked at Mademoi-
selle Corsi with a rapid, but furtive glance.

‘They sometimes remain for years upon. the
scene of their guilt. haps 2 defy the laws which
they have outraged, and triumph in their undis-
covered and successful villainy.”

Don Juan laughed mockingly, Lut a close ob-
server might have detected an uneasy quiver of
his mustache-shaded lip. ;

““Mademoiselle Corsi appears to speak from
experience,” he said. ‘‘She has perhaps known
such people?”

“T have known such people,” answered thé
Frenechwoman in the same quiet tone in which
she had first addressed Don Juan,

“They could be scarcely desirable acquaint-
ances for the instructress of—.”

“The daughter of so honorable, a man as
yourself, Don Juan,” said Pauline, as if inter-
preting the thoughts of her employer.

While this conversation was going forward
between Mademoiselle Corsi and the Spaniard,
Camillia Moraquitos. had strolled out onto the
balcony, to escape the watchful eyes of her fa-
thef, and to conceal the relief she felt in her
lover’s escay Pauline and Don Juan were,
therefore, alone. Their eyes met. There was
something in the glance of the Frenchwoman
which told plainly that her words had no com-
mon meaning.

For some moments the gaze of Don Juan was
rooted upon that fair face and those clear and
radiant blue eyes—a face which was almost
childlike in its delicacy and freshness, and which
yet, to the experienced eye of a Dae
revealed a nature rarely matched for intelli-
gence and cunning.

Don Juan crossed the apartment to the cur-
tained recess in which Pauline Corsi was seated,
and, placing himself in the chair opposite to
et grasped her slender wrist in his muscular

and.
“There is a hidden significance in your
words,” he said.
: e wee you not read their meaning, Don Juan?”
‘No.

“You cannot?” :

“T cannot,” he answered defiantly.

“Say rather that you will not,” replied the
“You fear to com-
mit yourself by an avowal which may seem
like a confession of guilt. Shall I tell you the
meaning of those words?”

“Yes,” :

“You are a brave man, Don Juan Moraquitos,
you do not fear to hear the truth?’ ;

‘*T do not.”

‘Then listen to me. Those words have rela-
tion to an event which occurred thirteen years
ago. '

“My memory is no longer that of a young
man,” answered Don Juan; ‘‘I cannot remem-
ber all the events which happened at that

“Perhaps not; but you can remember the
death of your kinsman, Don Tomaso Crivelli?”

This time the Spaniard started as if an adder
had as him, ‘ e ad iration broke out
upon his bronzed forehead, and every vestige of
color fled alike from cheek and li — : re

‘I see you do remember,” said Pauline Corsi.
“You remember the will which was made on.
that night? The will which was witnessed by
two men; one of them a Roar man_ whose.
name I know not as yet; the other, William
Bower, then captain of a slaver. You remem-
ber the dying man’s confession? You remem-

   

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

>
THE OCTOROON. * oF
ber his dying prayer, that those dear to him “T fear that we have kept you waiting,” said It was the signal. : ;
dhouki: be pieectla by you; and lastly, Don | Mortimer. ‘‘ We lost orga in the dusk, and “Take your weapon, Gilbert,” said Mortimer,

Juan Moraquitos, you remember the draught
mixed by Silas Craig, and which your wife’s
brother, Thomas Crivelli, took from your hand,
two hours before his death!” :

“How could you have learnt all this?” gasped
the Spaniard. :

“YT know more than this,” replied Pauline
Corsi. ‘‘When the faint gray. of the wintry
dawn was stealing through the half-open shut-
ters of the sick chamber, Tomaso Crivelli lifted
himself from his pillow in the last agonies of
death, and uttered an accusation—”

“Hold! hold! woman, I entreat!” cried the
Spaniard; “you know all! How you have ac-
quired that knowledge, save through some dia-
bolical agency, I know not; for the door of the
chamber was secured by a lock not —_ tam-

red with, and those within were not the men

betray secrets. But, no matter, you know
all! Why have you kept silence for thirteen
years?” se

“We women are tacticians, Don Juan. Thad
a motive for my silence.”

** And you fe now—”

“Because I think it the time to speak.”

Don Juan Pree the apartment backward and
forward with folded arms, and his head bent
upon his breast. Presently pausing before Pau-
line Corsi’s embroidery frame, he said in a
hoarse whisper:

‘<Do you mean to betray me?”

a No! bd

“Why, then, tell me all this?”

“ Because I would ask the reward of thirteen
years’ silence.”

“ And that reward—?”

“Ts easy for you to grant. I am tired of de-
pendence, even on your goodness. Make me

our wife, and let me share the wealth acquired
by the guilt whose secret I know.”

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE DUEL BY MOONLIGHT. 5

Tue plantation of Silas Craig, at Tberville,
was situated, as we have already said, upon the
borders of a wood; a luxuriant forest, stretching
for miles upon the banks of the Mississi pi,
varied every here and there by undulating dells
and pools of water, lying hidden beneath the
shadow. of giant trees, whose branches had
waved for centuries above a solitude, broken
only by the fleet foot of the Indian.

1 was in this forest that the unhappy and
martyred Quadroon, Francilia, lay in her quiet
grave, a grassy mound, mark only, by the
rude wooden cross erected at its head by the
faithful mulatto, Toby. :

Here, at least, the lovely child of an accursed
and trampled race was free. Here no master
dared molest her tranquil slumber. Death sets
the slave and the prisoner alike at eh A

The red sun s in crimson splendor beneath
the purple waters of the mighty river; upon
every forest-tree gleamed golden reflections of
the dying light; upon the bosom of each quiet

1 the last sunbeams faded and flickered in
he shadowy twilight, while, calmly beautiful,
the moon arose in her tranquil glory, bathing
forest and river in a flood of silvery radiance.

The last glimmer of crimson light was slowly
fading as two men advanced through one of the
pathways of the wood—a pathway so over-
arched by the rich spreading branches of the
trees, that it seemed one verdant arcade. :

Each of these men carried a carbine upon his
shoulder, and a powder-flask slung at his side.

The first was William Bowen; the second,
who closely followed his companion, was Au-
ern Horton. They emerged from the arcade

to an open piece of turf, around which the
trunks of the giant trees formed a species of a

wall.
“Where, in the name of all that’s diabolical,
are oe jeading me, Bill?’ said Augustus, look-

ing al

ay guess you don’t know atte way in this
here wood moonlight, Mr. Horton,” an-
swered Bill Bowrlt laughing; “but we're all
here for all that. This is the ane where we ap-
pointed to meet that young Englishman and
your precious cousin, Mr. Mortimer Percy, who
ought to be ashamed of himself for ing a
Britisher’s part against his own countryman,
and against his own flesh and blood, too, as far
as that goes.”

“Curse him!” muttered Augustus between
his tecth. :

“Curse him, and welcome, sir, for my part—
but this is where we promised. to’ meet him and
his friend, We're close against Craig’s planta-
tion. You could see the nigger huts through the
trees, if the leaves were not so tarnation thick.”

“Hark!” said the young planter; ‘what’s
that?”

The rustling of the leaves announced the arri-
val of the two men for whom they waited.
They approached by the same path as that by
which Augustus and Bill had come. i

“What's that?’ echoed Bowen; “why it’s |
your eget and his friend, I guess; s keep your

ler mat f 7

Ww °
Mortimer Percy and Gilbert Margrave drew

 

 

near them as William Bowen spoke, four
men bowed stiffly to each other,

have wasted ten minutes in finding it.”
“Bowen and I have just arrived,” answered
Augustus. “Have you brought your own

Ween,

“We couldn’t find a pair of dueling-pistols in
the neighborhood,” replied Percy ; ‘* but I have
brought a case of revolvers.”

‘Revolvers be hanged!” cried Bowen, advanc-
ing between Augustus Horton and his cousin.
eS ru tell you what it is, gentlemen; the best thing
you can do is to fight with these here carbines—
neither of which has ever missed fire since they
came out of the gunmaker’s hands. See yon-
der!” he added, pointing to a circular dell, shut in
by the trees which sheltered it, and light as day
in the broad moonbeams; “see there, gentle-
men, yonder bit of ground ain’t abovea hundred
feet broad, take it which way you will, so my
advice is this, take up your stand on each side
of the circle, and at a given signal advance upon
each other. That'll give your duel the addi-
tional charm of the chase. What say er,

“You forget,” said Mortimer, ‘“‘ Mr.
does not know the ground.”

“Then we are perfectly equal upon that
point,” replied Augustus Horton, ‘“‘for Bowen
ee you that I never set foot here until to-
night. ;

m Come, gentlemen,” cried Bill, impatiently,
“is it agreed?”

“Tt is?’ answered Gilbert Margrave and Mor-
timer aita

“Then choose’ your weapon,” said Bowen,
handing Mortimer the two carbines.

The young man carefully measured the instru-
ments of death, and returned one to his cousin’s
second,

“ Are they loaded?” he asked.

“No,” answered Bowen, handing him powder
and ball,‘ Will you remain on this side of the

ground?”

“Yes.”

“Good! then it is for you to cross over to the
other side of yonder dell, I guess, Mr. Horton.
Come!”

‘¢ But the signal?” exclaimed Mortimer.

“Shall be a shout from me,” answered Bowen ;
“well give you ten minutes to load your ree
and bid your friend good-by; for if, Mr. Hor-
ton’s anything as good a shot as I take him for,
there ain’t much chance of your seeing the Brit-
isher again!” 5

The two men disappeared among the foliage,
and the friends were alone.

“ Miss Leslie knows nothing of this duel, Isup-
ose?” said Mortimer, busy loading: the ‘car-
ine. : vid yet

“Nothing!” answered Gilbert. ‘‘ Poor girl
Tallowed her to believe that, for her sake, I had
renounced all thought of vengeance wpon the
man who had insulted her!”

‘Perhaps that’s the wisest thing you could
have done; for, however this affair may, ter-

minate, 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 esca ,
doubt but you will have to secure the protection
of the British consul to save you from the fury
of the ulace. Once sheltered by the dreaded
flag ro d 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 storm as would blot the stars and. stripes
of America from the universe.” }
“When a man sees the woman he loves in-
sulted by a coward, he does not stop to reason,”
answered Gilbert. “‘The only thing that. dis-

tresses me in this matter is the thought that, in-
stead of protecting my adored Cora, I have only
brought upon her new dangers. You are the

only man in America whom I call my friend.
You have already given me such werful
proofs of your trietiiship that I think T may
venture to demand of you one 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 a boat which is to carry
us back to Lake Pontchartrain this very
night. Promise me that if I fall you will your-
se protect Cora, and restore her to her father’s

“TI promise,” answered Mortimer, fervently:

“Thanks! thanks!”

The two men shook hands, both too much af-
fected for many words. E j

‘But tell me, Gilbert,” said Mortimer Perey,
after a pause, ‘‘what was Miss Leslie’s motive
for coming to Iberville?’

‘“‘Her mother died here. She comes to pay
her first visit. to the lonely grave of Francilia,
the Quadroon.” ;

“Ah! I understand. Poor girl! r girl!”

‘“‘T 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,
where the boat will wait for us.” i }

“ Bnough,” said Mortimer, in a voice broken
by emotion, ‘‘ whatever happens I will be there
to protect her.”

+ this moment a loud shout resounded
through the stillness of the forest scene,

placing the carbine in Margrave’s hand.

rgrave
4

safe and sound from this duel I.

 

“ Au 2
tus Horton is my cousin—you are my friend.
dare not pray for the safety of either, at the
cost of the other’s death. The moonlit heavens
are shining down upon us, and the eye of Provi-
dence watches the struggle. Farewell!”

They clasped each other’s hands once more in
silence. Then Gilbert Margrave dashed forward
through the brushwood, and disappeared in the
dell below.

Mortimer Percy paced up and down the dewy
turf, listening for the report of the guns,

‘What is this?” he exclaimed as he laid his
hand upon his beating heart, ‘For which of
those two men do I tremble? This then is
America; of whose freedom her citizens so
proudly boast! Here are two men met togeth-
er to shed each other’s blood, because one of
them has dared to uphold the cause of a daughter
of the despised race. Hark!”

_ It was for the report of the firearms that he
listoned, but the sound which met his ear was of
altogether a different nature. It was the eve-
ning chorus of the negroes, floating upon. the
tranquil air. A sweet harmonious. strain of
melody, which breathed of peace and repose:

“Day is dying, day is gone,
Weary niggers, rest; ’
Work all day, and toil and moan,
Quiet night is best!”

“Poor fellows,” said Mortimer, “they are
ae negroes returning to their cabins after
the day’s labor. They sing, poor simple crea-
tures. The overseer’s -lash cannot destroy the
quiet content of their honest hearts. How easi-
ly might a good master make them happy.”

Again the voices rise upon the balmy air:

‘War from home, and child, and wife,
Weary niggers, weep,
Day Se y in toil and strife,
Night brings peace and sleep.””

The voices slowly died away in the distance.
echoing mournfully br gies 9 the woodlan
glades, as the negroes passed out of hearing.

Mortimer Percy still — listened—eager'y,
breathlessly—for that, other awful sound which
would announce the commencement of the com-

bat, :

“Nothing yet!” he exclaimed; “if I turn the
corner of yonder,group.of trees I run the chance
of being struck by a random bullet; but come
the worst, I must risk it, I can endure this sus-
pense no longer.” .

He sprung through the forest growth in the
same direction as that taken by Gilbert Mar-

grave. 5,

He had not d red above three minutes
when from the Sopeieascie of the wood two fig-
ures slowly approached, casting long shadows
on. the moonlit 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 a night above your
sradie ee you to eraser ada C

y mother sung 1 exclaim ora, _

“She did, she did! The sound of that so:
my lady, will bring tears to Toby’s eyes uni
the hour when-they close in death.”

«a ee ee ve Li Sg

ouare sad, dear mistress, you are uneasy?”
said the mulatto. The intoniss wasbiahinees of
the slave’s affection enabled him to detect every
varying shade in Cora’s manner. He saw that
her mind was disturbed by some anxiety.

“Tam anxious about Mr. Margrave, Toby,”
she replied; ‘“he promised to rejoin 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 passed the two last months of her life. It
is near this spot she reposes.” ;

The slave looked about him in the moonlight,
and presently paused at the foot of an enormous
oak. Pushing aside the wild overgrowth which
obscured it, he revealed a ougt hawA wood
cross surmounting a humble mound of earth,
which had been neatly turfed by the same faith-
ful hand that had erected the simple monument.

Upon the cross this inscription had been
carved in letters cut deep into the wood:

“FRANCIA, JULY 7TH, 1845,”

Below this name and date were three words.
Those words were:
‘““BLoop ror BLOoop.” —

‘‘See, Miss Cora,” said the mulatto, ‘this is a
lonely spot, though so near to the tation.
Few ever come here, for yonder dell is said to
be haunted by the t of an Indian who was
cruelly murdered there. a hundred ¥

No hand has disturbed this cross. t may be

x

that no human eye has ever seen the on,
but the all-secing eye of Providence has looked
upon these w for: Atteon yr eee.

cca irit of my murdered mother!” ex-

Maria erat tte efufgent sy. Rolie of the
daughter! "May Heaven forgive the ago hn
wae" caused thy wily fate May |

pity and pardon my wretched father.’ I cannot

 
 

 

x

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

‘curse him. Here on the grave of his victim, on

the grave of the victim of a wicked and cruel
prejudice, I pity and forgive 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,” she cried, ‘Toby, did you hear?’

Before the mulatto co’ reply, Mortimer
Percy sprung through the parted branches that
bordered the dell, and rushed toward where
they stood. He recoiled upon seeing Cora.

‘You here, Miss Leslie?’ he exclaimed.

“Yes, yes.. Tell me, what was that report ?”

“That? Some—some hunter, no doubt.”

He had scarcely spoken when a second gun
was fired :

“No, no, Mr. Percy!” cried Cora, wildly ;' “it
is no hunter’s carbine. A woman’s un’ ailing
instinct tells me of danger to him I love. Gil-
bert Margrave has been fighting a ‘duel with
your cousin.” .

Augustus Horton appeared as she spoke,
rane backward and gazing intently into the

“T must have surely hit him,” he muttered.

‘See, seo!” cried Cora, “his antagonist is,
safe. It is he who has fallen. Run, Toby, run
to succor him.”

Half et with terror and artiguish, ‘she
would have fallen to the ground had not ‘Mor-
timer’s extended arm caught her in'time. He
carried her prostrate form toa rocky seat close
at hand, on which she rested with her head still
lying on his shoulder.

Augustus Horton advanced toward them, and

ized the Octoroon in the moonlight.

“She here!” he cried. -‘‘ Cora!”

The passionate love of. his guilty heart re-
turned ‘as he upon the unconscious girl,
and a thrill of jealousy vibrated through the
dark recesses of his soul, as he beheld the ovely
head of the Octoroon resting upon Mortimer’s
shoulder.

“T am not. surprised, Percy, at your sym-
pathy for Gerald Leslie’s daughter,” he said,
with a sneer; ‘‘she is, of course, one’ of your
friends, for she dared to turn me out of her
house, ng me from her presence as if she
had been a queen.” .

‘*'You!” exclaimed Percy. 2

“Yes,” replied his cousin, ‘‘ because I had the
impertinence to pay her a few idle compli-
ments.”

“ Augustus Horton,” said Mortimer, gravely,
‘vou remember a clause in our contract of

mership, which provides for the agreement
ing canceled at pleasure, by either of the
two rtners?” 7 ;

“Then I am the first to cancel that bond.
From this night I cease to be your partner.”

“So be it!” replied Augustus. ‘‘It is not for
me to object to such a proposal; but have a
care, Mortimer, and remember that by such a
proceeding you jose half your estate.”

i shall ve enougl left to enable me to
live far from a country which I henceforth re-

nounce. As to your sister, you can tell her that
I restore her her liberty.”
“That. is needless,” answered Au; Ss,

haughtily, “for she herself has declared her in-
tent on. oo breaking with you forever.”
yw

_ “She has presumed to fall in love with Mr.
Gilbert Margrave, the gentleman who prefers an
Octoroon to the heiress of one of the proudest
families in Louisiana.”

“Tt was jealousy, thén, that prompted her
denunciation of Cora Leslie,” said Mortimer.

“Tt was.”
“So much the better for her. That, at least,
Hush! here

is some excuse for her conduct.

ill Bowen and the mulatto appeared, as Per-
cy spoke, carrying between them the prostrate
form of Gilbert arp. The young man was
quite onconegous f e breast of his dyed
crimson by the blood which welled from ‘his
wound. Toby and Bowen placed him upon the
rocky seat which had been occupied by Cora.

“The ball has struck him in the side,” said
Bowen. ‘‘I guess it’s about all over with the
Britisher.”

At the sound of these words of evil import,
Cora Leslie opened her eyes, 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.”

The mulatto Oey his hand upon the breast
of the wounded man. 4

“The heart beats, though faintly,” he said;
“dear mistress, he will be saved.”

“Will you allow him to be carried to your
father’s , Miss Leslie?’ said Mortimer; “T
will accompany him thither,” -

,. Mr. Perey, exclaimed Cora, “you are

all g y
_ “A hundred dollars foryour trouble, Bowen,
Sf eT ene te en Om tO
“A hundred dollars—Dm your man!” replied
“You'll excuse me, Mr. Horton,
is business, you know,” he added, to

they come.”

Sy US

  

Mortimer Percy and the mulatto gathered to-
gether several strong branches from the fallen
wood lying beneath the trees, and twisted them
into a rude litter on which they laid the uncon-
scious Englishman.

One end of this litter was carried b roby
the other by William Bowen; Cora and Morti-
mer walking by the side of the wounded man.

In this order they started for the. landing-
place, where Gilbert’s boat was to await them.

Augustus Horton stood for some moments
mre their receding figures in the moon-

ight. ‘
‘* My curses on them,” he muttered ; ‘‘I thought
to-night’s business would have settled for my
proud Cora’s English lover, and I have but fa-
vored my rival’s chance by what Ihave done.
If this Gilbert Margrave should recover, of
course he will be all love and gratitude for his
beautiful nurse, who will watch and tend him in
his hour of danger. | But no matter, Craig and
I have a powerful hold on Gerald Leslie, and his
daughter’s love shall be the price of his safety.
She would not like to see her father penniless.
Or, if to the last she refuses to hear reason, the
pee auction will soon settle her scruples... If
cannot win her as my mistress, I can, at least,
buy her as—my slave!”

CHAPTER XIX.
THE HUMAN BLOODHOUND.

THE morning after the duel, Augustus Horton
returned to New Orleans, .Even.in his jealousy
of Gilbert Margrave and his guilty. ion. for
the beautiful Octoroon, he did not abandon the
thought of more ambitious schemes; and he was
still determined to win the hand and the fortune
of Camillia Moraquitos.

The first intelligence that. greeted him on his
return was the news of Paul Lisimon’s escape
from prison.

The planter was furious. This dreaded rival
was, then, at liberty. The trial which was to
have ended in his disgrace and ,condemnation,
would, perhaps, never take place, and Camillia
might still believe in the honor and ‘honesty of
her lover.

That which he sought was to render Paul ut-
terly contemptible in the sight of the haughty
Spanish girl, and he felt that.he had, in a great
measure, failed.

He dispatched a special messenger to thesratle
with a letter to Silas Craig, informing him of
the young Mexican’s escape.

“1 no time in returning to New Orleans,”
he wrote. ‘I need the help of your craft in
this business. There must, be some mystery in
this Lisimon’s escape, and you are the man to
unravel it.”

This done he ordered his horse, and, attended
by his groom, rode at once to Villa Moraquitos.

e was determined to precipitate matters, and
enlist the Spaniard in his behalf. This he knew
would be an easy matter, as Don Juan, had.al-
ways encouraged his addresses.

Augustus Horton found the Spanier alone in
an apartment which was called his study,
though little trace of studious habits was to
found within its walls.

The paneling of this chamber was adorned
with weapons of aires, Bite arranged in sym-
metrical order upon the walls, Cutlasses, pis-
tols, and carbines, of polished steel, inlaid with’

‘old and enamel, hung in pends array, side
side with charts of that ocean upon which,
the scandalous tongues were correct, Don

Juan Moraquitos had for many years been a
rover. '

When Augustus Horton entered this room the
Spaniard was standing near an open window,
his arms folded, his head bent. upon his breast,
moodily puffing 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 left New Orleans for
Horton Ville.” ;

“Tt is quite true—I left yesterday.”

“* And returned this morning?” ni

“ Yes.”

“Capricious boy! So soon tired of your rural
retreat?”

“You cannot guess the cause of my return?”

‘No indeed!”

“What, Don Juan! Can you not imagine
that there may be a lode-star shining in this
a Oe draws me back to it in spite of my-

sel:
‘‘Ah! I begin tounderstand, And that lode-
7 ”

is—

“Your daughter, Camillia.” }

The Spaniard was silent for some moments,
as if absorbed in thought. Then, turning to the
— he said gravely: Mesoyi Horton, I

ave jong. foreseen this. I will freely own to

ou, that some time since, J cherished more am-
tious views for my only child. We Spaniards
are a proud race, and I once hoped that the hus-
band of See might be one of the
haughty no of my distant native land. But
that is past now,” he added, with a sigh; “your

 

 

 

rank is as high as that of any man in na.
You are no penniless adventurer who seeks to

enrich himself by marriage. You are young,
handsome, wealthy. Win her then, you have

 

 

[he will fin

“ And your assistance?”
CO ORT

“ But if she should refuse?”

“‘T cannot force her wishes. She is my only
child, the sole treasure of an old man’s heart. If
you cannot win her love, you must submit to

er refusal of your hand.”

Augustus Horton retired with many expres-.

sions of. gratitude and affection, but once out-
side the chamber his brow darkened and he
slenched his fist_as he muttered, with ‘an
oath:

“This Spaniard is like some foolish old woman.
He cannot force his daughter’s wishes, forsooth;
and the double fortune of Don Juan Moraquitos
and Don Tomaso Crivelli may goto any hand-
some adventurer upon whom Donna Camillia
chooses to bestow her affection.”

As these thoughts were busy in his brain, he
crossed. the spacious hall on his way to Camillia’s
apartments,

In the corridor leading to the young girl’s
boudoir, he met Pauline Corsi. :

He did not stop to speak to her, but passed
her with a careless bow—such a salute as a man
only bestows upon one whom he thinks far be-
neath him.

It did not escape the keen observation of the
Frenchwoman. ‘‘So,” she murmured as she
glanced back at the American, ‘‘I am a govern-
ess—a dependent—unworthy of aes, notice.
Mr. Horton, the day may come when you will
find me no weak enemy!

She broke into the merry chorus of a gay
French song, as. she finished speaking, and
tripped away, warbling like some joyous bird,

one could have dreamed the dark though:
that lurked beneath that joyous exterior.

Augustus Horton entered the’ boudoir, and
lifting a rose-colored silken curtain which shroud-
ed the doorway, gazed, in silence upon the occu-
pant of the chamber.

The heiress was seated near the open window,
her rounded elbow, firm and polished as unvein-
ed marble, resting on the cushion of her chair,
her head leaning on her hand, her lustrous eyes
vailed by the silken lashes that curtained them;
her whole attitude bespeaking the profoundest
melancholy. :

The planter gazed upon her with admiration,
but it was admiration unmingled with love.

It was the same feeling he v ould have experi-
enced in looking at. some For eous picture.

His eye was. bewitched y 1e exquisite color-
ing, the perfect form; but his heart was un-
touched.

Nothing could be more complete than the con-
trast between the Spanish girl and the Octo-
roon,

Both were beautiful—both had eyes of ‘the
deepest black, but the orbs of Cora Leslie were
soft and pensive, while those of Camillia Mora-
guitos flashed with the burning flames of a

uthern clime. ee

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 that each should pay a bitter

penalty for having dared to prefer another.

He told his suit, and. was rejected with scorn.

Nay, more; he saw that not only was he utter-
ly indifferent to the Spanish girl—there was
something beyond indifference in her manner—
something eyen 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 which
raged SRP ETN passion, “you have rejected
the offer of a devoted heart, Be it so! I cannot
force your, compliance. You love another; no
doubt some. honorable man, whose unsullied
marge sith shed a luster upen the woman he
weds.

The Spanish as head dropped as Augustus

7 ,

|. said this, with chilling irony.
She felt that he knew her secret, the bit-
terness of the sneer wounded her to the heart.

“But this is not all,” continued the Piguter:

‘‘not only do you love another, but you hate me!
Task you why this is so?”

“Shall 1 tell you?” she asked, pravely, lifting
her flashing eyes, and looking him in the
ee “,

“Heaven forgive me if I wrong you, Augus-
tus Horton, but some secret instinct tells me that
ou were £ iated with that pitiless wretch,
ilas Craig, in the plot which brought disgrace

upon the name of one—” .
5 Whe tp very dear to you! Is it not so, Donna

“Yes,” she answered, proudly; ‘‘T have never
before eonfessed my love to a mortal. I confess
itnow to you, It will at least prove my belief
in his innocence.”

‘Mr, Paul Lisimon. is ory happy man to
possess so fair a defender,” Augustus, with
studied sarcasm. _‘‘ No doubt the raped felon,
the runaway thief, will return to New
ere long to claim his bride; though T fear that
the very first hour he shows his face in this city,

d himself hand

to jail. In the mean time, I withdraw all pre-

, 1

 

 

 

Orleans ©

cuffed and carried back -

 
 

™

 

best part

hair and whiskers

 

 

tensions to your hand. I cannot hope for success
against such a rival.”

e bowed haughtily and withdrew, aie,
bitterly. In the anteroom without he foun
the negro, Tristan, lying on an embroidered
rug, close against the boudoir door.

Dog!” exclaimed Augustus; ‘‘you have been
eto not We . ith th

‘Do no angry, massa, with the poor nig-
ger. What if the dog can help you?”

“Help me!”

‘Yes; dogs are sometimes useful. Have you
ever seen a bloodhound hunt down a runawa
slave, eh, massa? Ah! you have seen that.
Many a time, I daresay. atiy a time have set
the dogs on yourself, to capture your lost prop-
erty. Shore are human bloodhounds, massa,
who can hunt down an enemy as a dog hunts
the poor slave. Your enemy is Tristan’s enemy,
too, Say, massa, shall we work together?”

The planter looked at the negro with a glance
of contempt. ;

“What can we have in common?” he said,
scornfully,

“Love, massa! love and hate! We both love
the same woman, we both hate the same man.”

Au s laughed aloud. ‘*You—you' love
Camillia Moraquitos?” he exclaimed, with con-
summate 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 another
color. I love her—love her, not’as you white
men love, but with the passionate fury of tho
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 know
that she can neyer be mine—but she shall not be
his, No, no!’ I could bettér bear’ to’ see her
wedded to you, for she would not love you. She
would pine and die, and I would kill myself upon
her grave, and know that’she never blest the
man she loved.’ Say, massa, shall I help you?”

Horton gazed at the negro for some
moments, with a look of mingled surprise and
disdain. There was something almost terrific in
the fiery energy of the African. Something,
which in its terror approached almost'to sub-

limity.
Shall I serve you, massa?” said Tristan.
“Yes,” exclaimed the planter, “you shall be
my bloodhound, and help me’ to hunt down my
enemies,”

 

CHAPTER XX.

HEAVEN HELPS THOSE WHO TRUST UW _ PROVI-
DENCE.

In the far depths of a California forest, the
timber roof of a solitary log-hut peeped through
the trees. :

It was a dreary, dilapidated building, which
had been deserted by former settlers, and ne-
glected by those who now dwelt in it.

The rough wooden shutters that sheltered the
one solitary window were rotting upon ‘their
hinges; the wind whistled in ill cadences
throu, h the crevices of the logs.

As far as the eye could reach there was no
vestige of any human habitation, while the
rustling of the leaves and ‘the hun, howls of
the wolves only broke the silence of the night.

It was difficult to imagine this place to be the
dwelling of any civilized being’; but yet it was
tenante (4 two men, who hat lived init for the

of a year, attended by a negro slave,
an honest fellow, who served them as faithfully
in phat dreary retreat as if they had dwelt in a

ace.

" e night had fallen; the winds shrieked like
some troubled spirit, amid the branches of the
trees; red streaks of light gleamed through the
cracks of the window shutters and the crevices
of the rude timber edifice; the door of the hut is
securely closed, though in that lonely’ region
there is little need of boltand bar.

Let us peep into the neglected building, and
gaze unseen upon its occupants. :

The two men are seated on either side of a
verses Mebe of brushwood and broken timber,
while the negro sits on a low stool, at a respect-
ful distance, waiting till his masters may have

of his services.

His honest face beams with good temper and
contentment, even in that dreary abode.

But it is not so with his masters,

They are both gene eg cherry-stemmed
meerschaum ‘pipes, and they sit in ‘silence, their
eyes gloomily fixed upon the blazing fire.

It is impossible to judge of their rank in life,

for they are dressed in cutaway velveteen coats,

corduroy breeches, and t hob-nail boots—
serviceable ents suited to their rude life,
but which elsewhere would be worn only by
laboring men. ;

They are both in the prime of life, and one is
rather handsome; but they have allowed their

ion, and their faces are bronzed by c

it ex-
to every variety of weather.” ;

ah The elder of the two id thi first to speak.

“Well, Brown,” he says, with a sigh of
weariness ““ nearly a eat gore since we set'}'
_ foot in this dreary district

and no ‘good done
yet.” : ae ,

 

to grow in thé roughest fash~

 

SRE, CETOROON a ir:

The younger man shrugged his shoulders as
lie removed his pipe from his mouth and knocked
out the ashes of tobacco upon the rough stone
hearth.

“Yes, a year, a a's he muttered, ‘‘and no
hope of return yet. No hope of justice being
done to the innocent, and punishment and confu-
sion brought upon the guilty.”

“ Brown,” said his companion, “do you re-
member our first meeting?’

“Yes, we met in the streets of San Fran-
cisco; both penniless, yet both determined to
conquer fortune, and to wring from the bowels
of our mother earth the gold which should en-
able us to achieve the purposes of our lives.”

“You remember we formed a chance ac-

uaintance, which afterward ripened into
riendship?”

“Tt did,” answered the other man. ‘‘ But at
the same time we entered into a singular agree-
ment. We resolved that whatever our past
history might be, it should remain buried in
oblivion, so long as we dwelt together in the
wilds of California, We agreed that neither
should tell his companion the secrets of his life,
or the purpose which he had to accomplish in
the future; that even our names should be un-
known to each other, and that though living
together upon the footing of friends’ and broth-
ers, We should address each other merely as
Brown and Smith.”

‘Yes, this was our bond.”

‘We further resolved that we would spend
the last dollars wépossessed in: the purchase of
a set of implements, and that we would pene-
trate into the loneliest tract on the continent,
into recesses never visited by the herdof gold-
diggers, whose labors exhaust the soil in dis-
tricts where the precious ore has been found.
We determined to search for our prize where
none had sought before us, and we resolved to

brave every hardship, to endure eyery peril for.

the several ends of our lives.”

“We did.”

* At San Francisco we picked up our faithful
Sambo yonder,” said the man known as Brown,
looking to the negro, ‘and we got a bargain.”

‘Because poor Sambo was lame, massa. Very
few gentlemen will buy lame niggers.”

pha Sane or not we found you a treasure, Sam-
bo, and between us we soon contrived to cure
cor lame leg, and made you as sound as the

t of us.”

“Yes,” cried the negro, grinning from ear to
ear, ‘you did, massa, you did. Kind, good
massa, Sambo never forget.”

tf Well, Smith, after eight good months’ labor
in this district we find ourselves—”

“About as well off as when we came here,”
answered the other; ‘‘we contrived to, find a
little gold dust during our first. month’s work,
and that has enabled us to pay for the ae
we've had from the nearest village and to keep
up the war all the time; but beyond that we’ve
had no luck whatever.”

‘‘None; therefore my proposal is that we
leave this place to-morrow daybreak, and
try a fresh district?”

he 7 of the man who called himself Smith
sparkled at this proposition, but the negro inter-
with an exclamation of terror:,

“You'll nebber go to-morrow, massa,” he
cried; ‘‘’scuse poor nigger what ought to mind
his own business, but surely massa will nebber
go to-morrow !”

‘And why not to-morrow?’ asked Brown.

“Because: to-morrow Friday; massa, Friday

Pees day.”

aft unlucky day, Sambo, is it?” answered
his ‘master; “faith, J think every day has been
precious unlucky tous for the eight
months.”

The negro shook his woolly head, and showed,
ioe Petaeip- bewagraanl nah aie aio fetal

i rry unlucky day, massa,” he said.

“But,” catiowantd Brown, laughing, ‘‘if it’s an
unlucky day for leaving this place, I suppose
it’s just as unlucky for staying and doing an-
other turn at the pickaxe.” oct :

“Don’t know that, massa,” said the negro,
“but Friday bery unlucky day.”

“Tl tell you what then,” continued Brown,
‘suppose we take Sambo’s advice for once in a
way, Smith, and pe off moving to new quar-
ters till the day afterto-morrow. _Wecanspend
to-morrow sieging the ground about that little
creek three miles to the east. of this. You re-
member our nig. the spot once on our way
home after ‘a hard day’s work.”

‘Perfectly! a miserable, unlikely-looking
lace oe I don’t fancy if I dug for a
welvemonth we should ever get any good out

of it. However, we've wasted so many days
that we can’t grudge one more, so I’m quite
agreeable to stop.”

“*So be it, then,” answered Brown. ‘ Sambo.
Fc our tools in order before you go to bed, and

sure you call us early to-morrow morning.”

The two friends flung themselves down upon
a couple of rough straw mattresses, and

the
ne brought out a h of dried and
“ ‘withered leaves which semathrbien asa bed, and
‘upon which he laid himself down after
Tegetiet the tools for the mo! :
1e two cea they lay:
‘ up a short: but heartfelt prayer, ; ven
é '

' would be pleased to smile upon their honest en-
deavors and. bless their labors.

During the eight months in which they had
dwelt in that dreary region they had never once
failed to make thissupplication, and, fruitless as
their toil had been hitherto, their faith had
never failed them.

They still trusted that a divine and gracious
Providence would, in due time, reward their
efforts. 3:

At daybreak the next morning, the three men
set out, and walked to the creek at which they
vera to work before they eat their rough break-

 

ast.

Then after offering up another prayer the
took their spades and pickaxes and went to wor
with good Will.

But the day wore on and no result attended
their labors.

The negro, Sambo, worked untiringly, and
cheered his masters’ toil by his merry songs and
grotesque capers, °

It grew toward evening, and Brown proposed
that they should collect their tools and walk
homeward, but Smith was anxious to work for
half an hour longer, and his companion was too
good-natured to oppose his fancy.

The half hour had nearly expired, the dusk
was rapidly gathering around them, the lower
branches of the trees were streaked with crim-
son and gold by the last rays of the setting sun,
and Brown was thinking sadly how many a day
such as this they had wasted, and how many a
sun, had gone down upon their disappointment
when he was aroused from his reverie by a loud
exclamation from Smith, and a wild shout of
dey fro the negro,

is companion’s spade had struck against a
nugget of soo

6 had dug the gee lump of ore from its
watery bed, and he had fallen upon his knees
in the clay and dirt to offer up a thanksgiving
to that. Eternal Being who alone can give or
withhold all blessings. ae ae

The man called Brown cl d his hands and

lifted his eyes to Heaven. “ Oh, merciful Provi-
dence!’ he cried, ‘‘we have waited Thy good
pleasure patiently, hopefully, for we knew Thy
unfailing justice.

“Tt has pleased Thee to smile upon us, and
the innocent may now be restored to the happi-
noes of which guilt and chicanery have degttved

em.” i. os

The three men worked till the moon rose high
above their, heads. They had struck upon a
vein of gold, and their labors were amply re-
warded.

They returned home laden with the dull yel-
low metal, which is the master key of all earth-
by power, the magic influence which can make

men slaves.

» They returned the next day to the same spot,
and worked and. continued to do so till
they were rich beyond their wildest hopes,

on they packed their wealth in such a man-
ner as to escape suspicion from any unscrupu-
lous travelers they might encounter, and ‘till
followed by_their faithful follower, Sambo, set
out for San ncisco,

“When we once more set foot in the United
States,” said Brown, as they turned their backs
on the dilapidated log hut, ‘I will tell you my
past history, the seeret of 5 life, and the pur-
pose Lhave to achieve in 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 men who trust in Provi-
dence. Shall it be so?” we

** Yes,” answered Smith; ‘ friend, brother, it
shall be as you say. Heaven shield those we go

save, ' .
“ And Heaven help those we go to punish.”
“TI say, massa, oer? atten pre
ni bo is,a big old fool; nebber sa: -
Saw Vea unlucky day again,” ¥ ;

CHAPTER XXI.
THE ABDUCTION,

Ler _us return to New Orleans and to the
Villa Moraquitos. An hour after Augustus
Horton left the boudoir of pe ae tee pean
heiress and her companion Pauline were
seated, side by side, in a deep recess of a win-
dow, looking out upon the ing waters of the

1SSIPp) ;
“So you have rejected him, Camillia?” said

Pauline, +

“ Rejected him!” repeated the Spanish girl
contemptuously, ‘‘ could you ever dre: that t
should do otherwise?” a

“And yet Augustus Horton is rich, young,
handsome, dist pee?

“He may be all that,” interrupted Camillia,
“Yet I have no feeling for him but indiffer- _
ence—nay, contempt.” :

“Shall I tell you the secret of that indiffer-
ence?” said Pauline, with a smile, (ae

“Tf you please,” answered Camillia, care-

“The secret, is your love for a . AY,
that start and blush would b

 

      
   

 

te faa :

wlio h “known you. . hoo ‘On tha
0} Lisim ‘ ‘

that T had long! awa 8 re)

    

 
 

_ amuse poor missy.

20 THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

“Forgive me, dear Pauline, if I have seemed
wanting in candor,” said Camillia; ‘but it was
Paul who bade me be silent.”

“Yes, Paul, who feared that the governess
might bétray her pupil. Now, listen to me,
Camillia. The story ot my life is a strange one.
The day may come when | may choose to reveal
it, but that day has not yet arrived. The his-
tory of the past may have done much to embit-
ter a heart that was notall base. Iam ambitious
—proud—though policy has taught me to conceal
my pride—dependence, even on those I like,
is painful to me; all this I have learned to hide
beneath a gay exterior.” te

“Pauline, you terrify me!” exclaimed Ca-
millia, ‘‘this power of concealing your feel-

?

ings—”

Ts akin to falsehood, is it not, Camillia?
No matter. For the first time I speak the truth
to you about myself. You have been kind,
generous, affectionate. I should be worse than
a murderess could I break your heart, for to
break your heart would be to kill you—and yet,
Camillia, three days ago I should have been
capable of that infamy. :

‘ Pauline—Pauline!”

“ Ah, well may you open those large black
eyes with that gaze of horror and amazement.
Yes, I repeat, three days ago T should have been
capable of this; because [ am ambitious, and
the ambitious will trample on the most sacred
ties to attain the golden goal of their wishes.
But this is past. Another road has opened to
me, and henceforth, Camillia Moraquitos, I will
be your friend. Say, will you trust me?’

‘auline Corsi fixed her large, limpid blue
eyes upon the face of her pupil, with an earnest
glance of inquiry.

“Will you trust me, Camillia?”

“Yes, Pauline! your words have terrified
and bewildered me, but I feel that, whatever
you may be, you are not deceiving me now.”

“T am not, indeed!” answered Pauline; ‘ it is
agreod then—you will trust,me?”

“ee “3 will {”

‘Tell me, then, do you love Paul Lisimon?”’

“Truly, eternally!”

“And for that love you are prepared to
sacrifice all ambitious hopes? You, who have
much of your father’s haughty nature, can re-
concile yourself to a life of comparative poverty
and obscurity for the sake of him you love?”

“Tt would be no sacrifice,” answered Ca-
millia; ‘ poverty, would have no trials if shared
with him.” ; q

‘¢ But, remember, Camillia, Moraquitos, think
‘of his unknown birth—low and obscure, no
doubt, as are all mysterious lineages—would
not that cause you to blush for your lover—
your husband?”

“T could never blush for him while I knew
him to be honest and honorable.”

“« Ay, but even then how bitter would be ose
trial!’ ‘Do not forget that his honor has been
sullied by a foul suspicion—that he has been
branded as a thief!”

“T forget we I know that I love him
and trust him. e cannot love those we do
not trust.”

“ Bnouzh,” answered Pauline, ‘‘ now listen to
me. I tell you a new road has opened tomy
ambitious hopes. I shall win wealth and sta-
tion, without sacrificing you or your lover.
Nay, more, I promise you that ti moe
sees the fulfillment of my wishes, shall see
you the bride of Paul Lisimon.”

“ Pauline, what mean you?”

“ Seek to know nothing—only trust me. There
are dark obscurities in the pathway of guilt,
which I would not have you penetrate. I have

romised to befriend you in all things. What
the foul plot, which, as I believe, has been
hatched by fiat villainous attorney, Silas Craig,
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 the vile accusation
brought against him, I would be your grateful
slave to the end of life.”

“T do not ask that—I only ask patience and
confidence. I hold a power over Silas Craig,
which none other possesses, and on the day
which crowns my hopes, he shall be made to
confess his infamy, and withdraw the charge
against Paul Lisimon.”

“Pauline, Pauline!” exclaimed Camillia; ‘‘my
benefactress, my preserver.”

“ Hush!” sai the Frenchwoman, laying her
fingers on her lips, ‘‘ remember, patience and
caution.” , a

As she spoke, Pepita, Camillia’s nurse, en-
tered the room. ‘Oh, mS said the faithful
mulatt “there is a sailorman below, who
has fine silks and laces to show you, if you'll
only look at his merchandise. Such bargains,
he says, missy.”

‘* But I don’t want to see them,” replied Ca-
millia, indifferently; ‘‘ tell the man to take his
goods somewhere else, Pepita.” :

“Stay,” interrupted Pauline, ‘we may as
well look at these bargains.”

“ Ah, do, ma’moselle,” said Pepita; ‘‘ it will

Poor missy very ill lately.”

“Why do: you wish to see this man?” asked
Camillia, when the mulattress had left the
apartment,

 

 

“Because I have an idea that we should do
wrong in refusing to admit him. We shall see
whether I am right or not.”

Pepita ushered the sailor into her mistress’
oop He was a black-eyed, dark-haired

ellow, with a complexion that had grown cop-
r-colored by exposure to the wind and _ sun.

e opened a bale of silks and spread its contents
at the feet of the Spanish girl.

Camillia glanced at them with listless indif-
ference.

“They are handsome,” she said; ‘‘but I have
no occasion for them.”

“But you'll not refuse to buy something of a
poor sailor; kind lady?’ said the man in an in-
sinuating tone; ‘‘even if you do not wish for a
silk dress, there may be something else among
my stores that may tempt you to bid for it; see
here!” he added, feeling in one of the pockets of
his loose trowsers, ‘‘ lve something here that
perhaps you may take a fancy to.”

He produced a red morocco case, large enough
to contain a chain or bracelet.

“Look here,” he said, opening it, and holding
it toward Camillia, so that she alone could see
its contents. ‘‘ You won’t refuse me a dollar
or two for that, eh, lady?”

Camillid could not repress a start of surprise.
The case contained an imitation gold chain of
the commonest workmanship, coiled round in a
circle, in the center of which was a note folded
into the smallest possible compass... Upon: the
uppermost side of this note was written the
word ‘ Fidelity,” in a handwriting which was
well known to the Spanish girl.

“Will you buy the chain, lady?” asked the
sailor.

Camillia opened an ormolu casket on a table
near her, and took out a handful of dollars,
which she dropped into the ample palm of the
sailor.

“ Will that requite you for your trouble, my
good friend?” she asked.

“Right nobly, lady.”

“Tf you can come again to-morrow, I may
purchase something more of you.”

The sailor grinned; ‘‘ T’ll come if I can, my
lady,” he answered, and witha rough salute he
left the room, followed by Pepita.

- “Was I right, Camillia?” asked Mademoiselle
orsi.

“You were, dear Pauline; see, a note in Paul’s
hand!”

‘*Shall I leave you to devour its contents?”

“No, Pauline; I have no secrets from you
henceforth,” answered Camillia, unfolding the
precious scrap of paper.

It contained these words:

“Fear not, dearest, and do not think it is guilt
which has eae my flight. Be faithful, and trust
me that al il yet be, well; and remember that I
may be near ow when least you look for me. Affect
an utter indifference to my fate, and mingle in the
gay world as you have ever done. This is necessary,
to disarm suspicion. Above all, throw Augustus
Horton off the scent, and let him believe that I’ have
left America forever.

“Ever and ever yours, Pav.”

Camillia Moraquitos’ obeyed the instruc-
tions contained in this brief epistle ; and when
Don Juan entered her boudoir half an hour
afterward, he found his daughter apparently in
her usual spirits.

Deligh at this change, he proposed that
Camillia and Pauline should go'to the opera that
evening, attended by himself; and the ladies as-
sented with every semblance of gratification.

The Opera House was thronged that night
with all the rank and fashion of New Orleans.
It was the occasion of the reappearance of a
brilliant Parisian actress and singer who had
lately returned to Louisiana after a twelve-
month’s absence in France.

The box occupied by Don Juan was one of the

best in the house, and among all assembled,’

there was none lovelier or more admired than
Camillia Moraquitos. c

The Spanish girl wore a dress of rich amber
silk, flounced with the costliest black lace.

Her classically molded head was encircled
by a simple band of gold, studded with dia-
monds.

She waved a perfumed fan of ebony and gold
in her small gloved hand.

They had not been long seated in the box
when they were Ses by Augustus Horton,
who placed himself at the back of the chair oc-
cupied by Camillia.

She was not a little surprised at this, after the
interview of that morning, and the terrible and
ae repulse which the young planter had
received. f {

While she was wondering what could have in-
duced him to forget this, he bent his head and
whispered in her ear: :

“Let us forget all that ed this morning,
Donna Camillia,” he said; ‘‘ forget. and forgive
my presumption as I forgive your cruelty! t
us be what we were before to-day, friends, and
friends only.”

Camillia raised her eyes, to his face with a
glance of surprise. Was this the man whose
words that morning had breathed rage and ven-

nce? Had she wronged him in
vindictive and tre rous? :

Don Juan knew — of his daughter’s re-
jection of Augustus Horton, He imagined

 

 

therefore from the planter’s presence in the box,
that his suit had prospered.

About half an hour after the rising of the cur-
| tain, a letter was brought by one of the box-

ae addressed to Don Juan Moraquitos.
‘Who gave you this?” asked the Spaniard.

‘A colored lad; sir, who said he was to wait
for an answer,” peplied the boxkeeper.

“Tell him that I will see to it.”

The man left the box, and Don Juan opened
the letter. ;

It was from Silas Craig, and contained only a
couple of lines, requests to see his employer
without delay, on business of importance.

‘Don Juan rose to leave the box.

“Tam never permitted to enjoy the society of
my only daughter for a few hours without in-
terruption,” he said, bending gently over Camil-
lia. ‘‘IT am summoned away on some annoying
business, but I will not be gone long, darling.”

“‘ But how long, dearest father?”

“An hour at most. Meanwhile I leaye you
in the care of Mr. Horton.”

“*T accept the trust,” answered Augustus, with
enthusiasm.

In spite of the letter she had that morning re-
ceived, Camillia found it impossible to simulate
a gayety she did not feel.

he was silent and absent-minded, and replied
in monosyllables to the gallant speeches of her
admirer. She was thinking of the events of the
day—Pauline Corsi’s promise and the letter from
Paul Lisimon. :

Once in. looking downward at the crowd of
faces in the pit of the theater, she recognized
one which was turned to the box in which she
was seated, instead of the stage. ;

It was the copper-colored visage of the sailor
who had that morning brought her Paul’s letter.

She knew| not why, but she felt a thrill of
leasurable emotion vibrating through her
reast as she beheld the rough face of this man.

He knew, and was known to Paul: He could
not then be other than a friend to her.

The watchful eye of Augustus Horton perceiv-
ed her start of surprise as she beheld this man.

“ One would think,” he said, with something
of a sneer, ‘that the lovely Donna Camillia
Moraquitos had recognized an acquaintance in
the pit of the theater.” et ;

Camillia did not reply to this remark. It was
rowing late and Don Juan had not returned.

fis daughter was unable to eer a ii Nip
uneasiness at his lengthened absence. e
Spaniard’s affection for his.only child was the
one strong passion of his heart. No lover could
be more attentive than he to his daughter’s
slightest wish.

“Strange,” murmured Camillia, as the after-
iece drew to a close; ‘‘my father never fails to
eep his word, yet it is now three hours since he

left us.”

The curtain fell, and the audience rose.to
leave the house.

‘*T will go and look for your carriage, Donna
Camillia,” said Augustus; ‘‘ perhaps I may find
your father waiting for you in the corridor
without.” ;

He left the box and returned in about, three
minutes to say that the carriage was at the
door. Camillia’s anxious eye detected some-
Shing of petal in his manner. .

- “My father,” she said; ‘‘ did yousee him?”

“No, no,” he answered, in rather a confused
manner, offering his arm to Camillia, ‘“‘I have
not seen him yet. But pray let me lead you to
your carriage, the corridors and lobbies are ter-
mbly crowded.” s ;

e took no notice whatever of Pauline Corsi,
who: followed as she best. could, but who was
speedily separated from them by the crowd, and
by the ee with which Augustus hurried

illia through the passages and down the
staircase. ;

By the time they had reached the portico of
the theater, they had completely lost sight of
the French governess.

Augustus handed the Spanish girl so A a atl
into-a carriage that she was not able to take any
particular notice of the vehicle; but when seated
inside, she saw, from the gleam of the lam
without, that the cushions and linings were of a
different color than those of her own equipage.

‘“‘Mr. Horton,” she exclaimed, ‘this is not
my carriage.” Augustus was standing 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 sprung
into the carriage and drew up the window.

Camillia was bewildered and alarmed by his
conduct.

“You have forgotten Pauline,” she exclaim-
ed; ‘we are leaving her behind us.”

“Mademoiselle Corsi must shift for herself,”
answered the planter, as the carriage drove
raj idly away, and turning out of the brilliantly
ligh thoroughfare, plunged into one of the
darkest streets in New Orleans. “TI have wished
to spare you all anxiety, Donna Camillia, but
concealment can no longer avail. Your father
has been taken ill, and sent for you.”

“My father ill! dangerously ill?”

“T do not say that.”

 

“ But perhaps it isso. Oh, Heaven, my loved
and honored father—that noble and generous

 

 

 

 

ee
 

of light.
-lia}” whispered the planter.

friend who never denied a wish of my heart—
tell them to drive faster, for’ pity’s sake!. Let
us lose no time in reaching him!”

She turned to Augustus Horton with clasped
hands raised in supplication.

At the very moment when she thus appealed
to him, the carriage passed a corner of a street
at which there was a yt

The light of this lamp flashed upon the face of
the planter as they drove rapidly by.

Brief as the moment was, Camillia fancied
she detected a smile of triumph upon the coun-
tenance of Augustus Horton.

A thrill of horror crept through her veins as
she’ thought that perhaps this alarm about her
father was some vile subterfuge of her rejected
lover. ‘

She had often heard—heard with a careless
and unheeding ear, of deeds of darkness done in
the city of her birth.

She Laser that the wealthy members of New
Orleans society were not over-scrupulous in the

ratification of their viler passions—and she
frembled as she thought of her helplessness—but
she had the brave spirit of her father’s race, and
she had sufficient presence of mind to conceal
her terror.

She determined upon testing her companion,

“Why did not my father send his own car-
riage for me?” she asked.

“Because Don Juan was not taken ill at the
Villa Moraquitos. He was attacked in a gam-
ing-house at the other end of the city, and it is
thither I’m taking ang

“My father stricken with illness in a gaming-
house!” said Camillia. ‘‘ My father a gambler?”

“Ay, that surprises you, no doubt. There
are many secrets in this city of ours, Donna Ca-
millia, and your father knows how to keep Wis:
It was to avoid all scandal that_I brought you
away from the Opera House by a species of
stratagem. It would not have done for that
brilliant assembly to know whither I was bring-
ing ou.”

‘Tt is to some infamous haunt, then?” said
Camillia.

“ All vices are infamous,” answered the plant-
er. “It is to the haunt of the rich and idle—
the aristocratic and dissipated. . But perhaps
a womanly nature shrinks from this ordeal.

f it be so, I will drive you home without delay.
There is: no absolute necessity for your seeing
your father to-night. To-morrow he may be
well-enough to return to the Villa, Moraquitos,
and in the meantime I do not think there is any
serious danger.”

These last words were uttered slowly and he-
sitatingly, as if the speaker felt them to be un-
true, and orfly spoke them in his desire to com+
fort his companion.

Camillia’s' suspicions were completely dis-

led.

“You do not think he is in danger?” she ex-
claimed: | ‘‘ Can you imagine Camillia Moraqui-
tos so x a cowardas to shrink from visiting
her Belomed father bécause he lies in a gambling-
house? Had he been stricken in the most infa-
mous deri in New Orleans, I would enter it alone
to comfort and succor him.”

Had: theré been a lamp near to illumine the
lanter’s face at) this moment, Camillia might
ave again beheld the triumphant smile which

had before alarmed her. i

Five minutes after this the carriage stopped
at a low door, in a dark but highly respectable
looking street. © . :

The negro coachman kept his seat, but Au-

stus spring onto the oe and handed

amillia out of the vehicle. +

The door before which they had eiesbed a

ared to be closed so securely as to defy all the

rglarsin New Orleans.
et Augustus Horton neither knocked nor
rung for ission ; there was a brass-plate vpon
the door; he simply pressed his finger against
one of the letters eraares upon. this plate, and
the door opened slowly and ater
The within was illumined by one ray
“Give me your hand, Donna Camil-
The brave-hearted
girl — and Augustus led her cautiously

onw

As he did so she heard the door close behind
her with a muffled sound. a

They ascended a narrow winding staircase, at
the top of which they entered a long corridor,
ligh) by shaded gas-lamps,!which emitted a
subdued radiance. - :

At the end of the corridor Augustus Horton
opened the door of a room, into which he led

amillia.

In this room she e ted to find her father;
but she was cruelly disappointed.

The apartment was handsomely furnished,
and lighted with a lamp which hung from the
ceiling, and which, like those in the corridor,
shed a subdued and shadowy light; but it was

empty. ;
; Cacniltia looked hurriedly around: her. All
her suspicions had returned at the t of the
place to which the planter had brought her. _
The door opening by its mysterious spring,
the dark passage and windi stair, the
strange silence of the place in which their foot-
—_ sounded as if they had been shod with felt
combined to inspire terror.

 

~-

THE. OCTOROON.

“My father! my father!” she exclaimed.
‘Where is he?”

“Heaven knows,” answered Augustus; ‘‘per-
haps’ searching for you in the portico of the
Opera House. Camillia wes ryou_ are
young and new to a world in which men have
passionate and revengeful hearts. You have
much to learn, but- you will. take a lesson, it
may be, ere long. This morning you insulted
me; to-night you are in my power.’

 

CHAPTER XXII.
THE ENCOUNTER IN THE GAMBLING HOUSE.

As the planter uttered the horrible threat,
contained in our last chapter, every drop of
blood fled from the cheeks and lips of Camillia
Moraquitos, leaving them pale and colder than
marble,

“This morning you insulted me—to-night you
are inmy power)”

It was then as she had expected—as she had
feared. She was entrapped—cajoled—in the
power of a villain and a hypocrite.

She knew not even in what quarter of the
city the house was situated.

She was utterly ignorant of its character or
its occupants.

It might be the den of a band of thieves—the
haunt of a gang of murderers—and she was
alone, alone with aman who evidently hated her
with the vengeful hate of a wicked and vindic-
tive soul.

Yet even in this terrible emergency, her cour-
age did not forsake her.

Her high and noble-spirit rebounded after the
shock which had, for one-brief moment, de-
pressed it.

She looked at Augustus Horton, gazing upon
him with such a glance of mingled horror and
loathing, that the meanest hound would have
shrunk from the contemptuous expression of her
superb countenance.

‘T thought ‘you a villain,” she said, with cold
deliberation, unmixed with terror: ‘but I did
not think Tad you were capable of such a deed
as this. There-were depths of black infamy
which I had yet to fathom. I thank you for
teaching me their black extent.”

“You shall thank me for a better lesson ere
we part, Camilla Moraquitos.”

Again the Spanish girl looked at him with the
same cold and withering gaze.

“JT donot fear you,” she murmured between
her clenched teeth; ‘‘I can suffer—but I can
also die!”

Her small white hand wandered almost me-
chanically to the bosom of her silken dress,
where, concealed by the rich folds of black lace,
lurked the jeweled hilt of a small dagger.

It was a glittering toy, a bauble which,
after the custom of her Spanish ancestry, she
wore sometimes when the whim seized her—
but, ne though it was, the blade was of
the finest Toledo steel and workmanship.

“T can die,” she repéated, as her’ fingers
entwined themselves convulsively about the
gemmed hilt of this tiny weapo'

Ms
“ Ay, lady,” answered Augustus, with the biv- |,

ter irony of some triumphant fiend, “‘ you can
die here, stabbed to the heart by your own hand.
that jeweled dagger buried in your breast. An
when your corpse is found here to-morrow, by
the astounded police, what think you will be
said by the scandal-mongers of New Orleans? If
you knew them, Donna Camillia, as well as I,
‘ou would be able to guess what they will “sa
hey. will whisper to each other how the lovely
and haughty daughter of Don Juan Moraquitos
went to meet her lover at midnight, in one of
the secret chambers of a certain gambling-house;
where, on being pursued thither by her | infuri-
ated father, the unhappy girl, overcome by de-
spair, drew a dagger from her m and stabbed
herself to the heart. This’ is what will be said,
unless I am much deceived in human nature.”

“Oh, misery!” ex¢laimed Camillia.

“And even should the worthy citizens of New
Orleans fail to put this interpretation upon your
death, a few judicious whispers dropped by my
chosen friends—a smile of triumph, and a shru
of the shoulders from myself will soon set afloa‘
any report I please. So think twice before you
use that pretty plaything, Donna Camillia,”
added the pane inting to the hilt, she

d in her hand; ‘think twice if you are
prudent, and remember that death to-night,
and in this house, is not death alone—it is dis-
grace!” f

The young girl buried her face in her hands.
She shuddered, but she did not speak.

Augustus Horton perceived that involuntary
shudder, and an exclamation of triumph es-
cap ain lips,

proud Spanish woman, you whom ‘the
wealthiest and most aristocratic dreole of New
Orleans is not worthy to wed, you no longer
defy me then. You tremble —— those stub-
born lips refuse to entreat—those
cannot stoop to kneel—you tremble! Now lis-
ten to me.’ th

He pushed a chair toward her. —

She sunk into it, and, as if with an effort, re-
moved her hands from her face. ;

Whatever struggle she had endured in these
few brief moments, she had conquered herself

aughty knees |.

 

once more, and her face, though pale as death,
was calm as a statue.

‘‘Tistea tome, Camillia Moraquitos,” repeat-
ed the planter, resting his hand upon the k
of her chair and addressing her with deliberate
and icy distinctness.. ‘‘I sought to wed you for

your uty, your aristocratic bearing, and
pe wealth. ‘You, amidst all the beauties of
uisiana, were the only woman whom I should

have wished to org at the head of my table—
to make the mistress of my house. Your beauty
would have been mine—a part of my posses-
sions; my pride, my boast. It would have
pleased me to see yee haughty and capricious—
treading the earth as if the soil were scarcely
good enough to be trodden by your Andalusian
foot. Your wealth would have swelled my own
large fortune, and made me the richest in New
Orleans. This, then, is why I sought to wed
you. This is why I seek to wed you still.”

“ And more vainly now than ever,” murmur-
ed Camillia.

“Not so fast, lady; we will test your_resolu-
tion by-and-by. I have told you why I wooed
you, but I have something yet more to tell

ou.

**T am listening, sir.”

“T never loved you! No, beautiful as you
are, I can pore with rapture be a your gor-
geous face, but it is the rapture of an artist who
beholds a priceless picture in some Italian gal-
lery. Iadmire, and that is all. No throb of
warmer emotion disturbs the even beating of my
heart. I love—but, like yourself, who have
stooped to bestow your affection upon the ob-
scure and penniless dependent of your father—
I love one below me in station—below me so
infinitely that even were I so weak a fool as to
wish it, the laws of New Orleans would not per-
mit me to make her my wife., I love a daugh-
ter of the accursed race—a slave—an Octoroon.”

“What motive, then,*could you have in bring-
ing me hither?” said Camillia.

‘ What motive!” éxclaimed the planter; ‘a
motive far stronger than love—that motive is
revenge. You have insulted me, Donna Camil-
lia, and you have to learn that none ever yet
dared to insult Augustus Horton with impunity.
I threaten no terrible punishment,” he added,
looking at his watch: ‘it is now two o’clock;
when morning sun rises upon New Orlean
and the streets in to fill with traffic, Iwill
reconduct you to the Villa Moraquitos. You
will suffer from this night’s business in no other
way save one, and that is your reputation, which
you can only repair by accepting your humble
servant as a husband.” ;

“Coward, dastard, do you think I will ever
consent to this?” :

“T think on reflection you will see the pru-
dence of doing so.” ‘ ra

For a few moments Camillia remained silent,
then, turning upon the planter with a sudden
energy that threw him completely off his guard,
she exclaimed; ;

“ Augustus Horton, you talk to me of pru-
dence. Shall I tell, you what you will do if you
are wise?”

“Yes, Donna Camillia, Iam all attention.”

‘©You will kill me here upon this spot. You
will conceal my corpse in one of the secret re-
cesses with which this den of infamy no doubt
abounds. If you have one spark of prudence
you will do this, for I swear to you by the stars:
of heaven that if ever I leave this place alive
ed shall pay dearly for your conduct of to-
night. ;

“You threaten me, Donna Camillia—here!” _

‘Ay, here, though this house were tenanted
with murderers. Do you think my father, Don
Juan Moraquitos, will spare the destroyer of his
daughter’s unsullied nanie?”

“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 mid-~
night abduction, your being brought hither to a
strange house—whose very localii oa will be
unable to name—your inability to call upon one
witness to support your story—all will confirm
the scandal; and your father, who, yesterday
morning, refused to coerce your wishes, will to-
morrow compel you to become ay wife.” :

“ Sooner than my father should think me the
base and cpgenaes, wretch you would make me
a , I will die by my own hand, even though
the disgrace of this panne of crime were to cling
to me. in gett: but I will not die without a
struggle. oever the tenants of this house may
be, there may be one among them who yet retains
one spark of pity—there may be one who would
not hear a weman’s voice uplifted in distress
without one attempt to succor,”

As she spoke she perceived a atherin g look of
alarm in the face Of A $ Horton that
look determined her. : .

“Come. the worst,” she cried, ‘‘I will make
the appeal!” ee

“ Beware!” he cried. ‘The people here are
not scrupulous,” :

“T care not!” she answered. ‘I can but die!”

“But you shall die in silence!” exclaimed the

lanter, spri toward and clutching the —
Rand which held the d bar ne

He was too late, | Her voice rung through the —
building in a shrill and piercing scream.

 
 

=

 

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

In the deadly silence of the night that sound
seemed ab a by a thousand echoes.
It vibrated in the furthest corners of ‘the ed-

ce.

To the planter’s terrified ear it seemed as if
the whole city of New Orleans must have been
aroused by that one womain’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 in her breast, when the door was broken
en by a tremendous blow from without, and
three men burst into the room.

These three men were Captait Prendergills
of the schooner Amazon, the sailor who hai
carried Paul’s letter to Camillia, and Paul Lisi-
mon himself. :

“So,” exclaimed the captain, “ we're right,
are we? This is where the noise came from.
What do you mean by it, you thundering land-
lubber? How is it that a gentleman can’t take
a fling at the dice without being disturbed by a
woman’s squeal?” ‘

Before Augustus could answer, Paul Lisimon
pushed aside the captain and clasped Camillia
in his arms.

' “My Camillia,” he cried, ‘‘my beloved, how
is it that I find you here—here in a gambling-
house, at this hour of the night?”

’ “Ask me no questions,” muttered the Spanish

irl; “‘only take me from this place. My brain
is bewildered by what I have undergofie.”

“But this man—has he dared to insult you—
to entrap bs hither?” asked Paul, pointing’ to
Augustus Horton, who stood: at bay, while the
cay Rain and the sailor threatened him with their
cu

ASSES,
¢ He has.” :

“You hear this fainting girl,” exclaimed
Paul, still holding Camillia clasped in‘ his ‘left
arm, while with his right he felt for a pistol in
the pocket of his waistcoat.
= dergills—Joe—you are witnesses of the
place in which we have found the only daughter
of Don Juan Moraquitos! There is some foul
Plot ‘here, and that man, Augustus Horton, is

e mover of it. To-morrow, sir, you shall ac-
count to me for this.”

The planter laughed mockingly.

“Account to you, Mr. Paul Lisithon; to you—
_a thief! an escaped felon! ' The’ citizens of
Louisiana do not cross swords with such’ as you.
You would haye done wiser to’ keep clear of
New Orleans? Above all,'it would have been
better for you had you refrained from crossing

my path,” _ :
te totiched a bell in the wall behind him, and
it rung through the house with a shrill peal,
“Now, Mr. Lisimon,” he said, “we are
uits.
¥ A party of about twenty men crowded into
the room, The bell had summoned them from

the ing table.
_ Gentlemen,” cried Au, Horton, “IT call
U you as citizens of New Orleans to secure
e persons of these three men, who have’ this
moment made a murderous attack upon my life,
and endeavored to carry ae ane lady, who
is here under my protection. e of them is an
scaped felon from the ‘jail of this city.
The gamblers, who were almost’ all in some
degreé intoxicated made a rush at Paul and his
companions, but they were’ many of’ them’ un-
- armed, and those who carried knives flourished
them without aim or purpose.
_‘ Prendergills—Joe!” exclaimed _ Lisimon,
“follow me, Remember, it is for’ life or

death.”

. Then flingiig the slender form of’ Camillia

across his shoulder, the ‘young’ ' Mexican

flung himself, in the midst of’ the infuriated

ord and, pistol in hand, boldly made for the
r Pio

"This point gained, he-stood upon the threshold

with his back to the pease defending the
gronia inch by inch, until joined by Prendergills
and Joe,

‘The rest was comparatively easy.’ The three
men fought’ their yey backward along the pas-
sage, down the winding staircase and to the
Fda eld an they on for a —_——_

the mystery 0 © spring whic’
closed. a entrance,

But. they were not to be so easily foiled; the
eaptain of the Amazon flung his gigantie frame
cemaey the door, the wooden panels’ cracked as
if they had been made of glass, and the spring
was burst asunder, ©
- The door—which was used all the night
through for the entrance and egress of the gam-
blers who frequented the house—was only fasten-
- ed by this spring; it ad eee to force
more easil an ordinary er. ,

Once in the street, Paul and his friends were

e,
The gamblers dared not pursue them ‘another
step, for to do so would have been to'reveal the
secretof the gaming-house, which, as the reader
knows, held its ground in defiance of the laws

- Mad with’ baffled rage and are
- Horton returned to his own house to await the
‘ spring of the morrow, which would perha
‘dawn upon a deadly encounter between
and Don Juan Moraquitos.

To his surprise, he received no tidings from

 

7 by

 

 

the Spaniard, but a little after noon his mulatto
valet ded him two letters. r

One was in the handwriting of Camillia Mora-
quitos. It breathed the contempt which a noble
mind feels for the cowardice of a dastard. It
ran thus:

““ As the life of a beloved father is far too valuable
to be risked in an encounter with a wretch so degraded
as yourself, Don Juan will never be told the true
history of the events of last night. Rest therefore
in security beneath contempt, too low for revenge.”

The second letter was from Paul Lisimon.
It was even briefer than that of Camillia.

“You shall yet answer to me for the outrage com-
mitted on one who is dearer to me than life. For to-
day you triumph; but a day of reckoning will come
ere long. I wait. Paut Lismon,”

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE FATAL DAY.

Tux bullet-wound which had prostrated Gil-
bert Margrave in the forest at rville was a
very serious one, -

or many days.and nights he lay in one of the
apartments of the Pavilion, near Lake. Pont-
chartrain; ‘in a state which was not entirely
without danger.

But he had the best medical attendance which
New Orleans.could afford, ,and.the tenderest
care which affection can secure for the object on
which it lavishes its wealth,

Night and day Cora Leslie and the mulatto
slave, Toby; watched beside the pillow of the
wounded man.

It was they, and, they alone, who listened to
the wandering’ accents of delirium; they who
soothed and comforted in the hour of suffering;
they who» cheered and animated when. the
danger was past, and ‘the. first faint, glances of

 

returning health illumined the cheek of the
invalid;
Gerald Leslie was away from home,. When

the boat carrying Gilbert. Margrave, Cora,
Mortimer and Toby reached the Pavilion, the
lanter had: already departed for New York,
eaving a few brief lines addressed to his daugh-
ter, telling her only that urgent, business had
called him from the South.

The father and daughter had,therefore never
met since that hour in which the Octoroon had
accused Gerald Leslie of being the cause of her
mother’s death.

The two months for which the bill fora hun-
dred thousand dollars due to Silas Craig had
been renewed were rapidly gliding away, and
every day made the position of Gerald Leslie
“olen Sree f th troubl

Orwknew no of these pecuni ‘oubles.
She thought that her father had toed his
homevrather than endure: her reproaches, and
she bitterly upbraided herself for the cruel
words she had spoken to one/whose faults were
rather those of circumstance than inclination.

Gilbert Margrave recovered ; but. he still lin-
gered! beneath Gerald Leslie’s roof; for the
— had written :to him from New York,

jhanking him earnestly for his championship of
Cora, and» imploring him» to remain at Lake
Pontchartrain until his return.

Gilbert) waited, therefore, until. the presence
of Mr. Leslie might enable him to make the
necessary arrangements for his marriage with
the Octoroon. r ‘
| He was well aware that he could not marry
her in New Orleans; but: he knew that in free
England there is no barrier to separate an hon-
orable man from the woman of his choice.

It was now upon the very eve of the date
upon which the rented bill of exchange was: to
fall due, and at: eleven: o’clock upon the night

eceding the fatal day Gerald Leslie returned

the Pavilion upon the borders of Lake Pont-
chartrain.

Cora had retired to rest when her father ar-
rived, but Gilbert Reman was walking alone
upon the ‘terrace overlooking the lake, upon
which the moonbeams shed their soft luster.

He was, therefore, the first to welcome Mr.
a and nl in perceiving 7
some heavy uble was weighing upon the
mind of Cora’s father... ; : ; Ee

“You must be fatigued after your long: jour-
ney, Mr: Leslie,” said Gilbert. ‘I feel called
upon to play the host beneath your own roof.

Pray let us goin. Toby will prepare you some |.

refreshments.” 1A f
‘“No, no, Mr. Margrave,” answered Gerald;
“T want nothing. I am too much excited to
require even repose. Let us remain here—here
we can converse freely. Toby is a faithful fel-
low, but he knows too much alneady of my mis-
fortunes. Where is Cora?’
That is wel Poor. girl! WW” H
is w ‘oor girl!’ poor. girl! e
sighed heavily, and relapsed into ailenne,
e two men walked side by side up and down
the terrace for some minutes without uttering a
word. Gilbert Margrave was the first to —
‘“Pardon me, Mr. Leslie,” he. said, ‘‘ but I
fear he have some cause for unhappiness. .Re-
member how dear ycu and yours.are to me, and
do not scruple to in me, do not hesitate
to conan my services. They are yours to
eal <

“My noble boys you have already proved
that,” exclaimed Gerald Leslie. “ Gilbert Mar-
°

   

= Iam a ruiried man. My journey to New
ork has been a useless one. I went to endeay-
or to raise a sum of money which would free
me from my embarrassment, but I found trade
in a state of convulsion’ from the threatened
war between the North and South, and my
mission failed. I have now but.one hope. The
house of Richardson, of Broadway, have prom-
ised, if possible, to advance the sum. I require.
The money is to arrive: by the next steamer.
But even this is a forlorn hope, for, when I left
New York, dark rumors were afloat of the a
proaching bankruptcy of that very firm. Te
this ieoiald happen, 1 am utterly lost. I shall
remain to the very last to struggle against evil
fortune, but I must remain alone. Tell me then;
Mr. Margrave, do you still persist in your pro-
posal for my daughter’s hand?”

“Can you doubt it?”

‘With a perfect knowledge of her story—re-
membering that she is the offspring of a slave
—that she is an Octoroon!”

‘‘T remember nothing but that I love her, and
would have her no other than she is.”),

“T was not mistaken in you, Gilbert Mar-
grave,” replied Mr. Leslie, with suppressed emo-
tion. ‘You are a man of honor, and it is to
that honor I confide. You must fly from New
Orleans with Cora. We must not expose her to
the violence of a ulace, furious against her
because of her fatal birth—because she is a slave.
That word does not cause you the Horror it in-
Sten in me, yet you are no doubt aware that
the condition of the child is the same as that of
the mother.”

‘ But why not affranchise her?’

‘s Affranchise her,” exclaimed Gerald Leslie,
‘Would the law allow me? No; I cannot pur-
chase her freedom until she attains her thirtieth
year, unless, indeed, I could have my motives
approved by the magistrate of the parish and
three-fourths of a jury. And do you think
these motives would be approved at such a time
as this, when the public mind is infuriated
against all those who would weaken the bonds
of slavery? You shudder to behold the love of
a father open against the laws of this land.
It is terrible, is it not?”

“Tt is infamous,” exclaimed Gilbert, ‘ but
what is to be done?” f

“You must leave Louisiana. Your marriage
can only take place in a free State, for here you
cannot make Cora your wife without swearing
that you have negro blood in ‘your veins. See
the British Consul, obtain from him the aneans
of leaving in safety, and implore him to it
Cora a shelter at his house until you’re ly to
leave New Orleans. You can conduct her
thither at daybreak to-morrow. Closely vailed,
she will at that early hour escape observation.
To you I confide the task of Me is 3 her for
this step. “You will have little difficulty in per-
suading her, for’she loves you, and she: will
leave Louisiana without one pang of regret.”

“Nay, Mr. Leslie,” said the young man, ‘‘you
wrong her; believe me—” f

Gerald Leslie checked him by a rapid gesture.

“For pity’s sake not a word,” he: murmured.
“At some future day, when the bitterness of
all this suffering has ome a memory of. the
past, when she is happy, and has well-nigh for-

otten me, then recall to her the name of her
ather; tell her—tell her that I loved her. It
will be better for both that we should’ be spared
the pang of ing; so I will seé. her no more,
though it is my very life which I, lose in losing
her: You will write to me, Gilbert?’ :

“Yes, yes, dear sir,” exclaimed the English-
man, clasping his hand. *

‘Farewell, then; farewell, Gilbert, my son.
You will be kind to her for —— ou will
love her dearly, will you not? Farewell.”

He wrung the hand: which clasped his, and
then breaking from Gilbert Margrave, rushed
into. the house.

retiring to his own room,
oe journey. ; past midday @

was y long it, and Gil-
bert was too much agitated to require rest.

At early dawn his arrangements were com-
ies and summoning Toby, he gave the faith-

‘ul eee a message to carry to Cora’s' apart-
mem :

This message was an earnest: request that the
foune. girl would meet him in ‘the gardens be-

ow without delay. ,

He had not — wait; he descended to the
terrace, and in than ten minutes he was
joined by the Octoroon, who looked pale and
anxious in the early morning light. i

sting scarcely paused for their customary

ss Ly father arrived last night, Gilbert,” she
said, “and you and he were ‘together for some
time, were you not?” :

“We were, Cora.”
it “Tell me,
you?” ; { : Be 12
PO ae sad news ems, i

thousand dangers thréaten us, He trerib

commands te de

made all preparations

 

for you, and he our immedia
from Louisiana. It is for that
Prat Ts summoned you soearly, We arotogart
this very morning.” © .. sieht
‘“‘ Leave Louisiana, and without him?”

 

The young engineer slowly followed him, and |

11 me, then, what passed’ between

de-

 

|
|
}
|
a
|

 

 

oe
 

THE OCTOROON.

 

 

_ Yes, without him, He is determined to

not have you share his danger. 6 Car-

e will be ready in a few moments, all ar-
rangements are e, I am to take you from
here. to the house of the British Consul, and
thence, please Heaven, to a free State, where I
am.to make you my wife.”

“But why does my father dismiss me thus—
without one word of affection or farewell?”

“Nay, Cora,” replied Gilbert Margrave, “ do
not accuse him. is last words were words of
love, broken by sobs of anguish.”

‘‘And you told him that I should consent to
this eed ”

“1 did, Cora!”

‘Oh, Gilbert, could you think me.so base?
Was it not to share my father’s sufferings that
L.came from England to Louisiana? and can he
think that I should be so pitiful a coward as to
forsake him in his hour of, peril? No, no; while
he, remains his daughter will stay by his side,
when he flies she will accompany him,”

‘Cora, Cora—angelic girl! Let it be as you
will. I will obey you!” exclaimed the engineer,

‘Tell me, Gilbert, why you were to go to
your Consul?” .

_ ‘To. smooth the way for our departure, and
to.confide you. to his hospitality,” 2

“Go, then,” said Cora; “ go, but without me.
Engageour berths in, an English vessel. We
will leave Louisiana; but we will leave with my
father. ‘This evening you will let us know the
result of your mission.’

“But if in the mean time—”

“What can you fear? It is but for a few
hours, and this evening we shall meet never to
pest again. See, here comes Toby to say that

he carriage is ready. Farewell, Gilbert, till
you return to. tell us that all is happily ar-

ranged.”
The carriage is ready, massa,” said Toby,
appearing at the top of the terrace steps.
Come, Gilbert; I will accompany you to the
lower garden,” said Cora.

tay, until the last, to fight against ruin; but he |
il
riag'

They descended the steps side by side, and |

traversed the winding pathway, followed. by

Toby.

re the door of the carriage Gilbert Margrave
clasped the Octoroon, in his arms, and, pressing
her to his heart, exclaimed with emotion,

“Farewell, my. beloyed! . Even. this brief part- |

ing is pain and, anguish to me,
bless,and guard you!”

There had been a silent spectator of the inter-
view. between Gilbert. Margraye and Cora.,

Gerald Leslie had. been standing behind the
striped blinds in his Seocn tend which over-
looked the terrace, watchi
daughter and her lover.

esaw them descend the terrace steps, and

hho thought that Cora had readily consented to

de} . y
; tigers the carriage wheels roll away a
the smooth gravel road, and the bitterness of his
feelings utterly overcame him, ‘‘She is gone!”
he exclaimed; ‘‘ gone, without casting one re-
grottal look upon the home she is leaving. “She
Ss
is

May Heaven

lad to fly with this man; she loves him; she
is! Ungrateful girl! But what then, was it
not my wish? She is saved at last. Thank
heaven for that! She is saved, and I am alone!
I shall never see my child again,” a
Overpowered by his grief, he sunk intoa chair,
while his head fell forward on his clasped hands.
He had remained thus for some moments,
when the door behind him was gently opened,
and a soft footstep stole toward him, .
raised his head, and beheld his daughter
kneeling at his feet.
She twined her arms about his neck, and he
clasped her to his heart with passionate emo-

tion...
“Cora,” he exclaimed; ‘‘ Cora, is it you?”
“Dearest father, how could you think that
rau daughter would consent to depart without
ou?” i
“Alas, alas, my unhappy child!” murmured
Ger Rat fath hy this te: th
“But, my father, why this terror, this agita-
tion? What is it you fear?” et
“Nothing, nothing, Cora. Shall not I be here
to guard and save you? My Cora, my darling,
you love me then, you forgive me.”
’ “Forgive you?’ My father, it is I who would
ask forgiveness.”
Once more the planter strained her to his

_heai

rt.
- “This moment repays me for all I have guf-

fered,” he exclaimed. “Oh, Heaven, I am too

happy!” Then ear with a gesture of terror, |

*) » 6
me Sigs Happy, did I say? ,Happy, when—

He paused, clasping Cora in his arms, and lis-

tening intently. ;

The voices of ‘several men were to be heard in
the vestibule below, and at the same time hur-
ried footsteps, sounded on the stairs. Toby rush-
ed breathless into the room, __.

“Oh, Rah SAAR, the dreadful day has
come at. last! . g.is below with the sher-
ffs; noes come to take possession of the estate

‘* Already?” exclaimed Gerald Leslie; “then
we are lost.” |

The agitation of the morning had been too

‘ -

g the meeting of his |

| much for the Octoroon; this last shock com-
letely prostrated her, and she sunk, fainting, in

| fier father’s arms.

“My panghter |. cried Gerald: ‘‘my child—

Toby, the child you nursed—is there no escape,

no way to save her?”

The mulatto wrung his hands in silent an-

| guish; then, with a gleam of hope illumining his
| ie, face, he exclaimed:
“Stay, massa; the perder below this com-
| municates with the plantation; if we could
| reach that, they could never find us. They are
| all below in the vestibule—wait, wait!”

He rushed from the room, leaving Gerald Lés-
lie in utter bewilderment as to what he was about
to do; but in three minutes he appeared at the
| open window of the apartment, standing at the
| top of a ladder.

“See, massa,” he cried, ‘we will save her
| yet... Give her into Toby’s arms» and he will
save her, though his life pays the price of her
liberty.”

It was too late. As the faithful mulatto
stretched forth his arms to receive the prostrate
form of the unconscious girl, a harsh voice in
the garden below exclaimed:

“What are you up to, there, you nigger? I
see you. If you don’t come down quicker than
a streak of greased lightning, I guess you'll get
a bit of lead in your precious carcass that'll
bring you down a sight faster than you went
up. Come down, you old cuss, will you?” ”

The speaker was one of the men Saas by
the sheriff, who had crept around from the ves-
tibule to the et to see if there were any
doors or windows by which some of the live
stock might escape,

The “Live stock” is the narne given to the
slaves upon a plantation.

Human beings, with hearts capable of grief
and. affection, fidelity and love—but in the eyes
of the auctioneer, mere cattle ‘to be knocked
down by his hammer to thé highest bidder.

Among the live stock was counted Cora, the
Octoroon, the lovely and accomplished daughter
of Gerald Leslie, the destined bride of Gilbert
Margrave. :

Aas CHAPTER XXIV.
THE SEPARATION,
The mulatto

 

 

Aut hope of escape was over.
slowly descended the ladder, muttering to the
man below that he had only been making some
alterations in the window shutters.

Cora Leslie reopened her eyes to behold her
father bending over her, his face almost ghastly
with agitation.” : RA

The. Octoroon was terrified by that pale and
horror-stricken countenance. ‘Isitalladream?”’
she murmured, passing her hand across her fore-
head; bo speak, dearest father, what Has hap-

ned?

“Tam ruined, Cora,” answered Gerald Les-
lie, in a hoarse whisper. “But come the worst,
we love each other. There isno dark cloud be-
tween us now. We may be penniless, but at
least we are united.”

The reader must understand that, as yet, the
Octoroon was unaware of all the miseries of her

sition. Educated in England—reared upon a
Treo soil, where slavery is unknown, she never
dreamed. that she would be sold because of ‘her
father’s insolvency. She had neither seen nor
heard of a slave sale. -How was she to imagine
that she, feliontely nurtured, tenderly beloved,
was to be sold with all the other goods and chat-
tels upon the estate?

,‘“Come the worst, dearest father,” she repeat-
ed, ‘we will never part again.” x
* aa Leslie was silent. wikis me .
e no power to as ‘aking augh-
er'd

ter by the hand, he led own-stairs into the
largest apartment in the Peon where Silas
Craig, re h the sheriff and his assistants, were
assembled.

The hardest heart might have been melted as
the father and daughter entered the room.
Cora, pale and trembling, yet lovely in her
pallor. robed in white, and ‘graceful as those
ilies which seemed the best emblems of her deli-
cate beauty.

Gerald Leslie, proud, calm, and erect, although
despair'was stamped on every feature’ of his

face.

But the brutal nature of Silas Craig was in-
‘ capable of pity; he felt only a fiendish joy in
the humiliation of one who always despised.

him

“T expected to see you, Mr. Craig,” said Ger-
ald, addressing the laa with iey contempt,
“but T thought that you would come alone,
May_I ask zr why you are accompanied by

thi le ,
. Mere asa matter of ie at answered
Silas; “T have, no doubt these gentlemen will
find their — useless; for of ees
repared to meet your engagement’ ou have
pa forgotten tha this is the day that your ac-
“ceptance for a hundred thousand ‘dojlars falls

in his name as well as my own. Have ‘you the

y ready, my dear Mr. Leslie?”
Gorald Lestio felt the sting of the mocking
sneer with which these words were accom-

“you? If it should be so, I

due, Mr. Horton has given me full power to act |

 

 

panied. ; 4
“Tam not yet prepared with the money,” he

   

28

answered; “but I have every reason to hopo
that the New York steamer will bring the re-
quired sum before night.” O ortaides

“It is from the house of Richardson you ex-
pect the money I believe,” said Silas Craig.

“a It isi?

Z
Sy

“Tn that case Iam sorry to inform you that a
telegram ‘has just reached New Orleans an-
nouncing the failure:of that house.”

Gerald Leslie clasped his hands in silence.

“Was that youronly resource, Mr. Leslie?”
asked Craig.

Still the planter made no reply.

“You see then,” continued the lawyer, “ that
the presence of these gentlemen is not altogether
useless,’ You can proceed at once to business,”
he added, turning to the men.

Cora Leslie wondered at the silent. despair of
her father.

““Why bow your head, dearest father,” sho
said, ‘if your ruin leaves no stain upon your
honor? e do not fear poverty. Let us go!”

as looked at the Octoroon with a sardonic
smile.

““I could have wished that your father had
explained to you ‘why you cannot. follow him
from this place, Miss « ie,” he said; ‘it will
be a painful disclosure for me to make.”

“What, sir?” exelaimed Cora, looking alter-
nately from the lawyer to her father, =) .

Gerald Leslie clasped her in his arms, « -

“My daughter was born in England, Mr.
Craig,” he said. ‘‘She had nothing to do with
this business!” ; a

“Your memory fails you this morning; Mr.
Leslie,” said Silas; ‘your daughter was born on
this plantation, and is the child of a certain
Quadroon slave, called Francilia. The proofs
are in my possession,” Wie a

“ What of that? asked Cora; ‘‘ what matters
whether I-was born in England or Louisiana?”

The lawyer took a memorandum. book from
his pocket. /

“Since your father will not’ enlighten you,
Miss Leslie,” he said, ‘the law must answer
your question.” He opened the book and..read
aloud from one of its pages: t

“¢The children of a slave belong to the owner
of the. mother.’ In other words,” added the
lawyer, as he replaced the book in ihis pocket,
“Mr, Leslie is your master ‘as well as your
father; you are, therefore, his property, or that
of his creditors.” }

* Father!” cried Cora, wildly; ‘‘do you hear
what this man says? You are silent! | Oh,
Heaven, it is then true!” «

For a moment her anguish overcame ‘her;
then, turning to Craig she said: he

“ What, then, wo enaie with me, sir?” .

* Alas, my poorchild,” answered. §: with
rg compassion, ‘you willbe sold with the
others. u ;

With'a shriek of horror the Octoroon buried
her face upon her father’s breast. {,

“Sold!” she exclaimed, in a stifled voice;
“cc sola shee me

The mulatto Toby stood by, contemplating
the scene with ite dea = oO

““Mr. Craig,” said Gerald Leslie, ‘‘ will not all
that I suffice to pay the debt I owe?
Why this useless cruelty?) Do you fear that the |
produce of the sale will not: be enough to repay
swear to you that
will employ the last hour of my life to endeavor
to liquidate your claim. If, then, there yet re-
mains one sentiment of pity in your heart, do
tintin ee ili “ CW SETS

4 I were grant your yer,
Mr. Leslie,” answered Silas, “‘the:law is inoxor”
able. All must be sold.” ; :

“No, no; who could question your right to do
as you please in the matter?” f

“You: forget,” ‘answered the lawyer; ‘you
foraet the thousand dollars due to Augus-
tus Horton; Iam here to represent his interests
as well as my own.”

“Augustus Horton,” cried Cora}, ‘t you hear,
father, you hear. It is to deliver.me to) him
that they would separate me from you.”

sf re yourself, Miss Leslie,” said Silas
property y thadl ben db blie eter That
p sold by public aw \é au
auction will take at noon to-morrow, Mr.
Leslie has only’'to repurchase you if he can
command the means.” : io, japon

But Cora heard him not. } , ystierre

The name of Augustus Horton awakened all
= iene? persecution of a base and heart-

88 pro! 5 ove « iit | i,

She imagined herself already in his power—

—his slave—his to treat as vile passion

rompted. f
E Wild with terror, she clung convulsively to

‘her father. ota ietedb
“No, no,” she cried; ‘donot abandon me. I
hall go mad. Do you forget tia is

8)
the murderer of my mother?”

“Silence, silence!” whispered Gerald; “on-
happy girl, do not infuriate him.” ‘
ATs
ope, Mr.

Leslie,” said Craig, as Cora still

clung to her father, “that yourwill not. obligo

5

kill
that ” cried Core
The mulatto drew &
handed it to the agonized father.

   

tai
mo:

 

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THE FIRESIDE LIBRAR

 

“Kill her, master,” he whispered; “ better
that. than she should meet the fate of her
mother.” rs

Gerald Leslie pushed the slave from him
with a gesture of horror. ‘‘No, no!” he ex-
claimed; ‘‘all hope is not yet lost! Between
this and. to-morrow surely something can be
done. I will see Gilbert. We will save you.
Cora, my beloved; we will save em ”

Two of the men approached the father and
daughter to take the Octoroon from Gerald’s

arms. ,
But Cora only clung to him more convulsive-

ly.
_ “Father, father!” she shrieked.

At a gesture from Craig they seized her in
their arms and dragged her away. :

Happily for the wretched girl, consciousness
once more deserted her, and she sunk fainting
in the arms of the brutal wretches whose busi-
ness it was to secure her. :

Silas Craig looked on at this heart-rending
scene with an evil light shining in his red, rat-
like eyes. 5

‘Por years and years, Mr, Gerald Leslie,” he
said, “you and the like of you have carried it
with a high hand over me, But my turn has
come at last, 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; but remember that
Heaven suffers such as you to prosper for a
while that it may the better confound, them in
the end. A being capable of infamy ‘such as
this must also be capable of crime. Guilty
deeds long forgotten are sometimes. strangely
brought to light, and it may be your turn to
grovel in the dust and ask for mercy of me.”

In ms of his hardihood in crime the color
forsook Silas Craig’s face, and left it of a dusky
white. The random shot had struck him too
forcibly. The man of guilt trembled.

CHAPTER XXV.
' THE STORY OF “PAULINE CORSI.

Au things went on at the Villa Moraquitos
as calmly as if nothing, out of the ordinary
course had happened. Cantillia and her father
met combate and the Spaniard still displayed
his absorbing love for his daughter; but, a few
days after the scene in the gambling-house, he

 

- announced to her his intention of making Pau-

line Corsi his wife. v

The young girl’s surprise at this announce-
ment knew no bounds... Nothing could have
been more remote from her thoughts than the

possibility of her father’s. marrying a second
tim ’

e.

She knew of: his devotion to her mother—
knéw the anguish that had been caused him by
Olympia’s early death, and.te;hear that he was
about to. wed the young andifrivolous French-
woman filled her with bewilderment.

This, then, was the fulfillment of the ambitious

‘hopes to which’Pauline Corsi had alluded, —~

Being utterly without avarice or mercenary
feelings of any kind, the announcement of her
father’s marriage gave no pain to Camillia.

On the contrary, it pleased her to think that
he should win’ a companion for his declining

s, and her only prayer was that, Pauline

. might prove worthy of his affection, and might

learn to make him’ A
Her innocent mind could little dream of the

terrible secret which, was involved in this in-

tended marriage. tal

Again, she remembered that no doubt her for-
tune would be much reduced by this unlooked-
for event; there would be, therefore; less objec-
tion to her union with Paul.

This thought filled her with hope, and she
seemed to recognize the hand of Providence in

_ the turn which events were taking.

But: we must retrace our steps, in order to

t a light upon. the timely a) ance of
ee eo © y ap nce 0)

Paul Lisimon, der; and the
sailor Joe, in the secret gam! -house in
Columbia street. © >”

It will be remembered that Camillia Mora-
quitos had recognized the co} per-colored visage
of the sailor in the pit ofthe crowded Opera

House. :

The: beautiful Spanish girl had also been
recognized by honest-hea: Joe, whose breast
was Ot oe gratitude for the noble
handful of dol which she had only that
morning given him.

The Amazon was anchored in the harbor of
New Orleans, and Joe had been commissioned

by Paul Lisimon. to deliver the letter to Camil-

lia, and had at the same time received his cap-
— permission to take a night’s holiday on

ore, :

With his pockets'full of money the sailor was
determined to enjoy himself, and, attracted by
the blaze of lig and brilliant-crowd, he had
strolled into the Opera House.

Here, the entertainment being not very much
2 his liking, he amused by. staring at

e audience. . i { !

It wasthen that he perceived Camillia Mora-
quitos.. “From the moment of recognizing her
he scarcely ever took his, eyes from the box in
which ‘she was seated. Was she not the sweet.
heart of his captain’s particular friend, the

Bis .

 

new first mate of the Amazon, and was it not
therefore his duty to look after her?

He saw Augustus: Horton leaning over Camil-
lia’s chair, and immediately set him down as an
admirer of the lady, and’a rival of Paul Lisi-
mon. '

By-and-by he saw the planter leave the box,
to order the carriage at the close of the perfor-
mance.

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 Augus-
tus hand Camillia into the carriage that was
waiting for them. :

He also heard the brief dialogue that passed
between them at the door of the vehicle.

But the indignation of the honest sailor was
unbounded when he saw Augustus take his seat
in the canriage by the side of Camillia.

He thought that his captain’s new friend was
betrayed, and immediately resolved to know
the truth. ..

As the carriage drove off, he flung himself in-
to the roadway, almost under the hoofs of the
horses of other vehicles, in order to follow that
which contained Camillia and the planter.

Jn this manner he pursued it until it turned
out of the a thoroughfare.

Then, favored by the obscurity of the street
and the darkness of the night, he sprung for-
ward, and, clambering like a monkey, contrived
to seat himself on the board at the back of the
vehicle. ;

He was sufficiently well acquainted with New
Orleans to recognize the quarter through which
they drove; and,when the carriage stopped, he
slipped noiselessly from_his ition, and, lurk-
ing in the shadow, watched Camillia and Augus-
tus as they entered the gambling-house,

He saw enough to convince him that some
description of treachery was on foot, 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 amplc time to examine the exterior of the
house, and the street in which it was situated.

He recognized the locality as Columbia strect.

Then, without a moment’s hésitation, he ran
to the quay, and got a boat to convey him on
board the Amazon.

Late as it was, neither Paul nor the captain
had retired to rest. ,

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 ee
witnessed; and ten minutes afterward Paul
are and Captain Prendergills were on
shore,

ane captain knew the house on Columbia
street. :

“a y a dollar have I lost, within its accurs-

‘ed walls,” he said, as the three men hurried

through the deserted city; ‘‘ but that’s in our
favor now, for the keepers of the house know
me, and I know the trick of the door, which is a
secret only confided to the habitual visitors of
the house; 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’s
daughter is deceiving you.”

“She deceive me!” exclaimed Paul, indignant-
ly; ‘‘she is all truth, all purity; but if the man
who was with her is he whom i imagine, she is
the victim of treachery as vile as that from
which I am a sufferer.”

Thanks to Captain Prendergills, vn had no
difficulty in penetrating the mysterious building.

Aman, seated in a little anteroom on the
stairs, took their hats from them, and told them
which way to go to the gambling saloons; but
at the very moment they reached the Vv ofthe

rincipal staircase the thrilling shriek of Camil-
Be oraquitos echoed through the house.

‘he ear of Paul Lisimon, sharpened by anx-
iety, told him whence this shriek proceeded. It
came from a long corridor to their left.

They rushed down this corridor, and burst
open: the door at the end as a second shriek peal-

through the building.

The result is already known to the reader,

The letter written by Silas Craig, which sum-
moned Don Juan Moraquitos from the opera
box, was a eA of the planter’s plot, and had
been planned between him and the lawyer.

The business relations betiweon Silas and Don

Juan were so complicated that it was easy for

the artful porn to occupy the Spaniard in
discussing them till long after midnight.

The two men sat talking till nearly three
o’clock in that very apartment ornamented with
the pep the United States, and communicat-

with the house in Columbia street.

ut the two houses were separated bya pas-
sage of considerable length, and Don Juan was
too far from his beloved daughter to hear that
terrible shriek of distress which alarmed every
player at the gaming table.

| Upon the day on which Silas Craig, accom-
passed by the limbs of the law, entered the

ouse of Gerald Leslie, taking with him desola-
tion and anguish, Pauline Corsi and Camillia
Moraquitos were once more seated in the boudoir
of the Spanish girl,

 

x

 

father was a duke—

 

The Amazon had sailed from New Orleans,
carrying Paul Lisimon away from danger of
smprrpsnaion wey, also from her he loved,

atters were rapidly drawing toward a crisis
—within a few days the French governess was
to become the bride of Juan Moraquitos.

But the eeu 2 a ee had little of the
aspect of a happy bridegroom. :

erarely entered the apartments of either his
daughter or Pauline’ Corsi, but he spent his
hours.in gloomy meditation in his study, and ad-
mitted no one to his presence.

Camillia was cruelly distressed by this change,
ieee dared not interrogate the haughty Span-~
iard.

Sometimes. she imagined that he reproached
himself for contracting a second alliance which
might lessen his daughter’s wealth. ;

“Tf he knew . how little I care for the gold
which others so value,” she thought; ‘‘if he
knew how happy I could be in the humblest
home shared with those I love, he would not
fear to rob me of a few thousand.”

The confidence commenced between Camillia
and Pauline upon the day of Augustus Horton’s
plotted defeat had never been discontinued, and
it was to the Frenchwoman alone that Camillia
looked for hope and comfort.

Strange anomaly of human nature! Theam-
bitious and unscrupulous being who could stoop
to purchase a wealthy husband by means of a
vile ont guilty secret, had yet some better feel-
ings left.

auline loved her pupil—loved her with the
light love of a selfish nature it is true, but it is
something that one spark of affection remained.
in her perverted nature. :

“You are sad, Camillia?’ she said, and she
looked up from her embroidery frame to watch,
the thoughtful face of the Spanish girl.

Camillia was seated with her hands lying idle
in her lap, her eyes fixed vacantly upon the
river, shining through the open window.

“You are sad, Camillia?” repeated Pauline.

Camillia aroused herself as if with an effort.

“Can I be otherwise,” she said, ‘‘when I
think of him? When I remember that he is
away—I know not where—his name branded
with disgrace, a wanderer and an outcast?”

“ Silly child! Have I not already told rR
that the day which crowns my ambition. shall
also crown your love?” :

“ Ah, Pauline! If I could but believe you!”
sighed Camillia. —

“And can you not believe me? Do I look
like one who has no will to accomplish her wish?
Look in my face, and see if there is one line that
tells of weakness there!” :

Camillia raised her eyes to the face of her

late governess with an earnest and wondering :

AZO.

. Youthful as was that countenance, delicate
as were the features and complexion, brilliant
though the azure of the eyes, there was a look of
decision, a glance of determination rarely seen
in the faces of strong men.

There was a ads for good or evil—terrible,
incalculable, if employed for the latter—the
Poin of a great intellect and an unyielding
Ww:

ill.
a Pauline !” exclaimed Camillia, “you are an
enigma. ;
“Not so,” answered the governess, her clear
blue eyes dilating, her lip quivering with sup-
pressed emotion. “ Not so, Camillia; I ani an
ayes ee
njured! ;
“Yes. You, whose life has been smooth as

yonder river, ee the sunshine that

gilds its breast—you have never known what it
is to writhe beneath a sense of tel feel
that your whole existence has been blighted by
the crimes of others. There are wrongs that
can transform an angel to a” fiend; so do not
wonder when you see me cold, heartless, am-
bitious, designing. My nature was poisoned by
the events of my youth. I said that I would

one day tell you my story. Shall I tell it you.
‘ a

now?” :
“Yes, Pauline, yes; if it is not painful to

“Tt is painful; but I feel a savage pleasure in
bo seme I gnash my teeth at the remembrance
of .t
call them, for the thought of them makes me
strong. ‘Have you ever wondered at my past
history, Camilla?” ‘ ; E

“Never.”
_. “JT was born beneath a princely roof, cradled
in the luxury of a en the man I called my

he woman, whose gorgeous

beauty smiled upon my infancy, was a duchess!”

“They were your - parents,” exclaimed
Camillia. rr

“T was taught to think so. They were of the
Italian race, and sprung from one of the most
powerful families of the South—a family whose
pride had become a proverb throughout Italy.’

‘They had been’ married for some years, and
had grown wegit Peping for an heir to the
ancient name which, if they had died with-
out posterity, would have become extinct.
Disappointed in his a perpetuating his
noble race, the duke grown indifferent

to his beautiful wife; nay, something worse than -
indifference had arisen—something bordering on

e old and bitter wrongs; but I love tore- _

atl ls ne

 

i aalsinatt

an aa naomi ati

etl

i

pa ne ln

 
 

 

dislike, which, in spite of his efforts, he was un-
able to conceal. The duchess came of a house
almost as noble as that of her husband. She
was a haughty and imperious woman, and she
was not slow to perceive this change in the man=
ner of the duke. She discovered, in the very
ete of her youth and beauty, she was despised

y her husband. ‘The bitterness of this discov-
ery changed her very nature. Every day she
grew more haughty, more exacting, more ¢a-
ricious. She shut herself from the gay world
in which she had been admired, and abandoned
herself to a mute but terrible despair.”

‘*Poor woman, she suffered!” murmured Ca-
millia.

“She did! She was wronged, but it did not
make her more pitiful to others when their time
of suffering came. It hardened her nature, and
made her merciless, as all injustice must ever
do. The duke observed this gloomy silence—
this dumb despair. He could not restore to her
an affection which he no longer felt; but he
sought to revive her spirits by change of scene,
and by those hollow pleasures which are the sole
resource of the idle.’

“Vain solace! Poor lady, she was indeed to
be pitied.”

“Ay, but her haughty soul would have re-
jected pity as the direst wrong. The duke left

taly, and took her to Paris, where, in the midst
of the gay and frivolous, she might forget her
domestic griefs; but in France, asin Italy, she
refused to share in the pleasures of the world of
rank and fashion, and obstinately shut herself
in her own chamber.”

“Vet she did not die!
row could not kill!”

“Sorrow does not kill. Even her beauty suf-
fered no diminution. It was still in the full
splendor of its luxuriance, dark, proud, com-
manding, queen-like. Have you ever heard, Ca-
millia Moraquitos, of the secrets of Paris? Have
you ever heard of the mysteries of that wonder-
ful city, in which almost every street has its se-
cret, known only to the initiated in the winding
ways of civilized life? Three months after the
arrival of the duke and duchess in Paris, an
event occurred which changed the whole cur-
rent of their lives.”

‘‘And that event was—”

“Apparently a very simple one; the lady’s-
maid of the duchess was a frivolous girl, who
had herself been educated in France, but who
had never before tasted the delights of the brill-
iant capital. She was intoxicated with rapture,

_and she ventured to express her admiration for
Paris in the presence of the young duchess.
Among the other wonders of this marvelous
city, Jeannette, as the a was called, spoke of
a fortune-teller who had related to her some of
the events of her past life, and whom she looked
upon as a powerful magician.”

“ But surely the duchess did not listen to this

t girl’s foolish babble?”

“She did! Despair is, perhaps, terribly akin
to madness. She listened at first from pure ab-
straction, scarce heeding what she heard; but
afterward pe age She asked the girl a thou-
sand questions about this fortune-teller, and
finally it was a upon between the mistress
and maid that the woman should visit the duch-
ess late on the following night, when the duke
was absent ata political assembly, and all the
servants of the establishment had retired to
rest.”

“Strange caprice!” exclaimed Camillia.

“Grief is sometimes capricious. 'The duchess
doubtless, was ashamed of her own folly, but
she wished to hear what this woman could sa,
of the future, which seemed so dark. What
she were to prophesy the coming of an heir to
that haughty house—an heir whose coming
would restore all the power of the now neglect-
ed wife? The duchess passed the following day

in a state of restless excitement, eager for the
coming hour that was to bring the fortune-tell-

Strange that such sor-

er.

“Tt was nearly midnight when Jeannette ad-
mitted the woman by a private door at the bot-
tom of the grand staircase.

“There was something terrible in the look of
the woman who crept, with stealthy and silent
tread over the luxurious carpets of that palace-
like abode. She was old an en her yel-
low skin disfigured by innumerable wrinkles; her
gray hair falling in elf locks about her low and
narrow forehead. Her small eyes were sur-
rounded by red and inflamed circles, and almost

hidden by the bushy eyebrows which projected
over them. Her chin was fringed with terrible
gray bristles; her mouth disfi; by two en-

ormous teeth, which resembled the fangs of a
wild beast. She was a creature calculated to
inspire disgust and terror, and she seemed still
more horrible b contrast with the elegance
around her, as she entered the superb apart-
ments of the duchess. ‘

“There is little doubt that the maid, Jean-
nette, had told this woman all the secrets of her
mistress. Her task, therefore, was an easy one.
She described the troubles of the past, and fore-
told that, before the year had e , a child
would born to the duke and duchess. On
hearing this prophecy from the lips of a misera-
ble impostor, the haughty Italian fell at her
feet, and burst into an hysterical flood of tears.

 

 

‘THE! OCTOROON.

: 25

 

The woman saw in that moment the first dim
foreshadowing of a future crime. A week af-
terward she came again at the same hour. This
time she saw the duchess alone, and remained
with her for so a a i that Jeannette’s cu-
riosity was excited. ‘ She contrived to overhear
the interview.

“Once more the duchess seemed a transform-
ed being. She no longer shut herself from the
world, Gay and radiant she re-entered society ;
and in a few months the duke was informed
that he would ere Jong become a father.

“‘On hearing this he was eager for an imme-
diate return to Italy, in order that the infant
a be born upon the soil which it was by-
and-by to inherit; but the duchess had a strange
caprice upon this point. She was determined
not to leave Paris, and her husband could not
bring himself to oppose her wishes at such a
time.

“ Within a twelvemonth from the first visit of
the fortune-teller, a child was born and reared
in the ducal mansion. Iwas that child. Caress-
ed and indulged from my earliest infancy,
nursed in luxury and elegance, I was happy,
for I had much of the frivolous nature of m:
native Paris; but, child as I was, I knew that
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, . The
duke loaded me with presents, but he never em-
braced me as I had seen other fathers embrace
their children, and I felt that some gem was

wanting in the diadem of ae Years
assed; I grew to early girlhood, and for the
rst time I knew what it was to love. A young

artist, who had been engaged to paint my por-
trait, fell in love with me, and his passion was
returned. For the first and only time I too
loved; devotedly, Es he painter,
though handsome, honorable, high-minded, dis-
tinguished, was driven from that ducal mansion
with scorn and contumely. What greater sin
could he have committed? He had dared: to
love the daughter of one of Italy’s proudest no-
blemen.

“This was the first bitter wrong of my life.
The pride of others trampled on my so of
happiness, and at sixteen years of agemy breast
‘was embittered by a blighted affection. M
lover wrote me a letter of despairing farewell
and left the country for America. To this da’

IT know not to what part of the mighty conti-
nent he went.’

‘Poor Pauline!”

“4 twelvemonth after this, Jeannette, the
servant of the duchess, died; and on her death-
bed she sent for the duke and confided to him
a terrible secret. I was not the daughter of a
duchess, but a spurious child, born of low pa-
rents, and introduced into the ducal mansion
by the old Parisian fortune-teller.”

‘*Oh, Heaven, how terrible!”

“Tt was indeed terrible. The fury of the duke
knew no bounds. He was a proud man, and for
seventeen years he had been duped, fooled, im-
es upon by the child of some wretched

renchwoman—the child he had introduced into
the society of the noblest in the land, and whose
beauty and accomplishments had been his boast.
He had never loved me; there was no link of
affection between us to stay the torrent of his

. That rage was more terrific against me,
the finnocent! than even toward the guilty
duchess. He drove me from his doors with loath-
ing, and I, the pampered heiress, wandered forth
into the streets of Genoa, a beggar and an out-
cast. Before I reached the gates of the town I
was overtaken by the steward of the Duke, who
brought me a pocket-book from his master. It
contained notes to the amount of three thousand
pounds. 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 his gen-
erous donation; but a sudden idea took posses-
sion of me. This sum of money would enable
me to go where I pleased. TI might Fon Amer-
ica—I might find him I loved. o months
after this I landed in New York. I traveled
from city to city, but nowhere could I obtain
tidings of him I sought; and at last, wearied by
my ineffectual search, my funds nearly ex-
hausted with the ee outlay of my
travels, I found myself in New Orleans. You
know the rest.”

CHAPTER XXVI.
THE SLAVE SALE.

At twelve o’clock upon the day after that on
which Gerald Leslie and his daughter had been
parted by the pitiless attorney, the slave auction
commenced,

The sale was to take place in a public auc-
tion room in New Orleans; an apartnient —
able of containing upward of a hundred people.

At one end of this room stood the rostrum. of
the auctioneer, while immediately before his
desk was stretched a long table o a deal,
upon which one by one the slaves took their

na ager or auctioneer expatiated upon their
merits.

Round this table were placed benches, on
which the buyers and lookers-on lounged during
the auction. — i s

The plantation hands were the first to be sold,

and the sale had lasted for some hours when
Toby, the mulatto, slowly mounted the table,
— took his stand before the eager eyes of the
uyers.

© countenance of the slave was sad and
careworn; and, as he ascended the table, he
looked anxiously round the room as if ‘seeking
among all those eager faces for some one he ex-
pected to see there.

But it was evident that he looked in vain, for.
after a long and earnest scrutiny of that varied
crowd, he sighed heavily, and his head sunk
upon his breast with a gesture of despair.

The bidding lasted for some time, and the
most persevering bidder was Silas Craig him-
self, who sat on a bench close to the table, and
amused himself by whittling a stick with hig
bowie knife,

One by one the other purchasers gave way,
and the mulatto fell to the attorney.

As the hammer of the auctioneer descended
upon his desk, thus proclaiming that the bar-
gain was complete, a singular expression illumi-
nated the face of the slave, Toby.

That expression seemed one of mingled hate
and triumph; and, as he descended from the
platform, the hand of the mulatto mechani-
cally sought for some object hidden in his
breast.

That object was the knife with which Fran-
cilia had stabbed herself—the knife which Toby
had offered the day before to Gerald Leslie,

The mulatto slowly withdrew into a corner
where some other slaves purchased by Silas
Craig were huddled together, awaiting the ter-
mination of the sale.

For some moments there was a pause. Sev-
eral among the crowd asked what the next
lot was to be. The voice of the auctioneer re-
sponded from his rostrum, ‘‘ The Octoroon girl,
Cora!”

Again there was a pause. There were few
there who did not know the story of Gerald Les-
lie and his daughter, and everyone present
seemed to draw a long breath.

The Octoroon emerged from a group of slaves,
behind whom she had been hidden, and slowly
ascended the platform.

Never in her happiest day—never when sur-
rounded by luxury, when surfeited by adula~
tion and respect, had Cora Leslie looked more
lovely than to-day. ;

Her face was whiter than marble, her large
dark eyes were shrouded beneath their droop-'
ing lids, fringed with long and silken lashes;
her rich wealth of raven hair had been loosen
by the rude hands of an overseer, and fell in
heavy masses far below her waist; her slender
yet rounded figure was set off by the soft folds
of her simple cambric dress, which displayed
a pastas and arms in ail their statuesque

uty.

One murmur of admiration ee
the assembly as the Octoroon took her place at
the table.

All there had heard of the loveliness of Gerald
Leslie’s daughter, yet few had expected to see
her so lovely. 2

Eye-glasses were raised, spectacles put on, and
looks of insolent admiration were fix upon the
unha py girl. :

But she saw them not—the center of every
eye, she was
much she had to endure. Her whole being was
absorbed in one thought. Her father; wo
come, would he rescue her? ;

When for one brief instant she lifted her
eyes, the crowd of faces swam before her, as
if hidden from her by a vail of mist.

The sounds of the many voices fell as confused

murmurs upon her ears. J f

She was fistening for the voice which should
announce to her that help was near.

But that longed-for voice did not come, and
she heard instead the harsh accents of the auc-
tioneer dwelling upon the ¢ which were to
be sold to the highest bidder,

At that moment two men entered the buildi:
on ra hee a dotoois Horton, th other

me of these was orton, the
Gilbert Ma: ve,

Gerald ie and the engineer had passed a

ht of utter wretchedness. f ;

ll the ready money that the ruined planter
could command consisted of a few thousand dol-
lars, and Gilbert Margrave had only the sum
which he had brought with him for his travel-
ing expenses. Hy
iho communicate with England was impossi-
ble, though the eee had ample resources
there; he also let of credit on a banking-
house in New York, but he well knew that no-
thing but ready money could save Cora from
her infamous persecutors.

ni

over twenty thousand dollars. :
Gilbert ‘grave was the first to bid.
“ Five thousand dollars!” aie)
“Six thousand!” cried Augustus Horton. _
A laugh circulated ant the assembly. “

guess apes begun a bit too low, ”

one of the planters. ‘ OF2 : kc
“Seven thousand.” hare fst ess

“Ten!” cried Aug Ft

 

“Guess we'll teach you what a slave sale
ees

. * Pee ed

i

scarcely conscious of how |

The entire sum at his command was a little

oe

 
 
  
  
 
    
  
  
 
   
 
  
 
 
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
   
  
  
 
 
  
  
 
  
  
   
 
  
  
 
 
 
   
   
 
 
  
    
 
  
  
 
  
 
  
  
 
  
 
   
  
 
 
  
 
  
   
 
 
  
 
 
   
 
  
  
 
   
  
   
 
 
   
  
  
 
   
 
 

ws

Aye

a

he adores the sacred name of wife.”,. Pak |
er way of think-
answered

26 THE FIRESIDE. LIBRARY.

 

 

tin ee leap of tobacco and thrusting it into his
mouth,

Gilbert Margrave’s cheek grew pale; he felt
fine the nian Wt bad to deal with was not to be

beaten. ;

“Twelve thousand,”—“ fifteen,” —‘‘ twenty.”

For a moment there was a pause; Gilbert
drew his breath. For one brief instant he
thought that the planter’s caprier might be less
powerful than his avarice. e knew not that
Augustus Horton’s love for Cora was full of pas-
sionate determination.

“Five and twenty thousand dollars,” cried
the planter.

Gilbert was silent. Throughout this scene the
Oetoroon had never once lifted her eyes from
the und; but, at this ominous silence, she
slowly raised them, and looked imploringly at
her lover.

Tt was a glance of despair which answered
this mute appeal. hope was. over.

“Strikes me you're pretty well cleaned out,
sirree,” said one of the men who had spoken
before.

The bidding continued, the excitement of the
scene had become intense. aBiny five and
thirty, forty thousand dollars were bid; forty-
five, fifty thousand.

The last bid came from Augustus Horton, and
the auctioneer’s hammer descended with an
ominous sound,

Cora was his.

Gilbert Margrave sprung forward, as if he

/ would have struck the planter, but a friendly
hand was laid upon his shoulder, and he was)

dragged back by a oe of Americans.
: “Better keep your dander down, pene
one of the men whispered in his ear, ‘‘ our folks
are not over fond of your countrymen just now,
and they wouldn’t make much work of takin
out their bowie knives. Let him have 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.
“Dye beaten you before toda Mr. Mar-
ive,” he said, with a sneer, ‘‘ an T think P’ve
the pleasure of giving you a second licking
this afternoon.” *

Again Gilbert would have sprung upon him,
but Le he was restrained by those about him.

‘We've another duel to fight yet, Mr. Hor-
ton,” said the Englishman, ‘‘and in that you
may not come off so easily.”

“We citizens of New Orleans don’t fight
about colored gals,” answered the planter, turn-
ing upon his heel, contemptuously, and walking
toward the spot where Cora stood, side by side
with Toby and the other slaves.

Gilbert Margrave released himself from the
arms of those who held him.

‘*T must follow him,” he said, ‘‘I must k
tohim. I pledge you my honor that I will at-
tempt no violence, but I tell you I must speak
tohim, Life and death hang on this matter.
How can I go back to Gerald Leslie, and tell
the broken-hearted father that I was powerless
to save his only child?”

Gilbert found Augustus standing at a little
distance from the group of slaves, confemplesng
Cora with the insolently admiring. glance wit!
which the master surveys his pro ay

She was no longer the woman who had scorned
and defied him. She was his slave, his pur-
chased slave, over whom the law gave him full
and indisputable authority.

“Mr, Horton,” said Gilbert, in-a voice ren-
dered hoarse by emotion, “‘let.me speak to you
for a few moments?”
~ The planter bowed superciliously, | ‘‘ Well,
sir?” he said, as they withdrew to a solitary cor-
ner of the auction room.

‘* You are aware that had my means enabled
me, I would have outbid you just now in the
purchase of Miss Leslie.”

Augustus Horton laughed aloud,

‘*Miss Leslie!” he repeated, scornfully; ‘‘ we
don’t call the slaves Miss and Mr, down South.
I guessed you would like to outbid me for this
Octoroon girl, Cora, but ’'m happy to say von
weren’t able to do it... Had you bid a hundred
thousand dollars I’d have outbid you still. No
man comes cheaply between Augustus Horton
and his will.

“Tell me,” said Gilbert, ‘tell me, what do
you want with Mr. Leslie’s dau hter? Why do
you want to become her master?”

Again Augustus laughed, and the hot blood
mounted to Gilbert’s cheek as he heard the
mocking laughter. :

‘Tf it comes to that,” said the planter, “‘ why
do you want her?” i

“Because I love her.” t

‘Then one answer will do for both of us,”
said Augustus. “T want her because I love

her. ts"

“No,” cried Gilbert, ‘‘no, Mr. Horton. Do
not sully the pure and holy. name of Love by so
base a ee Yours is the low ion of
the profligate who seeks to destroy that which
he pretends to love. Mine is the honorable senti-
ment of the man who seeks to ww upon her

N

“You Britishers have anoth
ing to what we have in i

 
   

 

 

 

Augustus; ‘‘ we don’t marry our slaves.., How-

ever, ’ve no wish to quarrel with other folks’

opinions; the girl’s mine and I don’t.mean to

part with her, so good-day to you, Mr. Mar-

grave,

j Gilbert laid his hand upon the planter’s shoul-
er.

‘One moment,” he-said,. ‘‘The sum which T
offered just now for Miss Leslie was the extent
of the ready money I possess; but it was not
one-twentieth part,of what I can command.
Communication. with, London, or even with
New York will bring me the funds I require. I
ask you--as a gentleman appealing to a gentle-
man, upon a subject that is dearer to him than
life—I ask you to do a great and generous
action. Accept my note of hand for a hundred
thousand dollars—double the sum you have just

iven—and let me. restore Cora Leslie to her
ather?”

Augustus Horton shrugged his shoulders.

“T would. be very ‘glad to oblige you, Mr.
Margrave,” he said; “But as I don’t happen to
want money just, now, and as P’ve a fancy for
keeping the Octoroon, i beg to decline your lib-
eral offer,”

Gilbert Margrave glanced at him with a
scornful smile.

“T+ appealed to you as a gentleman,” he said.
“Twas mistaken, You shall hear from me to-
night.”

 

CHAPTER XXVII.
THE EVE OF THE WEDDING,

On the night of the slave sale, Don Juan
Moraquitos sat alone in the apartment which he
called his study.

The following day was that Bhponiies for the
Spaniard’s marriage with Pauline Corsi, and
preparations had been made for the celebration
of the ceremony with the splendor worthy of
such a wealthy bridegroom.

Pauline an Camillia were together in the
young girl’s apartments,

On one of the sofas lay the dresses of white
satin and lace, which the bride and bride’smaid
were to wear upon the following morning.

On a table near stood a box, which contained

the wreaths selected by the Frenchwoman for.

herself and Camillia.

This box had not as yet been opened.

“Come, dearest Camillia,” exclaimed Pauline;
“have you no wish to see the Parisian flowers
which are to adorn that beautiful head to-mor-
row? You certainly are most devoid of that
femiaine weakness—curiosity.”

“T can trust to your taste, Pauline,” answered
Camillia.

“That’s just as much as to say you don’t care
astraw about the matter; and that you are
thinking of nothing but that stupid lover of
yours, who is, no doubt, thousands and thou-
sands of miles away.”

Camillia sighed. Her face was averted, and
she did not see the arch smile which lighted up
the Frenchwoman’s face. ‘‘ However,” contin-
ued Pauline, ‘‘I shall insist on your approving
of my choice.”

She unfastened the cord which was tied about
the box; and, lifting the lid, took out the two
wreaths.

They were both of the same pattern—coronet-
shay garlands of orange flowers and buds,

urely white amidst their gearoning green
eaves; as true to nature asif they had been
snares from a hot-house, and breathing the
elicious perfume of the flower.
They were the perfectionof Parisian taste and

“Why, Pauline,” exclaimed Camillia, ‘they
are both bridal wreaths.”
“Can you guess why it is?”

‘No, indeed,”

‘‘ Because there will be two brides to-morrow.
I never break a promise. To-morrow, Don Juan
Moraquitos will divide his fortune; one half he
will reserve for himself and his wife, the other
he will give to his daughter and the husband of
her choice.”

“But, Pauline, how in Heaven’s name will
you accomplish this?”

‘That is my secret. There is very little time
left me for my work. It is now nine o’clock; I
must go out immediately.”

“Go out, and at this hour?’

“Tt is absolutely necessary.”

“But, dear Svea. you will a. my car-
riage; you will let me accompany you

Neither: I go on foot - alone.”

She hurried from the room before Camillia
could remonstrate further, and the Spanish girl,
bewildered and amazed, seated herself near the
Wises ooking. musingly at the two bridal

wreaths.

That night Silas Craig sat alone in the office,
in. which was the map of America.

The lawyer had triumphed over the man who
had scorned him.

He had seen Gerald Leslie’s. proud nature
abased to the dust, and the darling child of a
doating father sold to her most deadly enemy;
for the slave has no packs enemy than the
hardened profiigate, whose guilty passions her
charms have awakened.

Silas Craig was a winner in the game of lifc—

 

what cared he for the dark secrets upon tho
cards he had played?

He was rich, and he could defy mankind,

He had dined sumptuously after the fatiguc
of the sale, and. the table before him was sprearl
with glittering decanters of the choicest wines;

This man reveled in the luxuries of a palace;
but he had risen from the gutter; and his low
and groveling soul still wore the degradation of
the foul haunts in which he had been reared.

He lounged in his easy-chair, sipping wine,
which sparkled like jewels in the light of the
shaded lamp.

Herwas disturbed from his reverie by the en-
trance of the slave who waited upon him,

‘(A lady, massa,” said the man,

“A lady! a lady at this time of night; pshaw;
why you must be dreaming.” "

“No, massa, me wide awake, A lady, a very
beautiful lady, with white hands and rings. Oh,
golly dey shine like stars.”

“Did she tell you her name?”

“No, massa, but she gib me dis.”

The negro handed Silas a card,

This card bore the name of Mdlle. Pauline

Corsi. j
Beneath the card was written this warning:

“There are secrets which Silas Craig may wish
* rare! if so, he will do well to see Mdlle.
orsi, 8

Like all base creatures, Silas was a coward.
The card dropped from his trembling hand, and
his bloated face grew ashy pale.

“ Admit the lady,” he said.

The slave left the room, and in a few minutes
returned with Pauline Corsi.

During those few brief moments, Silas Craig
had recovered from his first impulse of terror,

What could this woman know of his secrets?

Who was she but the pale dependent of Don
Juan Moraquitos? He had ncthing to fear,
therefore.

All the native insolence of his nature re-
turned, and when the governess entered the
room, he neither rose from his seat nor offered.

her a chair.
The impertinence did not escape Pauline
Corsi. ith a smile of provoking assurance.

she seated herself opposite the lawyer. and
threw back the at vail that shaded her

face,

‘‘ We shall understand one another better, by-
and-by, Mr. Craig,” she said, eres

“May I ask the motive of this rather untime-
ly visit?”

“We will come to that in good time, my dear
sir,” replied Pauline, laughing; ‘‘ perhaps thero
are several motives. Suppose then, that we be-
gin with motive number one.”

The lawyer writhed beneath her calm assur-
ance.

““T must tell you, mademoiselle,” he said
‘that these ain’t my business hours, and that if

‘ou’ve snything particular to say to me, you’d

tter call another time. Though I should
think,” he added insolently, “that the gover-
ness of Don Juan Moraquitos can’t have much
business with lawyers.” ;

‘But the wife of Don Juan Moraquitos may,
Mr. Craig.”

“The wife.”

“Yes; I see your client does not give you his
entire confidence. I am to become Pauline’
Moraquitos before twelve o’clock to-morrow.” __

The lawyer’s cheek once more grew ashy pale.
Again a sudden terror seized him. He felt that
there was some mystery shrouded beneath
this business, of which he now heard for the
first time.

“T know the question which vary naturally
rises to your lips,” said Pauline, with quiet de-
liberation. ‘‘ You would ask what motive can
have induced Don Juan Moraquitos to take,
such a step. I reply to that question before it,
is asked. The motive is a most powerful one,”,

Silas quailed beneath the look which accom-
panied these most emphatic words,

Pauline Corsi had not boasted idly of the
etd oe ew i at be peiee

e y lawyer, versed in every art of lying
and. eicanany, trembled, he scarce knew why,
in the presence of this frail girl. ;

“Do you ask the nature of this motive?” said’

Paul

wine. His hand shook. so violently that the
neck of the decanter rattled against the rim of
the glass, and he spilled half the costly liquid as
he raised it to his quivering ga

He had no reason to fear this Frenchwoman
—but the strength of her indomitable will had a
magnetic power over him, and his brutal nature
bowed beneath its force. ; 5

“T will tell you, Silas, Craig,” answered
Pauline; ‘‘there are some secrets which once
known, give to the person who discovers them
a fearful and a boundless power over the guilty
wretches whom they concern. Secrets that are
discovered when least the criminals fear detec-
tion, Words that are overheard, and cherished
for years by the person who overhears them.
Words which have power to qrag the guilty to
the scaffold; words can kill. Do you un-
derstand me?” ae.

O.

 

 

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“‘T do,” he faltered, pouring out a gist of

 

 

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He spoke doggedly, but sat with his hands
clasped upon the arms of his easy-chair, his rat-
like eyes almost starting from his head as he
gazed at Pauline. ;

“Think again, Silas Craig,” said the French-
woman; ‘“‘surely I have spoken plainly. Can
you understand me?”

“No,” he repeated with a terrible oath,

“T must speak more plainly still then, it ap-
pears. Silas Craig, thirteen years ago it was
my good fortune to become acquainted with
such a-secret as this!”

The lawyer raised one of his trembling hands
and wiped the perspiration from hisicy forehead.

“Thirteen years,” he muttered.

“Yes; I see you remember the date, Iwasa
ee girl of seventeen when I discovered

his secret. I am now thirty; I have kept it
long and patiently, have I not?”

tle did not answer her.

“Thave waited my time.. I knew that this
secret would bring me wealth and power when-
ever it was told. Itconcerns two men. Those
two men are my slaves! At a word from me,
they stand before the tribunals of this city
branded with crime—loathed by their fellow-
citizens, A word from me, and they go from
homes of luxury to the gloom of a prison, from
which but a few steps will lead them to the gal-
lows. Shall I tell you who those two men are,
Silas Craig?”

‘Tf you please,”

He tried to speak with his accustomed inso-
lent and mocking smile, but the white lips re-
fused to do his will, and his words came ina
hollow whisper,

“The first is Don Juan Moraquitos, the second
is—you!”

The word seemed to whistle from her lips like
the bullet of a pistol... Tho lawyer fell back in
his chair as if he had received a blow.

“The secret concerns the night upon, which
Tomaso Crivelli died, and the will which on that
night was forged by yo" after the real will had
been made away with. The secret also concerns

the young man called Paul Lisimon. The man
whom you dared to accuse of theft.”

“ How—how did you discover this?”

**No matter how. Enough that I did make
the discovery. Shall I tell you now the price I
ask for my secret?”

“Yes,”

All attempts at insolence or defiance upon
the pert of the lawyer were now abandoned.

Silas Craig cowered before the Frenchwoman
as humbly as the criminal who awaits the sen-
tence of his are :

“Don Juan Moraquitos will make me his wife
and with me will share his own fortune. From
him ask no more than this, We shall leave
America for Paris, and in the delight of my na-
tive city I shall endeavor to forget the sorrows
of my youth. But although I am ambitious, I
am not utterly selfish,and in my triumph I
wish to secure the happiness of others. Ose
others are Camillia Moraquitos and the young
man it has pleased Don Juan to call Paul Lisi-
mon.”

“ How do they concern me?” asked Silas,

“You shall hear, By a foul and infamous
plot, the details of which I do not know, but
which is doubtless worthy of the person who has
concocted it, you have contrived to brand the
name of Paul Lisimon with infamy. You will
reveal that plot. You will withdraw that

shameful accusation; and you will insert an ad-
vertisement in every paper printed in New Or-
leans declaring the young man’s innocence.
‘You may call your plot a practical joke if you
please. on are so universally beloved and re-
ted that you. will of course be believed.
that is my first condition, Doyou comply with
it?’

Silas Craig — his head. He had scarcely
wer to spea:
Pen My second demand is that you produce the
real will, signed by Don Tomaso Crivelli, in
which he leaves the whole of his estate to his
only and legitimate son, Paul Crivelli, known
in this city as Paul Lisimon.”
ain the lawyer bent his head.
‘Tn conjunction with Don Juan Moraquitos,
‘ou will restore to this young man the wealth of
his father, which you divided into equal por-
tions soon after Don Tomaso’s death. You will
find no difficulty with Juan Moraquitos, Pirate
and adventurer, as he has been, he is not so for-
tunate as you. He has still a conscience.”
“Ts that all?” gasped the lawyer.
“Tt is. I think we understand each other a
little better now than we did half an hour ago.

Good-night.
3 She left the room before he could reply, and |

before he could summon the negro to usher her
from the house.

It was nearly eleven o’clock when Pauline
Corsi left the lawyer’s office, but the streets were
lighted brilliantly by the full moon which sailed
high in the heavens. The Frenchwoman drew
her vail closely over her face. She was dressed
in dark garments, which shielded her from ob-
servation, and she hurried rapidly through the
lonely streets.

About half way toward her destination, she
met two men walking side by side smoking

 

 

Suddenly she stoped, and, clasping her hand
upon her heart, looked eagerly at the younger
of these two men, |

“Tt cannot be,” she murmured; “it cannot
be. It is the moonlight which deceives me.”

At this moment they drew near a tavern, the
door of which was brilliantly lighted.

The lamp fell upon'the face of the younger
man,

The two then entered the tavern, and Pauline
Corsi remained a few paces from the threshold,
looking after them.

“Can I be mistaken?” she said, ‘and yet it
seems like some bewildering dream. TI might—
after thirteen weary years—and to-night!”

 

CHAPTER XXVIII
THE ABDUCTION.

THE same moonlight which illumined the
meeting of Pauline Corsi and the strangers in
the streets of New Orleans, shone on the smooth
bosom of the Mississippi, and on the white walls
of the villa residence of Augustus Horton.

The house and plantation of Hortonville were
some miles from. the wood in which the duel be-
tween 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 its
lamp-lit windows gleaming like pale gems in the
glory of the summer’s night, had the ay Sc wshortd
of a fairy palace rather than any ear ly habi-
tation.

You might almost have expected to see those
white walls melt into thin air and fade away
from your gaze.

It_ was nearly midnight, and the planter’s
small household had retired to rest.

There were only two watchers in that luxuri-
ous habitation.

The first of these was Augustus Horton; the
second was Cora, the Octoroon.

The unhappy girl had been brought from the
auction-room to Hortonville in Augustus’
phaeins the thoroughbred horses of which made

rief work of the journey from New Orleans.

Adelaide Horton and her aunt, Mrs. Montre-
sor, were still at their city residence.

Cora scarce dared to think why Augustus had
chosen to take her to Hortonville, rather than to
his own house.

The answer to that question was too terrible.

Could there be any doubt as to his motive in
choosing this lonely villa for the retreat of the
Octoroon?

Was it not that the wretched girl might be
more fully in his power?

The chamber to which Cora had been conduct-
ed was even more luxuriously furnished than
her own tastefully decorated apartment in the
pavilion on the borders of Lake» Pontchar-
train; but the Octoroon looked at the splendor
around her with a shudder,

She knew that it was not thus that slaves were
ordinarily treated, and she knew the sinister
meaning of this seeming kindness.

The young mulattress who led Cora to her
apartment, informed her that she had been ap-
pointed to wait w Miss Leslie.

Cora smiled bitterly. ;

““Who told you to call me Miss Leslie?” she
asked,

t master, Mr. Horton.”

‘Alas, my poor girl,” answered Cora, ‘IT am
no longer Miss Leslie. Iam a slave like your-
self, with no name save that which my master
chooses to giveme. He has bought me; bought
me at the auction yonder. Name, fame, happi-
ness, honor, ay, and even soul—as he thi
are his.

Tn the bitterness of her despair she buried her
face in her hands and sobbed aloud.

The mulattress was touched to the heart by
this burst of grief.

“My dear mistress, prey do not weep thus,”
she said. ‘* You will no slave here, I know;
for our master has had these beautiful rooms
prepared on purpose for you, and you are to be
treated as a queen.”

“A queen!” cried Cora, hysterically. ‘‘ Yes,
the empress of a eee hour of pleasure, to
be trampled beneath his feet when the whim
has passed. Go, my good girl; why should I
distress you with my griefs? You ‘can never
understand my misery.”

It was impossible, indeed, for this poor igno-
rant slave to comprehend the feelings of the
7 educated and refined woman, torn from
a father she adored, and from him who was to
have rescued her from slavery and make her a
happy English wife. :

ora dried her tears; and, affecting a calm-
ness which she did not feel, dismissed the mulat-

tress,

The girl had lighted a shaded lamp upon an
elegant little inka table, and had Beoay ht a
tray loaded with delicacies for Cora’s re .
ment, but the Octoroon turned with a sickened
heart from the rich food set before = at

had eaten not that day, and her 1
throat were parched and burning with inward
fever. She poured out a glass of water and

drained the cool liquid to the last drop.
open. the wide Venetian l

n.
throwing she
looked out into the calm night.

 

i Sear

\ there:

e 27

‘‘What if there were yet hope? What if she
could esca: ;

A thrill vibrated through her inmost soul as
she asked herself these questions.

She fell on her knees, and lifting her clasped
hands, exclaimed in an outburst.of enthusiasm:

“Oh, merciful and beneficent Creator! I can-
not believe that Thou wouldst: utterly abandon
fie meanest of thy creatures. Even here, on

he brink of terrors more hideous than the most
cruel death, I still: hope, 1 still believe that

Thou will show mea way of deliverance.”

The Octoroon rose from her knees, a new
creature after the utterance of this heartfelt

rayer, Her very countenance seemed as if

ransfigured by the sublime emotions. of the
moment. <A holy light shone from her tearless
eyes; a faint flush of crimson relieved the pallor
of her clieek. !

“My father abandons me to my fate: Even
he who was to be my husband can do no more
to save’ me. It is to Heaven, then, that It
and to ‘One above who is stronger than al
earthly friends.”

The apartment to which Cora had been con-
ducted was on the pees floor of the villa; but
the ceilings of the lower chambers were far
from lofty, and the window from whith the
Octoroon looked was scarcely eleven feet from
the ground. Under this window ran a rustic
colonnade with slender pilasters, round which
hung the leaves and blossoms of the luxuriant
creeping plants familiar to the South, , The
roof of this colonnade formed a balcony before
Cora’s window. podtin

For some moments the Octoroon stood at: the
open casement, gazing at the scéne beneath her
—lost in thought. »

‘Tf IT remain in this house,” she murmured,
“T am utterly in the power of that base man,
Another moment and he may enter this.cham-
ber; again I may hear those words which are
poison to my soul; and this time he may force
me to listen to his infamous proposals, All
those beneath this roof are the slaves of his will
—it were hopeless, then, to look for help from
them, but beneath that purple vault, I might
surely be safer; and at the worst the river is
near at hand.” Dery

She shuddered as'she spoke. To this’ girl, re-
ligiously educated, there was something horrible
in the idea of suicide. It seemed a doubt of
Providence even to think of this worst.and last
resource, is :

But on one thing she had determined, and
that was to escape from the house to the gar-
dens below; once there, she might find her way
to some adjoining plantation, where she might
meet with some benevolent creature who would
interfere to shield her from her hated master.

. It was not slavery she feared, it) was dis-
onor. 9 J
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 on the outside, i

“So much the better,” she thought; ‘‘ he be-
lieves his prisoner to be safe. He thinks that I
would not dare a leap of a few feet even to es-
cape from him. How little he knows of a wo-
man’s ee in the moment of: desperation!”

She hurried to the balcony, and attached the
cord, which was about five feet long, to the
iron re then with the help of this cord she

 

dro lightly to the ground. vst
petiented unhurt on the soft earth of s
flower-bed, but the slender rope had broken wit!
her eign, and the best of it remained in
ber hand. ater
She was free! Obgr psy
Free did she think, when still within a few
paces of her master?

Swift as the wind she flew from the villa, in
the direction of the river side, scarce knowing
which path she took in her eagerness to escape.

Her footsteps made no sound upon the dewy
turf, and she did not hear another footstep hur-
rying behind her.

A broad lawn stretched before her and be-
yond that a thick plantation,

Her anxiety was to reach this friendly shelter,
for the moonlight was bright and clear as day
and she trembled lest she should be vi
from the windows of the villa. a 3

She was nearing the plantation when an iron
hand was laid upon her shoulder, and turn-
ing round with a scream of mingled anguish
and terror, she confronted Augustus Horton
bareheaded in the moonlight.

He had watched her escape from the window
of his own apartment, and had re
enough to allow her to imagine he: free be-
fore he had left the house in pursuit of her,

“So, Cora,” this is the way you repay me for
my foolish indulgence. This is how you show
your gratitude for being received at Horton-
ville like a princess! Do you know how we treat
runaway slaves in the South?” ye ovor

“No,” answered Cora, with alook of defiance.

eet ee. don’t; Pm afraid they eg)

our education in eS Cost
ee The did,” the Octoroon, ‘The
free Chlecmmned that land ep ety, forgot to
teach me that beneath God’s bountecus
live a race of men, who tratic in

neglected

 

, CLS ’ ae a

/

 
  

Pa ES ae

i

28 THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

I ST a Sa

 

¥

bodies and souls of their fellow-creatures! That
was a lesson they forgot to teach me.”

“Then, I’m afraid you'll have to learn it
here,” said the planter; ‘‘and if you don’t take
care what’ you're about, it may be taught you in
rather a rough fashion. But why, why, Cora,
do you compel me to use this language? It is
not the right of a master that I would exercise,
but that of a lover.”

You oy me replied Cora, with icy cold-
ness, ‘‘ that I love, and am beloved by an hon-
orable man, who would make me his wife.”

“Tt is you, who must forget that, Cora,” an-
swered Augustus, fiercely. ‘‘ Henceforth, Gil-
bert Margrave and you arestrangers. Youare
mine, I have kept my promise; LT have given the
fifty thousand dollars owed me by your father
as the price of this moment. But it is not as a
master that I address Se The rigors of slav-
ery are not for you. ward my devotion with
one smile, one word of encouragement, and a
life of luxury shall be yours; but, if you value

ors own happiness, do not force me to remem-

r

“That I am your slave. Pardon me, Mr.
Horton, it is that which I would not forget; but,
as my Hnglish education has left me very igno-
eet i must beg you to teach me the duties of a

ve.

“Those duties are told in one word, Cora,” re-
plied the planter, and that,word is SUBMISSION!
absolute and unquestioning submission to every
wish of the master. Blind obedience to every
word, to each command, however revolting to
the will of the slave. Body and. soul, ra,
os aré mine. Shriek, and your voice will echo

ough the plantation, but will awake no an-
swer; fer those who alone could hear it are
slaves like yourself, and powerless to help you.
Cease this mad folly then, and thus let me—”

He advanced as if to encircle her in his arms,
but the Octoroon stepped back a few paces, and
raising the cord which she held inher right hand,

him thus:

“One step further, and it is J who will inflict

upon you the chastisement of a slave, by strik-
ing you across the face.”
AS Cora uttered these words, a whistle re-
sounded through the sear meme near the spot
upon which she and the planter stood, and in
another moment two dark figures emerged from
the shade of the trees.

Before Augustus could interpose, Cora was
seized in the arms of one of these men, and car-
ried into the plantation, while the other grasped
the shoulder of the planter with a hand of iron,

The moonlight on this man’s face revealed his
identity to Augustus.

* ‘Ibert Margrave!” he exclaimed.

“ Ay, Gilbert Margrave, the aftfianced hus-
band of the woman you would have destroyed.
You refused to-day to accede to the appeal
made by one gentleman to another. You gave
me the answer of a ruffian; to-night it is I who
use the ruffian’s argument, force

“The law shall make you pay dearly for
this,” cried Augustus, hoarse with rage.

“Be itso. Iam an Englishman, and am wil-
ling to suffer the worst penalty the laws of
Louisiana can inflict upon me, rather than sacri-
fice 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 a Horton sprung toward
him, with an open bowie-knife in hand.
~“T am armed,” cried Gilbert, “and wrong
has made me desperate ; follow me at your

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 their oars, ready to strike the water at the
first signal.

The man a Cora had already taken his
place at the stern of the boat; Gilbert sprung in
after them, the oars dipped into the water, and
before Au us Horton reached the brink of
the river, the boat had shot out toward the cen-
ter of the stream.

Upon his own estate, and within a few hun-
dred yards of aregiment of slaves, the planter
had been defied and defeated in his hour of
triumph. .

The Octoroon had fainted from the excite-
ment of the moment, but the cool breeze of the
river quickly restored her to consciousness.

When she reopened her eyes, she found her-
self reclining on the shoulder of the man who
had seized her.

That man was her father, Gerald Leslie,

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE MEETING OF THE LOVERS.

Tur two men whom Pauline Corsi met on her
way from the house of Silas Craig, to the Villa
- Moraquitos, are not entirely strangers to us.

We saw them last in the solitude of Cali-
fornia, living a life of labor, far from all civil-
ized society. ;

_ They only reached New Orleans upon the eve-

after the slave auction, and when Pauline
Corsi met them, they were in search of a hotel
where they could spend the night.

In outward appearance they were very much
altered from the day when we last beheld them.

Their rough garments were exchanged for the

 

 

 

fashionable attire of gentlemen, and their bear-
ing harmonized well with the change in their
costume.

Let us return to the moment when Pauline
Corsi met these two gold-diggers.

They entered the hotel, and were immediately
conducted to a handsomely furnished, and
peaniay, lighted apartment upon the first

oor.

The elder of the two men, the one who had
called himself Smith, flung himself into an easy-
chair, after dismissing the waiter with an order
for a couple of bottles of claret and seltzer water,
and looked complacently round the room,

The young man walked to the open window,
from which he watched the receding form of
Pauline Corsi, who, after observing the two
men enter the hotel, hurried onward toward
the end of the deserted. street.

‘This is alittle better than the diggings, eh,
Brown?” said Smith.

His companion seemed scarcely to hear him.

“That girl’s figure reminds me—,” he mutter-
ed, ‘but pshaw! what foolish fancies have ad-
dled my brain. She is far away on the shores of
another continent.”

‘“ What are you muttering about over there?”
said Smith, who was evidently 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 our fe The time for silence
is past, the hour come in which we are to
speak freely. ce

“Tt has.’

‘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 it
altogether.”

Brown held out his hand, and grasped that of
his. companion.

“Friend, brother,” he exclaimed, ‘ there shall
be no longer a secret between us. I will be the
first to speak; light reer cigar, and fill your
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 had talked long and earn-
estly, and the reader will soon learn the purport
of their conversation.

But late as they sat up over night, the two
friends breakfasted together early the next
morning.

Toy were too much excited to sleep long.

A New Orleans paper, published 4 morn-

, lay upon the breakfast-table.
mith opened the journal, and ran his eye
hastily over its columns.

It contained a full account of the slave auc-
tion of the previous day.

The sald igger’s face blanched as he read the

* eeaainhk Providence,” he ejaculated, sol-
emnly, ‘“‘ how mysterious are thy ways! L have
but come in time. Cora, the beloved daughter
of Gerald Leslie, sold in the public auction room!
It is too horrible.”

He put on his hat, and after a few words to
his friend, hurried down-stairs to the bar of the
hotel, where he ordered a vehicle to be got
ready for him, without delay.

It was strange that, though so evidently anx-
ious to depart, he eee waiting for this ve-
hicle, to walking through the sunny streets.

He had, no doubt, some powerful motive for
this line of conduct.

In ten minutes, a close carriage was at the
door, and slouching his hat over his eyes, the
gold-digger hurried from the bar to the vehicle,
into which he sprung, after giving a brief direc-
tion to the negro driver.

Meanwhile his companion lounged over his un-
tasted breakfast. The New Orleans papers oe

ared to little interest for him. He

ooked at them for a few moments and then
threw them carelessly aside.

He had shaved off the bushy whiskers he had
worn in the California solitude, and his face was
only adorned by a small brown mustache.

e was about five-and-thirty years of age, but
so slim and elegant in figure, as to look consid-
erably younger; and it was easy to see that he
was not a native of America.

Half an hour after the departure of his friend,
the waiter brought him a note which had been
left at the hotel by an elderly mulatiress.

At the first glance at the superscription on
this note, the face of the man who called him-
of Brown, was convulsed by a tumult of emo-

jion.

The letter was addressed to ‘‘Monsieur Ar-
mand Tremlay.”

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 of the
waiters, who were inclined to think the stranger
had suddenly lost his senses. |

A guarter of an hour afterward, he was at
the Villa Moraquitos. i

It was now ten o'clock, and eleven had been
appointed for the performance of the marriage
ceremony, but neither the bride nor the bride’s-
maid as yet assumed the attire prepared for
the occasion, and the elderly bridegroom, Don
Juan Mexad ae paced uneasily up and down
his solitary chamber, ;

The gold-digger was admitted by the mulat-
tress, Pepita. [t was she who had carried the
note to his hotel.

She conducted him to the elegant boudoir,
usually occupied by Camillia Moraquitos and
Pauline Corsi, but which was now untenanted.

The stranger gazed around him in bewilder-
ment, but before he could ask a question of
Pepita, she had hurried from the room.

e took the note from his waistcoat pocket,
and once more devoured its brief contents.

“Tf Armand Tremlay would ascertain the fate of
her whom he once loved, let him call without delay,
at the Villa Moraquitos,’

He read and re-read these words, during the
brief interval he had to wait, before he heard a
light footstep approaching the door of the
room.

The door opened, and Pauline Corsi stood be-
fore him.

Another moment, and she was clasped in the
stranger’s arms,

“ Pauline,” he exclaimed, ‘‘ my beloved, my
darling, what magic is this? How is it after
ebictert weary years I find you here in Ameri-
ca?

‘‘ Because I came hither to see you, Armand!
But tell me, before I say another word, have
you been to France during the past ‘thirteen
years?” ae

‘Seven years ago I was in Paris—seven years
ago, Lreturned to my native country, wealthy
and distinguished, to fling all at the feet of her,
whom I dared to hope might still be faithful.
A bitter blow awaited me on my arrival.”

“Stay, Armand,” said Pauline, laying her
hand lightly upon her lover’s lips; ‘tell me all,
as.it occurred from the first.” a L

She pointed to a sofa and seated hersélf b:
the side of Armand phase fh Upon a table
near her, lay the bridal wreaths, which were to
be worn by herself and Camillia. The French-
man perceived the floral coronets, and asked
eagerly:

‘These orange blossoms, Pauline, for whom
are they intended?’

“You shall know that by-and-by,” she an-
swered, with an arch smile; ‘not another
word until I have heard your story.”

An observer would have wondered at the
transformation which the presence of Armand
Tremlay effected in Pauline Corsi. She was no
longer the cold and ambitious woman, but a
loving and gentle girl, with the tender light of
affection beaming in her blue eyes.

“Tell me,” she repeated, ‘tell me all, Ar-
mand,”

“You remember the day upon which the
Duke B—— dismissed me from his house?”

“Remember it!” answered Pauline. ‘TI have
good reason to remember it. That day was the

urning point of my life,”

“And of mine. Reckless and desperate, I
strode through the streets of Paris, with m:
breast rent with contending love and hatred.
Love for you, hatred for the conventionalities
of rank, which elevated an insurmountable bar-
rier between genius and beauty; for I felt that
Thad genius, energy, and patience, to conquer
fortune—all the gifts which help to make men

eat, and which the ag lordling dare not

espise, since they are the root of all aris-
tocracies. The very air of France seemed
hateful to me, for I despised a country in which
the difference in rank could part those whom
Heaven had created for each other. I sailed for
America, determined that in a free country I
would attain such eminence as might entitle me
to sue for the hand of a duke’s daughter. So
enraged was I against the fate which had separ-
ated us, that I threw aside my own name, and
whatever small degree of distinction might be
attached to it, and called myself Forester Town-
shend.”

“And it was thus, that my search for you
was fruitless,” said Pauline; ‘‘but go on.”

“Under that assumed name, I won consider-
able eminence asa portrait painter, throughout
the United States, and seven years after leavin,
France, had amassed a considerable fortune.
returned to my native country, resolved, if I
found you still true to me, to make one more
appeal to the duke; and failing in obtaining his
consent, to eras you to agree to a clan-
destine marriage. On reaching Paris; my first
act was to go to the house you occupied with

our supposed father and mother. I was told
hat the family had removed to Milan. I lost
not an hour in traveling to that city, and there
I heard from the duke’s steward the story of
Jennette’s death-bed confession, and the heart-
less way in which you had been treated by
those who for nearly seventeen years had ca-
ressed you as their only child.”

PaNo. dearest; it heir

o, dearest; it was an heir for a hau
title, and_not a father’s affections, that oe
sought. Providence punished their ambition,
and terrible retribution overtook them for their
cruelty in visiting = your innocent head the
crimes of others. e duchess died, broken-
hearted at the discovery of her guilty dece
tion, and the duke was stabbed by an’ assass
in the streets of Milan, It is thought that this

 

 

“But they never loved me,” murmured —

 

   

 

 

 

 

 
canes he ge

SEES Sane

amie

 

 

ik SG pt ng a

29

 

 

assassin was his kinsman and the heir to his
fortune.”

Pauline bowed her head in silence. %

“This story is very terrible,” she said, sol-
emnly. ‘I had long ago forgiven their wrong
to me, in casting me from home and shelter;
but I had never forgiven them for parting me
from him I loved.” é

“Dearest Pauline, the ways of Providence
are indeed inscrutable. I left Milan, after
vainly endeavoring to ascertain whither you
had. gone after leaving the ducal palace.
inquiries were vain, and my only thought was
to find you in Paris, to which city I imagined

ou would have fled. I remained in Paris for
hree months, during which time I inserted
many advertisements in the papers, and applied
to the police in order to discover your retreat.
At the end of that time I began to despair of
ever finding you, and I was seized with a gloomy
conviction that you had committed suicide in
the first moments of your anguish. I left my
fortune in the hands of my mother, in whose
hands it has been accumulating year by year;
and, withdrawing only sufficient to pay my
voyage to America, I once more turned my
back upon my native country.”

“You returned to America.”

“T did; but I was an altered man. I had no
Jonger a purpose to uphold me—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
of the gaming-table. I was too restless to re-
main in one place; I sought for change of scene,
and for a life of action, for I was forever haunt-
ed by the memory of your unhappy fate; and
one day I found myself in San Francisco, home-
less and penniless. I had flung away my last
dollar at the gaming-table. It was then that I
resolved on accumulating a second fortune, and
returning to France once more to look for you.
‘A sudden inspiration seemed to take possession
of my mind; I felt I had not done enough, and I
determined to redouble my efforts, and devote
the remainder of my life to the search for you.”

“And you have succeeded.”

“Ay, Pauline, in so unlooked-for a manner
that I almost doubt now if this is not some
strange but rapturous dream.” + ad

“You have arrived at New Orleans in time
to assist at my wedding.”

“ Your wedding?”

“Yes; this day I become the wife of a wealthy

“ Armand!”’—she held out her. hand to him as
she spoke, and in the expression of that one
word, “Armand,” there was enough to tell him
that he had no cause for fear. Lifting her
little hand to his lips he covered it with kisses.

He was interrupted by the entrance of Pepita,
who brought a sealed packet addressed to Pau-
line Corsi, in the hand of Silas mene 8 d

“Has Mr. Lisimon arrived yet, Pepita?’ she

asked.

“He is in the drawing-room, mademoiselle.”

“Very good, Pepita; and Donna Camillia?”

“Tn her own room, mademoiselle.”

on retired. Pauline broke the seals of the
envelope, and took from it a document, folded
in an oblong form. Upon the flap of the en-
velope were written these words:

“T send what you required of me. The ad-
vertisement appears in to-day’s paper.—S. C.”

“Come, Armand,” said Pauline; ‘‘I have
changed much since you first knew me; the bit-
ter wrongs of my youth had a terrible influence
upon my womanhood. I have been ambitious,
heartless, mercenary, designing; but with your
return my old nature comes back to me and the
fresh feelings of my girlhood revive.”

“ But this marriage—that bridal wreath?”

“Shall be worn by me, but not to-day. Tell
me, Armand, do you still love me, the nameless
orphan, the onan child, as you did, when you
thought me the heiress of one of Italy’s proudest
dukes? Have your feelings for me undergone
no change since you learned that secret?”

“They have, Pauline, a very great change.”

“ Armand!”

“Yes, my beloved, and the change is that you
are ten times dearer to-day, than ten years ago:
for I have known what it is to lose you.”

a torn to the drawing-room, where
Paul Lisimon was seated with two of the most
fashionable men in the city; guests invited to
witness the intended marriage ceremony.

Every citizen in New Orleans had seen the
advertisement in that morning’s en which
declared the entire innocence of Paul Lisimon
from the crime imputed to him, and described
the whole affair as a practical joke.

The young man rose as Pauline entered, and
dropping his face, said to her, “‘I received your
letter from the hands of Captain Prendergills,
and am here in answer to your summons.

“ And you have seen the advertisement?”

‘Yes; tell me in Heaven’s name—how did
you work so t a miracle?” —

Pauline ed with arch significance. ~

“When last we met; Paul Lisimon, I made a
re which you rejected with scorn. I hon-
ored you for thaé rejection; [am not now about
to avenge myself.”

   

 

THE OCTOROON.

“How, mademoiselle?”

“T no longer address you as Paul Lisimon;
that name is in itself alie. Paul Crivelli, rea
this document; it is the genuine will of your
father, Don Tomaso.’

As she spoke, she placed the parchment sent
her by Craig, in the hands of the bewildered
young man.

This spoken in low tone escaped the ears of
the two visitors standing by the chimney-piece.
It was only overheard by Armand Tremlay, to
whom the conversation was unintelligible.

At this moment a servant announced ‘ Cap-
tain Prendergills.”

 

CHAPTER XXX.
THE SUPPRESSED DOCUMENT,

Horton left the plantation on the morning
after the scene between himself and Cora Leslie.

He had the law upon his side, and Philip Mar-

ave might bemade to pay dearly for his ab-

uction of the Octoroon. ut what if Gilbert

and Cora should escape, and make their way
to the free States?

He was almost mad with fury at this thought.
Immediately upon his arrival in New Orleans
he dispatched a messenger for Craig, and at nine
o'clock the two men were seated oxen each
other at a well-furnished breakfast-table.

Augustus was terrified at the change which
twelve hours had wrought in the ——. His
face was almost ghastly; purple circles sur-
rounded his bloodshot eyes, and his lips were
black and dry like those of a sufferer in the
worst stage 0; fever.

Throughout the weary night he had paced
up and down the narrow office, pondering upon
his interview with Pauline Corsi. The whole
scaffolding of his life had fallen away, leaving
him well-nigh crushed among the ruins. The
dark labyrinth of crime was closing upon his
— and he knew not the end which lay before

im.

Horton, though ignorant of the darker crimes
which had left their foul stain upon the law-
yer’s life, knew him to be an unscrupulous
— and associated with him because he was
useful.

The first step was to communicate with the

olice, offering a large reward for the appre-

ininekces of the fugitives.

This done, Craig told his employer of the ad-
vertisement in that day’s paper—which cleared
the character of Paul Lisimon, and described
pe whole affair of the robbery as a practical

ioke.

Horton’s rage and mortification knew no
bounds. He declared that he had been played
with by Silas Craig; and demanded what right
the lawyer 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; ‘‘I have been oe
by noone. It was necessary to my own welfare
to do this; and I have done it. Think ourself
lucky that I did not let the citizens of New Or-
leans know your share in the transaction.”

Horton flushed purple with suppressed rage.
He felt that he was in the attorney’s power, a
word from Silas might blast his name forever,

“Come,” he said, “the business is done, it
seems; it is therefore too late to talk of it. My
first task must be to find the runaways.”

“The St. Louis packet starts in ten minutes.
They may take that opportunity of leaving.”

The two hurried to the quay; but too late;
the steamer had started half an hour earlier
than the time mentioned by Silas Craig.

As they were leaving the quay, Silas Craig
uttered an ee of pee I — on re-
cognizing the — gure of William Bowen,
advancing toward them at a leisurely pace.

The overseer wore a broad-brimmed straw
hat, and the light linen coat and trowsers cus-
tomary throughout Louisiana. — ;

“You here, William!” exclaimed Silas, with
surprise. ‘‘I thought you were at Iberville.”

wen laughed, and glanced with rather a
peculiar expression at the attorney.

“T know you did,” he said; ‘‘ but you see I’ve
left those parts. I guess I wrote you a letter
Mr. Craig, a week or two ago, in which 1
asked you for the loan of a thousand dollars?”

““ wh , yes.”

“And I guess you refused ’em?”

The attorney bit his lip, and glanced from
Au to Bowen.

“Ah, I don’t mind Mr. Horton knowing our
rivate transactions,” said Bill, ‘‘I asked for
he loan, and you refused me. Now, I thought

this was rather shabby conduct, so I’ve
charged myself, and I calculate you'll have to
look out for another overseer.”

Augustus Horton was prepared to see the at-
torney resent this insolence, but to his surprise
Silas seemed only anxious to conciliate Bowen.

“My dear William,” he said, ‘‘ you must re-
member that you have driven me hard
lately. However, su you call upon me at
my office. We'll e matters there. ’ 4

‘We will settle matters, I reckon, Mr. ,

answered Bowen; and a close
have detected a peculiar

 

 

But Silas Craig was too much agitated to per-
ceive this. He had not yet recovered from the
extraordinary revealments made to him in his
interview with Pauline Corsi. He felt like a
man who walks blindfold upon the verge of a
precipice, and who knows that every new foot-
step may hurl him to the gulf below.

ugustus and the attorney were leaving the
quay when William Bowen called after them.

“T guess you were up to something down
here, gents,” he said. ‘‘ You were looking after
somebody, weren’t you?”

“We weré,” answered Augustus; ‘we were
in search of a runaway slave.”

‘The. gal as_you’re after is Gerald Leslie’s
daughter, the Octoroon, I'll lay a hundred dol-
lars,” cried Bowen.

“ he is.”

The overseer laughed aloud.

“Tm darned if I didn’t calculate as much,” he
said. ‘Then I’m sorry to tell you, Mr, Horton,
that the young lady’s bolted with that Britisher
as was so uncommon peart on board the Selma.
They left by the St. Louis packet half an hour
ago. I thought there was something in the
wind, but I’d no authority to stop ’em.

“D—!” muttered Augustus Horton; ‘‘ that
Englishman has foiled me at every turn. The
next packet for St. Louis starts the day after
to-morrow. They’ll have eight-and-forty hours’
coated of us, and they’ll make their way to a free

He walked away from the quay, followed by
Silas Craig.

“Tf there’s. law in New Orleans,” he cried.
“Tl have them overtaken, and brought back.”

William Bowen stood for some minutes
watching the two men as they walked away.

“T think I managed that i rather neatly,”
he said, with a malicious chuckle; ‘‘ I’ve paid
you out, Mr. Augustus Horton, for any impu-
dence I’ve ever taken from you; and ina couple
of hours more, Silas Craig, you and I will have
squared our accounts for the last time.”

Augustus and the attorney walked back to
the house of the former, after making arrange-
ments for the pursuit. The planter was mad-
dened by his defeat, and utterly merciless to
the unhappy girl who had, for a time at least,
esca, from. his power.

“Pll have her brought back,” he cried, ‘‘
lashed to a runaway slave, Vl have her adver-
tised in eve per in Louisiana. I'll spend
every dollar I possess rather than let her escape
me, and I’ll make Gilbert Margrave pay dearly
for his insolence.”

Silas and the planter found Adelaide Horton
and Mrs. Montresor seated beneath the veranda
which opened into a small garden.

_We have not seen Adelaide Horton since that
ee scene, in which the young girl had
suffered the pangs of jealousy her to
an action unworthy of her. Bitter had been
the punishment which followed. Despised by
the man she had loved; cast off by her cousin
and affianced husband, Mortimer Perey; harass-
ed with self-reproach, the unhappy girl had
ample cause for regret. 4

e would have made any sacrifice to recall
her words the moment after their utterance.
stag btu ier ton tet, Gad ee ae

er @ he and the re
of the Octoroon haunted her’ rpetually.

Mrs. Montresor had done her best to consolo :

her niece; but Adelaide’s gayety and lightheart-
edness had entirely deserted her. She was no
longer the same high-spirited girl who had ar-
rived two months before in New Orleans, 4

The ladies looked up as Augustus and the law-
yerapproached. Adelaide perceived her broth-
er’s agitation, and asked the cause of it. Ho
related his adventure on the quay.

“Then Cora and Gilbert ‘grave have left
for St. Louis?”
“They have,but they shall not escape. Listen

to me, Adelaide; my pride has been humiliated
by the cool insolence of the Octoroon, and what-
ever motive I mar eye had for my conduct at
the slave-sale yesterday, I have now no pur-
pose but that of brin, Cora Leslie’s haughty
spirit to the dust. I will have her found and
brought back to New Orleans, and I will give
her to you as your 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 fine lady.” :

“And you wil
Adelaide, with evident delight. ;

“T will, The girl cost me fifty thousand dol-
lars, but_I care for nothing now but my re-
venge. Make her your lady’s-maid—
nose to the
is to be the slave of a woman who hates her,”

“] will gladly accept your y Angus”
said Adela , eagerly; Tat tose t you

will genes sent mind. Sw ou write a
memorandum of your gift, an sigh it in the_

mee of Mr. nelnane my aunt.”

“Willingly,” replied Augustus; and seating
himself scrawled a few lines, trat the
Octoroon to his sister, and after signing the
document, pushed it across to Silas Craig.

“Witness that, Craig,” he said, ‘‘since my
sister is afraid of my bi my word.”

“T cannot tell you
grateful I am to you for

é

 

of her friendship for Cora Leslie

ive her to me?” exclaimed _

bring her |
inding-stone—let her feel what it

|
a
iy
a iW
f
]
l"

dear Augustus, how _
gift,” said she, ex-

 
 

a
)

——

30 THE

changing a look of peculiar significance with
her aunt, Mrs. Montresor.

Five minutes afteward Myra, the Quadroon
slave, announced Mr. Leslie and Mr. Err

Augustus Horton started. Mortimer Percy
had been absent since the night of the duel be-
tween his cousin and Gilbert Margrave. A faint
flush suffused the cheek of Adelaide Horton;
she felt that she was about to meet the man
who once loved, but now despised her.

Augustus wasignorant that Leslie had assisted
in nS off the Octoroon; he had recognized
no one but Gilbert on the night of the abduction.

The planter received his visitors with cold
politeness, but the rat-like eyes of the attorney
glanced with a look of hatred at Gerald Leslie.

Mr. Leslie was not alone; Toby, the mulatto,
followed him into the garden.

Craig started from his seat with an oath.
“What brings you here, ’ he cried, “Toby?”

“ Do not blame him,” answered Gilbert Leslie;
‘it is I who brought Toby here.”

“You, was it? and by what right do you or-
der my slaves about, pray, Mr. Leslie?”

** You will learn in due time; I have reason to
think that Toby’s presence will be needed.”

The attorney quailed beneath the steady gaze
of Gerald Leslie. He felt that some hidden
datiger was threatened by this visit.

“Pray, Mr. Leslie,” said Augustus Horton,
“may I venture to ask the motive which has
brought you and my cousin, to a house in which
you can hardly expect to be very welcome?”

“You will soon know that, Mr. Horton,” an-
swered Gerald. ‘‘Our visit to-day is to Mr.
Craig, rather than to yourself; and our motive
in coming is that you may learn the true char-
acter of the man whom you have chosen as
your associate.”

‘*T require no such teaching, Mr. Leslie,” said
Augustus, haughtily. ‘Craig, why do you sit
there like a stock? Speak, man; and ask Gerald
Leslie what he means by this?”

‘Silas Craig does not speak because he dares
not; because he knows his own guilt, and knows
that the seizure and sale of my ucpenty which
took place yesterday, was an illegal’one. That
seizure was made for a debt which I did not
owe. The sole claim which that man,- Silas
Craig, had upon me was’a debt of one hundred
thousand dollars. “That debt was paid to him a
a ago, by my late partner, Philip Trever-

on.

Silas Craig laughed aloud.

“You are either a fool or a madman, Gerald
Leslie,” he said. ‘‘If Philip Treverton had paid
the money he would have had a document; who
can prove the payment of the debt?”

“T can!” exclaimed William Bowen, emerg-
ing from the window of the morning room.
“You refused me a paltry thousand dollars,
Mr. Silas Craig. I reckon lye paid you out for
your shabby conduct. Here’s the receipt—the
genuine document—in your own handwriting,
signed with your own name, and given by you
to Philip Treverton.”

He thrust an open paper into the attorney’s
hand. Silas sat gaping at the 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 saw
me burn it as you thought; but I knew the slip-

ry customer I had to deal with, and I changed
the papers. “You thought you heard footsteps
outside the door, and while you turned round to
listen I substituted a blank sheet of foolscap for
the receipt, and thrust it into the fire. ou
saw the blaze, and were satisfied. I kept the genu-
ine document, thinking it might be useful.’

CHAPTER XXX.
THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE AVENGER.

Pau. Listmon received the parchment from
the hand of Pauline Corsi, with the bewildered
manner of one whoscarce knows whether’ he is
awake or dreaming; but the entrance of the
captain of the Amazon obliged the young man
to recover from the temporary stupor into
which he had been thrown.

“Mademoiselle Corsi!” he exclaimed; ‘‘ Pren-
dergills, what does this mean?”

‘Tt means,” answered the Frenchwoman,
“that xo should guard that paper as dearly as

our life. Askmeno questions till-you have seen

on Juan Moraquitos, and come with meat
once to his study. Captain Prendergills, you
will wait till I summon you?”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” answered the sailor.

“You, Armand, will leave me for to-day,”
murmured Pauline, placing her hand in that of
her lover; “I have a task to perform before I
shall be worthy of your affection. In the mean-
time trust me, and wait.”

“T will,” answered the artist; “I will return
to my hotel and be ready to attend you at any
moment you may need my presence.”

‘“‘Gentlemen,” said the Frenchwoman, turning
to the two visitors who had been looking on

 

with considerable wonderment, ‘‘I fear that
we have sadly wasted your time. Events have
occurred which will unavoidably postpone the
ceremony you were invited to witness.”

“Don Juan is illy I fear,” said one of the
guests,

‘*He is not quite himself,” answered Pauline.

 

FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

The gentlemen expressed regret and retired,
accompanied by Armand Tremlay. Prendergills
seated in an easy-chair, stretched his great legs
upon an embroidered cushion, took a pipe and
tobacco-pouch from his pocket, and prepared
to enjoy himself.

Pauline left the room, followed by Paul.

But on the threshold of Don Juan’s pri-
vate apartment, she hesitated for a moment.
“‘He knows nothing of what has happened,”
she said; ‘“‘ I had better see him alone. ait!”

She entered the apartment and remained
about a quarter of anhour. That period seemed
an age to the young man.

He did not perceive two glaring eyes which
followed his every movement from a dark cor-
ner of the shady hall—those of Tristan the slave,
who stood concealed behind one of the pillars
which supported the ceiling of the apartment.

Pauline Corsi at last emerged from the cham-
ber of Don Juan.

‘He will not see you yet,” she said; ‘‘ but in
two hours from this time you are to go to him,
and all will be arranged. e promises that the
past shall be atoned for, at least.as far as you are
concerned. Inthe meantime you had better rest,
for you look haggard and worn out, as if youh
not slept for long.”

“T have not,” answered, Paul; “‘my duties on
board the Amazon and my own troubles have
hindered me from sleep.”

‘Then go to your room and rest. _Remem-
ber your interview with Don Juan will be pain-
ful, and you will need to be prepared for it.”

“ But Camillia, let me see her—”

“Not until you have seen her father. Nay,
do not think me cruel; trust me, I act for the
best. She has seen your name and character
cleared to the eyes of the world, and she is
happy.. You will’ forget the foolish words I
spoke to you when last we met in the house, and
you will trust me, will you not?”

“T will, Pauline.”

“Then prove your trust by obedience.”

““T will,” answered the young man.

He retired to his old apartment. It had been
undisturbed since the day on which he quitted
it. His books and papers all remained. as he had
left them. He knew not that this was owing to
the orders given by Camillia Moraquitos. He
was about to secure the door before reading the
document given to him by Pauline Corsi, 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 the window, beneath the
shade of the Venetian shutters, and commenced
his examination of the all-important document.

It was the last will and testament of Tomaso
Crivelli, in which the Spaniard bequeathed his
entire fortune to his only and beloved son, Paul
Crivelli. Attached to the will was a letter ad-
dressed to Paul, in which Don Tomaso revealed
to him that he was the son of a favorite Quad-
roon slave, whom the Spaniard had married
after giving her her freedom,

The marriage had been kept a secret on ac-
count of the false ae of Don Tomaso, which
would not permit him to acknowledge as his
wife one who was known to have been a slave,

After reading these two documents the young
man. fell _ his knees in thanksgiving.

‘“* Providence, I thank thee!” he exclaimed.
“Tam no longer a nameless outcast—a depend-
ent on the charity of strangers... He whom I so
dearly loved was indeed my father, and humble
though my mother may have been, her son has
no cause to blush for her.”

His next care was to place the precious docu-
ments in safety. He would not trust them about
his own person lest his uncle should Ls to get
them from him; he therefore secured them in a
small leathern portmanteau, the lock of which
would have defied the cleverest thief in Ameri-
ca, This key he attached to a thin gold chain,
which he wore under his waistcoat, and which
held the locket containing Camillia’s portrait.

Having done this Paul looked at his watch.

The whole business had only occupied half an
hour; he had therefore an hour and a half to
wait before his interview with Don Juan.

Pauline Corsi had forbidden him to leave his
apartments until summoned to that interview.

e took up a book, but was unable to concen-

trate his attention upon the pages. A low couch
stood near the open window, and Paul threw
himself upon the cushion, and abandoned him-
self to reflection. He did not mean to sleep,
but the morning was hot and sultry; and ex-
hausted by excitement and by long nights of
fatigue, he fell into a slumber.
_ While he lay in thatsemi-consciousness, which
is neither sleeping nor waking, he fancied that
he saw a dark figure glide softly in at the door
and conceal itself behind the ample folds of the
window curtains with so noiseless a tread, that
Paul, whose eyes had been half closed, thought
the apparition formed part of his dream.

He fell into deeper slumber, from which he
was suddenly aroused by the shutting of the
door. This door had been closed very quietly,
but the overstrained -state of the young man’s
nerves was such that a whisper would have

 
 

 

awakened him. The room was darkened by the
closed shutters, which excluded the burning
sun, and left the apartment in shadow.

Paul sprung to his feet. and looked about him.
The chamber was empty. He tore aside the win-
dow curtains, but there was no one lurking be-
hind their voluminous draperies. His next im-
pulse was to look to the safety of the portman-
teau. Itwas gone! He had placed it ona chair
near the couch, on which he lay, but the chair
was empty. He searched. the apartment, but
in vain; the portmanteau had disappeared.

He rushed from the room, and to the hall be-
low; the first person he met was Pepita. He
inquired of her, if she had met any one carrying
a portmanteau.

“A little leather box, massa?”

‘Yes, yes.”

“Tristan jes’ carry one out of de house den,
massa; Pepita see him,” she answered.

“Which way did he go?’ exclaimed Paul,
breathless with, agitation.

‘Out o’ door, massa Paul; to de wood-house,
Pepita tink.”

‘aul waited to hear no more, but rushed. to
the back premises, among which the wood
house was situated.

The wood-house was a rudely. constructed
building. As Paul approached the door, he per-
ceived wreaths of pale blue smoke issuing from
the crevices in the wood-work.

This smoke indicated the burning, of. wood.
Paul tried to open the door, but it was bolted on
the inside. He flung himself with all his force
against it, but it resisted his efforts.

He felt that the slave Tristan had taken the
portmanteau into the hut for some evil design.

‘Tristan !” he cried, ‘Tristan! open
door, or I will shoot. you through.a crevice in
the panel!”

The negro answered with a mocking laugh.

Paul, remembering that-on the. other side of
the wood-house there was a. small window
ran round toit.. The shutters were nailed, bu
the wood was rotten and the hinges worn and
rusty. Paul wrenched them asunder with the
rapidity of lightning, dashed his hand through
the dingy glass of the window, flung it open and
sprung ’into the shed, A log fire was blazing in
the center, over which Tristan, the negro, knelt
with the portmanteau in his hand.

Paul sprung upon him and tore the leather
case from his grasp, but the negro was the
stronger of the two. He regained possession of
the portmanteau. and made toward the door.
Again Paul flung himself upon him, and this time
the struggle between the two men was terrible
in its intensity.

The face of Paul was white with concentrated
rage, while the dilated eyes of the negro glared
like those of a fiend.

Tristan’s superior strength had nearly mas-
tered his opponent, when, with a desperate
effort, Paul grasped the portmanteau, and with
one well-planted blow, brought the negro to the
ground stunned and oan

Paul returned to the house carrying the pre-
cious burden with him. He carried the port-
manteau to his apartment, unlocked. it, took out
the documents and placed them once more in
his bosom, determined to carry them on his per-
son at any risk.

‘‘ They must kill me before they obtain them,”
he muttered. ;

He looked at his watch. ..The two hours had .

expired. The hands upon. the dial pointed to
the hour.

He left his room in order. to. proceed to Don
Juan’s apartment; but upon. the landing-place
his steps were arrested by a strange and appall-
ing sound, the report of a pistol!

‘aul paused for a moment. motionless with
horror and alarm; the door of the ‘Apaemnest
opposite to him was opened and Pauline Corsi
stood upon the threshold; close behind her ap-
peared the pale face of Camillia,

Both the women were terribly agitated. _ The
Spanish girl endeavored to rush out. upon the
landing, but Pauline threw her arms about her
and arrested her steps.

‘‘Keep her back,” she cried; ‘‘if you love
her, keep her back, Paul, while I go see what
that sound means.”

Paul obeyed; he led Camillia, back into her
own apartment, and endeavored to calm her
agitation; but she would not listen to his at-
tempts at consolation; but implored him again
and again to let her go to her father.

“T know that something dreadful has hap-
pened,” she said; ‘‘ you areallin league to de-
ceive me.”

Pauline Corsi returned. The young man saw
by her ghastly face that something terrible had
indeed occurred.

““Come with me, Paul,” she said; ‘you can
see Don Juan now.”

Camillia caught hold of her hand, ‘ He can
see my father. Ah, then, he is safe; he is safe,
Pauline?’ she eried.

The Frenchwoman did not answer, but silent-
ly led Paul from the room,

Paul followed her down the stairs; but.on the
threshold of Don Juan’s chamber she paused,
and took the young man’s hand in hers, which
was icy cold.

‘Prepare yourself for a fearful shock, Paul,”

   

 

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she said, “‘and for an awful sight. Are you
brave enough to encounter them?”

“What you, a woman, can endure, I can also
bear,” he answered calmly.

“ Grime brings a fearful retribution,” mur-
mured the Frenchwoman, in an awestricken
voice; “however slow the footsteps of the aven-
ger, he is not the less sure to overtake his vic-
tim.‘‘Your uncle has paid the penalty of hissins,”

She opened the door, and the young man fol-
Jowett er into the chamber—the chamber of
death.

Don Juan Moraquitos lay upon the rich Per-
sian carpet, his face toward the ero anda
pistol lying near his outstretched hand,

Upon the table in the center.of the room, lay
a letter addressed to Paul Crivelli, The ink of
the superscription was still wet, though the hand
which had fashioned the characters was now
that of a corpse.

Paul tore open the envelope, and read the
words written within. The suicide’s letter ran
thus:

“You have been told a secret, which my guilt has
kept from you for thirteen years. Ido not ask you
to forgive me, for you know not, and you will never
know what a have to forgive; I go to seek mercy
from a higher tribunal than those which meet on
earth. I could not live to blush beneath the glance
of my nephew, You love my poor Camillia; make
her happy, and the spirit of him who has wronged
you will bless you even in death. She will be as rich
as yourself, If your love for the daughter can ever
prompt you to think with less anger of the father’s
guilt, you will be showing mercy to the unhappy
wretch who writes these lines.

“Juan Moragurtos.””

CHAPTER XXXII.
THE DEAD RETURNED TO LIFE.

Let us return to the moment at which Silas
Craig received from the hands of William Bowen,
his accomplice and tool, the document which he
had fully believed to be destroyed. 3

The wealthy attorney, the pretended Chris-
tian, stood convicted a cheat and a swindler.

Augustus Horton turned from his old ally.

 

‘“Bear witness, Mr. Leslie, and you, Morti- |
mer,” he said, “‘that I did not know what this |

man was.”

Silas Craig gnashed his teeth in silence; then
crushing the paper in his 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 |

knows the chase is over and the dogs are round
him. He sees their glaring eye, he feels their
hot and hungry breath, but he determines on
concentrating the energy of his nature on one
last effort.

“This receipt is a forgery!” he screamed, in a
shrill and broken voice. ‘‘T —_ its validity.”

“Take care, Silas’ Craig,” said his old accom-

lice, ‘I calculate lying won’t save you. You’d
tter speak the truth for once, I reckon, and
throw yourself upon the mercy of these gents.”

“T deny its validity!” repeated the attorney ;
‘it’s an infamous forgery, fabricated by that
man, William Bowen. I defy any living crea-
ture to prove that Philip:Treverton paid me one
hundred thousand dollars.” ;

‘‘ Beware, Silas Craig!” said a voice from the
interior of the apartment. ‘‘ You defy the liv-
ing, do you also defy the dead?”

man emerged from the shadow of the cur-
tains about the window. That man was the
elder of the two gold-diggers; but he was no
stranger to those assembled there.

“The dead!” gasped Silas, dropping once more
into his chair. a

Those present never forgot the expression of
horror upon the attorney’s face.

“The dead?” he repeated; ‘‘the dead!”

“*Philip Treverton!” exclaimed Gerald Leslie.

“Yes, Gerald,” answered the stranger, ex-
tending his hand to Cora’s father; ‘tha’ Philip
Treverton whom you have been taught to thi
a es anda cheat. That Philip to whom,
when about to sail for England, you intrusted a
large sum of money, to be paid by him to that
wretch yonder, You departed, secure in the be-
lief that your friend and partner was a man of
honor, and that the mee was as safe in: his
hands as in your own. On your return you
were told that your friend was dead, and that
the money not. been paid. I have only
learned to-day, from the lips of Bowen there
your noble and generous conduct. You uttere
no word of complaint, no syllable of reproach,
but you bore up to the last against the reverses
brought upon you, as you thought, by the dis-
honor of another. Wi

“Do not speak of that, Philip,” said Gerald
Leslie; ‘‘I attributed the loss of the money to
some fatal moment of imprudenee, and I never,
even in thought, accused you of dishonor,”

“Tmprudence would have been onor in
such case,” answered Philip Treverton. "“‘ Ay,
Silas Craig, well may you hide your face from
me—well may your eyes refuse to meet those of
the man you would have murdered!”

sf ered!” exclaimed Gerald and Morti-

mer, while the women listened with white and | .
terrified faces. ‘ ;

_ “Yes, murdered. It is afoul word to speak
in the. ht of yonder Heaven, but it is the
- word, for all that.” * .

“Silas Craig,” cried Augustus Hoviva, “have

THE OCTOROON.

you no word to answer to all this? Speak, man,
speak, and give your accuser the lie!”

“He cannot!” said Philip Treverton, Ponting
to the lawyer. ‘‘Is that the attitude of a man
who is falsely accused?

“Do not speak of him,” cried Gerald Leslie.
impetuously, ‘‘but explain this mystery, and
| how is_it that for a year you have disappeared
| from New Orleans, to return at this moment of

ruin?
| “YT will tell you,” answered Treverton, ‘ Up-

ward of a year ago I was left by you with the
| sum of one hundred thousand dollars in my
| hands—the loan advanced to our firm by the
usurer, Silas Craig. This was to be repaid upon
a certain date; that date fell about a month
after your departure for England. I held the
| money more sacred than my life, and I laid it by
| in the strong box devoted to important docu-
ments. I was the victim of vice which dis-
honors men who never thought to blush before
their fellow-men—I was a gamester! I devoted
my days to business conscientiously; but at
night the demon of the dice-box lured me from
home, and led me to a secret gaming-house in
Columbia street—a house known to all the gamb-
lers of New Orleans, I had known this house for
years, and had been a constant guest at its un-

oly altars, but'there was one thing concerning
it that I did not know.”

“And that was—?”

“Tts owner! I did not know that Silas Craig,
the lawyer, that sanctimonious attorney whom
men met every Sunday morning in the sacred
temple of Heaven; I did not know that this
man was proprietor of that earthly hell, the
wretch that pandered in secret to the vices of
his fellow-citizens. _ I did not know this, and
did not know that the gaming-house in Colum-
bia_street communicated by a secret passage
with the office of Silas Craig.”

“Tmpossible!” exclaimed Augtstus Horton.

“Ay, the secret has been well kept; and it
is a secret that was only to have been known
tome when the hand of Death was on my lips
to seal them to eternal silence. But the ways
of Providence are inscrutable. The day ar-
rived upon which our debt to this man be-
came due. At twelve o’clock on that day I
called, delivered to him the sum of one hundred
| thousand dollars in bills of exchange, and re-
| ceived his written acknowledgment of the
money. This done I left as light as a feather.
A load was removed from my mind, and I de-
termined to spend a day of enjoyment. I dined
with some friends at a hotel, and after sittin
late over the table, and drinking a good deal o
wine, we adjourned to the gambling-house in
Columbia street.” d

There was a brief pause; but Silas Craig
never stirred from his abject attitude.

‘We played for some hours, but my friends
were not such inveterate gamesters as myself,
and they grew weary of the demoniac fever,
After persuading me to quit the place with
them, they at last lost patience with 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 drank a eS deal, and I ‘had
been losing money. My head was bewildered;
my brain dizzy, and my teniper soured by my
losses. The room was almost deserted, but
still sat with my eyes fixed upon the game,
madly endeavoring to retrieve my losses. At
this crisis a great brawny fellow opposite to me,
a Frenchman, ventured to insult me. Tipsy as
I was, I sprung toward him to chastise his in-
solence, and a fight ensued, in which [ was get-
ting the worst of it, when one of the bystand-
ers: interfered, and suggested that we should
finish the business in a more gentlemanly

manner.”

‘Tt was a plot!” said Gerald Leslie.

“Tt was! “A villainous and foul plot, concoct-
ed by yonder stricken wretch. ee and
bewildered I let them do what they pleased with
me, and: know nothing of what happened till I
found a dueling sword in my hand, and saw that
“my adversary was armed in the same fashion.
By this time the room was entirely deserted, ex-
cept by my antagonist, the other man, and my-
self. This other man opened a door in the
wall, a door which I had never before per-
ceived, and pushed me into a long, dimly-light-
ed corridor, which was also strange to me. —
| door closed behind us, and we hurried along the
| corridor for some distance, until we were
stopped by the stranger 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 es
I felt in a moment that IT was a lost man. y
head spun round. In the dim light I could
scarcely see my adversary’s face, as the lamps
were so arranged that what light there was fell
full upon mine. In vain I tried to parry his.
thrusts. Ihad been twice wounded slightly
the shoulder, when the lights were suddenly ex-
tinguished, and I felt the sharp pang of a stab
from a long and slender swor Bie age

“But this stab did not come from ye

nent. Although T lost ess upon the
Troment of resi seoke Tne that
“Execrable traitors!” exclaimed Gerald, Mor-

 

 

    
 

‘timer; and

in | longing to the late

 

}T should have been your had ae andy

=

“When I recovered my senses I found myself
in a lonely boat-house on the banks of the Mis.
sissippi, four miles from New Orleans. I was
lying on a mattress, and my wound had been

ressed py a surgeon; but I was too feeble, from
loss of blood and the pain I had endured, to
utter a word, or ask one question of the man
seated by my side.”

‘You were not alone, then?”

“No! William Bowen, the accomplice of Silas
Craig, had repented of the horrible work as
soon as it was done; and, under pretense of car-
convey me to this lonely: shea whicks bekerged
convey mé is lone whic
to a friend of his.” Mi ‘ a

“Stop a bit, Mr. Treverton,” interrupted
William; “when Mr. Osis settled with me
that we were to set that villainous Frenchman
onto you, get up a duel, and rob you of the re-
ceipt for the hundred thousand dollars, it was
agreed that you were to be attacked in fair fight,
and that you were not to be seriously hurt. It
was Mr. Silas Craig yonder who couldn’t be con-
tent with this; it was he who turned out the gas
in the thick of the fight, and stabbed you in the

You dropped down like a

; man; but —
the lawyer there was too great a coward to

make sure whether you were really dead; he
dared notrapproach within a couple of yards of
his victim. He told me toransack your’ pockets,
and secure the receipt; and then, assisted by
the Frenchman, to carry the body to the river.
“T contrived to get rid of the Frenchman as

soon as we reached the levee, and then, dropping |

my burden into a boat, I rowed down to the
boat-house, where I sought a surgeon to look at
my pet. Mr. Treverton knows the rest.”

“T do, William,” answered Philip Treverton;
“T know that you attended me faithfully and
patiently; and that when I recovered you as-
sisted me to get off to California, whence, after
a nearly twelvemonth’s toil, I return so rich a
man as to be able to recompense the noble con-
duct of my old friend Gerald Leslie. As for
yonder wretch,” he added, pointing to Craig,
“‘ defeat has followed so utterly upon his career
of crime that I doubt if the law can do much
more to punish him. He will refund the hun-
dred thousand dollars of which he has defraud-
nee Tetons . i a :

‘I will,” gasped the unhappy wretch, ri
and staggering toward the core “Tam mek
take what you will. I shall leave New Orleans.”

He stopped suddenly, and his hand-
kerchief across his lips; when he removed it, it
was stained with patches of crimson, /

He had broken a blood-vessel!

 

CHAPTER XXXII.
TRISTAN, ¥ a

A DEATHLY and terrible gloom reigned in the
Villa Moraquitos after the awful catastrophe
which had closed the life of Don Juan.

Tt was impossible to keep the entire truth
from Camillia. She was told that she was fa-
therless, but was made to believe that Don Juan
had perished through an accident. Pauline
Corsi watched over her with the tenderness of
an elder sister; but the stricken girl abandoned
ea to a grief which seemed almost incon-
solable. ?

Late in the afternoon, Paul ‘Crivelli left the

house of death, and proceeded to the hotel at

which Armand Tremlay was a te. He was ©

the bearer of a letter from Pauline Corsi; and
he informed the artist of the terrible event which
had_ happened since that morning. Z

“It will, therefore, be some months before I
can hope that my cousin Camillia will assume
the right to a still dearer name,” said Paul,
after they had talked for some time of the ter-
rible event. t

“T imagine so,” answered Armand; “and

Pauline tells me that I must be patient, as she

will not consent to our marriage taking place

on any day but that appointed for yours.”
The two young men left the hotel and walked

through the more retired streets until they left —

the city behind them and pa upon the
banks of the river. They seem already like
old friends, as they walked on, talking of the
singular occurrences which had checkered their
two lives—walked until they found themselves
ata considerable distance from the city, ;

In order to regain New Orleans by a shorter
route, they struck into a wood that
the river. The sun was fading behind the trunks
of the trees, and the wood was lonely as some
primeval forest. © ap ;

They had walked for some little distance,
when they came suddenly upon the figure of a
negro, a the foot of an immense oak,
He started to feet as ae approached, and
Paul recognized the man with whom he had
that morning ered , the slave ‘be-

on Juan. TOKE

negro glared at him with a savage ex-
pression in his distended eyeballs, Laat oats

‘is you,” he cried, “ you—you ! You haunt
Scr i Lnienaene. 2
‘his shirt.“ pritiechoer ‘this mo and

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32

union. with Camillia _Moraquitos—with her I
love!”

“You are mad, Tristan.”

“Yes, I am mad., What can that slave be
but mad who dares to léve.his mistress? I
would grovel upon the earth, and suffer her foot
to trample on my neck. I would die a thou-
sand deaths; but [ am mad, and I love her. I
have loved.her from those happy hours when
she was alittle child by yonder sunny river,
and I was her plaything, her dog, her slave, but
still her companion; and now she loathes and
despises the slave she loves another, and mad
Tristan has come into this forest to die.”

The glaring eyes of the negro had so much of
the fire of insanity in their savage light that
the two young men thought he was indeed
mad.

“Tristan! Tristan!” said Paul, imploringly.

“Beware!” cried the slave, snatching a knife
from his breast. ‘‘Beware how you cross my
path! Avoid me, then, if you would not tempt
me to destroy you.”

He uttered a wild cry, and sprung toward
Paul, with the knife uplifted in his powerful
right hand; but the two young men were pre-

red for the blow, and, while Armand Trem-
ay seized the hand holding the dagger, Paul
twisted a silk handerchief into a bandage, with
which they bound the arms of the negro.

The violent paroxysm of madness had passed,
and the Sees man was as quiet as a child.

They took him to the Villa Moraquitos,
where they placed him under the care of his
mother, assisted by a powerful negro belonging
to the household.

“ Restore him to reason, Zarah,” said Paul,
“and as soon.as he has recovered, I will give
you both your liberty.”

“ Good, generous massa! and we shall go back
to Africa?”

“You shall.”

CHAPTER XXXIV,

FAREWELL TO LOUISIANA.

GeRALD LEsLIn, William Bowen, and Philip
Treverton accompanied Silas Craig to the attor-
ney’s office, where the wretched man refunded
the hundred thousand dollars, and. wrote a long
and detailed confession of his guilt, which he
signed in the presence of three witnesses. Then
Gerald and his partner returned to the house of
Horton, where they had left Mortimer Percy.

They found Augustus, Adelaide and Mrs.
Montresor . seated in a brilliantly lighted
apartment, communicating with the morning
room that opened upon the garden

Mortimer Percy was a little distance from his
cousin, and it was evident that no reconcilia-
tion had taken place between them. Augustus

stood near the open window; smoking his cigar’

im moody stillness.

Gerald was the first to speak. ‘

“You will be surprised, perhaps;.to see m
again, Mr. Horton?” he said to Augustus, }

“T will freely own that. I am so,” answered
the planter; ‘though.the conduct of Mr.-Percy,
has accustomed me to surprises.’ I cannot im-
a what can have brought Mr. Leslie and

r. Treverton to this house.”

“Indeed, Mr.Horton! You forget, then, that
Ihave a daughter.” and Gerald. Leslie smiled,

“T do not,” answered Augustus. ‘‘I have very

reason to remember that fact, Mr. Leslie.

he purchase of the Octoroon slave, Cora, cost

Hety thousand dollars, and’ there appears
considerable chance of my losing every cent.”

‘Not if youcan capture your runaway slave.”

Not if ae recapture her... No, let her once
fall into my hands, and it shall, be my fault if
she escape, again., As for the Englishman—”

“You will have no paver woe him?”

“By Heaven I will not. e Southerners are
in no humor just now to Bos up with any of
your abolitionist tricks, and Mr. Margrave shall
pay dearly for breaking the laws of Louisiana.”

ugustus walked up and down the room as he
ke, and every accent revealed-his rage at the
efeat and humiliation he had. sustained.

‘““Mr. Horton,” said Gerald, Leslie, gravely,
‘Philip Treverton and I had-aserious purpose
in coming to you here this evening. e come
to make an appeal to your generosity and your
sense of honor. Will you listen to that appeal?”

“You,are free to speak,” replied Augustus,
haughtily, ‘and throwing away his cigar, he
folded his arms, as if preparod to listen, but
as if determined not to be convinced. E

‘*T appeal to you then, in the presence of you
sister and your.cousin, and.in that of Sirs.
Montresor,, whose ,sentiments. | know are op-
posed to the cruel. system of .barter, which has
im my case, deprived.a father of his beloved and
only daughter+I appeal to every better feeling
of your nature, and ask if my- child, Cora, is to
suffer for one hour for the infamy of, that man
Silas Craig? ;Restore her to freedom before I
institute proceedings to invalidate the illegal
sale of my property, which was seized upon for
a debt I never owed.” ipeke

Augustus Horton laughed bitterly. ao

= All this is very fine,” he said; “ but as Miss
Cora Leslie has chosen, to run away from her
rightful owner, it is not in my power to give. her
up—even if I wished it.” rey,

_THE ;RIRESI

| for that! With men she would have lived the life

‘conduct? Heaven knows what pain it has given

tion,”

-erable grace.

 

“Would. you restore her to meif she were
ae ” asked Gerald Leslie.
“No

“You would not? Remember, we are rich
and I would give you back your ‘fifty thousand
dollars, or double the sum, if you pleased.”

“Curse your paltry dollars!” cried Augustus.
“Tt was revenge I wanted—revenge for the
insult your slave-daughter dared to inflict upon
me. And am I to be balked of that revenge at
the very last? No! Were Cora recaptured to- |
night, I would not give her up; and, what is
more, I could. not, for she is no longer mine, I
have given her away to my sister Adelaide, who
has good reason to hate her, and who will make
her feel what it is to be a slave. Trust a woman

sister’s property she will be
a lady’s-maid—a drudge. eaven knows how
low she may sink. It may please her mistress
to send your brilliant and accomplished daugh-
ter to the kitchen to wait upon the cook.”
Gerald Leslie writhed at this insulting speech.
“Miss Horton,” he exclaimed, ‘‘surely, your
woman’s nature revolts at such words as these!

of a duchess; as m

ter’s friend; for pity’s sake, remember that!”

During the whole of this. dialogue, Adelaide
Horton had sat perfectly still, her head bent
over her work, as if she heard nothing of what
was going forward; but a close observer might
have perceived that her bosom heaved with sup-
peered emotion, and that her,small hand _trem-

led as she endeavored to continue her work.

This had not been lost on Percy, who had
been for some time intently watching his cousin,
Suddenly she raised her head.

“*T can only answer you in the words of my
brother, Mr. Leslie,” she said; ‘‘ I cannot restore
Cora Leslie to you even if I would, for she is no
longer mine. I, too, have given her away!”

Augustus started at these words.

You, Adelaide!” he exclaimed.

“Yes. You gave her to me for a lady’s-maid.
I had been long seeking for an opportunity of
repairing the injury I did her upon that fatal
day when I allowed a school-girl’s folly to get the
better of my reason. I have given her to her
husband, Gilbert Margrave!”

She rose as she said this and opened the door
of an adjoining apartment, and beckoned to
some one within. Gilbert Margrave and Cora
Leslie entered the room.

“My brother did not think of searching his
own house for the runaway slave,” said Ade-
laide, smiling. ‘‘The abduction of last night
was planned by Mr. Margrave and myself, and
it was agreed that he should bring her here, as
the last place in which her pursuers would be
likely to seek her.”

Mortimer started from his chair, and, cross- | +),

ing the room, clasped his cousin in his arms.
‘Did you indeed do this, Adelaide?” he ex-
claimed; ‘‘And will you forgive me for my

me; for I have always loved you dearly.

“TI deserved all I have sufferéd, Mortimer,”
replied Adelaide, _ disengaging herself gently ;
oe ait Ehave done all in my power to repair the
error of a moment. Cora is free—free to sail to
England with her betrothed husband.” ‘

‘Dear, generous girl,” murmured the Octo-
roon, taking Adelaide’s hand in hers; ‘‘far away,
in that free and happy country, I shall remem~
ber your noble 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 to
conduc her on. ‘a bridal sn through Europe.

r. e, you, I suppose, will accompany your
daughter to Hngland? ; Bene

“T shall,” replied Gerald; ‘thanks to the
return of my friend and panes here, T shall be
rich. enough to establish myself,on British
ground, leaving to him the cares of the planta-

“Which will be heavy enough to_keep him
out of. gambling-houses,” said Philip Treverton,
with a smile.

Augustus Horton felt that his defeat and hu-
miliation were complete. He had no alternative,
but, was wise. enough to accept it all with a tol-

‘“Mr. Margrave,” he said, ‘let all ill will be
forgotten between,us. . Miss Leslie will tell you
that all is fairin love as in war. Wéhave played
a desperate game for the sake of yonder lady’s
smiles, and-Lhave lost. So be it... I can but, sub-
mit to my defeat, and congratulate you on your
superior fortune. There is my hand.” ,
dilbert. and Augustus shook hands. Both men
felt the hollowness of the ceremonial.

Gerald: Leslie’s carriage, with Toby as the
driver, was in waiting to convey the happy trio
to Lake Pontchartrain; and in three days they
were to leave Louisiana in an English steamer.

Philip Treverton asked permission to accom-

y his old partner to the pavilion. Mortimer
ercy remained with his Cousin Adelaide. .

Two days after this happy evening, Mortimer
ledhis fair bride to the altar.

The ceremonial took place thus hurriedly in
order that Cora—the Perea the once de-
spised slave—mightvofficiate,as.-brides’maid at
her old schoolfellow’s wedding.! +...

Be ee

 

The bride was given away by: her. brother, *

Augustus, and Gilbert Margrave acted as ‘ best,
man” to the bridegroom.

On the day following, Gilbert, Cora and Les-
lie were to bid adieu to New Orleans.

The marriage, ceremony was performed with
great splendor; and’ a sumptuous banquet was
given by Augustus Horton to the most dis-
tinguished inhabitants of New Orleans.

t had been intended that Cora’ Leslie should

ar at this banquet; and there was consider-
e curiosity felt upon the subject by the guests
who were anxious to see the heroine of such ro-
mantic adventures. “ae

They were disappointed, however, for, just as
the bride was taking her place at the tab e, the
Quadroon, Myra, slipped a note into her hand.

It was from Cora, and ran thus:— ¢ *

“ Dearest. ADELAIDE:—Forgive me if I have. dis-
obeyed ioe in withdrawing from your brilliant assem-
bl. All your visitors are not as generous as-your-
self; and there may be many among your guests
whose prejudices would be outraged by the presence
of a daughter ofthe «dispised race: , I have’a sacred
duty to Ren before leaving Louisiana; and I go
with Gilbert to fulfill it during the hours of. your fes-

I
a
a

‘tivity. ‘‘ Ever and ever your affectionate ‘‘ Cora.”
Why do younot speak? You were once my daugh- |; Pi

The reader may, rhaps, guess the duty
which-called Cora Leslie from that festive party.

Deep in the bosom of that wood at Iberville,
in which Gilbert Margrave and Augustus Hor-
ton had met some months before, Cora knelt
with her lover beside the wooden cross, which
alone marked the spot where Francilia lay.

Mournful were the tears which the freeborn
Englishman and. his betrothed bride wept upon
the grave of the victim of slavery.

Early next day a happy group stood upon the
deck of a large steamer Sacaithe from New
Orleans. we:

Already the white walls of villas, and the
steeples of churches were melting in the distance.

Cora stood with her arm linked in that of her
father, her betrothed husband by her side.

A little way behind them stood Toby, no lon-
ger 2 slave, but a happy attendant on those he

oved.

A few weeks later another vessel steamed out
of the harbor, bound for the sunny shores of
France, bearing Paul Crivelli and his cousin
Camillia, who had decided on leaving New Or-
leans until the Spanish girl had recovered the
shock of her father’s death. They had consent-
ed therefore to accompany Armand Tremlay
and Pauline, who, after considerable persuasion
had been induced to become the wife of her old
lover.

Silas Crai;
the night.
few cared to discover.
to convey away the whole of his wealth

left New Orleans in the dead of
one knew whither he went, and
He had ‘so contrived as
and if
e- possession of gold, each coin of which is
branded with meanness and dishonor, can bring
happiness, the usurer may be a happy man.

eaven 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
would have to endure the horrors of Lynch law.

We have little moresto say. Those of whom
we have written, live to receive the reward of
their own actions.” ;

Cora is a happy wife,in our own dear native
land—happy in the society of the father she
loves, sécure in the devotion of her proud Eng-
lish husband.

Camillia and Paul are the stars of a Parisian
circle. Rich, accomplished, and handsome, the
young Spaniard and his wife are admired and
caressed by all who know them, but they have
no friends whom they regard with the same af-
fection as Armand and Pauline Tremlay. ;

Our story is finished. o«

We have not been dealing with the ‘shadowy
woes of fiction, but with the real sorrows that
have wrung: and tortured human. hearts,: the

» hearts of our Te Nee brothers and sisters,

lf any line which we +have written has gained
one convert to the cause of freedom, wo have
not written,in vain, and the feeling of regret
with which we bid adieu to the kind and indul-
gent readers who have sympathized with the
sufferings; of which we have told, will, be min-
led with the happy consciousness that our labor
as not been wasted, and that we Have made
friends for the great cae of Liberty versus
Slavery;as well as for CORA, the OCTOROON.
THE END.

 

 

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