Vol. 47. NO WORK THE HARDEST WORK. BY CAROLINK F. ORNE. Office Ho! ye who at the anvil toil, And strike the sounding blow. Where from the burning iron's breast The sparks fly to and fro, While answering to the hammer’s ring, And fire’s intenser glow— Oh! while ye feel ’tis hard to toil And sweat the long day through, Remember it is harder still To have no work to do. Ho! ye who till the stubborn soil, Whose. hard hands guide the plow, Who bend beneath the summer sun, With burning cheek and brow— Ye deem the curse atill clings to earth From olden time till now— But while ye feel ’tis hard to toil And labor all day through, Remember it is harder still To have no work to do. Ho! ye who plow the sea’s blue fiela— Who ride the restless wave, Beneath whose gallant vessel’s keel There lies a yawning grave, Around whose bark the wintry winds Like fiends of fury rave— Oh, while ye feel ’tis hard to toil And labor long hours through, Remember it is harder still ‘To have no work to do. Ho! ye upon whose fevered cheeks The hectic glow is bright, Whose mental toil wears out the day And half the weary night, Who labor for the souls of men, Champions of truth and right— Although ye feel your toil is hard, Even with this glorious view, Remember it is harder still To have no work to do. Ho! all who labor—all who strive— Ye wield alofty power; Do with your might, do with your strength, Fill every golden hour! The glorious privilege to do Is man’s most noble dower. Oh, to your birthright and yourselves, To your own souls be true! A weary, wretched life is theirs Who have no work to do, > + Or <———_—_____- Bintered According to Act of Congress, in the. Year 1892, P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. by Street & Smith, in the Office 3! Rose St. A ae Ave a WANAY \ CY ALYY \ \ \ AY WA S MAY “ EXCELLENT!’ CRIED THE YOUNG MAN. SNOW 3 of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. New York, May 21, MN AT | rT ae mT ny | i | i : | iN iH | | i Iti S= = —— es = ) AMG So RECOGNIZE THE SHAPELY FORM OF LA OF NAPLES HAVE GONE DISTRACTED.” SS WN SN SN Entered al the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter. Three Dollars Per Year, Two Covies Five Dollars. PASTORA, ABOUT WHOM ALL THE GALLANTS red belt at his waist, supporting hi® rapier and stiletto, completed hi® attire. “Signor count,” said the Unknown, who, without removing either his huge hat or tattered cloak, had been contemplating the brave figure of the young soldier with secret admiration, “what is the hour appointed for this meeting with the Amalfi?” “Midnight,” replied the other, look- ing about him impatiently. “Thou hast plenty of time, for it is scarcely half-past ten, and I hear the tramp of. thy : good. steed in the ccurt. Take the broad ‘highway to Pestum, avoiding the short-cut by the mountain pass. Thou wilt heed my advice?” “Faith, I will!” said the other. “It cannot be but good, ifit falls from lips of thine.” “Bravo! Shouldst thou be beset up- on the road, display this, and thou wilt be safe.” He drew a large, curiously shaped ring from one of the fingers of his left hand as he spoke, and gave it to Vi- cenzo, who aceepted it hesitatingly, and was about to reply, when he was cut short by the other exclaiming: “Away! Here comes the good man, Gobbo, to announce that all is in readi- ness. We shall meet again!” He sprang hastily through the main entrance of the hostel, closing the door after, amd Vicenzo thought that he heard the elatter of hurrying hoofs upon the stones without; but just then Gobbo entered, and, seizing his hat and drawing his belt a little tighter, he was immediately occupied with the preparations for his own departure. “Heaven speed thee, signor count!” cried old Gubbo as Vicenzo entered the gloomy court-yard, and sprang upon the back of his pawing steed. “T thank thee, Gobbo! Remember, if any one inquires for me, thou must swear thou hast not set eyes on me for a fortnight!” And, with this parting injunction, Vicenzo put spurs to his horse, and dashed out of the court- gates and along the lonely street, whose loose stones gaye forth a hollow echo to the clatter of the beating hoofs. But he soon passed entirely out of the town upon the level highway, which “waspmuch softer and smoother, and he still spurred forward=btriskly, for, even as he rode, the deep bell of the Church of Saint Bartolomo struck the eleventh hour. The wind still blew fiercely, but starlight and a glimmering of the new moon made their appearance among the: flying fleece-clouds, and, as he soon reached a portion of the broad road where very little rain bad fallen, there was no obstacle to his rapid progress. “Courage, Selim, courage!” mutter- ed the lonely rider, stretching forth his hand, and tenderly patting the curved neck of the magnificent steed La Pastora the Actress By BURKE BRENTFORD, Author of ‘‘ Florence Falkland,” ‘‘Torn from Home,” ‘‘ Lost in New York,” ** A Sister’s Sacrifice ” Ete. CHAPTER I. THE STORM, THE DUEL, AND THE RESCUE. , Peal followed peal in swift succession, the lightning flashed almost incessantly, the rain descended ina perfect deluge, and the steep narrow streets of Salerno were each the bed of) the stranger, while a happy thrust on his| | part sent one of the ruffians reeling back with | a separate torrent, gushing, roaring, and foam- ing to the sea. The night would have been black enough without the tempest, and now each recurring electric flash showed the neighboring Apennines, with Vesuvius in the distance, smoking moodily, and now and then dark outline of the sending up lurid gleams from the fire-throes | of its volcanic heart. Hardly alight appeared in any of the stately palaces and lofty tenements that hemned in the narrow streets of Salerno, and every liv- ing creature was, like enough, glad to seek a shelter from the pouring rain. There were no wayfarers visible anywhere, until finally a lonely figure came toiling along the principal street of the city. It was that of a strong man, protected from the weather by a large dark cloak, which al- most completely enveloped his form, and bending his head against the driving rain as he proceeded. There was theclank of spurs as he advanced with the firm, rapid stride of | one well used to arms, and heedless of the perils of any night, however wild. With the exception of an occasional good-natured anath- } ema bestowed upon the weather and the irregularities of the pavement, he pushed on in silence, and, going up a little ascent in the thoroughfare, began to cross the narrow Vit- toria Bridge, careless of the torrent that roared beneath; but he had barely reached the | opposite side when three armed men sprang | from behina the colonnade of an old palace, where they had lain in wait, and assaulted him furiously. Despite the suddenness of their attack, the stranger did not lose his presence of mind. To spring back, and fall into an angle of the wall, so as to present only his. right side ex- posed tothe weapons of all three, was the work of an instant; to fling cff his cloak and gather its heavy folds round his left arm asa shield was the work of another; and the next instant his drawn rapier glittered in the gloom, and clashed, with all the trained move- » | ments of theskilled fencer, upon the weapons | of his unknown foes. “Pink him quickly in the midriff while I bother his hand, Giardullo!” growled the tall- est of the assassins, as he pressed the stranger | closely with his busy blade “Ha! I should know that voice!” exclaimed a cry of pain, and he kept the remaining two (fully employed. | Just then’ an electric flash of extraordinary vividness revealed each man to each as plainly | |as a shaft of summer sunlight. 1 “Ha!” continued the stranger, still fighting | vigorously ; “it is thou, Marzio! This is the ;} way thy master fights his duels—he would call in aid the hired stiletto before he dares |.the encounter with his own sword—coward ;that he is! Have at thee, thou wolf's cub! thou scum of all earthly scum !” | He struck at the taller assassin so fiercely that he shrank back, defending himself from jthe rapid lunges with the utmost difficulty, j t the wall, where the united attack of tbe pair | soon wearied his arm, skilled and sturdy as it | was. But now the figure of another man is- sued from a neighboring archway. “How now, knaves, cowards! Two swords | against one!” exclaimed the new-comer, in a ; voice of singular depth and richness; | thwack, thwack, fell the repeated blows of | his cudgel upon the shoulders and heads of the assassins, who instantly took to flight, a light- ning:flash revealing their receding forms as they made their way over the bridge, support- ing the form of their wounded comrade, “Lucky chance that I happened to crawl | into yon archway from the tempest !” exclaimed |the rescuer. “Art hurt, signor?” “Not ascratch, thanks to your timely as- | sistance!” replied the stranger, returning his | blade to its scabbard, and wrapping his heavy |cloak once more around ‘his form. “Thank | Heaven I gave one of the villains a mark to |remember me by, forI felt the point of my Pees grind into. his shoulder.” {| They had continued moving on through the jrain, and now reached the entrance to a | palace-court, over which a lantern, swaying {and flickering fitfully in the wind, shed a dim ; radiance, and the stranger had an opportunity |to observe the personal appearance of his | rescuer. He was a tall man, considerably over six feet. with his face completely concealed by the broad brim of his slouching peaked hat, and ; but his comrade quickly made a diversion, and | the stranger was again driven into the angle of | and | | . . | | his strong muscular form was wrapped up in the tattered long cloak usually worn by Neapolitan mendicants of the period; but as the strong gale blew the ragged folds apart, the jeweled hilt of a poniard flashed from a vest of velvet, and his general demeanor showed that his beggar's garb was nothing more than a disguise. At any rate, the stranger thought as much, for, under the lamp, he eyed him said: “T owe thee a good turn for the signal ser- vice thou hast rendered me, friend. Who art thou? I cannot recognize thee in this beggar’s guise, but there is a depth and beauty in thy voice which methinks I have heard before.” the noble head and countenance of a man still in the prime of life, though the coal-black hair which fell in glossy ringlets far down his neck, was here and there threaded with silver, which only added to the austere dignity of his | bearing. The bronzed features of the land- some, intellectual face were large and mas- |} sive, but not too heavy, and were adorned by | a jet-black mustache and close-curling beard; | while his black eyes, bushily browed, were | full of piercing keenness and intelligence. | “Ha! itis what [have prayed for—we meet again!” exclaimed the stranger, joyfully, as his eyes fell upon the noble countenance. “When wilt thou cease heaping thy favors |} upon my head, signor? Am I never to have an opportunity of liquidating the debt?” The other shrugged his shoulders carelessly, |} and resumed his hat. | “Still the same mystery!” cried the other, laughingly. “Thouart the same riddle as thou ithe sabers of the Calabrians in that terrible conflict in the Cassano Pass—just as incom- prehensible as when thy strong sinews bore my bleeding, half-lifeless form up the preci- pices of Mount Aculo, when the hounds of the Swabian were baying in our tracks! thou still incognito? Must I still only regard my deliverer as the good Unknown?” “Thou wilt learn my name ere long, though it may not cause chee joy,” said he of the |ready cudgel. “But now, Count Vicenzo, re- ward any service I may have rendered thee by telling me whither thou goest on this wild night,” The stranger hesitated a moment, and then, as if ashamed at having doubted his deliverer, said frankly: “TI go to Pestum, to meet mine enemy, the Duke of Amalfi, in single combat.” “Pestum! It is fully four leagues from this, signor.” “T know it, but mv steed awaits me at the little hostel of old Gobbo di Guange, at the other end of the street. See! the storm hath spent its fury, and the rain hath already ceased. I shall have a merryride totheruins, and be in good heart for the contest.” “Count Vicenzo, take a fool’s advice, and go not to Pestum to-night.” “Santa Maria! why not?” “Because,” said the Unknown, “the young Duke of Amalfi is a serpent to sting thee un- awares. He has engaged to fight this duel as they paused | narrowly and | The seeming mendicant merely replied by | taking off his huge hat, and thus revealing | wast when by thy brave arm I was saved from | Art | with thee, and yet those villains who but now assaulted thee are his hired murderers.” “True,” replied the other, thoughtfully. |“ But I have given the word of a soldier to ap- |pear af Pestum unattended to-night—he has sworn to do the same, and that in the pres- ence of the noblest gentlemen of Naples—and Iam determined to see this night if there be any honor left in man!” | Amalfi!” said able bitterness in his deep voice; “but, since thou hast given thine honor, I see it would be | As thou | thee. useless to attempt to detain will accom- lsay'st, the rain hath ceased. I pany thee to the hostel of Gobbo.” They proceeded, without further converse, along the lonely street, and finally reached a irregular building on the suburbs, at which Vicenzo, as the stranger had been ad- dressed by his companion, pounded lustily with the heavy cudgel, which he borrowed for the purpose. “Stir thyself! stir thyself, Gobbo!” he cried, as the bent figure of a comical-looking little old man opened the door cautiously, at the same time protecting the taper he from | wos | one and the same time?” “Ay, ay, all in good time, signor count!” said the little old man, inashrill, cheery voice, and ushering both eens into a rude japartment gloomily lighted by an iron lamp |that depended from a staple in the ceiling, | while at the same time he received and ac- knowledged from the Unknown a mysteri- ous sign that was not perceived by the other, who was flinging off his wet cloak,and exchang- ing itfora lighter and dryer one that hung }upon a dresser in one corner of the room. “Ay, ay, signor count!” continued the little old man, hobbling out into a stone-paved court, whence they presently heard his shrill voice calling up the groom. When Vicenzo had thrown off his heavy |cloak, and hung up his hat to dry before the | small fire that twinkled nervously in the great fire-place that took up nearly one entire side of the chamber, he stood forth as gay and gal- lant a young cavalier as one might hope to meet in a month’s campaign. His hair, beard, and mustache were of a light golden hue. and curling closely to his head and face. His features, though almost of Saxon fairness, were of the true Italian type, yet pervaded with a charming air of frankness and ingenuous feeling; his forehead was not lofty, but broad and comprehensive; his eyes were blue as the Gulf of Napies: and large, bold and bright; his head was ried, confidently set, and of noble contour. A single gem glistened upon the little finger of one of his hands, which were small and white; and his strong, muscular form—a trifle above the medium stature—was attired in the rich undress of a military captain of the period—a tight-fitting doublet and short cloak of dark purple, slashed and frogged with claret-color- ed satin and gold-lace, and heavy riding boots, with silver spurs. This, with the gold chain of Italian knighthood round his neck, and the | low, “Hast forgotten my steed, or dost thou “There never was a spark in the bosom of an | the Unknown, with inconceiv- | carried | the random gusts of the expiring tem- |} ive in thy hostel at Naples and Salerno at | 1igh-car- | he bestrode. | The animal was a snow-white one, and | every hair of his glossy coat, every line of his | symmetrical form, every snort of his strong nostrils, bespoke the purity of his Andalusian blood. He seemed to be perfectly intimate with his master, and gave utterance toa low whinny of satisfaction, as he heard the voice of his rider and felt the smooth, gentle hand toying with his floating mane. The country for the first half of the distance was rocky and sterile, but after passing | through the one street of the dirty little vil- lage of Battipaglia, and crossing the small river that traverses the plain a short distance | beyond, vast level fields of half-ripe wheat }and maize stretched on either side of the | white, glistening road, which, but for the im- mobility of the standing grain, might have put one in mind of the path of the Exodus | through the Red Sea. But Vicenzo thought of nothing but the | brigands—whose favorite places of concealment were these immense fields waving with grain taller than a man’s head—and, anxious to | keep his appointment at Pestum, took advan- | tage of the excellent road to spur forward yet more vigorously. But he had not proceeded more than a league | through the grain-fields before the alarming order “Halt!” was called out in a clear, ring- |ing voice, and Selim reared almost on his | haunches as a dozen armed men arose before him, as if by magic, and leveled their car- | bines at his master’s head | WVicenzo glanced about him, and saw to his astonishment that over fifty men were swarm- ing through the wheat on either side of the road, with carbines in their hands and loud, shrill halloos on their tongues. But he had been bred a soldier. To draw his rapier and gather Selim together for a desperate rush through the brigands was the work of an in- stant. “Off, dogs, wretches!” shouted Vicenzo, flourishing his sword over his head, while his eyes blazed with the fierce delight of conflict. The next instant he would have driven his spurs into Selim’s flanks, and his doom would have been surely sealed, had not he who acted as the captainof the band noticed the curious ring—the gift of the Unknown—flash in the moonlight on the upraised hand of the rider. “Hold!” he cried, with a gesture which caused every carbine to be instantly lowered, and an alteration in his voice that made Vicenzo lower his weapon and withhold bis rash purpose, in some surprise. “Signor, who gave thee that quaint-cut gem that sparkles | upon the third finger of thy sword-hand?” | “Oh, that,” replied Vicenzo, his attention now for the first time called to the ring, “that is the gift of mine unknown friend and de- |liverer, whom I met but an hour ago disguised |as a mendicant in Salerno’s streets. “Enough! signor, thou art free! Forgive lus that we dared impede the progress of one | honored with our great chieftain’s confidenee, |but it was the result of our ignorance. The | hand of the world is against us, our bands are against the world. We cannot be too cautious in these troublous times, signor.” Vicenzo answered in the same courteous strain, for, if the truth were spokén, he was ew Story by the Author of “Nick Carter,” will soon be commenced. - aad te ee ea en ae eran b-# He took ‘| mental relics surrounded glad enough to thus easily get out of the des- perate scrape that had threatened him, and he proceeded along the road at a leisurely pace, the captain of the brigands walking familiarly beside his horse, and the rest folowing with every mark of respect. “Tell me, captain,” said Vicenzo, thinking this an excellent opportunity to fathom a mys- tery that had long puzzled him, “what is the name of the-donor ofthis ring which-.yeall ap- |- pear to respect so deeply?” Butthe other hesti- tated, and» made no reply. “Santa Maria !:’ continued the horseman, laughing; “one would think he might be that famous and half-mythical personage, Beldiayolo himself, from all this mummery one meets. Well, I suppose the name of my unknown friend must remain a secret with me to my death.” “If it would. have been best for thee to know, signor, thou wouldst have learned it ere this,” said the other eoldly, and. Vicenzo took adyan- tage- of this opportunity offered him‘for not- ing the personal appearance of the wild fel- lows surrounding him, They were strong, bronzed men of every age, from the beardless youth of eighteen or twenty to the old-time bandit of three-score, grizzly- locked and “bearded like a pard.” They were all dressed in the picturesque garb of close- fitting jacket, breeches and loose-legged boots of the tawny, untanned bullocks hide, and with the tall sugar-loafed, broad-brimmed hat of heavy felt, equally efficacious in the sultry plains and among the mountain snows. Most of them carried in addition cloaks of heavy, dark material, supplied with a large hood for the protection of the head while sleeping. All were ubimed with carbines and: stilettos, and sonie, in’ addition, carried in their belts pistols whose stocks were exquisitely inlaid with ivory or pearl. _ The brigands made no impertinent inquiry into the young soldier’s business, and only ac- companied him as far as a little rivulet, which brawled across the dry road with a musical clatter, Bidding them adieu, Vicenzo again spurred forward rapidly, for far away, a little over a league, to the south, he could see the outlines of the ruined Basilica and Temple of Neptune at Pestum, and he feared that he might be too late. country grew more arid and desolate, the fieids of blossoming wheat disappearing as he proceeded. Vicenzo had frequently visited the famous ruins before, but they had never appeared to him so mournful as now. The Basilica, the best preserved of the two edifices, looked unspeakably lonely, with its vast roofless system of mighty columns, over which the ivy and other wild vines clambered in profusion ; the still more forlorn Temple of Neptune, a little to the left, loomed up, dark and forbidding, from thé sandy ground, in all the mournful majesty of broken arch and shattered colonnade; and, scarcely a quarter of a league behind them, the rugged moun- tains rose in irregular spurs and precipitous elevations running eastward to link the flat Salerno plain with the regular Apennine range. As the rider slackened his pace, the gaunt figure of a wolf trotted across his sandy path, and, with a surly look askance, fled toward | the mountains. For some reason’ Vicenzo regarded this in- cident as an unhappy omen, but he was of too fresh and buoyant a nature to ve long de- pressed by any surroundings. Hedismounted, tethered hig steed to the fragment of a fallen entablature which lay in the shadow of the Basilica, and then strode boldly into the in- terior of the ruin, though with his hand on his rapier, and a wary glance on each side, for he was too much of an [talian not to admitthe possibility of treachery at every turn. But the vast ruin appeared to be utterly de- serted. The vivid moonshine, now unobseured by asingle cloud in the firmament, flooded the weed-grown marble floor and ancient an- tique stones of the temple, and ghostly still- ness pervaded the mighty columns except for the sound of his own echoing steps. “This is the appointed spot,” muttered Vicenzo, as he paused in frontof a small shat- tered shrine that lay near the center of the in- closure; “this is che spot, and mine enemy is yaa weerat but I may bea little before the t | | t | | a seat upon a fra glancing abou him, -and,’ 1 3u pon the remote past, whose monu- im. . Suddenly the clatter of a eee hoofs on the arid road without quickly recalled him to the contemplation of the present, and, spring- ing to his feet, he flung aside his cloak, grasped the hilt of his rapier, and -stood in readiness. The sound of hoofs grew nearer and nearer, then ceased where the road diverged into the loose sand, and, a moment later, the dark figure of a man hastily entered the temple and strode toward the solitary form in waiting at the ruined altar’s foot. “So, thou art before me,” said the new- veel tnae| ve eifup to comer, casting aside his cloak, and laying his hand upon his sword. “Yes, my lord duke,” replied Vicenzo, with a shade of sarcasm in his voice. “She storm detained me at Salerno, but I have been wait- ing here for some time.” A stronger contrast to Vicenzo’s frank, free mien and almost florid fairness, than that pre- sented by the new-comer it would have been difficult to imagine. He appeared to be about the same age—say, three and twenty—but was fully an inch taller, of slender build, and a complexion as swarthy asa Moor. His hair aud mustache were straight, coarse, and jet- black, as were also his small, pierceing eyes, and there was a peculiarly disagreeable expres- } sion perpetually haunting his lips which gave a sinister air to his whole countenance, while the black silk of which his doublet and _ short- cloak were composed, s!ashed and trimmed with the deepest, darkest crimson, were in gloomy pied eat with the general Mephisto- phelean somberness of the man. “T was also detained at my villa at Rotini, or thou shouldst not have been able to twit me with tardiness,” said he, while the bad, treacherous smile gave place to fluttering anger on his lip. “Most likely,” said Vicenzo, in a contemptu- ous tone, “the chief cause of detention, on the part of his gracious highness, the most valiant and noble Duke of Amalfi, was the business of setting his assassins inSalerno. ‘Their success would have effectually saved him the trouble of keeping his word of honor in this little mat- ter which at last we meet to settle.” “Sirrah! what dost thou insinuate?” said the Black Duke, as he was often called. “T insinuate nothing,” exclaimed Vicenzo, his anger roused at the recollectioon of his re- cent.adventure in Salerno; “but boldly tell thee, titled caitiff that thou art, that three of thy paid murderers, headed by Marzio, the Calabrian, attempted my life scarce two hours gone atthe Vittoria Bridge. lt is not the fault of the Duke of Amalfi that his enemy is here to meet him to-night.” “T know nothing of Marzio being at Salerno, but thought him to be with my princely father at Castelamare, where I. left him two days ago,” said the Black Duke, stung to the quick by the scathing contempt in Vicenzo’s tone. “Oh!” he continued bitterly; “is it not enough that I should agree to soil my ancient name by condescending to this duel with a common adventurer, whose insignificant title is merely a courtesy of the camp, that I must be thus maligned in my, motives?” “Call me whoa thou wilt,” cried Vicenzo, recklessly; “adventurer, freebooter, whatso- ever it pleaseth thee! IL lay no claim to other than I am, a soldier of fortune whose services in the recent wars even the haughty Bourbon, the friend of thy accursed race, does not scruple to recognize, and who would not ‘change the luster of his humble name for all ‘the age and glory of the Amalfi, dimmed and bloody as it is with secret crime!” “ Ha i : The Black Duke’s blade flew from its sheath, and he tried to stab his adversary. before he had time to unsheath his weapon; but.Vicenzo was too quick for him. Springing back with: the agility of a deer, he avoided the treacher- * ous thrust, and the next instant his rapier clashed against his enemy’s steel. “Coward !” exclaimed Vicenzo, as,the strong blood of the soldier mounted to his fair cheeks ; “centuries of sounding*titles could not ennoble such a craven wretch as*thou ! cur! were every column of this ruin a covert for his assassins!” He Gashed at his-adversary so fiercely that the latter, though exhibiting almost equal skill at arms, stood entirely upon the defense, and with great difficulty warded off the des- perate lunges of his foe. “Coward! unspeakable coward!" cried Vicenzo; “thou hast a cuirass under thy vest! Thrice-ere this my weapon should have pierced thy heart! But have acare! those cunning eyes of thine are but windows to thy brain!” He again attacked him with fiery earnest- ness, and the Black Duke, finding that he must speedily succumb before the superior physical force of his adversary, placed the fin- gers of his left hand to his. lips, and gave ut- terance to a low peculiar whistle. Instantly, a dozen armed men glided silently, as if by magic, from behind the’ruined corner of the temple into which he had been com- pelléd to retreat, and Vicenzo staggered back in amazement at this evidence of threachery, for which even he was unprepared. 7 “Upon him, bravos! Cut the caitiff down!” cried the Black Duke, his face growing still swartbier in its demoniac hue, as now for the first time, he rushed forward to assume the of- fensive, while his followers closed around his adversary with their weapons bared. “Come on!” shouted Vicenzo,enraged beyond all bounds; and, without lowering the point of his rapier, he snatched a pistol from his belt with his left hand, and fired. ; The bullet missed-the Black Duke, but~ the brawny ruffian immediately in his rear threw up his hands, and” fell forward with a groan. The duke, however, did not er the pistol itself, which, hurled as a missile from the soldier's hand, struck him such a terrible blow on the shoulder as to all but paralyze the use of his sword-arm. But his followers closed round Vicenzo, and, despite his desperate courage, his doom seemed surely sealed, when a volley of shots suddenly echoed from the side of the ruin to which his back was turned, and two more of his op- ponents bit the dust. “Courage, signor count !” cried a well-known voice of richness and power; and, reinvigor- ated by the assurance of assistance close at hand, Vicenzo stretched another of his would. be murderers lifeless at his feet, while the re- mainder wavered an instant, and then, lead by their master, precipitately fled before a charge of about twenty brigands, who sur- rounded the young soldier so suddenly that he could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses. “Ah!” he exclaimed, still more bewildered as he perceived his quondam friend of the beggar's cloak and oaken cudgel moving among them with anair of authority; “still more mystery! Again I owe my lifeto thee, my un- known friend—my good angel, I might more appropriately term thee !” “Make no attempt at pursuit—they have a larger force down the road!” commanded the Unknown, directing the movements of the brigands, and paying no attention whatever to Vicenzo. ortunato, have these bodies stripped, and then send on Ignacio with the steeds. I shall remain at Montecorvino for a number of days, and thou wilt hear of me, if necessary, from Benedetto. Come, signor,” he continued. now for the first time turning to Vicenzo; “follow me with all speed! Thereis greater danger menaced than even that which thou hast just so luckily escaped.” “Say, rather, that from which thou hast so nobly snatched me!” exclaimed the young man gratefully; but the other made no reply, and he followed him out of the ruin wonderingly, leaving the brigands behind tostrip the bodies of the fallen minions. The Unknown lead the way directly toward the mountains, proceeding with long, rapid strides over the sandy soil. He still wore his tattered cloak, but Vicenzo now brazen end of a sword-s« ; e: vy cutibersome hat én place to one of lighter and gayer appearance. - “Have uo thought for the safety of thy steed, signor,” said the Unknown, who ap- peared to have the faculty of reading one’s thoughts before they were given utterance; “he will be on hand when needed. Thou canst neither return to Salerno nor Naples for a few days. The retainers of thy patron, the Prince of Capua, hada bloody encounter with the Amalfi in the very heart of the capital yester- day afternoon—the affair of to-night will serve to still further incense the king. With me thou art safe as if buried in the earth.” “Art thou spirit or mortal that thou canst know what transpired in Naples yesterday afternoon?” exclaimed the soldier in astonish- ment; for the distance from the Neapolitan capital to Salerno was fully thirty miles, and steam and electricity were as yet undreamed. “My knowledge is not so miraculous as it | seems, and_ thou thyself mayst fathom it ere long,” said the Unknown, still further ac- celerating his pace, es CHAPTER II. THE CAVERN OF THE SORCERESS—BELDIA- VOLO AT HOME. The brisk pace they were maintaining, de- spite the heavy sand into which their feet sank at every step, soon brought Vicenzo and his guide at the feet of the lesser mountains, and they immediately began the ascent, Well-schooled as he had been to warfare among the lofty ranges of his native land, Vicenzo discovered that he was no match for his guide, who ran up and down. the steep acclivities with the speed and confidence of a mountain goat. He also appeared to possess as keen a vision for the darkness as for the light, and the vanishing of the moon and stars behind a passing cloud made not the slightest difference to him, while his hearing was so acute that he would frequently pause, and en- join silence by placing his fingers on his lip, when Vicenza could detect no sound calcu- lated to excite apprehension. At length, after clambering about half-way up a particularly steep slope, through a dense forest of beachen trees, they emerged upon a tolerable mule-path. Thisled them toa broad, smooth shelf of rock, which formed a natural piazza to a cavern whose entrance was closed by a rude door, set in the solid rock. A little rivulet of pure water also babbled brightly from the mountain-side, and leaped over the ledge with a merry shout which sounded strangely in the prevere stillness. The Unknown knocked at the door with his cudgel, and it was presently opened bya wild- eyed woman of middle age, who, after makin her lowest obeisance, admitted the twain, anc Vicenzo discovered, to his. surprise, that the interior of the cavern was a comfortably fur- nished apartment, with evidenees of other chambers leading from it on either side and to the rear. The air had grown perceptibly colder as they had ascended from the valley, and the bright fire. that crackled merrily in a rude hearth at one corner was not the least cheerful feature of the cave. Two carbines and several pistols formed the chief garniture of .the walls; there was a plain dresser in one corner, and in the center asmall table, surrounded by several three-legged stools. Obeaient toa gesture from the Unknown, Vicenzo took one of the stools, and seated him- self before the grateful blaze, and watched, with undisguised admiration, the splendid physique of the former, as he cast aside his hat and cloak. His jacket was of the true brigand cut, though of coarse green material, and well calculated to display the magnificent develop- ment of.his massive chest and sinewy arms; but his vest was of embroidered velvet, dark crimson ‘in hue, and the heavy chain that hung round his neck, linking with the jeweled Have at thee, | I will rid Amalfi of its gloomy duke, | n ¢ cr = ne BIEL, trousers, which fell loosely to the silken. gar- ters that fastened:them just below the kuee, were also of superior material; the gayly ribboned stockings displayed a calf of match- less symmetry and grace; and even his low- cut heavy shoes were of soft material, and elegantly made. This striking form, combined with the aus. tere. handsome face, the coal-black, rinelets just perceptibly interspersed with silver strands, and generally noble, though unaf- fected, demeanor, formed, in the ‘young man’s mind one of the most striking and - romantic portraits he had ever beheld. “We are on our way to Montecorvino, Alda- belfa,” said the Unknown, ‘also taking a seat at the fire; “and a little bread and wine would be most acceptable to both the signor and myself.” : “IT will serve thee at onee, captain,” said the wild-eyed: woman, opening the dresser, and setting..some rude platters upon the table, while the observant Vicenzo watched her with considerable curiosity. She had at one time undoubtedly been very handsome, and the remains of an old-time beauty still lingered in her wasted cheeks and strange dark eyes... Her dress was that of the well-to-do peasant woman of the district, sin- ears distinguished by asmall dagger, which angled. from aslender chain at her waist. Her hair appeared much older than her face, for it was silver-white, and’ not very neatly arranged either; and there was in both: her mien and movements, an air of mystery, which she appeared to take pains in preserving. “Well, Aldabella,” said the Unknown,: un- bending a little in his austerity, “how goes thy unholy trade? Do the fine ladies of the ret still seek thee to have their fortunes to 9” ; “Ah, no, capt” replied the sorceress, as she appeared to be, “the war hath upset every- thing, and it isa rare ducat that comes to my pouch. Doniella!” In obedience to this summons, one of the inner doors of the cavern opened, and, with a respectful bow to the Unknown and an off- hand courtesy to his companion, there entered a girl whose singular beauty would have ex- cited comment in a group of the loveliest women of the earth. She was about eighteen—at any rate, not a year older—and her half-peasant, half-brigand- ess costume, of low-cut, tight titting bodice of dark-green stuff, and short, gayly striped petticoat, charmingly displayed a form in which robust health and_ delicate symmetry were perfectly blended. Her magnificent hair was the darkest brown, as werealso her splen- did eyes; her features were perfectly regular, of the clearest, brightest olive, and brimful of lively expression; and the half-parting of her ripe lips disclosed two rows of teeth, which each appeared a separate pearl. 7icenzo flushed, and his eyes glistened as they rested upon this superb and picturesque creature, whom he had seen somewhere be- fore, but exactlly where and when he could not recollect. (TO BE CONTINUED.) ANITA, THE DANSEUSE, BY MRS. E. A. HANDLEN. The prompter’s bell rings, the full notes of the orchestra crash outon the perfumed air, the sup- pressed hum of voices and the soft frou-frou of fans cease, the curtain rises swiftly, there is a sound of castanets in the air, and Anita bounds on the stage with the grace and beauty of—Anita alone. For there is nothing to which I can compare her, save her glorious self. Rather above the medium height, slender, but not thin. A face that attracts and repels. An olive skin, clear and colorless, long, black almond-shaped eyes, a delicate, patrician nose, with tinely curved seusitive nostrils, lips always a bright crimson, the upper short and curved like those of the 2 ; soaftold $0 “tise nourcea thes flincentug step, and a smik i abbard protruding | she leved, and you could fancy her driving the sitee! old Greek apy aj r black as night, with a purple bloom in its wrsles. You could bélievé, ber Feapa in fa Di0ge; With ak ou herimouth, to Save one of her poniard home to the heart of that same loved one should he prove faithless. As yet Anita had no lovers. Admirers by the score, But when they began to speak of love she curled her lips scornfully, and answered them in words to match her scornful smile. If that did not repel them she opened her almond eyes full wpon thein, and in few words gave them to understand beyond all doubt that there was no hope, that she did not wish to marry. And they slunk away, wondering how it was that Anita, who was so bright and quick in all else, could be so dull in affairs of the heart. Marriage in- deed! But none had the temerity to undeceive her. Her mother had been dead a year, and a little over, when our story opens. Bright, beautiful Rosa Ca- mancho, She had not the high-bred, patrician air of Anita, but she was a thousand times more beautiful. A fairer skin, arounded, dimpled form, and a head of dusky gold, over which all Spain went mad. She was a danseuse, like Anita, and it was whis- pered--there was a rumor—— Bah! who that has beauty escapes slander? And Rosa was very beauti- ful and a danseuse. Anita’s father died when she was an infant, so she was told, and the death of her mother left her quite alone. To her, her mother was an angel, and her death left Anita desolate. Anita comes before them to-night, her beautiful libs visible to the knees, a short silken skirt of red, a black velvet bodice, a high, narrow comb at the back of her dusky head, a lace vail thrown in true Spanish fashion over it, one red rose at her breast. She bends low, and smiles brightly to their applause, and then her lithe form sways gently, gracetully to the rhythm of the orchestra. When the dance is finished, sie is deafened with applause, she is showered with bouquets of beautiful flowers. She stoops to gather them, when from a private box on her right, a bouquet all of roses, red roses, her favorites, is tossed to her, striking her lightly on her breast as it falls. She raises her eyes and meets the earnest gaze of the donor, a fair-haired, blue-eyed Envglisliman. Anita gathers them all hastily, and retires, trem- bling in every limb, The curtain falls, the orchestra plays, the people talk of her fora moment. What graee! what beauty! They never observed until to-night just how beautiful Anita is; sheis always so colorless. But to-night, wher she gathered her flowers, she was almost as lovely as poor Rosa, her mother. Andit was all owing to the bright dash of crimson that came to her cheeks. Why does she not rouge? Being a danseuse, she could do that sortof thing and be none the worse. What does it matter what a danseuse does? And then the conversation drifts to the play, or a little bit of scandal. And Anita! Sheis pale enough now, trembling still, and with an angry gleam in her black eyes. “Is she inher dotage, that a pairof blue eyes should call the blood to her cheeks like that?” She rises hastily, strips off the gaudy skirt and its belongings, and presently emerges from her dressing- room, a tall, slender figure, all in somber black. As she crosses the stage at the back, her manager speaks to her, “One moment, please, allow me. Lord Erskine, let me present you to Anita Camancho.” And the donor of the roses bows low before her, *« * * * * Three months later. The voice of Mrs. Grundy, orrather Mr. Grundy. And, by the way, why Mrs. Grundy should always gain credit for all the smart, bitter things that are said, I¢annot imagine. I can assure you I go through life with my ears wide open, and Mr. Grundy tells me more ill-natured gossip of my neighborsin a month, than does madam, his spouse, in a year. First Speaker.—“There goes Lord Erskine’s turn-out. Bang up, isn’tit? And Anita with him as usual. By Jove! that girl plays her cards well, She knew her value, and still held aloof. The result?” Second Speaker.—‘Aw, there can be but one, you know. Erskine would never think of marrying the girl, and the Camancho is too sensible to expectit, I should say.” First Speaker.—‘1 think you make a slight mistake there, old fellow. And if Erskine makes the same— well. Heaven help him. For Anita has a sleeping devil in her eye that I should not care to arouse.” Second Speaker.—“‘Aw, that’s justit. As you say, old boy, she has a sleeping devil in her eye; and on one occasion when Lattempted to pass my arm play- fully around her Waist; I, aw, thought him remark- ably wide awake. Dused absurd for a danseuse, you know. What do you say toa game of billiards?’ And they pass on, -A faint echo from Mrs. Grundy. “Why, I had no idea Anita danced to-night, or I assure you, my dear Mrs. Shallow, I should not have come. Of course when they all praised her prudence. and all that sort of thing, I never believed a word of it. But one must be amused. However, the creature has flaunted this affair so shamelessly in our faces, Driving and dining in public, and allthat, you know, that really—— Bah! let us go elsewhere.” poniard at his belt, was of- virgin gold., His Apable, of akcending the}. > UN-} is tat. at the door, and for whom is it waiting ?” “Don't you know! Why, where have you kept yourself this month of Sundays? Itis Lord Ers- kine’s carriage, and it waits—for Rosa’s own daugh- ter." Of such men assassins are made. The stone flung at Anita would not suffice. The poor dead mother must cOmein for a fling. It was “pure womanly” according to the world’s judgment. “Do not turn away. I donot wonder you are tired of listening to those mouth-pieces of the world.. I will only'ask you to -pay one. more Visit to-night. To Anita herself. Here we are. Ah! step back: and close the door softly. In her snowy vobe de net, this danseuse, ‘Rosa’s own daughter,” kneels and prays, pousivns and Madame Grundy, go ye and do like- wise. Pray the good Lord in His mercy to forgive your evil hearts and slanderous tongues, * * * * * * * x “Anita, most fascinating of women, Ihave some- thing I wish to say. to you. I never thought a woman could affect me as. you have done. Day and night you are in my thoughts. Ido not seem to live save when [am with you. You haunt mein my dreams. Tamunhappy when [I am not: with you. Is not this love, my Anita? And-will you not love me in return ?” ; “Ah, Ernest, my loved one, have you not known long ere this, that this heart of mine was all thine own? [could notdrive the glad blood from my cheek as itleaped there at the sound of your voice. your footfall, nor the gladness* and joy trom my eyes. And [ would not, if | could. Every word, thought, breathis thine. But, ob, my beloved one, [ need to be an angel to be worthy of your love and your name—and Lam, alas! but a poor littledanseuse! Whata necromanceris love! I used to think that to be premier danseuse at the Grand Theater, one had a right to be proud, that it was a position to work for, and to glory in. Now I am ashamed of it.” He dves not hear her, has heard nothing since those words, “I need to be an angel to be worthy of your love and your name,” fellon his ear. Can she be so blind ? He glances at her face. Oh, the bright halo that love had flung roundit! Yes, it is clear she thinks so, thathe has laid at her feet the proud old name he bears, and with that smile on her lips and in her eyes, he cannot undeceive her. * * * * es * That night, as Anita steps out on her balcony, at the Palace Hotel, her own name, in the yoice so dear to her, falls on the listening ear. “Anita, you refer to, ho Goubt. Now, see here, old fellow, don’t make any mnistake. There is no better, purer girlin the world—than Anita, not among your people or my own. Iwas first attracted by her beauty, which is incomparable.. Then, when I knew her better, by her own intrinsic merit—and, I con- fess, were it not for my father, who would cut me off with a shilling were I to make such a mesalliance, I would marry her to-morrow. As itis, it is out of the question to marry her—quite impossible—equally im- possible to give herup. The crisis!” Anita gropes her way blindly through the open window into her apartinent, whispering softly: “Impossible to marry her. sible to marry her!’ Anita.” And they find her there the following day, a pon- iard up to its hilt in her young heart, her eyes wide open, and wearing a look of horror, an awtul smile on the sweet dead mouth. Thus died Anita, ‘‘Rosa’s own daughter.” GARRIED BY STORM. By MRS. MAF AGNES FLEMING, Auther of “‘Norine’s Revenge,” ‘‘Shaddeck Light,” *““Wedded, Yet No Wife,” ‘‘A Little Queen,” Etc. Then itis time for thee to (“CARRIED BY STORM” was commenced in No. 20. Back nhulibers can be Obtained of all News Agents.) : CHAPTER VII. THE TRAGEDY AT SLEAFORD’S, And at Brightbrook? It chances that Mr. Giles Sleaford is absent from the bosom of his family while all these disastrous affairs going on. Mr. Slea- i\ford is a patron of the, ring, and a+ pugilistic Rncounter™ for! the champtonsliip’ of a town ar | Some forty miles away takes place about this | time. aie In company with some other congenial souls, deeply, swearing roundly, and using his own fists—mawlers, Mr. Sleaford terms them-- freely when occasion offers. Andso it falls out that for nine days after the flight of | Joanna, that flight remains a secret to Black Giles. On the evening of that ninth day Mr. Slea- ford returns to his home and family, blacker der, though by no means a wiser man, curs- ing his luck, his eyes, the road, the weather, to each, as he jogs along. The road is certainly rutty, the weather especially gloomy and raw. A keen January wind is blowing, and driving the sleet in fierce, slanting lines into Mr. Sleuford’s in- flamed and whisky-bleared eyes. A great bitterness is upon him; the vanity of all things earthly, of P. R. set-to’s in par- ticular, has been forced upon him rudely. ‘Ihe man he has backed has been beaten, shame- fully and hopelessly, and put in chancery in three rounds. Put not your trust in prize fighters, has been sadly brought home to Mr. Giles Sleaford. He ambles on, on his jaded horse, stopping at every “pub,” until, as the.black and _ sieety winter night is closing in, he reaches the Red Farm. The cheery light of fire and lamp streams far out over the iron-bound road; warmth.and the savory smell of supper greet him. But Mr. Sleaford’s paternal greeting is growled out, strongly impregnated with whisky fumes, and is a gruff command for Joanna to come and pull off his boots. His (adjective) hands are so (adjective) froze that biess his (adjective) eyes, if he can do it himself! There is a pause; Jud and the two girls ex- change glances. They are all afraid of their father except Dan; and Dan at the present moment is not there. Neither is Joanna, Mr. Sleaford sees, but in her place isa strapping country lass of fifteen or so, whom he eyes with surly amaze and disfavor. “Well, bless my (adjective) eyes!” repeats Mr. Sleaford, ferociously, “what the —— do you mean, by standin’ there like a passell of stuck pigs, and starin’! Why the — you call that gal?” “Looky here, dad,” says Jud, to whom the girls mutely appeal, “it’s no good making a row, but Joanna ain’t here. She’s cut and run—there!” “Hey?” roars Giles Sleaford, staring in fierce amazement at his son. “True as gospel, dad—cut and run a week— nine days ago—with George Blake.” and hat, and Liz’s shaw]!” chimes in Lora. “Went off at break of day, to New York, with Blake,” continued Jud, plucking up heart of grace to face bis formidable father. “Cut Dan’s head open with a horsewhip first, and all for wanting her to sing at Watjen’s.” Giles Sleaford’s jaw drops; his eyes start as if about to fail from their sockets. He is still “far wide”—he only takes in the one blank fact that Joanna has fun away. “This is how it was,” goes on Jud, seeing his parent’s mystification. And thereupon gives a dispassionate and perfectly correct version of the whole proceed- ing. He does not spare Dan; in his heart Jud exults in the pluck Joanna has shown, and chuckles inwardly whenever -he looks at his brother’s wound. He, himself, has never lifted his hand to the girl. Giles Sleaford listens in dead silence. Even after his son has done, he sits staring with open mouth and eyes, quite rigid and mute. This is so unexpected and thrilling that the Misses Sleaford exchange apprehensive looks; they have expected an outburst of rage and red-hot oaths—they hear neither. Behind the scenes.—“‘T say; Mordaunt, whose coupe j ey THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. $32 2* v0. usa With a snap, Black Giles’ jaws come to- gether again, as the chops of a dog close overa bone. Then he takes down his short black pipe, and slowly begins to load it to the muz- zle—all without a word of comment. Helights up, fills the kitchen with volumes of smoke, always in awful and ominous silence. Presently Dan comes in, and his father eyes ina peculiar way the longitudinal strip of plaster that adorns his brow. No greeting, ex- cept a grumbling sort of grunt on. Dan’s part, is exchanged. _Mr. Sleaford sits buried in profound reflec- tion. Supper is announced; strong and savory, as it is in the nature of the Sleaford repasts to be. Fried beefsteak smothered.in onions and grease, mashed potatoes, het buckwheat cakes, and tea, Giles takes out his pipe, and falls to, with the sharp-set air ofa man who has traveled forty miles, and who does not permit the loss of two hundred dollars, and a household drudge, to impair hisappetite. But the Sleaford family are, one and all, valiant trenchermen and women. ; Seen through the lighted windows, itis a cheerful picture enough of rough, homely com- fort: and abundatice—the bountifully spread table, the five healthy, dark-skinned, highly- colored faces—but the repast is eaten in per- fect silence, except a few whispered remarks between the girls. Outside, the sleet is still lashing the glass, and the night has fairly closed in, in dense darkness and storm. This is the subject of the whispers, anda matter of some concern to the Misses Sleaford, who are due at a dance some few miles up the village, and the unpleasant weather is something of a daniper to their expected enjoyment. After supper, still without a word, Giles gets up, buttons his rough coat, puts on his fur cap, twists some yards of red scarf about his neck, and leaves the house. The young people look at each other uneasily. “Did you tell the old man?” asks Dan. “Jud did,” says Lora, “and he never said a word—not onesingle blessed word. I won- der where he's going?” “What d’ye bet it ain’t to Abbott Wood?” says Jud, carefully putting his beloved fiddle in its case. “That old red rooster up. there knows more about our dad than any one else. He’s going for money. Fe’s been pretty well shook, for I know he backed the Brightbrook Beauty heavy, and he’s gone for another supply of the needful. I thought he’d raise the roof when he heard of Joanna’s bein’ gone; but, |lamb! I wonder where Jo is, to-night” die, | bless your eyes, he took it like Mary’s little “Yes, I wonder!” says Liz, viciously. “I fie said that—impos- | wish I had her here for about ten minutes; I would pay her out for my beautiful new red shawl.” Ifthey could have seen Joanna at that mo- ment, they would have seen her “going on” in the trainof Mlle. Azelma, and facirg a New York German audience for the first time. “Tf you gals are coming, come,” growls Dan. “IT ani going to get round the sleigh, so be ready, as 1 won’t wait—mind that.” The young ladies hurry off, giving sundry directions to Joanna’s successor, the stout- limbed rustic maiden, at present supping off the fragments of the feast.. They will not be home until morning; she need not sit up for father, and she is to have breakfast for them, savory and hot, when they return in the morn- ing about six. Then they ascend to their chamber to adorn themselves for the dance, envelope themselves in shawls and “clouds,” and finally stow themselves away in the back seat of the sleigh, and are driven through the white whirling storm to their destination. Their father, meantime, has reached his, which proves to be, as Jud has predicted, Ab- bott Wood. He still maintains that ominous composure which has so surprised his family, but there is a fierce light of dogged determina- tion in his sinister eyes. Itis something more .than comnion that takes him to Abbott Wood. i tered that -He is going there again, through darkness, pand tempest, and wind, and this time. too; its Giles is on the spot, betting heavily, drinking | | grinds his teeth, and shakes his fist at it, as Since he first became the tenant of the Red Farm, fully six years before, he has only en- ouse once—one other stormy night, master shall do his bidding, or he, Giles, will know the reason why. As before, Joanna is the cause that brings him, He reaches the house, a huge black bulk in the darkness, but few lights to be seen. He he rings a peal that brings two startled men- servants hurriedly to the door. “Is your master in?” he surlily demands. The men stare, but the fierce, black-bearded face commands civility, and an answer, Not in. At Brightbrook. Dinner-party. Will be back to-night, but do not know when. “You’re sure he ain’t in?” says Giles, eying the men in a way that makes them step hur- than usual, more savage tban usual, a sad- | ixi Fee Pag |} common particular.’ and prefixing the British adjective “bloody” | °° mon p don’t | two, and both seem to be talking together. | Now she recognizes the voice of her master— | the other is unknown, “And stole all our things—my new silk suit | riedly back. “’Cause why? You’ll save him some trouble if he is, by tellin’ him Giles | Sleaford is here, and wants to see him, un- He is not in, both men assure him, with the earnestuess of personal alarm. “Hah! Werry well, then. When he does ;come in, you tell him this: ‘Giles Sleaford’s been here,’ ses you. ‘Giles Sleaford,’ ses you, ‘come through all this here bloomin’ storm a-purpose to see you to-night, and he must see you to-night. Giles Sleatoid,’ you ses, ‘left them words—must see you to-night. He can’t wait, leastways he won’t not here, but he’ll wait for you at his own place,’ you ses, ‘till after one o’clock, and you’d bet- ter come! Them,’ you ses, ‘was Giles Slea- ford’s own expressions.’ You tell your mas- ter them words, my man, when he comes from that ’ere dinner-paity.” With which Giles Sleaford turns away, re- mounts his horse, and rides back to the Red Farm. The girl has not retired; she is nodding stupidly over the kitchen stove. With an oath she is dismissed to bed, and goes. She is a dull, lumpish creature, and is frightened to find herself alone with the rats and black beetles, and this savage man. She has Joanna’s little room under the rafters, adjoining Giles’ own, and opposite the two occupied by the Sleaford boys and girls. She gets into bed, and falls fast asleep in a moment, She does not know how longshe sleeps.