24 Capitola's Mother A woman like a dewdrop she was purer than the purist, and her noble heart the noblest, yes, and her sure faith the surest. And her eyes were dark and humid, like the depth in depth of luster, hid in the hair-bell well her trusses, sunnier than the wild drapes cluster, gushed in raven-tinted plenty down her cheeks rose-tinted marble. Then her voice is music, call it the well's bubbling, the bird's warble. Browning Cap? Sir?  What the blazes? You better say what the dust and ashes, I'm bored to death, I'm blue as indigo. There never was such a rummelled place as this, or such a rummelled uncle as you.  Rum, pa, said old Hurricane. Well it is rum, then, nothing ever happens here, the silence deafens me, the plenty takes away my appetite, the safety makes me low. Hum, you are like the bowery boys in times of peace spoiling for a fight. Yes, I am, just decomposing above ground for want of having my blood stirred, and I wish I was back in the bowery, something was always happening there. One day a fire, next day a fight, another day a fire and a fight together. Humph, and you to run with the engine. Don't talk about it, uncle, it makes me homesick, every day something glorious to stir one's blood. Here nothing ever happens, hardly, it has been three days since I caught Black Donald, ten days since he blowed up the whole household. Oh, I wish the barns would catch on fire, I wish thieves would break in and steal, I wish demons run would rise to a flood and play the demon for once.  Capitola, said the old man, very gravely, I am getting seriously uneasy about you. I know I am a ruffled soldier, quite unfit to educate a young girl, and that Mrs. Condiment can't manage you. And all-consult, Mr. Goodwin, he concluded, getting up and putting on his hat, and walking out of the breakfast-room where this conversation had taken place. Cap laughed to herself, I hope it is not a sin, I know I should die of the blues if I couldn't give vent to my feelings, and, tease Uncle. Capitola had scarcely exaggerated her condition. The monotony of her life affected her spirits. The very absence of the necessity of thinking and caring for herself left a dull void in her heart and brain, and as the winter waned the annual spring fever of lassitude and ejection to which mercurial organizations like her own or subject tended to increase the malady that Mrs. Condiment termed, a loneness of spirits. At his wit's end, from the combined feelings of his responsibility and his helplessness in his words case, old Hurricane went and laid to the matter before the reverend Mr. Goodwin. Having reached to the minister's house and found him alone and disengaged in his library, old Hurricane first bound him over to strict secrecy, and then made a clean breast of it, told him where Capitola had brought up, and under what circumstances he had found her. The honest country clergyman was shocked beyond all immediate power of recovering himself. So shocked, in fact, the old Hurricane, fearing he had gone too far, hastened to say, But mind, on my truth as a man, my honor as a soldier, and my faith as a Christian, I declare that that wild, reckless, desolate child has passed unscathed through the terrible ordeal of destitution, poverty, and exposure. She has, sir, she is as innocent as the most daintily sheltered young heiress in the country. She is, sir, and I'd cut off the tongue and ears of any man that said otherwise. I do not say otherwise, my friend, but I say that she has suffered a frightful series of perils. She has come out of them safe, sir. I know it by a thousand signs. What I fear for her is the future. I can't manage her. She won't obey me except when she likes. She has never been taught obedience, nor been accustomed to subordination, and I don't understand either. She rides and walks out alone in spite of all I can do or say. If she were a boy, I'd thrash her. But what can I do with a girl, said old hurricane, in despair? Lock her up in her chamber until she has brought to reason, suggested the minister. Demi, she'd jump out of the window and break her neck, or hang herself with her garters, or starve herself to death. You don't know what an untameable thing she is. Some birds, if caged, beat themselves to death against the bars of their prison. She is just such a wild bird as that. Humph! It is a difficult case to manage, but you should not shrink from responsibility. You should be firm with her. That's just what I can't be with a witch, confound her.  Disobeys me in such a mocking, cajoling, affectionate way. I could not give her pain if her soul depended on it. Then you should try to talk to her. Try moral suasion. Yes, if I could only get her to be serious long enough to listen to me. But you see, Cap isn't sentimental, and if I tried to be, she laughs in my face. But then, is she so insensible to all the benefits you have conferred upon her? Will not gratitude influence her? Yes, so far as repaying me with a genuine affection, fervent caresses, and careful attention to my little comforts can go, but Cap evidently thinks that the restriction of her liberty is too heavy a price to pay for protection and support. The little rogue, think of her actually threatening, in her good humored way, to cite me before the nearest justice, to show cause why I detained her in my house. Well you could easily do that, I suppose, and she could no longer oppose your authority. No, that is just what I couldn't do. I couldn't show any legal rights to detain Capitola. Humpf! That complicates the case very much. Yes, and much more than you think, for I wish to keep Capitola until she is of legal age. I do not wish that she should fall into the hands of her perfidious guardian, until I should be able to bring legal proof of his perfidy. Then it appears that this girl has received foul play from her friends. Foul play, I should think so. Gabriel Lenore has very nearly put his neck into a halter. Gabriel Lenore? Colonel Lenore, our neighbor, exclaimed the minister. Exactly so. Parson, you have given me your word as a Christian minister to be silent forever concerning this interview, or until I give you leave to speak of it. Yes, major, and I repeat my promise. But indeed, sir, you astound me. I will tell you who Capitola is. You, sir, have been in this neighborhood only ten years, and consequently you know Gabriel Lenore only as the proprietor of Hidden House, a widower with a grown son, and as a gentleman of irreproachable reputation and good standing both in the church and in the county. Exactly. A man that pays his pew-rent, gives good dinners, and takes off his hat to women and clergymen. Well, sir, this gentleman of irreproachable manners and morals, this citizen of consideration in the community, this member in good standing with the church, has qualified himself for twenty years' residence in the penitentiary, even if not for the exaltation of a hanged man's halter. Sir, I am inexpressibly shocked to hear you say so, and I must still believe that there is some great mistake. Wait until I tell you, I, Ira Warfield, have known Gabriel Lenore as a villain for the last eighteen years. I tell you so without scruple, and hold myself ready to maintain my words in a field or forum by sword or law. Well having known him so long for such a nave, I was in no manner surprised to discover some six months ago that he was also a criminal, and only needed exposure to become a felon. Sir, sir, this is strong language. I am willing to back it with life, liberty, and sacred honor, as the Declaration of Independence has it. Listen, some sixteen years ago, before you came to take this pastoral charge, the Hidden House was occupied by old Victor Lenore, the father of Eugene, the heir, and of Gabriel, the present usurper. The old man died, leaving a will to this effect, the land at estate, including the coal and iron mines, the Hidden House, and all the negroes, stock, furniture, and other personal property upon the premises, to his eldest son, Eugene, with a proviso that if Eugene should die without issue, the land at estate, houses, negroes, etc., should descend to his younger brother, Gabriel. To Gabriel he left his bank stock and blessing. An equitable will observed the minister. Yes, but here, at the time of his father's death, Eugene was traveling in Europe. On receiving the news he immediately returned home, bringing with him a lovely young creature, a mere child, that he presented to his astounded neighbors, as Madame Eugene Lenore. I declare to you there was one simultaneous outcry of shame, that he should have trapped into matrimony a creature so infantile, for she was scarcely fourteen years of age. It was indeed highly improper, said the minister. So thought all the neighborhood, but when they found out how it happened, disapproval was changed to commendation. She was the daughter of a French patriot. Her father and mother had both perished on the scaffold, in the sacred cause of liberty. She was thrown helpless, friendless, and penniless upon the cold charity of the world. Providence cast her in the way of our sensitive and enthusiastic young traveler. He pitied her, he loved her, and was casting about in his own mind how he could help her without compromising her, when the news of his father's illness summoned him home, then seeing no better way of protecting her. After a little hesitation upon account of her tender age he married her and brought with him. The deeds we know must be rewarded in heaven, since on earth they are so often punished. He did not long enjoy his bride. She was just the most beautiful creature that ever was seen, with the promise of still more glorious beauty and riper years. I have seen handsome woman and pretty woman, but Madame Eugène Lenore was the only perfectly beautiful woman I ever saw in my long life. My own aged eyes seemed enriched only to look at her. She adored Eugène, too. Anyone could see that. At first she spoke English in broken music, but soon her accent became as perfect as if she had been native-born. How could it have been otherwise, when her teacher and inspire was love? She won all hearts with her loveliness. Hump, hear me, an old fool, worse, an old hurricane, betrayed into discourses of love and beauty merely by the remembrance of Madame Eugène Lenore. Ah, bright exotic flower, she did not bloom long. The bride had scarcely settled down into the wife, when one night Eugène Lenore did not come home as usual. The next day his dead body, with a bullet in his brain, was found in the woods around the hidden house. The murderer was never discovered. Gabriel Lenore came in haste from the military post where he had been stationed. Madame Eugène was never seen abroad after the death of her husband. It was reported that she had lost her reason, a consequence that surprised no one. Eugène having died without issue, and his young widow being mad, Gabriel, by the terms of his father's will, stepped at once into the full possession of the whole property. Something of all this I have heard before, said the minister. Very likely, for these facts and falsehoods, were the common property of the neighborhood. But what you have not heard before, and what is not known to any now living except the criminals, the victims, and myself, is that, three months after the death of her husband, Madame Eugène Lenore gave birth to twins, one living, one dead. The dead child was privately buried. The living one, together with the nurse that was the sole witness of the birth, was abducted. Great heavens, can this be true? exclaimed the minister, shocked beyond all power of self-control. True is gospel. I have proof enough to carry conviction to any honest breast, to satisfy any cavalier except a court of justice. You shall hear. You remember the dying woman whom you dragged me out into the snowstorm to see? Blame you. Yes? She was the abducted nurse, escaped, and returned. It was to make a deposition to the facts I am about to relate that she sent you to fetch me, said Old Hurricane, and with that he commenced and related the whole dark history of crime conspired in the nurse's dying deposition. They examined the instrument together, and Old Hurricane again related, in brief, the incidents of his hurried journey to New York, his meeting and identifying Capitola, and bringing her home in safety to his house. And thus, said the old man, you perceive that this child whose birth was feloniously concealed, and who was cast away to perish among the wretched beggars, thieves, and street-walkers of New York, is really the only living child of the late Eugene Lenore, and the soul and heritress of the hidden house, with its vast acres of fields, forests, iron and coal mines, water power, steam mills, furnaces, and foundries, wealth that I would not undertake to estimate within a million of dollars, all of which is now held and enjoyed by that usurping villain, Gabriel Lenore. But said the minister gravely, you have, of course, commenced proceedings on the part of your protégé. Listen, I will tell you what I have done. When I first brought Cap home, I was moved not only by the desire of wreaking vengeance upon a most atrocious miscreant, who had done me an irreparable injury, but also by sympathy for the little witch who had won my heart at first sight. Therefore you may judge I lost no time in preparing to strike a double blow, which had ruined my own mortal enemy, and reinstate my favorite in her rights. With this view, immediately on my return home, I sent for brief my confidential attorney, and laid the whole matter before him. And he? To my dismay he told me that, though the case was clear enough, it was not sufficiently strong, and a legal point of view, to justify us in bringing suit, for that the dying deposition of the mulatto nurse could not be received as evidence in our county courts. You knew that before, sir, I presume. Of course I did, but I thought it was a lawyer's business to get over such difficulties, and I assure you, parson, that I flew into a passion, and cursed court and county law and lawyers to my heart's content. I would have quarreled with old brief then and there, only brief won't get excited. He very coolly advised me to keep the matter close, and my eyes open, and gather all the corroborative testimony I could find, and that in the meantime he would reflect upon the best manner of proceeding. I think, Major Warfield, that his counsel was wise and disinterested. But tell me, sir, of the girl's mother. Is it not perfectly incomprehensible that so lovely a woman as you have represented her to be should have consented to the concealment, if not to the destruction, of her own legitimate offspring? Sir, to me it is not incomprehensible at all. She was at once an orphan and a widow, a stranger in a strange land, a poor, desolate, brokenhearted child, in the power of the cunningest and most unscrupulous villain that the Lord ever suffered to live. I wonder at nothing that he might have deceived or frightened her into doing. Heaven, forgive us. Have I known that man for ten years to hear this account of him at last? But tell me, sir, have you really any true idea of what has been the fate of the poor young widow? No, not the slightest. Immediately after his brother's funeral, Gabriel Lenore gave out that Madame Eugene had lost her reason through excessive grief. Soon after which he took her with him to the north, and upon his return alone, reported that he had left her in a celebrated lunatic asylum. The story was probable enough, and received universal belief. Only now I do not credit it, and do not know whether the widow be living or dead, or if living, whether she be mad or sane. If dead, whether she came to her end by fair means or foul. Merciful heavens, sir, you do not mean to say. Yes, I do mean to say, and if you would like to know what is on my private mind I'll tell you. I believe that Madame Eugene Lenore has been treacherously made away with by the same infernal demon at whose instigation her husband was murdered and her child stolen. The minister seemed crushed beneath the overwhelming weight of this communication. He passed his hand over his brow, and then stowed his face and sighed deeply. For a few moments he seemed unable to reply, and when he spoke it was only to say, In this matter, Major Warfield, I can offer you no counsel better than that of your confidential attorney. Follow the light that you have until it leads you to the full elucidation of this affair, and may heaven grant that you may find Colonel Lenore less guilty than you apprehend. Parson, humbug, when charity dribbles it ought to be turned off by justice. I will follow the little light I have. I suspect, from the description, that the retuette Lenore's instance, carried off the nurse and child, was no other than the notorious Black Donald. I have offered an additional thousand dollars for his apprehension, and if he is taken he will be condemned to death, make a last dying speech and confession, and give up his accomplices, the accomplished Colonel Lenore among the rest. If the latter really was an accomplice, there could be no better way of discovering the fact than to bring this Black Donald to justice. But I greatly fear that there is little hope of that, said the minister. I, but there is. Listen, the long impunity enjoyed by this desperado has made him daring to fatuity. Why I was within a hair's breadth of capturing him myself a few days ago. Ha! Is it possible? asked the minister, with a look of surprise and interest. I was I, and you shall hear all about it, said the old hurricane. And upon that he commenced and told the minister the adventure of Capitola with Black Donald at Hurricane Hall. The minister was amazed, yet could not forebear to say. It seems to me, however, that it was Capitola who was in a hair's breadth of capturing this notorious desperado. Poo! She clung to him like the reckless lunatic that she is. But Lord, he would have carried her off on his back if it had not been for me. The minister smiled a little to himself, and then said, This protege of yours is a very remarkable girl, as interesting to me in her character as she is in her history. Her very spirit, courage, and insubordination make her singularly hard to manage and apt to go astray. With your permission I will make her acquaintance, with a view of seeing what good I can do her. Pray, do so, for then you will be better able to counsel me how to manage the capricious little witch, who, if I attempt to check her in her wild and dangerous freedom of action, tells me plainly that liberty is too precious a thing to be exchanged for food and clothing, and that, rather than live in bondage, she will throw herself upon the protection of the court. If she does that, the game is up. Lenore, against whom we can as yet prove nothing, would claim her as his niece and ward, and get her into his power for the purpose of making way with her, as he did with her father and mother. Oh, for heaven's sake, sir! No more of that until we have further evidence, said the minister, uneasily. Adding, I will see you are very interesting protege tomorrow. Do, do, tomorrow, to-day, this hour, any time, said Major Warfield, as he cordially took leave of the pastor. CHAPTER XXV The next day, according to agreement, the pastor came and dined at Hurricane Hall. During the dinner he had ample opportunity of observing Capitola, and the afternoon Major Warfield took an occasion of leaving him alone with the contumaceous young object of his visit. Cap, with her quick perceptions, instantly discovered the drift and purpose of this action, which immediately provoked all the mischievous propensities of her elfish spirit. Uncle means that I shall be lectured by the good person. If he preaches to me, won't I humor him to the top of his bent, all, was her secret resolution, as she sat de-murely, with pursed up lips, bending over her needle-work. The honest and well-meaning old country clergyman hitched his chair a little nearer to the perverse young rebel, and gingerly, for he was half-afraid of his questionable subject, entered into conversation with her. To his surprise and pleasure, Capitola replied with a decorum of a young nun. Encouraged by her manner, the good minister went on to say how much interested he felt in her welfare, how deeply he compassionate her lot, and never having possessed the advantage of a mother's teaching, how anxious he was by his counsels to make up to her as much as possible such a deficiency. Here Capitola put up both her hands and dropped her face upon them. Still farther encouraged by this exhibition of feeling, Mr. Goodwin went on. He told her that it behoved her, who was a motherless girl, to be even more circumspect than others. Lest, through very ignorance, she might err, and in particular he warned her against riding or walking out alone, or indulging in any freedom of manners that might draw upon her the animate versions of their very strict community. Oh, sir, I know I have been very indiscreet, and I am very miserable, said Capitola, in a heartbroken voice. My dear child, your errors have hitherto been those of ignorance only, and I am very much pleased to find how much your good uncle has been mistaken, and how ready you are to do strictly right when the way is pointed out, said the minister, pleased to his honest heart's core that he had made this deep impression. A heavy sigh burst from the bosom of Capitola. What is the matter, my dear child, he said kindly? Oh, sir, if I had only known you before, exclaimed Capitola bitterly. Why, my dear, I can do just as much good now. Oh, no, sir, it is too late. It is never too late to do well. Oh, yes, sir, it is for me. Oh, how I wish I had your good counsel before. It would have saved me from so much trouble.   Do tell me, my dear, what is the matter? Oh, sir, I am afraid to tell you. You'd hate and despise me. You'd never speak to me again, said Capitola, keeping her face concealed. My dear child, said the minister, very gravely and sorrowfully, whatever your offense has been, and you make me fear that it has been a very serious one, I invite you to confide it in me. And having done so, I promise, however I may mourn this in, not to hate, or despise, or forsake the sinner. Come confide in me. Oh, sir, I darent, indeed I darent, moaned Capitola. My poor girl, said the minister, if I am to do you any good, it is absolutely necessary that you make me your confidant. Oh, sir, I have been a very wicked girl. I darent tell you how wicked I have been. Does your good uncle know or suspect this wrongdoing of yours? Uncle, oh no, sir, he'd turn me out of doors. He'd kill me, indeed he would, sir, please don't tell him. You forget, my child, that I do not yet know the nature of your offense, said the minister, in a state of painful anxiety. But I am going to inform you, sir, and oh, I hope you will take pity on me and tell me what to do, for though I dread to speak, I can't keep it on my conscience any longer. It is such a heavy weight on my breast. Sin always is my poor girl, said the pastor, with a deep moan. But, sir, you know I had no mother, as you said yourself. I know it, my poor girl, and am ready to make every allowance, said the old pastor, with a deep sigh, not knowing what next to expect. And—and—I hope you will forgive me, sir, but—but he was so handsome I couldn't help liking him. Miss Black!" cried the horrified pastor. There! I knew you'd just go and bite my head off the very first thing. Oh, dear, what shall I do? sobbed Capitola. The good pastor, who had started to his feet, remained gazing upon her, in a panic of consternation, murmuring to himself, Good angel, I am fated to hear more great sins than if I were a prison chaplain. Then, going up to the sobbing delinquent, he said, Unhappy girl, who is this person of whom you speak? Him that I met when I went walking in the woods, sobbed Capitola. Heaven of heavens, this is worse than my very worst fears! Good girl, tell me instantly the name of this base-deceiver. He—he—he's no base-deceiver. He—he—he's very amiable and good-looking, and—and—and that's why I liked him so much. It was all my fault, not his, poor dear fellow. His name, sternly demanded the pastor. Elf—elf—elfred, wept Capitola. Alfred whom? Alfred—blen—blen—blenheim. Missable girl, how often have you met this miscreant in the forest? He—don't know, sobbed Capitola. Where is the wretch to be found now? Oh, please don't hurt him, sir. Please don't. He—he—he's hid in the closet of my room. A groan that seemed to have rent his heart in twain burst from the bosom of the minister, as he repeated in deepest horror. In your room? Well, I must prevent murder being done. Did you not know, you poor child, the danger you ran by giving this young man private interviews, and above all, admitting him to your apartment? Wretched girl! You'd never been born than ever so to have received a man. Man! Man! Man! I'd like to know what you mean by that, Mr. Goodwin, exclaimed Capitola, lifting her eyes flashing through their tears. I mean the man with whom you have given these private interviews. I? I give private interviews to a man? Take care what you say, Mr. Goodwin. I won't be insulted. No, not even by you. Then if you are not talking of a man, who or what in the world are you talking about? exclaimed the amazed minister. Why Alfred, the Blenheim poodle that strayed away from some of the neighbor's houses, and that I found in the woods and brought home and hid in my closet, for fear he would be inquired after, or uncle would find out and make me give him up. I knew it was wrong, but then he was so pretty. Before Capitola had finished her speech, Mr. Goodwin had seized his hat and rushed out of the house in indignation, nearly overturning Old Hurricane, whom he met on the lawn, and to whom he said, Thresh, that girl, as if she were a bad boy, for she richly deserves it. There, what did I say? Now you see what a time I have with her. She makes me sweat I can tell you, said Old Hurricane, in triumph.  What's it now, inquired Old Hurricane? The pastor took the major's arm, and while they walked up and down before the house, told how he had been sold by Capitola, ended by saying, You will have to take her firmly in hand. I'll do it, said Old Hurricane, I'll do it. The pastor then called for his horse, and resisting all his hosts and treaties to save her tea, took his departure. Major Warfield re-entered the house, resolving to say nothing to Capitola for the present, but to seize the very first opportunity of punishing her for her flippancy. The Vividg Faire had commenced on Monday. It had been arranged that all Major Warfield's family should go, though not all upon the same day. It was proposed that on Thursday, when the festival should be at its height, Major Warfield, Capitola, and the house-servant should go, and on Saturday Mrs. Condiment, Mr. E. Z., and the farm-servants should have a holiday for the same purpose. Therefore, upon Thursday morning, all the household bestirred themselves at an unusually early hour, and appeared before breakfast in their best Sunday suit. Capitola came down to breakfast in a rich blue silk carriage dress, looking so fresh, blooming and joyous, that it went to the old man's heart to disappoint her. Yet old hurricane resolved, as the pastor had told him, to be firm, and once for all, by inflicting punishment, to bring her to a sense of her errors. There, you need not trouble yourself to get ready, Capitola. You shall not go to the fair with us, he said, as Cap took her seat. Sir! exclaimed the girl in surprise. Oh, yes, you may stare, but I am in earnest. You have behaved very badly. You have deeply offended her pastor.  And in a word, to begin, I say you shall not go to the fair today.  I mean you shall not go at all, Demi. I'd like to know who will prevent me, said Cap. I will, Miss Vixen. Demi, I'll not be said at naught by a beggar. This is condiment. Leave the room, mum, and don't be sitting there listening to every word I have to say to my ward. Wool, be off with yourself, sir. What do you stand there gaping and staring for? Be off, or—the old man looked around for a missile. But before he found one, the room was evacuated, except by himself and Capitola. Now, minion, he began, as soon as he found himself alone with the little rebel. I did not choose to mortify you before the servants. But once for all, I will have you to understand that I intend to be obeyed, and old Hurricane gathered his brows like a gathering storm. Sir, if you were really my uncle, or father, or my legal guardian, I should have no choice but to obey you. But the same fate that made me desolate made me free, a freedom that I would not exchange for any gilded slavery, said Cap, gaily. Pish! Tush! Pasha! I say I will have no more of this nonsense. I say I will be obeyed, cried old Hurricane, striking his cane down upon the floor, and in proof of it I order you immediately to go and take off that gala dress and settle yourself down to your studies for the day. Uncle, I will obey you as far as taking off this dress goes, for since you won't have me a seat in your carriage, I shall have to put on my habit, and ride a jib, said Cap, good-humoredly. What? Do you dare to hint that you have the slightest idea of going to the fair against my will? Yes, sir, said Cap, gaily. Sorry, it's against your will, but can't help it, not used to being ordered about, and don't know how to submit, and so I'm going. Ungrateful girl, actually meditating disobedience on the horse I gave her. Easy now, Uncle, fair and easy. I did not sell my free will for jib. I wouldn't for a thousand jibs. He was a free gift, said Capitola, beginning an impatient little dance about the floor.  Capitola danced up to him, and stood half-smiling and fingering and arranging the lace of her undersleeves. Listen to me, you witch, do you intend to obey me or not? Not, said Cap, good-humoredly, adjusting her cameo bracelet, and holding up her arm to see its effect. You will not. Then demme, miss. I shall know how to make you, thundered old hurricane, bringing the point of his stick down with a sharp wrap. A. cried Capitola, looking up in astonishment. Yes, miss, that's what I said. Make you. I should like to know how, said Cap, returning to her cool, good humor. You would, would you? Demme, I'll tell you. I have broken haughtier spirits than yours in my life. Would you like to know how? Yes, said Cap, indifferently, still busyed with her bracelets. Stoop, and I will whisper the mystery. Capitola bent her graceful head to hear. With the rod, hissed old hurricane, maliciously. Capitola sprang up as if she had been shot, wave after wave of blood, tidying up in a burning blushes over neck, face, and forehead. Then, turning abruptly, she walked off to the window. Old hurricane, terrified at the effect of his rude, rash words, stood excommunicating himself for having been provoked to use them, nor was the next aspect of Capitola, one calculated to reassure his perturbed feelings. She turned around.  They half sheathed under their long lashes, flashed like stilettos, raising her hand and keeping her eyes fixed upon him, with a slow and gliding motion, and the deep and measured voice that scarcely seemed to belong to a denizen of earth. She approached and stood before him, and spoke these words. Uncle, in all the sorrows, shames, and sufferings of my destitute childhood, no one ever dishonored my person with a blow, and if ever you should have the misfortune to forget your manhood so far as to strike me.  Oh, you perilous witch, what then, cried Old Hurricane Indus May? Why then, said Capitola, speaking in a low, deep and measured tone, and keeping her gaze upon his astonished face? The first time I should find you asleep, I would take a razor, and cut my throat, I feel you would, you terrible termigant, shuddered Old Hurricane.  In an instant she came bounding back, saying, Uncle, I will meet you at the fair. Au revoir, au revoir, and kissing her hand, she dashed away, and ran off to her room. She'll kill me, I know she will, if she don't do it one way she will in another. Woo! I'm perspiring at every pour. Woo! Woo, you scoundrel, exclaimed the old man, jerking the bell-ropes, as if he would have broken the wires. Yes, sir, here I am, Mars, exclaimed the worthy, hastening in a state of perturbation. For he dreaded another storm. Woo! Go down to the stables, and tell every man there, that if either of them allows a horse to be brought out for the use of Miss Black to-day, I'll flay them alive, and break every bone in their skins, away with you. Yes, sir, cried the shocked and terrified woo, hurrying off to convey his panic to the stables. Old Hurricane's carriage being ready, he entered it, and drove off for the fair. Next, the house-servants, with the exception of Pitapat, who was commanded to remain behind and wait upon her mistress, went off in a wagon. When they were all gone, Capitola dressed herself in her riding-habit, and sent Pitapat down to the stables to order one of the grooms to saddle Jip and bring him up for her. Now when the little maid delivered this message, the unfortunate grooms were filled with dismay. They feared their tyrannical little mistress almost as much as their despotical master, who in the next change of his capricious temper might punch all their heads for crossing the will of his favorite, even though in doing so they had followed his directions. An immediate private consultation was the consequence, and the result was that the head groom came to Pitapat, told her that he was sorry, but that Miss Black's pony had fallen lame. The little maid went back with the answer. When she was gone the head groom, calling to his fellows, said, That young Gale ain't going to be fooled either by old Marce or we. She'll be down here herself next minute, and have the horse walked out. Now we must make him lame a little. Light a match here, Gem, and I'll burn his foot. This was done immediately, and sure enough, while poor Jip was still smarting with his burn, Capitola came, holding up her riding-train, and hurrying to the scene, and asked indignantly, Who dares to say that my horse is lame? Bring him out here this instant, that I may see him. The groom immediately took poor Jip, and led him limping to the presence of his mistress. At the sight Capitola was almost ready to cry with grief and indignation.  Not caring so much after all, for her own personal disappointment, as for old Hurricane's triumph. Cap's ill-humour did not last long. She soon exchanged her riding-habit for a morning wrapper, and took her needle-work, and sat down to sew by the side of Mrs. Condiment in the housekeeper's room. The day passed as usual, only that just after sunset Mrs. Condiment, as a matter of precaution, went all over the house, securing windows and doors before nightfall. Then after an early tea, Mrs. Condiment, Capitola, and the little-made pittipat, gathered around the bright little wood fire that the chilly spring evening made necessary in the housekeeper's room. Mrs. Condiment was knitting, Capitola stitching a bosom for the major shirts, and pittipat winding yarn from a reel. The conversation of the three females left alone in the old house naturally turned upon subjects of fear, ghosts, witches, and robbers. Mrs. Condiment had a formidable collection of accredited stories of apparitions, warnings, dreams, omens, etc. All true as gospel, there was a haunted house, she said, in their own neighborhood, the Hidden House. It was well authenticated that ever since the mysterious murder of Eugene Lenore, unaccountable sights and sounds had been seen and heard in and about the dwelling. A traveller, a brother-officer of Colonel Lenore, had slept there once, and in the dead waist and middle of the night, had had his curtains drawn by a lady, pale and passing fair, dressed in white with flowing hair, who, as soon as he attempted to speak to her, fled, and it was well known that there was no lady about the premises. Another time Old Mr. Easy himself, when out after the coons and coming through the woods near the house, had been attracted by seeing a window near the roof, lighted up by a strange blue flame. Drawing near, he saw within the lighted room a female clothed in white, passing and repassing the window. Another time, when Old Major Warfield was out with his dogs, the chase let him pass the haunted house. And as he swept by he caught a glimpse of a pale, wan, sorrowful female face pressed against the window-pane of an upper room, which vanished in an instant. But might not that have been some young woman staying at the house, asked Capitola? No, my child, it is well ascertained that, since the murder of Eugene Lenore and the disappearance of his lovely young widow, no white female has crossed the threshold of that fatal house, said Mrs. Condiment. Disappearance, did you say? In a lady of condition disappear from a neighborhood, and no inquiry be made for her? No, my dear, there was inquiry, and it was answered plausibly, that Madame Eugene was insane and sent off to a lunatic asylum. But there are those who believe that the lovely lady was privately made away with, whispered Mrs. Condiment. How dreadful! I did not think such things happened in a quiet country neighborhood. Something like that occurred indeed in New York, within my own recollection, however, said Capitola, who straightway commenced and related the story of Mary Rogers, and all other stories of terror that memory supplied her with.  She sat and swallowed every word, listening with a thousand audience power. By the time they had frightened themselves pretty thoroughly, the clock struck eleven, and they thought it was time to retire. Will you be afraid, Mrs. Condiment, asked Capitola? Well, my dear, if I am I must try to trust in the Lord to overcome it, since it is no use to be afraid. I have fastened up the house well, and I have brought in Growler, the bulldog, to sleep on the mat outside my bedroom door, so I shall say my prayers and try to go to sleep. I dare say there is no danger, only it seems lonesome like for us three women to be left in this big house by ourselves. Yes, said Capitola, but as you say there is no danger, and as for me, if it will give you any comfort or courage to hear me say it, I am not the least afraid, although I sleep in such a remote room, and have no one but Patti, who, having no more heart than a hair, is not near such a powerful protector as Growler. And bidding her little maid take up the nightlamp, Capitola wished Mrs. Condiment good night, and left the housekeeper's room. CHAPTER XXVI Very dreary looked the dark and silent passages as they went on toward Capitola's distant chamber. When at last they reached it, however, and opened the door, the cheerful scene within quite reanimated Capitola's spirits. The care of her little maid had prepared a blazing wood fire that lighted up the whole room brightly, glowing on the crimson curtains of the bed, and the crimson hangings of the windows opposite, and flashing upon the high mirror between them. Capitola, having secured her room in every way, stood before her dressing bureau, and began to take off her collar, undersleeves, and other small articles of dress. As she stood there with her mirror, brilliantly lighted up by both lamp and fire, reflected clearly the opposite bed, with its warm crimson curtains, white coverlet, and little pitta-pat, flitting from post to post as she tied back the curtains or smoothed the sheets. Capitola stood unclasping her bracelets and smiling to herself at the reflected picture, the comfortable nest in which she was so soon to curl herself up and sleep. While she was smiling thus, she tilted the mirror downwards a little for her better convenience, and, looking into it again, horror! What did she see reflected there, under the bed a pair of glaring eyes watching her from the shadows. A sick sensation of fainting came over her, but mastering the weakness, she tilted the glass a little lower, until it reflected all the floor, and looked again. For her of horrors, there were three stalwart ruffians, armed to the teeth, lurking in ambush under her bed. The deadly inclination to swoon returned upon her, but with a heroic effort she controlled her fears, and forced herself to look. Yes, there they were. It was no dream, no illusion, no nightmare. There they were, three powerful desperados, armed with bowie-knives and revolvers, the nearest one crouching low and watching her with his wolfish eyes, that shone like phosphorus in the dark. What should she do? The danger was extreme, the necessity of immediate action imminent, the need of perfect self-control absolute. There was pitapap flitting about the bed in momentary danger of looking under it. If she should, their lives would not be worth an instance purchase. Their throats would be caught before they should utter a second scream. It was necessary therefore to call pitapap away from the bed, where her presence was as dangerous as the proximity of a lighted candle to an open powder barrel. But how to trust her voice to do this? A single quaver in her tones would betray her consciousness of their presence to the lurking rubbers and instantly prove fatal. Happily, Capitola's pride and own courage came to her aid. Is it possible, she said to herself, that after all I am a coward, and have not even nerve and will enough to command the tones of my own voice? Fie on it. Cowardice is worse than death. In summoning all her resolution, she spoke up glibly. Patti, come here and unhook my dress. Yes, Miss, I will just as soon as I get your slippers from underneath of deep-ed. I don't want them. Come here this minute and unhook my dress. I can't breathe. Plague, take these country dress-makers. They think the tighter they screw one up, the more fashionable they make one appear. Come, I say, and set my lungs at liberty. Yes, Miss, in one minute, said Pitapat, and to Capitola's unspeakable horror, the little maid stooped down and felt along under the side of the bed, from the head-post to the foot-post, until she put her hands upon the slippers and brought them forth.  That was all that saved them from instant massacre. Here day is, Caterpillar, I know how your foots must be as much out of breath with your tight-gaters, as your waist is long of your tight dress. Unhook me, said Capitola, tilting up the glass, lest the child should see what horrors were reflected there. The little maid began to obey, and Capitola tried to think of some plan to escape their imminent danger. To obey the natural impulse, to fly from the rum, would be instantly fatal. They would be followed and murdered in the hall before they could possibly give the alarm. And to whom could she give the alarm when there was not another creature in the house except Mrs. Condiment? While she was turning these things over in her mind, it occurred to her that man's extremity is God's opportunity. Sending up a silent prayer to heaven for help at need, she suddenly thought of a plan. It was full of difficulty, uncertainty, and peril, affording not one chance and fifty of success, yet the only possible plan of escape. It was to find some plausible pretext for leaving the rum, without exciting suspicion, which would be fatal. Controlling her tremors, and speaking cheerfully, she asked, Patti, do you know now whether there were any of those nice quince tarts left from dinner? Lore, yes, miss, a heap on them. Oh, miss, put them away in her cupboard. Was there any baked custard left? Lore, yes, miss Caterpillar. There was nobody but wead ends three. And think I could eat up all as was left? I don't know but you might. Well, is there any pear sauce? Yes, miss, a big bowlful. Well, I wish you'd go down and bring me up a tart, a cup of custard, and a spoon full of pear sauce. Sitting up so late makes me as hungry as a wolf. Come, Patti, go along. Deed, miss, I's frayed, whispered the poor little maid. Afraid of what, you goose? Frayed of meeting a ghost in the dark places. Poo, you can take the light with you. I can stay here in the dark well enough. Deed, miss, I's frayed. What, with the candle, you blockhead? Lore's, miss, the candle wouldn't be no texan. I'd see the ghosts as Aldi Plainer would decandle.   Afraid to do my bidding. Afraid of ghosts, forsooth. Well, I suppose I shall have to go myself. Plague on you for an aggravating thing. There, take the candle and come along, said Capitola, in a tone of impatience. Pitapat took up the light and stood ready to accompany her mistress. Capitola, humming a gay tune, went to the door and unlocked and opened it. She wished to withdraw the key, so as to lock it on the other side, and secure the robbers, and ensure the safety of her own retreat. But to do this without betraying her purpose and destroying her own life seemed next to impossible. Still singing gaily, she ran over in her mind with a quickness of lightning every possible means by which she might withdraw the key silently, or without attracting the attention of the watchful robbers. It is difficult to say what she would have done, had not chance instantly favored her. At the same moment that she unlocked and opened the door, and held the key in her hand, fearful of withdrawing it, Pitapat, who was hurrying after her with the candle, tripped and fell against a chair, with a great noise under cover of which Capitola drew forth the key. Scolding and pushing Pitapat out before her, she closed the door with a bang. With the quickness of lightning she slipped the key in the keyhole and turned the lock, covering the hole with loud and angry rallying against poor Pitapat, who silently wondered at this unhappy change in her mistress's temper, but ascribed it all to hunger, muttering to herself, I's often heard how people's crosswind are empty, lores knows if I don't fetch up a whole heap of whittles every night for Miss Caterpillar from this time forward, so I will, deed me. So they went on through the long passages and empty rooms, Capitola carefully locking every door behind her, until she got downstairs into the great hall.   Lores, Miss, what is your ado on of? asked the little maid in wonder, as Capitola opened the door and looked out. I am going out a little way, and you must go with me. Deed, Miss, I's afraid. Very well, then, stay here in the dark until I come back, but don't go to my room, because you might meet a ghost on the way. Oh, Miss, I daren't stay here, indeed I daren't. Then you'll have to come along with me, and so no more about it, said Capitola sharply, as she passed out from the door. The poor little maid followed, bemoaning the fate that bound her to so capricious a mistress. Capitola drew the key from the hall door and locked it on the outside. Then, clasping her hands and raising her eyes to heaven, she fervently ejaculated, Thank God, oh, thank God that we are safe. Lores, Miss, was we in danger? We are not now at any rate, Pitapat. Come along, said Capitola, hurrying across the lawn toward the open fields. Oh, my goodness, Miss, where is your ado on of? Don't let us run so fur from home, disloan some wicked, unlawful hour of the night, whispered the distressed little darky, fearing that her mistress was certainly crazed. Now, then, what are you afraid of, asked Capitola, searing her hold back. Lores, Miss, you knows, everybody knows. Brack Donald! Patty, come close, listen to me, don't scream. Black Donald and his men are up there at the house, in my chamber, under the bed, whispered Capitola. Pitapat could not scream, for though her mouth was wide open, her breath was quite gone. Coming with fear, she kept close to her mistress's heels, as Capitola scampered over the fields. A run of a quarter of a mile brought them to the edge of the woods, wherein its little garden stood the overseer's house. Capitola opened the gate, hurried through the little front yard, and wrapped loudly at the door. This startled the house-dog into furious barking, and brought old Mr. Easy, with his night-capped head, to the window to see what was the matter. It is I, Capitola, Mr. Easy, Black Donald and his men are lurking up at the house, said our young heroine, commencing in an eager and hurried tone, and giving the overseer an account of the manner in which she had discovered the presence of the robbers, and left the room without alarming them. The old man heard with many cries of astonishment, ejaculations of prayer, and exclamations of thanksgiving, and all the while his head was bobbing in and out of the window as he pulled on his pantalons or buttoned his coat. And oh, he said at last, as he opened the door to Capitola, how providential that Mr. Herbert Grayson is a rove. Herbert Grayson? Herbert Grayson arrived? Where is he, then, exclaimed Capitola, in surprise and joy? Yes, Sarton, Mr. Herbert, a rove about an hour ago, and thinking you all a bed and asleep at the hall, he just stopped in with us all night. I'll go and see. I doubt if he's gone to bed yet, said Mr. Easy, withdrawing into the house. Oh, thank heaven, thank heaven, exclaimed Capitola, just as the door opened, and Herbert sprang forward to greet her, with a, dear Capitola, I am so glad to come to see you. Dear Herbert, just fancy you have said that a hundred times over, and that I have replied to the same words a hundred times, for we haven't a moment to spare, said Capitola, shaking his hands, and then, in an eager vehement manner, recounting her discovery and escape from the robbers whom she had locked up in the house. Go now, she said in conclusion, and help Mr. Easy to rouse up and arm the farmhands, and come immediately to the house. I am in agony, lest my prolonged absence should excite the robber suspicion of my ruse, and that they should break out and perhaps murder poor Mrs. Condiment. Her situation is awful if she did but know it, for the love of mercy hasten. Not an instant more of time was lost, Mr. Easy and Herbert Grayson, accompanied by Capitola and Patty, hurried at once to the Negro quarters, roused up and armed the men with whatever was at hand, and in joining them to be as stealthy as cats in their approach, set out swiftly for the hall, where they soon arrived.  Do not speak, do not breathe, follow me as silent as death, said Herbert Grayson, as he softly unlocked the front door and entered the house. Silently and stealthily they passed through the middle hall, up the broad staircase, and through the long narrow passages and steep stairs that led to Capitola's remote chamber. There at the door they paused a while to listen. All was still within. Herbert Grayson unlocked the door, withdrew the key, and opened it and entered the room, followed by all the men. He had scarcely time to close the door and lock it on the inside, and withdrew the key, before the robbers, finding themselves surprised, burst out from their hiding place, and made a rush for the passage, but their means of escape had been already cut off by the forethought of Herbert Grayson, a sharp conflict ensued. Upon first being summoned to surrender the robbers responded by a hailstorm of bullets from the revolvers, followed instantly by a charge of bowie-knives. This was met by an avalanche of blows from pickaxes, pokers, pitchforks, sledgehammers, spades, and rakes, beneath which the miscrants were quickly beaten down and overwhelmed. They were then set upon and bound with strong ropes brought for the purpose by Mr. E. Z. When they were thus secured, hand and foot, Capitola, who had been a spectator of the whole scene, and exposed as much as any other to the rattle of the bullets, now approached and looked at the vanquished. Donald certainly was not one of the party, who were no other than our old acquaintances, Hale, Steve, and Dick, of the band. Each burglar was conveyed to a separate apartment, and a strong guard set over him. Then Herbert Grayson, who had received a flesh wound in his left arm, returned to the scene of the conflict to look after the wounded. Several of the Negroes had received gunshot wounds of more or less importance. These were speedily attended to. Mrs. Condiment, who had slept securely through all the fight, was now awakened by Capitola, and cautiously informed of what had taken place, and assured that all danger was now over. The worthy woman, as soon as she recovered from the consternation into which the news had plunged her, at once set about suckering the wounded, cots and mattresses were made up in one of the empty rooms, and bandages and balsams prepared. And not until all who had been hurt were made comfortable did Herbert Grayson throw himself upon horseback, and ride off to the county seat to summon the authorities, and to inform the major war-field of what had happened. No one thought of retiring to bed at Hurricane Hall that night. Mrs. Condiment, Capitola, and Patty sat watching by the bedsides of the wounded. Bill E. Z. and the men, who had escaped injury, mounted guard over the prisoners. Thus they all remained until sunrise, when the Major, attended by the deputy sheriff, and half a dozen constables, arrived. The night ride of several miles had not suffice to modify the fury into which old Hurricane had been thrown by the news Herbert Grayson had aroused him from his sleep to communicate. He reached Hurricane Hall in a state of excitement that his factotum wool characterized as boiling. But in the very torrent, tempest, and whirlwind of his passion he remembered that to rail at the vanquished, wounded, and bound was unmanly, and so he did not trust himself to see or speak to the prisoners. They were placed in a wagon, and under a strong escort of constables were conveyed by the deputy sheriff to the county D.C., where they were securely lodged in jail. But old Hurricanes' emotions of one sort or another were a treat to see. He bemoaned the sufferings of his poor, wounded men.  To all of which Capitola, extricating her curly head from his embrace, cried only, Bother, utterly refusing to be made a lioness of, and firmly rejecting, the grand triumph. The next day Major Warfield went up to the county seat to attend the examination of the three burglars, whom he had the satisfaction of seeing fully committed to prison to await their trial at the next term of the criminal court, which would not sit until October. Consequently the prisoners had the prospect of remaining in jail some months, which old hurricane declared to be some satisfaction. End of Chapter 26. Chapter 27 of The Hidden Hand. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bridget, The Hidden Hand by E-D-E-N Southworth, Chapter 27, Seeking His Fortune. A wide future smiles before him, his heart will beat for fame, and he will learn to breathe with love the music of a name. Rih on the tablets of his heart and characters of flame. Sergeant. When the winter's course of medical lectures at the Washington College was over, late in the spring, Traverse Rock returned to Willow Heights. The good doctor gave him a glad welcome, congratulating him upon his improved appearance and manly bearing. Clara received him with blushing pleasure, and Mara Rock, with all the mother's love for her only child. He quickly fell into the old, pleasant routine of his country life, resumed his arduous studies in the doctor's office, his work in the flower garden, and his morning rides and evening talk with the doctor's lovely child. Not the least obstacle was set in the way of his association with Clara, yet Traverse, grown stronger and wiser than his years would seem to promise, controlled both his feelings and his actions, and never departed from the most respectful reserve, or suffered himself to be drawn into that dangerous familiarity to which their constant companionship might tempt him. Mara Rock, with maternal pride, witnessed his constant self-control, and encouraged him to persevere. Often in the enthusiasm of her heart, when they were alone, she would throw her arm around him, and push the dark clustering curls from his fine forehead, and gazing fondly on his face, exclaim, that is my noble-hearted boy. Oh, Traverse, God will bless you. He only tries you now to strengthen you. Traverse always understood these vague words, and would return her embrace with all his boyish ardor, and say, God does bless me now, Mother. He blesses me so much, in so many, many ways, that I should be worse than a heathen not to be willing to bear cheerfully one trial. And so Traverse would wreck his own reed, and cultivate the cheerful gratitude as a duty to God and man. Clara also, now with her feminine intuition, comprehended her reserved lover, honored his motives, and rested satisfied with being so deeply loved, trusting all their unknown future to heaven. The doctor's appreciation and esteem for Traverse increased with every new unfolding of the youth's heart and intellect, and never did Master take more pains with a favorite pupil, or father with a beloved son, than did the doctor to push Traverse on in his profession. The improvement of the youth was truly surprising. Thus passed the summer in healthful alternation of study and exercise. When the season waned, late in the autumn, he went a second time to Washington to attend the winter's course of lectures at the Medical College. The doctor gave him letters recommending him as a young man of extraordinary talents and of excellent moral character, to the particular attention of several of the most eminent professors. His mother bore the second parting with more cheerfulness, especially as the separation was enlivened by frequent letters from Traverse, full of the history of the present and the hopes of the future. The doctor did not forget from time to time to jog the memories of his friends, the professors of the Medical College, that they might afford his protege every facility and assistance in the prosecution of his studies. Toward spring Traverse wrote to his friends that his hopes were sanguine of obtaining his diploma at the end of the examination to be held at the end of the session, and when Traverse expressed this hope, they who knew him so well felt assured that he had made no vain boast. And so it proved, for early in April Traverse Rock returned home with a diploma in his pocket. Sincere was the joyful sympathy that met him. The doctor shook him cordially by the hands, declaring that he was the first student he ever knew to get his diploma at the end of only three years' study. Clara amid smiles and blushes congratulated him. And Mrs. Rock, as soon as she had him alone, threw her arms around his neck and wept for joy. A few days Traverse gave up solely to enjoyment of his friend's society, and then, growing restless, he began to talk of opening an office and hanging out a sign in Stoughton. He consulted the doctor upon the subject. The good doctor heard him out, and then, caressing his own chin, and looking over the tops of his spectacles. With good-humored satire, he said, My dear boy, you have confidence enough in me by this time to bear that I should speak plainly to you? Oh, Doctor Day, just say whatever you like," replied the young man, fervently. Very well, then. I shall speak very plainly. To wit, you'll never succeed in Stoughton. No, not if you had the genius of Galen and Esculapius, Abernathy and Benjamin Rush put together. My dear sir, why? Because, my son, it is written, that a prophet hath no honor in his own city. Of our blessed lord and savior, the contemptuous Jew said, Is not this Jesus the carpenter's son? Oh, I understand you, sir, said Traverse, with a deep blush. You mean that the people, who used some years ago to employ me to put in their coal and saw their wood and run their errands, will never trust me to look at their tongues and feel their pulses and write prescriptions? That's it, my boy. You've defined the difficulty, and now I'll tell you what you are to do, Traverse. You must go to the West, my lad. Go to the West, sir? Leave my mother? Leave you? Leave? He hesitated and blushed. Clara? Yes, my son. You must go to the West.  Leave me and leave Clara. It will be best for all parties. We managed to live without our lad when he was away at his studies in Washington, and we will try to dispense with him longer if it be for his own good. Ah, sir, but then absence had a limitation, and the hope of return sweetened every day that passed. But if I go to the West to settle, it will be without the remotest hope of returning. Not so, my boy, not so, for just as soon as Dr. Rock has established himself in some thriving Western town and obtained a good practice, gained a high reputation, and made himself a home, which, as he is a fast young man, and the best sense of the phrase, he can do in a very few years, he may come back here and carry to his Western home. His mother, said the doctor, with a mischievous twinkle of his eyes. Dr. Day, I owe you more than a son's honor and obedience. I will go wherever you think it best that I should, said Travers earnestly. No more than I expected from all my previous knowledge of you, Travers, and I in my part, will give you only such counsel as I should give my own son, had heaven blessed me with one. And now, Travers, there is no better season for emigration than the spring, and no better point to stop and make observations at than St. Louis. Of course, the place of your final destination must be left for future consideration. I have influential friends at St. Louis to whom I will give you letters. Dear sir, to have matured this plan so well, you must have been kindly thinking of my future this long time past, said Travers, gratefully. Of course, of course, who has a better right?  Travers pressed the doctor's hand and went to seek his mother. He found her in his room busy among his clothing. He begged her to stop and sit down while he talked to her. And when she had done so, he told her the doctor's plan. He had almost feared that his mother would meet his proposition with signs and tears. To his surprise and pleasure, Mrs. Rock received the news with an encouraging smile, telling him that the doctor had long prepared her to expect that her boy would very properly go and establish himself in the West, that she should correspond with him frequently, and as soon as he should be settled, come and keep house for him. Finally she said that, anticipating this emergency, she had, during her three years' residence beneath the doctor's roof, saved three hundred dollars, which she should give her boy to start with. The tears rushed to the young man's eyes. For your dear sake, mother, only for yours may they become three hundred thousand in my hands, he exclaimed. Things were immediately commenced for Traverse's journey. As before, Clara gladly gave her aid in getting ready his wardrobe. As he was about to make his debut as a young physician in a strange city, his mother was anxious that his dress should be faultless, and therefore put the most delicate needlework upon all the little articles of his outfit. Clara volunteered to mark them all. And one day, when Traverse happened to be alone with his mother, she showed him his handkerchiefs, collars, and linen beautifully marked in my new and braided letters. I suppose, Traverse, that you, being a young man, cannot appreciate the exquisite beauty of this work, she said. Indeed, but I can, mother, I did not sit by your side so many years while you worked, without knowing something about it. This is wonderful. The golden thread with which the letters are embroidered is finer than the finest silk I ever saw, so Traverse, admiringly, to please his mother, whom he's supposed to be the embroideress. Well, they may be, said Mrs. Rock, for that golden thread of which you speak is Clara's golden hair, which she herself has drawn out and threaded her needle with, and worked into the letters of your name. Traverse suddenly looked up, his color went and came, he had no words to reply. I told you because I thought it would give you pleasure to know it, and that it would be a comfort to you when you were far away from us. For Traverse, I hope that by this time you have grown strong and wise enough to have conquered yourself, and to enjoy dear Clara's friendship a right. Mother, he said sorrowfully, and then his voice broke down, and without another word he turned and left the room. To feel how deeply and hopelessly he loved the doctor's sweet daughter, to feel sure that she perceived and returned his dumb despairing love, and to know that duty, gratitude, honor, commanded him to be silent, to tear himself away from her and make no sign, was a trial almost too great for the young cart's integrity. Scarcely could he prevent the internal struggle betraying itself upon his countenance. As the time drew near for his departure, self-control grew difficult and almost impossible. Even Clara lost her joyous spirits, and despite all her efforts to be cheerful, grew so pensive that her father, without seeming to understand the cause, gaily rallied her upon her dejection. Traverse understood it, and almost longed for the day to come when he should leave the scene of his love and his sore trial. When afternoon, a few days before he was to start, Dr. Day sent for Traverse to come to him in his study, and as soon as they were seated comfortably together at the table, the doctor put into the young man's hand a well-filled pocketbook, and when Traverse, with a deep and painful blush, would have given it back, he forced it upon him with the old argument, It is only alone, my boy, money put out in interest, capital well and satisfactorily invested, and now listen to me, I am about to speak to you of that which is much nearer your heart. Traverse became painfully embarrassed. Traverse resumed the doctor, I have grown to love you as a son, and to esteem you as a man. I have lived long enough to value solid integrity far beyond wealth or birth, and when that integrity is adorned and enriched by high talents, it forms a character of excellence not often met with in this world. I have proved both your integrity and your talents, Traverse, and I am more than satisfied with you. I am proud of you, my boy. Traverse bowed deeply, but still blushed. You will wonder, continued the doctor, to what all this talk tends. I will tell you, Traverse, I have long known your unspoken love for Clara, and I have honored your scruples and keeping silent when silence must have been so painful. Your trial is now over, my son. Go and open for yourself an honorable career in the profession you have chosen and mastered, and return, and Clara shall be yours. Traverse, overwhelmed with surprise and joy at this incredible good fortune, seized the doctor's hand, and in wild and incoherent language, tried to express his gratitude. There, there, said the doctor, go and tell Clara all this and bring the roses back to her cheeks, and then your parting will be the happier for this hope before you. I must speak. I must speak first, said the young man, in a choking voice. I must tell you some little of the deep gratitude I feel for you, sir. Oh, when I forget all that you have done for me, may my right hand forget her cunning. May God and man forget me. Under day, the Lord helping me for your good sake, I will be all that you have prophesied, and hope and expect of me. For your sake, for Clara and my mother's, I will bend every power of my mind, soul and body, to attain the eminence you desire for me. In a word, the Lord giving me grace, I will become worthy of being your son and Clara's husband. There, there, my dear boy, go and tell Clara all that, said the doctor, pressing the young man's hand and dismissing him. Traverse went immediately to see Clara, whom he found sitting alone in the parlor. She was bending over some delicate needle-work that Traverse knew by instinct was intended for himself. Now had Traverse foreseen from the first the success of his love, there might possibly have been the usual shyness and hesitation in declaring himself to the object of his affection. But although he and Clara had longed deeply and silently, loved and understood each other, yet neither had dared to hope for so improbable an event as the doctors favouring their attachment. And now, under the exciting influence of the surprise, joy and gratitude, with which the doctor's magma nimity had filled his heart, Traverse forgot all shyness and hesitation, and stepping quickly to Clara's side, and dropping gently upon one knee he took her hand, and bowing his head upon it, said, Clara, my own, own Clara, your dear father has given me leave to tell you at last how much and how long I have loved you. And then he arose and sat down beside her.  Oh, he is, he is, said Traverse, fervently. And dear Clara, never did a man strive so hard for wealth, fame, or glory, as I shall strive to become worthy to be called his son.  I know you are worthy of his high regards now, else he never would have chosen you as his son. But I am ambitious for you, Traverse, I would have your motto be, excelsior, higher, said the doctor's daughter. And you, dear Clara, may I venture to hope that you do not disapprove of your father's choice, or reject the hand that he permits me to offer you, said Traverse, for though he understood Clara well enough, yet like all honest men, he wanted some definite and practical engagement. Where is my hand? My heart was yours long ago, murmured the maiden, in a tremulous voice.  Go and tell her, Traverse, it will make her so happy. Then, Traverse, I will be a daughter to her while you are gone. Tell her that, too. Dear girl, you have always been as kind and loving to my mother as it was possible to be. How can you ever be more so than you have been? I shall find a way, smiled Clara. Again he pressed her hand to his heart into his lips, and left the room to find his mother. He had a search before he discovered her at last in the drawing-room, arranging it for their evening fireside gathering. Come, mother, and sit down by me on the sofa, for I have glorious tidings for your ear. Dear Clara sent me from her own side to tell you. Ah, still thinking, always thinking, madly thinking of the doctor's daughter. Poor, poor boy, said Mrs. Rock. Yes, and always intend to think of her to the very end of my life and beyond if possible. But come, dear mother, and hear me explain, said Traverse, and as soon as Mrs. Rock had taken the indicated seat, Traverse commenced and related to her the substance of the conversation between the doctor and himself in the library, in which the former authorized his addresses to his daughter, and also his own subsequent explanation and engagement with Clara. Mrs. Rock listened to all this in unbroken silence, and when at length Traverse had concluded his story, she clasped her hands and raised her eyes, uttering fervent thanksgiving to the fountain of all mercies.  Oh, Traverse, I am returning thanks to heaven on your behalf. Oh, my son, my son, but that such things as these are providential, I should tremble to see you so happy. So I will not presume to congratulate. I will pray for you. Dear mother, you have suffered so much in your life that you are incredulous of happiness. Be more hopeful and confiding. The Bible says, there remaineth now these three, faith, hope, and charity, but the greatest of all is charity. You have charity enough, dear mother, try to have more faith and hope, and you will be happier. And look, there is Clara coming this way. She does not know that we are here. I will call her. Dear Clara, come in and convince my mother she will not believe in our happiness, said Traverse, going to the door, and leading his blushing and smiling betrothed into the room. It may be that Mrs. Rock does not want me for a daughter-in-law, said Clara, archly, as she approached, and put her hand in that of Mara.  Not want you? You know I am just as much in love with you as Traverse himself can be, and I have longed for you, my sweet, longed for you as an unattainable blessing, ever since the day when Traverse first left us, and you came and laid your bright head on my bosom and wept with me. And now if we must cry a little when Traverse leaves us, we can go and take comfort in being miserable together, with a better understanding of our relations, said Clara, with an arch smile. Where are you all? Where is everybody? That I am left wandering about the lonely house like a poor ghost in Hades, said the doctor's cheerful voice in the passage without. Here, father, here we are, a family party, wanting only you to complete it, answered his daughter, springing to meet him. The doctor came in smiling, pressed his daughter to his bosom, shook Traverse cordially by the hand, and kissed Mara Rock's cheek. That was his way of congratulating himself and all others on the betrothal. The evening was past in unalloyed happiness. Let them enjoy it. It was their last of comfort, that bright evening. Over that household was already gathering a cloud heavy and dark with calamity. Calamity that must have overwhelmed the stability of any faith, which was not as theirs was, stayed upon God. CHAPTER XXVIII A PANNIC IN THE OUTLAWS DEN Imagination frames events unknown, in wild fantastic shapes of hideous ruin, and what it fears creates. Hanna Moore. Dark doubt and fear, or other spirits lower, but touch not his, to every waking hour, has one fixed hope, and always feels its power. Crab. Upon the very same night that the three robbers were surprised and captured by the presence of mind of Capitola at Hurricane Hall, Black Donald, disguised as a negro, was lurking in the woods around the mansion, waiting for the coming of his three men with their prize. But as hour after hour passed, and they came not, the desperado began heartily to curse their sloth, for to no other cause was he enabled to attribute the delay, as he knew the house, the dust and scene of the outrage, to be deserted by all for the night, except by the three helpless females.  While he was cursing their inefficiency, and regretting that he had not himself made one of the party, he wandered in his restlessness to another part of the woods, and the opposite side of the house. He had not been long here before his attention was arrested by the tramping of approaching horsemen. He withdrew into the shade of the thicket, and listened while the travelers went by. The party proved to consist of old hurricane, Herbert Grayson, and the sheriff's officers, on their way from the town to Hurricane Hall to take the captured burglars into custody. And Black Donald, by listening attentively, gathered enough from their conversation to know that his men had been discovered and captured by the heroism of Capitola. "'That girl again,' muttered Black Donald to himself, "'she is doomed to be my destruction, or I hers. Our fates are evidently connected. Poor Steve, poor Dick, poor Hale, little did I think that your devotion to your captain would carry you into the very jaws of death. Pasha, hang it, let boys and women whine, I must act.' And with this resolution Black Donald dogged the path of the horsemen until he had reached that part of the woods skirting the road opposite the park gate. Here he hid himself in the bushes to watch events. Soon from his hiding place he saw the wagon approach, containing the three men, heavily ironed, and escorted by a strong guard of county constables and plantation negroes, all well armed, and under the command of the sheriff and Herbert Grayson. Ha, ha, ha! They must dread an attempt on our part of rescue, or they never would think of putting such a formidable guard over three wounded and handcuffed men, left Black Donald to himself. Courage, my boys, he muttered, your chief will free you from prison or share your captivity. I wish I could trumpet that into your ears at this moment. But prudence, the better part of Valor, forbids. For the same words that would encourage you would warn your captors into greater vigilance. And so sang Black Donald let the procession pass, and then made tracks for his retreat. It was broad daylight when he reached the old inn. The robbers, worn out with waiting and watching for the captain and his men with a fair prize, had thrown themselves down upon the kitchen floor, and now lay in every sort of awkward attitude, stretched out, or doubled up in heavy sleep. The old bell-dame had disappeared, doubtless she had long since sought her night-layer. Taking a poker from the corner of the fireplace, Black Donald went around among the sleeping robbers, and stirred them up, with vigorous punches in the ribs, and cries of, wake up, bolts, brutes, blockheads, wake up. You rest on a volcano about to break out. You sleep over a mine about to be exploded. Wake up, sluggards, that you are. Your town is taken, your castle is stormed. The enemy is at your throats with drawn swords. Ah, brutes, will you wake, then, or shall I have to lay it on harder? What the demon! How now? What's this? Were some of the ejaculations of the men, as they slowly and sulkily roused themselves from their heavy slumber. The house is on fire, the ship sinking. The cars have run off the track, the boilers burst, and the devils to pay, cried Black Donald, accompanying his words with vigorous punches of the poker into the ribs of the recumbent men.  Have you got the girl, and drunk too much liquor on your wedding night? asked one of the men. No, Mac, I have not got the girl. On the contrary, the girl, blame her, has got three of my best men in custody, and one word, Hale, Dick, and Steve, are safely lodged in the county jail. What? Perdition! My eye! How long ago? Were the simultaneous exclamations of the men, as they spring upon their feet? And the fiend's name, Captain, tell us all about it, said Mac anxiously. I have no time to talk much, nor you to tarry long. It was all the long of that blamed witch, Capitola, said Black Donald, who then gave a rapid account of the adventure, and the manner in which Capitola entrapped, and captured the burglars, together with the way in which he himself came by the information. I declare one can't help liking that girl. I should admire her, even if she should put a rope about my neck, said Mac. She's a brick, said another, with emphasis.  I am more than ever resolved to get her into my possession, but in the meantime, Lads, we must evacuate the old inn. It is getting too hot to hold us. Aye, Captain. Aye, Lads, listen. We must talk fast, and act promptly. The poor fellows up there in jail are game, I know. They would not willingly peach, but they are badly wounded. If one of them should have to die, and be blessed with a psalm-singing parson to attend him, no knowing what he may be persuaded to confess. Therefore, let us quickly decide upon some new rendezvous that will be unsuspected, even by our poor caged birds. If any of you have any place in your eye, speak. We would rather hear what you have to say, Captain, said Mac, and all the rest, assented. Well, then, you all know the devil's punch-bowl. Aye, do we, Captain? Well, what you do not know, when nobody knows but myself is this, that about half-way down the awful chasm in the side of the rock is a hole, concealed by a clump of evergreens. That hole is the entrance to a cavern of enormous extent. Let that be our next rendezvous. And now, avante, fly, scatter, and meet me in the cavern tonight at the usual hour. Listen, carry away all our arms, ammunition, disguises, and provisions, so that no vestige of our presence may be left behind. As for Dummy, if they can make her speak, the cutting out of her tongue was lost labor. Vanish. But our pales in prison, said Mac, they shall be my care. We must lie low for a few days, so as to put the authorities off their guard. Then, if our pales recover from their wounds, and have proved game against church and state, I shall know what measures to take for their deliverance. No more talk now. Prepare for your flitting and fly. The Captain's orders were obeyed, and within two hours from that time no vestige of the robber's presence remained in the deserted old inn. If any sheriff's officer had come there with a search warrant, he would have found nothing suspicious. He would have seen only a poor old dumb woman, busy at her spinning-wheel, and if he had questioned her, would only have got smiles and shakes of the head for an answer, or the exhibitions of coarse country gloves and stockings of her own knitting, which she would, in dumb show, beg him to purchase. Days and weeks passed, and the three imprisoned burglars languished in jail, each in a separate cell. Bitterly, each in his heart complained of the leader that had, apparently, deserted them in their direst need. And if neither betrayed him, it was probably because they could not do so without deeply criminating themselves, and for no better motive. There is said to be honor among thieves. It is, on the face of the matter, untrue. There can neither be honor, confidence, nor safety, among men whose profession is crime. The burglars, therefore, had no confidence in their leader, and secretly and bitterly reproached him for his desertion of them. Meanwhile the annual camp meeting season approached. It was rumored that a camp meeting would be held in the wooden vale below Tip Top, and soon this report was confirmed by announcements in all the county papers. And all who intended to take part in the religious festival, or have a tent on the ground, began to prepare provisions, cooking me in poultry, baking bread, cakes, pies, et cetera, and preachers from all parts of the country were flocking into the village to be on the spot for the commencement. This condiment, though a member of another church, loved in her soul the religious excitement, the warming up, as she called it, to be had at the camp meeting. But never in the whole course of her life had she taken part in one, except so far as riding to the preaching, in the morning and returning home in the evening. But Capitola, who was as usual in the interval between her adventures, bore half to death with the monotony of her life at Hurricane Hall, and praying not against, but wishing for, fire, floods, or thieves, or anything to stir her stagnant blood, heard of the camp meeting, and expressed a wish to have a tent on the camp ground, and remain there from the beginning to the end, to see all that was to be seen, hear all that was to be heard, feel all that was to be felt, and learn all that was to be known. And as Capitola, ever since her victory over the burglars, had been the Queen Reginand of Hurricane Hall, she had only to express this wish to have it carried into immediate effect. Old Hurricane himself went up to Tip-Top, and purchased the canvas, and set two men to work under his own immediate direction to make the tent. And as Major Warfield's campaigning experience was very valuable here, it turned out that the Hurricane Hall tent was the largest and best on the camp ground. As soon as it was set up under the shade of a grove of oak trees, a wagon from Hurricane Hall conveyed to the spot the simple and necessary furniture, cooking materials, and provisions. And the same morning, the family carriage driven by wool brought out Major Warfield, Mrs. Condiment, Capitola, and her little maid, Patty. The large tent was divided into two compartments, one for Major Warfield and his man, Wool, the other for Mrs. Condiment, Capitola, and Patty. As the family party stepped out of the carriage, the novelty, freshness, and beauty of the scene called forth a simultaneous burst of admiration. The little snow-white tents were dotted here and there through the woods, in beautiful contrast with the greenness of the foliage. Shirts of well-dressed and cheerful-looking men, women and children, were walking about. Overall smiled a morning sky of cloudless splendor. The preachings and the prayer meetings had not yet commenced. Indeed many of the brethren were hard at work in an extensive clearing, setting up a rude pulpit, and arranging rough benches to accommodate the women and children of the camp congregation. Our party went into their tent, delighted with the novelty of the whole thing, though old hurricane declared that it was nothing new to his experience, but reminded him strongly of his campaigning days. Wool assented, saying that the only difference was there were no ladies in the old military camp. I have neither time nor space to give a full count of this camp meeting. The services commenced the same evening. There were preachers of more or less fervor, of piety and eloquence of utterance. Old Christians had their first love revived, young ones found their zeal kindled, and sinners were awakened to a sense of their sin and danger. Every Christian there said the season had been a good one. In the height of the religious enthusiasm there appeared a new preacher in the field. He seemed a man considerably past middle age, and broken down with sickness or sorrow. His figure was tall, thin and stooping. His hair white as snow. His face pale and emaciated. His movements slow and feeble. His voice low and unsteady. He wore a solemn suit of black that made his thin form seem of skeleton proportions, a snow-white neck cloth, and a pair of great round iron rim spectacles that added nothing to his good looks. Yet this old, sickly and feeble man seemed one of fervent piety and of burning eloquence. Everyone sought his society, and when it was known that Father Gray was to hold forth, the whole camp congregation turned out to hear him. It must not be supposed that in the midst of this great revival, those poor, sinners above all sinners, the burglars imprisoned in the neighboring town, were forgotten. No, they were remembered, prayed for, visited, and exhorted. As no one took more interest in the fate of these men than good Mrs. Condiment, who having seen them all on that great night at Hurricane Hall, and having with their own kind hands plastered their heads and given them posits, could not drive out of her heart a certain compassion for their miseries. No one either admired Father Gray more than did the little old housekeeper of Hurricane Hall, and as her table and her accommodations were the best on the campground, she often invited and pressed good Father Gray to rest and refresh himself in her tent. And the old man, though a severe ascetic, yielded to her repeated solicitations, until at length he seemed to live there altogether. One day Mrs. Condiment, being seriously exercised upon the subject of the imprisoned men, said to Father Gray, who was reposing himself in the tent, Father Gray, I wish to speak to you, sir, upon the subject of those poor wretched men who are to be tried for their lives at the next term of the criminal court. Our ministers have all been to see them and talk to them, but not one of the number can make the least impression on them, or bring them to any sense of their awful condition. Ah, that is dreadful, said the aged man. Yes, dreadful, Father Gray, now I thought if you would only visit them you could surely bring them to reason. My dear friend, I would willingly do so, but I must confess to you a weakness, a great weakness of the flesh. I have a natural shrinking from men of blood. I know it is sinful, but indeed I cannot overcome it. But my dear Father Gray, a man of your experience knows full well that if you cannot overcome that feeling you should act in direct opposition to it. And I assure you there is no danger, why even I should not be at all afraid of a robber when he is double-ironed and locked up in a cell, and I should enter guarded by a pair of turnkeys. I know it, my dear lady, I know it, and I feel that I ought to overcome this weakness, or do my duty in its despite. Yes, and if you would consent to go, Father Gray, I would not mind going with you myself, if that would encourage you any. Of course it would, my dear friend, and if you will go with me, and if the brethren think that I could do any good, I will certainly endeavour to conquer my repugnance and visit these imprisoned men. It was arranged that Father Gray, accompanied by Mrs. Condiment, should go to the jail upon the following morning, and accordingly they set out immediately after breakfast. A short ride up the mountain brought them to Tiptop, in the center of which stood the jail. It was a simple structure of gray stone, containing within its own walls the apartments occupied by the warden. To these Mrs. Condiment, who was the leader in the whole matter, first presented herself, introducing Father Gray as one of the preachers of the camp meeting, a very pious man, and very effective in his manner of dealing with hardened offenders. I have heard of the Reverend Mr. Gray in his powerful exhortations, said the warden, with a low bow, and I hope he may be able to make some impression on these obdurate men, and induce them, if possible, to make a clean breast of it, and give up the retreat of their band. Each of them has been offered a free pardon on condition of turning state's evidence, and each has refused. Indeed, have they done so case-hardened creatures, mildly inquired Father Gray? I have they, but you, dear sir, may be able to persuade them to do so. I shall endeavor. I shall endeavor, said the mild old man. The warden then requested the visitors to follow him, and led the way upstairs to the cells. I understand that the criminals are confined separately, said Mr. Gray to the warden. No, sir, they were so confined at first, for better security, but as they have been very quiet, and as since those rowdies that disturbed the camp meeting have been sent to prison, and filled up our cells, we have had to put those three robbers into one cell. I'm afraid I began the minister, hesitating. Father Gray is nervous, good Mr. Jailer. I hope there's no danger from these dreadful men, all of them together, for I promised Father Gray that he should be safe myself, said Mrs. Condiment. Oh, ma'am, undoubtedly! They are double-ironed, said the warden, as he unlocked a door, and admitted the visitors, into a rather darkish cell, in which were the three prisoners. Steve the mulatta was stretched upon the floor in a deep sleep. Jail was sitting on the side of the cot, twiddling his fingers.  Peace be with you, my poor souls, said the mild old man, as he entered the cell. You go to the demon, said Dick, with a hideous scowl. Nay, my poor man, I came in the hope of saving you from that enemy of souls. Here's another, and there's three comes regular. Here's the fourth. Go it, old fellow. We're getting used to it. It's getting to be entertaining. It's the only diversion we have in this blamed hole, said Hale. Nay, friend, if you use profane language, I cannot stay to hear it, said the old man. Yo-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh! Yawned Steve, half-rising and stretching himself. What's the row? I was just dreaming our captain had come to deliver us. Yo-oh-oh-oh-oh! It's only another person. And with that, Steve turned himself over and settled to sleep. My dear Mr. Jailer, do you think that these men are safe? For if you do, I think we had better leave excellent Mr. Gray to talk to them alone. He can do them so much more good if he has them all to himself, said Mrs. Condiment, who was, in spite of all her previous boasting, beginning to quail and tremble under the hideous gaze of demon Dick's eyes. No, no, no, faltered the preacher, nervously taking hold of the coat of the warden. You go along out of this, the whole of you. I'm not a wild beast in a cage to be stared at, growled demon Dick, with a baleful glare that sent Mrs. Condiment and the preacher shuddering to the cell door. Mr. Gray, I do assure you, sir, there is no danger. The men are double-ironed, and as malignant as they may be, they can do you no harm. And if you would stay and talk to them, you might persuade them to confession and do the community much service, said the warden. I'm no coward, but faltered the old man, tremblingly approaching the prisoners. I understand, you sir, you are in bad health, which makes you nervous. Yes, yes, heaven forgive me, but a few Mr. Jailer and the good lady here will keep within call, in case of accidents. I don't mind if I do remain and exhort these men for a short time, said the old man. Of course we will, come, Mrs. Condiment, mom. There's a good bench in the lobby, and I'll send for my old woman, and we three can have a good talk while the worthy Mr. Gray is speaking to the prisoners, said the warden, conducting the housekeeper from the cell. As soon as they had gone, the old man went to the door and peeped after them, and having seen they went to the extremity of the lobby to a seat under an open window, he turned back to the cell, and going up to Hale said in a low voice, now then, is it possible that you do not know me?  Steve, Steve, said the old man in a pitiful voice, waking the sleeper, don't you know me either? Don't bother me, said that worthy, giving himself another turn and another settle to sleep. Stoltz, Blockheads, Brutes, do you know me now? growled the visitor, changing his voice.  Then all I have to say, Captain, is that you have left us here a blamed long time, and exposed to sore temptation to peach on me, couldn't help it, lads, couldn't help it. I waited until I could do something to the purpose. Now may Satan roast me alive if I know what you have done to turn yourself into an old man. Burn my soul, if I should know you now, Captain, if it weren't for your voice, grumbled Steve. Listen then, you ungrateful, suspicious freches. I did for you what no captain ever did for his men before. I had exhausted all manner of disguises, so that authorities would almost have looked for me in an old woman's gown. See then what I did. I put myself on a month's regimen, a vegetable diet, and kept myself in a cavern, until I grew as pale and thin as a hermit. Then I shaved off my hair, beard, mustaches, and eyebrows. Yes, blame you. I sacrificed all my beauty to your interests. Fate helps those who help themselves. The camp meeting gathering together, hosts of people and preachers, gave me the opportunity of appearing without exciting inquiry. I put on a gray wig, a black suit, assumed a feeble voice, stooping gate, and a devout manner, and became a popular preacher at the camp meeting.  You are indeed. I do not flatter you, said Hal. It was a sediment in which all agreed. I had no need of further machination, continued the captain. They actually gave me the game. I was urged to visit you here, forced to remain alone and talk with you, laughed Black Donald. And now, Captain, my jewel, my treasure, my sweetheart, that I love with the love passing the love of woman. How is your reverence going to get us out? Listen, said the captain, diving into his pockets. You must get yourselves out. This prison is by no means strongly fastened or well guarded. Here are files to file off your fetters. Here are tools to pick the locks. And here are three loaded revolvers to use against any of the turnkeys who may discover and attempt to stop you. Tonight, however, is the last of the camp meeting, and the two turnkeys are among my hearers. I shall keep them all night. Now you know what to do. I must leave you. Dick, try to make an assault on me that I may scream, but first conceal your tools and arms. Hale had the instruments in Dick with an awful roar, sprang at the visitor, who ran to the grade and crying, Help! Help! The warden came hurrying to the spot. Take him out of this, then, muttered Dick, sulkily getting back into his corner.  I shall be glad when he's once hanged, said the jailer. I fear that I can do them but little good, and I would rather not come again, being sickly and nervous, faltered Father Gray. No, my dear good sir, I for one shall not ask you to risk your precious health for such a set of wretches. They are Satan's own. You shall come home to our tent and lie down and rest, and I will make you an egg caudal that will set you up again, said Mrs. Condiment, tenderly, as the whole party left the cell. That day the outrageous conduct of the imprisoned burglars was a subject of conversation, even dividing the interest of the religious excitement. But the next morning the whole community was thrown into a state of consternation by the discovery that the burglars had broken jail and fled, and that the notorious outlaw, Black Donald, had been in their very midst, disguised as an elderly field preacher. End of chapter 28.


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