Beadle's New York Dime Library (no. 1068) (1903 01)
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POE g os pete: oS M. J. KVERS & CO., Publishers, No 1068 Published Every (JAMES SULLIVAN, Proreretor), 10 Cents a Copy. Vol . a Month. . 379 Pearl! Street, New York. $1.00 a Year. | OWLET, THE ROBBER PRINCE; — Or, THE UNKNOWN HIGHWAYMAN. ——————— (BY SEPTIMUS RR.’ URBAN.
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OWLET, THE ROBBER PRINCE; OR, The Unknown Highwayman. A TALE OF THE ROAD. BY SEPTIMUS R. URBAN, CHAPTER I. THE CHAMPION’S GLOVE. On the 22d of September, in the year 1761, Ring George the Third of* Enyland, then twenty-four years of age, and who, the year previous, had sueceeded his grandfather, Ge -rze the Second, was solemnly crowned in Westminster Abbey, and banqueted in West- minster Hall. ‘The new monarch was popular. The old one hal been detested ; and new hopes and aspirations had arisen in the breasts of all who came into contact with the court, or were in any way ¢ mneoted with those who did, on this, the advent of a new reign, Besides, youth is always popular, The spring-time of the feelings is a pleasant-look- ing season; and it was hoped, thought, and helieved that a new reign of a more English eharacter was commencing; and that the delicate tree of parliamentary freedom and national tolerance, which had but faintly struck root in British soil, would now grow and flourish apace. That was ono of the full-hearted, weak- minded mistakes of the British public, which is ever so ready to fling up its cap and shout “Huzza!” if royalty condescends even to look human for a moment. And so, on this 22d day of September, 1761, the young king was solemnly crowned | in Westminster Abbey, and banqueted in the old hall at Westminster, which had cov- ered with its net-work of dingy rafters so many memorable events, in which the great, the little—the noble, the base—the mighty of heart and soul, and the most groveling and vicious—had borne a part, and “ strutted their hour upon the stage.” The hall was a blaze of decoration. Ban- ners fluttered tbair silken folds in the air, heavy with perfumes; gorgeous candelabra cha ready to make « new day witli their ‘hundreds of wax-lights, 60 soon as the brief sunlight of the autumn season should pass away ; diamonds flashed like little suns in all directions; the rich costumes of the offi- cers of state; the quaint old dresses of offi- cials ocoupying positions long since obsolete and forgotten, except to the exchequer; the throngs of military officers; the waving of feathers; the entanglements of spurs in hoops—ladies than affected the erinoline, as now ; the rustling—positively the rustling— of gold lace and embroidery ; the clank and. clangor of sword-hilts and sheaths ; the sub- dued hum ot conversation from so many fair and noble lips the light laugh; the ban; quet, which presented a blaze of gold and jeweled cups’; all combined to ko So one offthese ih-door pageants —half-barbarous, half-magnificent—which no other country, at that period, could exhibit but old England. It was a dim and luatreless day. : At a little past twelve o’cloek, the sun, which had shed but.a weak and watery ra- dignce upon the ceremonial, finally retired behind one of‘those masses of. slaty-colored |. clouds which Englishmen have such abund-- ant opportunitirs of contemplating. ‘ But the royal banquet went forward right mérrily, and’the programme of the day’s pro- ceedings, part by part, was carried out. The king had regently married Charlotte, daughter of the Duke o Mecklenburg ; ‘and this “ plain young woman,” a6 Monsieur Cle-. yoille described her, when writing to his court, sat ¢% the right han@ of the young king, and “looked pe ee and ire : The great officers of stato said their say. There was abundance of lip-service,, and, courtly smiles, and backing out from the roy’ al ppesence ; and chamberlains grew red x1 the face with their exertions, and gold aticks,. in waiting,’ anasjsilver sticks, solemn-look- fng clerks Lane ouge, asd Croix, and OClarenciens, and ihe rickety of courtly inanity and com®pttge,gettted, «nd famed, ‘and were zealous, Pata Ried great courtesy | a = Owlet, the Robber Prince. eaeaeaeaeaeaeaeeaee*=~=~Qwuqo0 ee ={ eee to each other, while malice and bitterness | though, this minute. NOMore on duty—on were in their hearts; and the banquet, like a guard, eh? Sure he was here.” stage pageant, was performed. But what means that fanfaronade of trump- ets—that brazen blast that awakens the ech- oes of the old hall—and, as if it had been 8 oll to battle, lights up many an eye there present with a dormant chivalry ? Again the silver trumpets of the pursuiv- ants rang loudly and cheerily. What a clang- or of martial notes! How the air shivers and vibrates to the ringing sounds. And now there is a commotion at the en- trance to the old hall. The crowd in the pal- ace-yard rend the air with loud huzzas. A. dense throng of court minions and relations ie ea crowds the lower end of the old all. Another shout from the mob without. An- other ringing peal of silvery music from the heralds’ trumpets, which might awaken an- cient chivalry from its grave, and “ Whirling like a blazing flame, Its heavy falchion,” defy a world in arms. : Then all is still, except the lingering ech- oes of-the wild and martial clangor in the re- mote corners of the hall, and the rustling flutter of the silken banners that, like a for- est of various bloss..ms, float overhead. “Gott gracious!” said the queen, ‘ vat dat?” “Eh!” replied George the Third. “Eh! What — what that? Oh! Champion—Dy- mocke—eh? Theglove, youknow. SirHen- ry Dymocke—champion.” There was heard now the tramp of the iron-shod feet of a horse on the stone flags at the entrance of the hall. A loud cheer burat from the mob without. “ That's it,” said the king. “ Champion— Dymocke. Has the gold cup, though. Per- quisite—don’t like perquisites. Don’t hap- pen often, eh ?” “Gott gracious!” said the queen. Another much more genteel and courtly shout now arose from within the hall; and a Jane was made for Sir Henry Dymocke, the hereditary champion of England, to advance to the upper end of the banquet-room, where he was to defy to mortal combat all and ey- ery one of the grade of knighthood, who, by word, act, or deed, should dare to question the right of nig George the Third to the . erown of Englan : The hereditary champion was encased in steel armor from head to heel. A plume of three white feathers, tipped with azure, float- ed above his helmet. His spurs were o gold; and a scarf of blue and silver tissue crossed his corselet, having heavy bullion tassels dependent from it. The horse was in half armor. A rich saddle-cloth of crimson velvet trailed upon the floor, and the arms of England were em- broidered, in pearls and gold, upon it, _ A steel spike projected from the head panoply of the horse ; and, as the noble ani- mal stepped up the old hall, there was a fretfulness of manner about ite head, and a wild look about its eyes, which showed that it was rather scared by the flash of jewels and the glare of many colors. The champion was preceded by a couple of heralds, in their gorgeous and stiff tabards. They earried each a silver trumpet. Clarencieux—king-at-arms, as he was call- ed—followed them, carrying a scroll in his hand. Then came the knights’ banner. Then the champion. Two pages followed. One bore his shield, the other his lance. And’ so up the centre of that stately hall. tramp, tramp, with its iron-shod feet upon the sounding figg-stones, strode the horse, tossing its head, and snorting with surprise at all it saw around it. The court ladies waved their handkerchiefs. Thé courtiers clapped their hands. 7 The king asiitade “There—you see—eh? Charlette, Char- lotte — you seée-— Champion. Kill all the world—eh? Gald oup as a perquisite, seengh —eh? Don’t like that—«ch? Blanehard ! What, gone! Colonel Blanchard—’ _ “Your majesty is respectfully ang humbly informed,” said a gold-stick, in waiting, “ that Colonel Blanchard, of your Majesty's Guards, is not here.” a “Not here, eh? Was here—was here, {and faint, like the last flicker ef a winte: “ Your majesty is right.” “Right—right! To be sure.” The gold-stick bowed so low, that nothing could be seen of him but the middle of his back; and then the two heralds, who pre- ceded the champion, paused and placed their trumpets to their ]i;s. One full-toned, ringing blast from the sil- ver throats of the trumpets put an end to all whispered conversation in the hall; and hardly hadythe clanging sounds died away, when Clarencienx, king-at-arms, advanced a step, and fromthe scroll he bore, read a chal- lenge. : A challenge to all knights, of all degr:es, to come forward there and then, and dispute the title of the recently-crowned king, or for- ever hold their peace. And then the two heralds turned to one side of the hall, and blew a loud challenze on their trumpets; then to the other side, a second challenge; and then toward the door, - a third. ; And Sir Henry fet der took off the glove § —the iron-clamped and bound gauntlet — from his right hand, and flung it down on the stone pavement of the hall. : And the trumpets gave one last, loud blar. * ing sound of defiance. k “There, Charlotte,” said the king; ‘ you } see—eh ?—the glove. If anybody had any thing to say—or wanted to fight—eh ?— against us, you know. Why, they would have to come and pick up the glove—wh? What? what? what?” “ Gott gracious !’’ said the qneen. 1 A young girl dashed out from amid abe throng of spectators in the hall. She reach- ed the glove ina moment; and lifting it from ", the floor, she held it above her head, and in 4 a clear, high voice, she oried : “Long live Harold the Second!” Another moment, and before a ory could | i i he uttered—before an arm could be raised to stop her—she had turned and pluiiged among the crowd again, conveying with her the champion’s gage of battle—the iron-clamped glove of Sir Henry Dymocke, ; CHAPTER II. THE ROUTE TO TYBDRA. The autumn wind blew keenly and fiercely sround the massive stone walls of Newgate, on the Monday morning that succeeded the coronation, of which we have given our read- ers but a faint glimpse. From the palace to the prison isa step in the march of events which has been oom- mon enough to lose almost the flavor of a novelty; and we may well leave for a time the gorgeous old hall at Westmjnster, and the solemn abbey, with its thousand glorious and mystic reminiscenes of the past, to gaze awhile upon that dreary pile in old London, which, with its pais aspect, seems to frown upon the tide of humanity which, during the busy hours of the day, floats past it. Standing boldly on the brow of the eastern swell of ground, which, in that direction, bounds the valley of the Fleet, Newgate, square, compact and defiant—cold, rigid, hard, and dense—seems as if it would stem the fall ocean of London life that toils up the hill; and, passing the old Church of St. Sep- ulchre’s, seeks the marts of commerce and enterprise that lie yet another half mile be- ‘ond, : y And who that passes that gloomy prison- house fails to accord to it the attention of an upward glance—so rich it is in recolleo- tions of the past—stormed once as it was, like the old Bastile of Paris; but not like it, to fall to rise no more—for Newgate was never the tyrant's dungeon, in whieh political creeds were converted into social offences —burnt ‘once a8 it was by a fanatic crowd, who onl sought flames as part and parcel of the wild saturnalia they enjoyed; and yet. now calm cold, and terrible in its compact, integrity, with its little eyes of windows thickly stan. chioned, and its deeply-indented door-ways far away in the massive walls. , And over the gateway, there hang seulp- tured fetters—albeit, now, such iron janitors are but little used, if at all. And here and there—between huge blocks of stores, of fab- ulous thickiess—may be seen narrow steps, through which, by many and sinuous way the outer air—some of the onter light—thin 5 \
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Se Owlet, the Robber Prince nm | We | _ wish to look into the eyes of this man, who is nad G@sy—ard some echoes of the hoarss mur murs of the every-day life without — may weach a cell. A cell, in which some weary prisoner is wighing life away. A cell, to the chill, iron bars of which, per- hance, some solitary wretch clings, and rusts with his tears. A cell, which is atomb. The tomb of all hope, of all joy, all ge ed and in which the very intellect slowly exhales, until the in- mate smiles vacantly, and builds armories with the straw that has formed his couch. Then the soul has achieved its freedom, and Vthe walls of old Newgate have fallen down | before the first smile of fatuity, while the tears of despair have seemed but to thicken and harden them. Ob! what a world of sighs have issued forth ‘through those prison chinks! What tears have in yain tried to soften the cold iron offthe ‘barred grating! Will the accurate water-dro drill a hole through adamant? So it is said. Alas! no tears have yet sufficed to melt the granite walls of Newgate. And what frantic cries — cries that the al- most bursting heart could not suppress—cries that it must perforce give utterance to, or ‘burst in the vain struggle to imprison them, have, with a dull and faint sound, only made their way to the world without. Those criés were like some poor prisoner who seeks escape, and in the process is dashed to-and-fro, until at length, when, perchance, the falls into the outer world, h haa lost the semblance of*humanity from many concus- sions and many hurts. They lose their scream- ing veliemence and their supplicating pathos ‘by alternate blows against shines cruel stones, ere they issue forth into the great city, and the ery which in the cell—which at the inner mouth of some one of those sinuous slits would have harrowed up the soul, issnes forth @n inarticulate murmur, which is lost in the Pout of sounds that belong to the outer world. And all is despair in the prison cell. A chamber eight feet square. Stone walls stone ceiling—stone tloor—stone every- Bara of those narrow slits between two ef the huge squares of granite that, like some gray snake, let into the wall, winds its way to the open air—a coarse, wooden bench, put to- gether with pegs only, in order that no iron ahould be at the prisoner's dis;:0sal—a wood- n pitcher—a half truss of straw — raking of the stable. The Governor of Newgate kept his horse, and the prisoners’ clean straw first served the quadruped. What would you? Are not governors men ? and may they not peculate a little straw? And _ besides, the ere sn in that cell, and in similar cells, is about to be hanged, and therefore, what need of clean straw ? And now, O reader—now, O denizens of a fand of freedom, on which the sun of liberty sparkles in its God-like beauty, look with us into this cell, which we have faintly limned, for it is there that one whom, if you will, you may call the heroine of our tale, is lying. rd that cell—that call with the granite walls, foof, and flooring—that nut of stone, in which ‘there lies so precious and fair a kernel, site— mo, crouches with her hands clasped over her faco—her face and hands both resting on her knees—her long, fair hair in many a tang- Jed curl and wavy spiral floating to her feet, and with a dancing motion resting on the Stone floor—a young girl. A prison dress of a kind of gray serge is e@bout her: coarse and common as it is, what @ wondrous grace it has borrowed from the “image divine’ that it incloses. The dim light in the cell seemed asif ithad goneentrateditself about the head and hair of @ young creature, who, thus apparently abandoned by God and man, was the inmate of that sad abode. Like a nimbus, the few and fading rays of the autumn moon flickered and floated, so to speak, about her head. In _ folds fantastic, the coarse serge settled on the - #tone floor, and for all she moved, or for all _ ahe rapekes she might have been but a sculp- + ured form, forming part and parcel of the " general stony structure that was around her. ~ Deserted alike by God and man, did we say ? Ah, no—no! A thousand times no! Heaven was about to drag the pure spirit front out the furnace of affliction. — -. Man was raving in her cause at the Iron gate of Newgate. é -_ Rest_yet awhile, gentle, fair, and innocent Alice Home — that is her name--rest awhile Zoe ae in thy stony cell! Thou art still now. raving in your cause at the iron gate of New- gate. A youth—a mere youth—Gerald Alton— | —time is , What time Slim and tall, but rather delicate than power- | ful, his eyes suffused and blood-shot with pale and | tears and much weeping, his face haggard, his hair in wild disorder —is at the iron gate. — With his open hand, with his clenched hand, with both his hands, he beats at the iron wicket of the porch of Newgate. “Twill see her! q must seeher! She isin- nocent! Alice—Alice! You shall not kill her !—itsis murder! murder! murder! Have some merey! Are you men, and yet have no merey ? Let us be merciful to each other! Alice! Alice! Alice! Let me sce her — let me die with her, for her—for her a thousand times! She is innocent—-innocent! Help! help! O God! help me, and put s-me grain of pity in the hearts of these men! Alice! Alice! Alice!” The hour was early—half-past seven. Not many passengers were Foe The business of the day had not fuirly com- menced. A man on the opposite side of the way was taking down the shutters of a shop. ‘Let me see her—oh! let me see her one moment—only ore moment!” Bang! bang! bang! went the delicate, closed band against the iron wicket. There was blood upon tle heads of the old nails that projected massively from the door; but still he beat at it. . “Only for one moment! Askthe governor for me ; tell him J will bl: es him while I live! Alice — it is Alice Home I wish to see! O Heaven! is'there no pity—no pity ?” He beat again on the iron wicket. The blows had a deadening, sickening sound about them. It was at midnight he had commenced them ;- and his hands were bruised and shaken, : The man opposite put down the shutters he had just lifted from the window, and look: ed over the way at this frantic youth. “Well,” he said, “most folks hammer to get out of the old stone jug, but this young fellow hammers to get in!” . “Mercy * Oh, have mercy, some of you! I must see her—] tell you all she is innocent! She cannot—must not be killed innocent, you know! It is murder—a judicial murder! Help! Merey !| Alice—Alice—my Alice!” That was the first time he had said “ my Alice,” and the word seemed to overpower him; for, with a ery of such despair that it might almost have penetrated to the cell within, he sank down by the gate of the pris- on; and it was very strange that he assumed the same attitude there—without—in the open cold September air, as that young girl did in her stony cell. His hands over his face—his bleeding, bruised hands. His face and hands both rest- ing on his knees. door boy ! He was but a boy. How sad to have the heart so riven in early life, ere it has gather- ed strength of resistance to the rude shocks of mortal existence, Poor boy! And very strange it was, too, that at that moment, from out the cold autumnal sky, there came a white flickering ray of light— a watery beam of the glorious sun—and it wandered down the cold stone wall of New- gate, and passed the sculptured pillars over the porch, and past the two little windows on each side, and past the porch and the wicket, until it fell upon the head of the afflicted one. And there it rested. Was it a promise? Did it speak to the poor heart in the voice of Heaven, and say: “Be comforted. Lo! I am with you!” Something cold touched his hands. He looked up. A poor woman selling milk was close to him, She held toward him one of her little tin cans, and with tears starting to her eyes she said, gently : ‘ “Come, come—what' be the matter with ’e? Why, ’e be but a child! Drink, lad— drink !” “ No—no!” What a world of woe was in the tone of his voice as he uttered that word, “No!” “ Well, but if ye don’t take something—” The woman paused, =~ 0 a ager os ome 3 “T shal, die,” said Gerald. “Y mean to die with her. Alice. Alice. What is that?” : “ The chimes.” : “Chimes—chimes? Oh, good God. Time going and I have not seen her- “It be a quarter-past seven.” He sprang to his feet He rushed to the wioket again; and still more franticdlly be beat at it with his clenched hands. : “ Alice! Alice! Alice! I must—I will sag - you! You are innocent! I will dio with | you—for you! Merey, merey |” : The wicket was flung open. , “ AhI” A brutal coarse face appeared at the open- ing; and there was a significent motion te and fro of the head to which the face belong- ed for a moment or two, and then the turnkey spoke, > “T tell you what it is, my fine fellow, you will get. yourself locked up.” { “Yes, yes—with her?” “Nol” “ No 9” “JT says no, and I meansno! If so be you only go on in this here way, as you have been = agoing on, at this here wicket till Mr. Mould comes down, why, you will get nabbed as sar- tin as my name’s Blunt!” Pe The youth tried’to get hold’ of the huge | rough hande of Mr. Blunt. “Sir, sir—you—Mr. Blunt, you are a good man—you are sa kind, and you—you will pity me!” ; * Be off.” j “But, dear, good sir—Alice you know— oor, dear Alice—” His sobs nearly choked fim if I could see her. Only for a mo-— ment.” . “ Bah!” “One moment? You will not let me hold your hand, sir. See 1 pray to you—I kneel to you!” “ Boh!” “T never knelt before but to Heaven.” “Boh!” “Oh! have pity. Tell me—tell me you think she will be spared—saved! Alice, you know—Alice Home. Indeed, dear sir, she ie innocent—quite innocent—as some angel, in- nocent. It is murder!” “T tells you what—” “Yes, yes. Bless you!” “Tm Blunt by name and blunt by natur’. Is this here Monday mornin’, or isn't it?” “ It—is—Monday morning.” How poor Gerald shuddered. ! “Then Alice Home is down for Tyburn, J tells you.” “No—no! O God, mo!” “ Say I'm a liar at once !”’ , “ Bang went the wioket shut. Gerald hold up his hands skyward : “Oh Heaven, if there be no justice on - earth—no pity—no mercy! do Thou of Th infinite grace and goodness, spare her~—~ spare her!” Ding-dong — ding-dong. The half-hour past seven. A curious little throng of persons began te collect about Gerald. “ What is it?” asked one. “Why, it’s a hanging,” said another. | “* Ob, indeed!” “ Yes, don’t you know. There's a age. irl to be taken to Tyburn this morning he , for stealing o diamond bracelet at Mr, pa the jewelers, on Ludgate Hill.” ~ ; “Oh, indeed! Thank you.” t “She will start at eight o'clock.” ' PS a I’m busy—thank you; I must be off.” “Very good, sir.” With his hands clasping his head, Gerald — listened to all this, and looked from one speak- er to the other, and then he made a wild rush up the steps that lead to the governor's house —as the portion of the prison which is in the occupation of that functionary is called—he knocked loudly and sharply at the door. “Now,” said Mr. Blunt, as he opened his~ . wicket, and leaned out in an easy attitude. “Now he is in for it, I rather don't think, Oh, dear—no !” The door of the governor’s house was opens ed. A man ran out on to the topmost step, and caught Gerald by the collar. WA told you so,” said Mr. Blunt, the tum- key. ‘Now he’s in for it, I should say, ra ther. That’s Mr. Mould.” ‘ ' The crowd began to thicken, and to take am interest in the aifair. ete La
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“4 Owlet, the Robber Prince. = — had collared Gerald, “ you have been at this sort of thing all night long.” “Hold! hold!” cried a gentleman, likewise wf emerging from the governor’s house. "e This gentleman was in canonicals, and was i the reverend ordinary of Newgate. ‘Se ' “But, sir!” said Mould. { “Nay, nay! Let him be—let him be. It is hard to punish the lad for excesses commit- ted in his grief. My good young man, now g° home, I pray you. The young. person in whom you interest yourself, and ior whom , oh feel so much, has been tried by a jury of er countrymen and found guilty, and she must suffer.” “No—O God! no! Sir, she is innocent.” The clergyman shook his head. “Come, come, now! Gohome—go home.” A shout was raised at tl» moment by some boys, who had collected on the other side of ‘ the way. ek The sheriff's carriage had appeared in the a Old Bailey ; from a yard opposite the prison | # cart at the same time was driven forth; a posse of mounted constables came then at a trot up the Old Bailey from the direction of _Ludgate Hill. The crowd, in a most magical manner, Lm scemed then to increase from a few dozen per- a sens to a multitude. Bs: : With cries and screams, Gerald Alton saw all these changes—all these peepee for ‘ the judicial murder of her whom he loved bet- ; ter—eh, far better —than his life; and he f steed on the steps of the governor’s house, i and le shrieked aloud. t It was awful to hear him. ' “Ged bless me!” said the sheriff. “That is very—a—a—very—I may say, disagreca- ble!” ¥ “Wery, sir!” said the clergyman. “It is a ‘a yeung man of the name of Gerald Alton. He is an apprentice at Mr. Ambrose’s, where Alice Home committed the theft for which she is to suffer at Tyburn to-day.” “ Yes—a—yes. Well, isallready? OMr. Mould! there you are—there you are, sir. Time, is it not?” “Not quite, sir.” With elear pertinacity, and with sharp es tenes—ench one of which seemed to fall'upon ws the heart of Gerald Alton—the clock of St. ae Sepulchre’s struck the three-quarters past \ Shp See eight. . be The boys in the crowd now cheered, they did not know what for, and then they yelled and hooted, as a thin, spare man with one eye got up into the cart that had issued from t yard opposite Newgate. That was the hangman. Then a sort of frenzy took possession of Gerald Alton; and from the steps of the gov- ernor’s house he, in a high-pitched voice, of $ awful intensity, spoke: F - ‘‘Murder! “murder! murder!” he cried. a “ Murder is about to be done! The young, be and the innocent, and the good will suffer, and no one has pity. Help! O men and woncrm of England! merey, mercy! Save her—save Alice Home, for she is innocent; and were she ten times guilty—had she taken ten dia- mond bracelets, is it right—ean it be right— can it be just and proper, in the face of God— before the light of his day, to kill—to murder her? Help! Oh, save her—save her! So young—so fair—so good—so innocent! She -—she is but seventeen years of age; she ee would not give a moment’s pain to the mean- est thing that creeps. No father—no mother —no brother—no sister—all alone she is; and now they want to drag her to death. Murder! murder! God, itis murder! Help! aelp earth—help human hearts—lelp Hes- ven!” Yells and cries burst from the crowd, as this appeal found its way to their human sym- pathies ; and it was quite evident to the au- thorities that a very dangerous concourse cf ___—__—- people were assembling. ? «People from Blackfriare—from that region -* ‘Tying nestling by the old Temple, and knowa ve 4 ne ia in olden times; people from over the water in shoals; people from the nest cf tae Janes and courts, and squallid objects frora «Smithfield down to Field Lane in the valley 7a, of the Fleet. J __ A dense mass, of ten thousand persons at Aceh vale. yoaned, hissed, and shouted within view of ween wale ae 5 ‘The mounted police officers ranged them- lives around the cart, aaa fhe. K Ser a Sk es x - * $o the carte * You young rascal!” cried tlie man who rs The terrified sheriff ran into the governor’s house. _ A couple of men, who had issued out of Giltspur street, ‘bearing a coffin and tressles which were intended to be placed in the eart, were knocked down and seriously injur- ed, while the coffin itself, in two minutes, was reduced to splinters. “A riot, I see,” said Mr. Mould. “ Blake- he Pb 4 Xe Ay, sir!” said a mounted police officer. “Take that young fellow, Gerald Alton, into custody at once, and bring him in here.” “Yes, sir.” Gerald heard the order, and he made but one leap from the steps of the governor’s house“into the crowd. “No, no!” he shouted. ‘I must see her; God help her! I must see her; save me to see her!’ The roar that burst from the thousands of throats of the mob was something terrific, as it opened and seemed to sw.illow up the lithe and delicate forin of Gerald Alton. The officer looked aghast. “]’m afraid, Mr. Mould, I shall not be able to get him.” ~ “Then make haste and be off.” “ All right, sir.” “ T don’t eee the coffin.” It was the motion of the officer's lips and his glance toward Giltspur street, that let the foremost of the mob guess what he said, and loud cries arose of: ‘“‘ The coffin! the coffin! They want the cof- fin! Hurrah! hurrah! Let them have it!” Then every one who had a bit of the coffin flung it at the officers, and the cart, and the hangman; and many a sharp stone came likewise with the shower. Then a yell that transcended anything that had yet been heard arose from the mob, as there emerged from an inn-yard close to Newgate a man on a black horse of great size and strength, and made his way up to the cart. This was Jonas Brand, a well-known Bow- street runner, as the officers were called, and whose duty it would be to head the proces- sion to Tyburn. All was ready. St. Sepulchre’s clock struck eight. . At the moment, Alice’s cell-door was open- ed, and the officials of the prison appeared on the threshold. Then the love of life came strongly on the heart and brain of the young girl, and she clasped her hands and sereamed and prayed for merey. : ‘No, no! Oh, indeed and in truth, I did not steal the bracelet. I did not take it—I never saw it. I am innocent. Spare my life. I am so young—so helpless.” Then a man walked into the cell—a man with one eye. He laid his hand upon her shoulder. “Come !” With a ery, Alice shrank like # wounded |. bird from his touch. “ Mercy! mercy!” i “Seek it in heaven!” said the clergyman. Pale and ghastly, with a trace of blood uppn her delicate lip, Alice looked about her, She said no more aloud, but bowing her head upon her breast, she shuddered and followed them all from the cell. lt was very faintly to herself that she said, in a low, moaning tone : “T shall soon be with you, mother.” Two minutes, and a wild cry and commo- tion in the crowd told the appearance of the condemned girl. police officers had been procured, and at five minutes past eight the procession of death started for old Tyburn. Alice Home was in the cart, and the ordi- nary of Newgate was with her. The man on the large black horse—Jonas Brand—rode in front. Immediately following him, came the sheriff in his coach. Then about thirty mounted officers in all, surrounded the cart and followed it. So beautiful, so young—looking, in fact, much younger than she really was—poor Alice was at once the grief and the commis- eration of all beholders. The mob poured out of the Old Bailey, ‘and down Snow Hill to- ward Holborn Bridge, hike a torrent. The cart eould only get on at a foot-pace. Then Jonas Brand motioned some of his ‘men to get out of his way, and he rode close A strong reinforcement of. distance of about fifty paces. “Reverend sir,” he said, to the ordinary, o “will you allow me to speak to the prisoner’ : for a moment?” “Nay, not now! not now!” “Tt is in the interests of justice. Only # word or two.” ‘Poor girl! you ought to let her be. She still denies her guilt.” “One moment, reverend sir.” “Well, well.” * Alice Home,” said Jonas Brand, as he bent over the side of the cart, “ listen to me.’” Alice shuddered. “T really think you would have been let off, if you would have told where that valise was to be found.” “No, no—” “ Yes—and even now—” “No! I promised my mother, at her last moments, that until I was twenty-one years: of age I would never betray the placy of ite concealment.” “What is in it ?” “T know not.” “Girl, what if even now I would promise you life?” ‘ “ Life! life! O God! help me!” } “Yes, life, if you would say where that i small leathern valise is to be found.” 4 “‘T am innocent.” ; : | “That is nothing—you are condemned- Come, now, will you purchase your life ?’, “T will! Iwill! O God itis hard to die. Mother, you will forgive me! you did not think of this.’’ “To be sure not.” \ ‘I promise, then, that if I am reprieved to-day, I will tell you where the valise is,. to-morrow.” “Nos say where it is now, and you shall be saved.” The cavaleade had at this moment reached : the foot of Snow Hill, ‘and the mob had been: joined bya Sie reinforcement from Fleet. arket, and the neighborhood on the north-- ern side of what is now Farringdon street. Notwithstanding all the threats and impre-- cations of the constables, it was im saihile,. for a few seeonds, to proceed; and durin those few seconds, the mob brought Gerald Alton to the front, amid repeated cheers. ‘ Hoisted from sheulder te shoulder, and gl- most literally walking over the heads of the’ _ people, Gerald Alton was brought syfiicient] near to the fatal cart to make himself heard; as and he cried out, im tones of agony : “Alice! Alice! dear Alice !” She heard the ery, and she turned and saw” et Gerald there, held aloft by the crowd; and " ; = she strove to reach him by stretching forth ’ wy her arms, as she answered his ery: = “ Gerald—dear Gerald!” = “Speak, girl! I promise youlifeand love As with that boy you think so much of, if you Dt will tell me where is the valise ?” “On your word—on your oath?” ’ “T swear it!” = oe “Tn the dry well at Corfe.” : oe “ Where ?” — “ Corfe Castle, in Dorsetshire.” : = “Good! Drive on, there! Charge the: _ 2 crowd, and use your hangers, my men,if they “ibe will not let you pass! © arge |” Bh. Se Alice uttered a ery of despair, and sunk z back in the cart: she felt that she was be- trayed! — —— CHAPTER III. THE OLD PALACE, AT KEW. On that same morning, when Alicea Home, : whom we must leave for a short space at ie Holborn Bridge, was brought out of Newgate to die, his most gracious majesty, King Geo: s the Third, took an early walk in the privet “aig gardens of the old red brick palace of Kewh® = His majesty wore what was then and is now called the Windsor uniform, which con- — sists of a costume that might make its wearer be mistaken fora postman, a liveried servant, x or some eccentrically-dressed resident of an: a ae alms-house, or other charitable institution, = = in which a particular costume for the recipi- _ 4 ents of his bounty had been laid down by the founder. S Frese: A couple of lords in waitng had been the un - m es —— as 7 aroused at what they considere tian-like hour of five in the m were sauntering along after his =
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who has the good fortune to stand high in your majesty’s esteem, and who has so bt dently very unhappy.” + et Eh what Phe morning was decidedly raw, decidedly gusty, and yave indications of rain.. His majesty looked rather red in the face, as he encountered thé south-eastern wind, and there was about his royal eyes that very wide- open look that characterized the sort of intel- lect behind them, which appeared ever on the stretch to catch some meaning, or to elimin- ate some idea which baffled it. Then King George the Third had a habit of conversing with himself, which, since it by no means fatigued the understanding, answered wery well, as in the words of the poet: “None but himself could be his parallel.” But, at the end of ashady walk, which was terminated by some variegated laurels of great size and beauty, his majesty paused, abruptly. ‘ “Very odd! very, very odd! Where can he go? Whereishe? where—where—where, eh ?” After this speech, or succession of interjee- tional sounds, the king turned and retraced his steps, saying: “Ah! to be sure—that’s it—where does he go? Eh, eh, eh? where does he go?” The royal eyes now opened wider than ver, and the two lords in waiting, faneyin that something was wanted of them, Hentibes with low bows. “ Well; well, Seaford—Hamilton, eh, eh ?” «ried the king, “ what is it?” “We thought your majesty spoke.” “Spoke—spoke? To be sure wedid. Was it not you, ¢h, you, Seaford, who said some- thing to us about Blanchard 2” “T had the honor, your majesty,” said Lord Seaford ; “ but it was with no view of ‘being in any way detrimental to Colonel Blanchard.” “Well, well: of course not—of course not. What was it, eh?” **T had the honor of stating that Colonel Blanchard seems to be very unha Pye” “Unhappy, eh, eh? Well, well 4 «« And that he seems to be under some ver strange influence, and to be obliged to obey the directions of somebody or something, whenever he or it shall choose.” “ What, what, what! Something or some- ‘body? Don’t comprehend. What do BSS mean, eh? Ha, ha! caught you there, Sea- ford. Stupid as you look—not always so, though; some stupid-looking people not os id at all—not the case with you, Sea- ford.” “Your i be “That will do,eh? Well, go on. yon a guines, ch, a guinea ?” * About what, your majesty ?” “That you can’t explain to me all about @olonel Blanchard, eh? Can you, eh?” “T must confess, your majesty, that I can- mot; and if your majesty will please to re- member that is what I was saying to your majesty, and therefore—” “Lost, lost! ha, ha! Won, won! Hand out your guinea, Seaford—hand it out. Quite 4s stupid as you look, you are ; you shouldn't day wagers, eh ?—sure to lose.” “ Bat, your majesty, I am not aware that ” Wager “Eh, what? Hamilton, eh, apes to you —appeal to you. He has lost, eh?” ‘Most decidedly, your malonty “There, you see, eh? Hamilton gives it against you. Come, hand out the guinea.” With a low bow, Lord Seaford produced a guinea, which the king put in his pocket with manifest pleasnre. In fact, so delighted was he with this little bit of plunder, that he was quite gracious, and with many nods and winks added : “Come, now, what is it all about? Out with the truth.” - 25 “About Colonel Blanchard, your majes- VeTust so. Now for it.” “Why, your majesty, Colonel Blanchard, recently been presented by your majesty wit the Cumberland regiment ‘of Guards—” “Coldstreams? Yes, Coldstresms. All szight—go on.” _ Well, your majesty, the colonel is evi- “Very unhappy; and the only society he 2ems to like is that of his cousin.” cousin—eh! What cousin ?” fig-man your majesty, a Owlet, the Robb : t his so- | “ for my Lord Ajbemor! licitation, was pleased to give the ensigney to in’ the same regiment.” “Oh, yes, yes. What's hisname, eh? Ru- fert, Hubert, eh—what—what?” * “Harold Blanchard, your majesty.” ‘ “What—eh, Harold? name of old king of Saxons, eh? or some other people—don't ex- | actly recollect. Well, what of him?” “Your majesty, then, will be surprised to hear thet at times the colonel will receive a note, and if he is on duty, he will leave the | major in command ; if he is in attendance on your majesty, he will feign illness, and go away at once. In fact, it would appear that he was under the orders of some superior power which he dare not disobey.” “ Stuff! stuff! staff!” Lord Seaford bowed. “Good mind to lay you another wager, Seaford, that you are all wrong.” ‘Oh, your majesty—” “Stop! Eh—what! did you pay me that guinea, eh? I don’t feel it in my pocket. Sure I had it, eh ?” “ Quite sure, your majesty.” “ Don’t be so positive and obstinate, Sea- ford. Appeal to you Hamilton, eh—eh? Did Seaford pay us, eh?” “T don’t think he did, your majesty,” re- plied Lord Hamilton, with a low bow. “There, there! hand it over, Seaford. That willdo, You see, now, Hamilton, he has paid! What, what! whoisthis? Some- body coming.” An officer, in full dress as lieutenant-col- onel of the guards, slowly advanced down the pathway. “It is Blanchard,” said Lord Seaford, in a low tone. “I only wish I could get rid of him. I want the coloneley myself!” “Ha, ha! ‘halloa, Blanchard! here ‘ ; you are!” cried the king. “ Well, how goes it with’ you? - Sold yourself, they say, to thé what’s-his-name, eh ?” “ Your majesty !” “Well, well! don’t believe it myself, but Seaford says so.” 2 “My lord!" said Colonel Blanchard, turn- ing his pale face toward Lord Seaford. “Nay, colonel, it was but a jest.” “ A sorry one, my lord.” “T did not mean to wound you, colonel. “Woundme! Oh no, my lord, — ‘ He jests at scars who never felt a wound ” As he spoke, Colonel Blanchard slightly touched the hilt of bis sword. “Come, come,” said the king, “ no quarrel- ing—won’t have it—won’t indéed; shake hands—meet. Come, shake hands.” “On your majesty’s order,” said Lord Sea- ford. “T have really no gee with my Lord Seaford,” said Colonel Blanchard, looking paler, if possible, than nsual, and that usual paleness in him was quite remarkable. The two courtiers shook hands ceremoni- ously. ‘ “All's right—all's right,” cried the king. “Now, Blanchard, what’s the news? Caught him, eh—caught him ?” “No, your majesty.” “ Eh—what !” : “T am afraid those who gave your mujesty advice to send a party of your guar''s in seare of a highwayman, brought but little judg- ment to bear on the matter.” | “Yes, your majrsty ; amd when he said x | that there came to the window of the cam riage a mounted man, I was going to say—” r “What? What?” *« But when he saw the face, it was not hw. f /man, but bore an exact resemblanee to an“ owl.” : Eh!” ove a “ An owl, your majesty—a green—a sickly “Don't say another word—too late!” BSc “Nay, your majesty, if you would graci- ae ously—by an exercise of your royal preroga- oh tive, grant a pardon to this young creature, who is only seventeen years of age—” P vs “ No!—No!—No!” eS “A Fleet horse would convey it in cng ; time to Newgate.” “No; ITeay! Tcan’t doit. People steal ; and people must be hung. Quite natural— “ie eh? The man, Colonel Blanchard, who in my dominion would wrong another even out gf a guinea, oh any pritence, ought to be P ung.” ee “tf am sorry!” ‘ “So am I—soamI! Alwayssorry! Fine 5 day—that is, not very fine. Can't help it—all a over soon. Hungry—eh? Hungry?” % “No; your majesty. What a magnificent *y Spanish chestnut that is round the copse ae yonder!” a “To be sure itis—to besure! Eh? Why, ; here we are. What a walk we have had to sure! Come along—come along. Breakfast i — breakfast waiting.” fe * Broiled trout.” ‘ er “ What—what ?” et nS} ae
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6 . “Pent mention it. Offer them. Run— rua! Stay—stop—eh? No, run!” “T will run back to the palace, and they ean be cooked and ready for Sh majesty by the time your majesty has leisurely walked ” 5 ow “Jnst so; run—run! That’s it. Broiled trout, and all for nothing too, in September. Eh?—what? To be sure; an excellent fel- Jow that Blanchard—a most excellent fellow. } Hem! He owes me a guinea, I think: must 1} peoollect that. Sure, though that Hamilton * and Seaford do. Ha! ha! Shouldn't lay ' wagere—oh dear, no! Let her hang—let her hang! What is it to me? Shouldn't take other folks’ goods—eh ?” The nearest way back to the palace was eompletely round the copse, close to the magnificent Spanish chestnuts, which Colonel Blanchard had pointed out to the special admiration of the king ; and George the Third, who was perfectly weil acquainted with Kew gardens, kmew that well, and walked along accordingly. Bat the copse was densely wooded. The Spanish chestnuts were still in full leaf, and the shade and the seclusion of the spot, for the spsce of about fifty paces, was eomplete, re on the other side of some large bay bushes was a public road, and the king was opposite to the densest of these bushes, When he became aware of a footstep advanc- ing, as if to meet him, in the opposite direc- tion. By the curve of the path, the person ap- proachiag was hidden from his sight. “ Hillea! Hilloa!” cried the king. ‘“ Who is it ?—who is it? You Hill—is it you?” There was no reply, The king Kdvaneed, and so did the person whose footsteps he had heard ; but although they neither walked hastily, yet as they were approaching each other, the short distance was soon passed over. One tree, projecting some low branches half-way across the path, intervened. ‘Come, come! Who are you, eh ?—eh ?” The footsteps stopped, but the king went on, He was past the tree in another moment, and face te face with the intruder. A cry of surprise and terror burst from the lips of the wtanding immediately before him, on the somewhat narrow path, was a tall figure, envel- oped in a brown ao from neck to heels. Bat the head was visible—horribly visible. The face bore the perfect likeness to an owl. The feathers ; the beak ; the large, cir- cular eyes; the ears, too, stood u sharp and erect amid the small feathers that fringed them ; end, in fact, the whole head of this otherwise seemingly man was the head of a — species of owl. ~ Phe king turned once completely round ; and then he sought, by instant flight, to es- cape the deeded presence of the owlet high- way man. A voice arrested him. The voice came from the owl. “King, if you attempt to stir from the apot on which you are now, I will cleave your head to the neck, and not a ery but your death one shall awaken an echo!” The king stood rooted to the spot. A cold perspiration broke out upon his brow—upon every limb. The owlet had spoken in a voice that sound- ed just like the half-articulate efforts of the parrot and cockatoo species to converse. Then the brown cloak that had enveloped the owlet was loosened by some means at the neck, and it fell slowly from off his figure to the ground. Beneath, he was richly dressed. He wore a coat of scarlet cloth, heavily trimmed with gold-lace ; a vest of white silk, embroidered with pearls ; tight-fitting, white- leathtx pantaloons, and riding-boots, which, ¢ without a wrinkle, reached td the knees. Gold spurs adorned their heels, A cravat, apparently entirely of lace, was folded omce round his throat, and a gold ehain, of curious and rare workmanship, showed itself at intervals around his neck and upon his breast. : _. Suspended by a gold swivel was a pair of chamois-leather gloves, edged with lace. — * By another swivel was a hat looped up with aruby, and ei drooping, white feath- er, tipped with scarlet. : a = P : : the strange throat of — A long, straight sword hung by his side, and, indeed, trailed on the ground. Protrud- ing from the breast of his apparel were the rich, gold-mounted butts of a pair of pistols. “Mercy!” gasped the king. “ What! what!” : “ Silence.” “ Yes—yes—yes—yes !” “You are George the Third, of these realms ?” “T—a—yes! Eh? What?” “Silence! Only reply to what I ask.” “T—oh, yes! Very well.” “Do you know me?” “The—a—a—” “ Owlet!” ; _ George the Third rubbed his hands togeth- er, and said something inarticulately about broiled trout. “ Listen!” added the Owlet, in that strange veice, which was so like the croaking tones of a parrot. ‘ You have a choice to make.” “ A—a—choice ?” “ Yes, between death and your signature to this paper.” “ What—a—eh ?” “This paper, It is you alone who can par- don one who robs; and there is one who would fain, up to this date, be so pardoned. Refuse, and you die.” “Do you think Iam a fool? Die, indeed —eh? What? No—eertainly not! Ah! I see—you want to be pardoned ?” “ Be it so. Sign.” “To be sure. But—” “ How ?—you were about to say. Here is ink; herea pen; here a pardon drawn up regularly ; here a desk. Sign!” he Owlet presented the crown of the king’s hat, which he took with a sudden jerk off his head, for a desk; a pen he took from among the feathers of his owl's head ; and a small bottle of ink he produced from a pock- et in his vest. “ Sign !” he added, as he spread out a parch- ment before the king. The words ‘ special pardon ” were at the tap, of the paper. he king’s eyes twinkled a little, as he muttered to himself: “Tt’s informal! I'll hang him, when he is Senet, for all this. Hem! Well, well—” “ Sign!” “There!” “ Grorcr Rex.” “That will do. And now, a question.” “That will do. Well, well. All right! Good day, Mr. a—a—Owlet—eh? What— what ?” a “ Another step, our are a corpse,” “But—” e z ~ “Peace, I say! Reply to me, and move not. Do you recollect a indy by the name of the Lady Adela Salisbury ?’ The es countenance paled a shade, “Speak !” “ Well, I—a—do.” “That is well. Did she, on the 4th day of January, in the year your father died, hold you by the breast of your apparel, and make a declaration to you which so maddened you, that you—you struck her?” The king’s face paled still further, and twice he opened his mouth as if to speak be- fore the words came forth. Then he said, in a gasping kind of a way, as if he had not air enough in which to form the words : “ She—did.” “And you?” “JT—did.” “ What was the declaration ?” * The—a—a—” “ What was the declaration made to you on that oceasion by Adela Salisbury ?” “That she was legally married to my fa- ther.” “ Kneel!” “ Eh 9? ‘*Kneel, I say!” “ Murder !” “Tt will be, if you refuse!” The owlet took one of his pistols from his breast, and the sharp click of the lock fell ee upon the ears of George the hird. ; He knelt, as directed. ' The Owlet took the large brown cloak from the ground, and flung it by one movement. right over the head and form of the king. ith @ ery of fear, then George the Third fell on his hans and knees, and looked like some great animated b e beneath the ‘ ey Owlet, the Robber Prince. “ Remain for ten minutes, and you will be safe,” said the Owlet. “Stir before that time, and your death will be on’ your owm hend !”” * “Murder!” “ Silence !” Another moment, and all was still. A bird on a bough of one of the Spanish chestnuts alone broke the silence of the syl- van spot, by caroling a song to ite mate. CHAPER IV. THE REPRIEVE. We left that terrible cavalcade of men, - horses, officials, and wild-heaving, shouting crowd, which was escorting Alice Home to | death, at a juncture when despair appeared: to have taken possession of the young girl, never again to be dislodged from that fair abiding-place until the gentle spirit should + wing its flight to heaven. ” Crushed — heart-crushed —and deceived, condemned in innocence: and no mercy, ever where her guilt was presumed proved, and where, notwi! hstanding, merey was most loud- ly called for, mocked the semblance of & nove of life—that life whlch, to the young, is- so bright a possession, that, as it nears its ap-- arent end, all other of earth’s treasures, and haan and fears fade into the worthless dust which fairy gold leaves behind it—mocked by a hope, at that moment, which so faded at the first glance she achieved of the eyes of Jonas Brand after she had told him the seere& he required of her—no wonder that poor Alice sunk back in the death-cart, and despaired. But she had seen Gerald. She had heard Gerald utter her name. Ah, Alice you are not yet forsaken. There is yet a human link which holds the chain of your young life to earth. Gerald is at hand —Gerald loves you still. And so, after the despair of the moment— after the subsidence, so to speak, of that one faint glimpse of hope that had, like a gleam of wintry sunshine, darted through the cloud- rifts of her despair, Alice opened her eyes again, and spoke faintly. “ Gerald—Gerald !” “ My dear child,” said the clergymen—and he, too, was wee ing as he spoke— my dear child, do not think now of aught else but Heaven.” “He loves me—” “Yes, He who is above all earthly love.” “Gerald loves me—Gerald—Gerald!” The clergyman shook his head. “Tt is hard,” he said, “ for the young to die. God help us all! I wish that thie young thing had came to my house and takem all I ed, how gladly I would pardon it: for this young life.” Then Alice rose up, and clinging to the side of the cart, she stretched forth her other hand, and in a voice of seeming entreaty, she: called out: > “ Gerald—Gerald, saye me—save me !” And Gerald was still—so to speak—in the hands of the people, and once again he called. out to her: . “ Alice—Alice, I am here!” But he did not say that he could save her The officers, headed by Jonas Brand, now made a brutal charge among the people, and along the narrow hollow way that lies at the foot of Holborn Hill. It svemed likely that. a fearful scene was about to ensue. Oaths, shrieks, shouts, yells, and strug- glings; a wild commingling for a few moments- of horses, officers, coaches, carts, men, wo- men, and even ‘little children, made up a scene of contention and horror. Alice rose up in the cart, her fair hair showered about her; she lifted up her hands despairingly. : ‘““No—no !” she cried ; “ not for me—oh, not. for me all this courage and all this suffering! I will die! Iam content to die!” “ Alice—Alice !” screamed Gerald. “Charge !”" shouted Jonas Brand. : “Send for the military !” cried the sheriff, from his carriage window. , One swinging blow from a flat piece of board that was being used as a weapon by a herculean fellow in the crowd, sent the sher~ iff's heal back into the coach again, asthough — it had been obliterated by the touch of wood. : io Then Gerald was borne forward by the _erowd, right to the side of the cart, or within — a few feet of it. ae “ Alice—dear Alice, I am here! mA liye for you, or to die with you ar e hi +
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t) il | Owlet, the Robber Prince. a - eee eee She saw his wild, excited face; she saw his blood-shot eyes; his bleeding hands; the dashing tumult of his disordered hair, and she stretched out her arms. “ Yes, Gerald—I would not tell you when we were both prosperous, and safe, and hap- py; but now—now, dear Gerald—”’ “ Alice—my Alice!” “Yes, your Alice! I do love you!” With a spring that sent the brawny man who was supporting him backward among the people's feet, Gerald leaped into the cart. “Tam here! Death alone shall separate us now! I am here—here with you, Alice— my own, my |-eautiful, my Alice!” He twined his arms around her; and the tears strean | from her eyes, and fell upon his fevereil cheek, “Tt is our bridal, Alice,” he said. “O God—O God! and I am go loved!” “ Forvver—forever !”" “Gerald. they will kill you!” “Yes, Alice ; yet will I speak! I will pro- elaim again and again your »nnocence !” He was on his knees in the cart. Alice was standing erect in it. His left arm was around her, and he stretched forth his right toward the agitated mass of human heads before him, and in a loud, high voice of awful energy he spoke: ‘« People, human hearts, fathers, mothers, little children, who may hear me, and speak of this day in time to come, this is murder! You who love those near and dear to you — you who have homes, and feelings, and hopes — hopes of dear joy, with the chosen ones of your best affections, hear me, for mur- der is about tobe done. This girl—this dear, good, beauteous angel—this Alice Home, who never had a thought that was not born of heaven, and never did an act that God's min- istering angels might not aid her in, is con- demned to die. But she is innocent —‘inno- eent. It is murder—murder—murder!” Then the mob swayed to and fro, and the Fells, and the shouts, and the screams made up 8 chorus of sounds that defies description. And still the cavaleade of death was in the valley of the Fleet. t Suddenly, then, roar of half dismay, half execration, burst from the crowd. At a smart trot, a troop of what was then called the King’s Light Horse came from Fleet street, and made its way down t Fleet Market, by the side of the old Fleet prison for debtors. The gleam of the helmets of the soldiery was distinctly visible over the heads of the crowd. ° The rattle of their arms and accoutrements came oy on every ear, in the lull that suddenly ensued in the Babel of sounds that had but a moment before agitated the air. The crowd surged on one side, like a great wave. Over the market—scattering the frail sheds and odd-shaped buildings made of boards, and baskets, and bundles, in all directions swept the mob, and the way was clear for the light horse. “Halt !” cried the officer in command. Threes to the left. Forward!” “ The troop made a sweep round the corner, on to Holborn Hill. The mob in another wide, dense wave found refuge in the courts and alleys to the right. The way was clear. “ Dash on!” shouted Jonas Brand. The officers made a rush up the hill. “ Now, young fellow,” eried one of the con- stables, as he leant over the side of the cart, and grasped Gerald by the collar. “ Now young ool fal will get out and be off, and think yourself lucky.” = _ “Let him be,” said Jonas Brand, with a slight smile, “ I want him.” s6 Very good, Mr. Brand, but I thought—” “Which you had no business todo. I want him, and he is safe where he is. Forward now.” , The officer in command of the Light Horse rode up to the sheriff's carriage, and stooping down from his horse, at the window, he said: “T think, Mr. Sheriff, you will get on all right now, without me or my men.” The sheriff presented his face at the win- dow, and the officer started back. “ By Jove!” The flat board had recently made a dead level of the sheriff's face, and his nose was very much disorganized. the sheriff. _ “Charge—fire—kill—no mercy on them !” , “My good sir!” “Tam not a good sir. Look at me!” The officer suppressed a smile, and trotted off fe the head ot his troop. “ Forward!” The Light Horse swept up the hill. “T will see them to the Oxford Road,” said the officer to himself, “ and no further.” The cavaleade now made rapid progress ; and although ten thousand people followed it, there was no attempt at interruption or rescue, And Alice sunk down on her knees in the cart, and placed both her hands upon the breast of Gerald, while tears gushed from her eyes. Gerald looked as pale as death, and shook’ in every limb. He had not tasted food for thirty hours. The Herzen was much affected, and kept shaking his head, and saying weak things to himself. The hangman was looking savage, and sresuing in an under-tone ; for some one had flung a brick at him from the crowd, and it had inflicted an ugly wound on his temple, from which the blood was slowly trickling. Then Alice spoke to Gerald : “My dear Gerald, you hear me ?” “Yes,” he gasped. “ When I am gone, you must not grieve for me, my dear Gerald.” “O God!” “Nay, indeed, you must not ; becatise you know, my dear Gerald, that I am innocent, and that I shall be in heaven; and that, if it be possible for those who go ‘irst to watch over those still on earth who are dear to them, I will so watch over you, my dear Gerald.” “Break! break!” cried Gerald. And he struck his heart as he spoke. 4 “No, my Gerald, you must not break your heart! Indeed, you must not.” “ Alice—Alice! it is breaking !” “Do not say so, my love!” Gerald could not bear this. She was now for the first time using toward him those en- dearing expreasions that she had never be- fore approached. Each one wrung his heart, and it was with difficulty he could keep back the screams of anguish which each moment seemed to be starting to his lips. “ Nay, Gerald, you must be calmer now, or I cannot speak to you.” “ O Heaven!” “Hush! hush! This, you know, my dear Gerald, is our last interview here.” “Here?” “Yes; but we shall surely have many in heaven—shall we not, dear? * Alice! Alice!” “ Let me go on. I wish now to tell youall. Gerald, you know that 1 am an orphan—no father, no mother, no brother, no sister ; not one human soul that is akin to me, that 1 know of, in all the world!” “Yes!” sobbed Gerald. “But I was educated carefully by the good, kind friend, who only one year since by her death left me alone co fight my way in the world; and then you know that. good, kind Mr. Tularong, the canon of St, Paul’s, recom- mended me to Mr. Ambrose as a teacher to his two little girls.” “ Yes—yes! God bless the day! O God! no—no! It has come to this.” “ And there, Gerald, you saw me” “Yes. I, his apprentice, saw you come into the house like an ungel, Alice.” “ Nay—nay!” “Tt was so. There seemed to come in with you a ray of light as from heaven.” “You saw me, Gerald, and were always kind, andygentle, and good to me; and, one day, you ventured to come after me when I left the house. Do you remember, Gerald?” “ Oh, yes—yes!” “And you clasped your hands together, and you told me that you loved me.” “ Yes—oh, yes! It was so true.” “T know it was, dear, But I was coy, and shy, and strange, and would not speak to ou.” F “No,” sighed Gerald. “ But, dear, I did love you then.” A gush of tears came from Gerald's eyes. Alice rested her head for one moment on his breast, and then she took one of his thin, broken, bruised hang in hers, and kissed it, “ God bless you, Gerald ® He could bear no more. Madness was surely in his brain, He sprang to his feet. iS =i Beg Fe pote “Help—help! God, help us! If there be no help on earth, there should be from hea- ven! Hold! you there; you—you, Jonas Brand ; you—yes, surely, that will do. That —that should do, Jonas Brand, Jonas Brand!” ‘* What now?” demanded the officer, as he checked his horse and bent his brutal gaze upon Gerald. F “Look you here, Jonas Brand. At this | last moment I have something to say to you. I cannot keep it any longer. So, you see, I will say it.” “ What is it?” “ Alice Home is innocent!” “Tia! You have said that often enough, my lad; and once too often, I take it—for I mean to lock you up after the execution.” “Hear me out! Hear all—all. “Bo—bah!” “T eay she is innocent, because I took the bracelet from Mr. Ambrose. I took it, do you see? I am guilty alone—you compre- Sead. Mr. Jonas Brand? So ie can let Al- ice go free ; free as air, since I proclaim my- self to be the real criminal.” “O Gerald! Gerald!” said Alice. “There is a tell-tale spirit in your eyes, which will not let you say that which is untrue, and make it look liketruth. I am innocent, Ger- ald, and so are you.” “ Oh, let me—let me!” “All that is nothing to me,” said Jonas Brand. ‘ You can accuse yourself after the hanging.” “ But it is to save her.” “T know it,” laughed Brand, as he gave his horse the spur and rode on. “It is all in vain, Gerald; and it should be al] in-vain,” said Alice. ‘“ Let me die!” The cavaleade had reached the Oxford Road, and the troop of Light Horse trotted on in advance the officer—intending to take the first wide turning to the left, and so got back to the barracks at the King’s Mews at Char- ing Cross. ** Now, on!’ shouted Jonas Brand. The Oxford Road was tolerably clear obstruction. It was but one mile and a h: Tyburn, and at once the whole cavalcade t off at a hard trot. The powerful horse that drew the cart was not a whit behind-hand, and the crowd found themselves soon distanced by the speed at which the death-procession went toward the place of execution. It was a quarter to nine o’clook, now. CHAPTER V. THE RESCUE FROM DEATH. The hangman began to uncoil from round his waist a cord, which at intervals he gave 4 sharp pull to, in order to test its strength. For a moment, Gerald thought that his senses would leave him, and that the dread- ful catastrophe of death to Alice would hap- n, while he swooned ; but, by a violent ef- ‘ort, he baffled the feeling of faintness, and once again looked in her fair face, How pale she was! The rain had begun to stream from her fair hair—head-dress she had none—and she shuddered and moaned at intervals. The sheriff's carriage had gone faster even than the officers’ horses, and it could now be seen halted about a quarter of a mile ahead. That was at Tyburn gate. An immense mob was already on the ikea and following, although yet some istance behind the cavaleade, was the throng of persons who had accompanied the proces- sion from the city. - ‘ - . ' Groans; hisses, and shouts of execration greeted the arrival of the cavalcade at the place of execution ; and even Jonas Brand slightly changed color as he saw the sea of human heads and faces before him. “‘Mitchelson,” he said, “you must close round the tree” (the gallows). “Yes, Mr. Brand.” “And tell Mapes to get the affair over quickly.” “Yes, Mr. Brand.” The cart stopped. And now the clergyman rose, and consid- ered that it was his duty to say something ¢ but he was so stiaken and affected by all that “had oecurred, that he had Jost all command of his yoice, and could only shake his head, and repeat some prayer quite unintelligibly, The mode of execution was for the con-
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_~ der.” demned to be taken in the cart beneath the | gallows—the rope to be placed round the neck—and then the cart driven away, leaving them suspended. : The cart was now under the gallows. “ Now, my little chicken,” said the hang- man, “ it is soon over, I assure you, and you will think nothing of it.” With a cry of rage, Gerald flung himeelf upon the hangman, and grappled him by the throat. ; “Hilloa! Hoy! Help! The young tiger will choke me!” A couple of officers sprang into the cart. A roaring yell arose from the crowd ; and then, at the moment that, from pure want of breath, there was a partial silence, one loud and ringing voice eried out: 3 ‘A reprieve !”” The officers in the cart ceased to struggle with Gerald ; Alice dashed aside the eluster-. ting hair from her face, and uttered a shriek ; the brutal Jonas Brand drew a pistol from his saddle-holster, and yelled out : “A lie! It is false!” The clergyman raised both his hands, and finding his voice in a moment, he cried : ‘Where? What reprieve ? Who has it?” “A reprieve!” again shouted the loud, clear, sonorous voice. Then the mob, which seemed as if it had been only pausing to collect breath to do so, burst into such a ringing cheer that its ech- oes spread far and wide over London. “ A reprieve !"’ cried the voice again. At the farthest extremity of the crowd, on the Bayswater road, could be seen a horse- man; his right hand was elevated aliove his hea, andin it was something that looked like a folded paper. “ A reprieve!”’ he cried again. . The crowd opened right and left. A lane of human faces—human breasts—and cheer- ing human throats was made; and, with his horse one rvek of foam, his own face pale and ~ bloodless, and without a hat, the horseman galloped on, still holding up his right arm above his head. “A reprieve !” Onee again he shouted the weleome sound ; and then, within fifty paces of the gallows, his horse staggered and fell—and horse and rider were lost to sight. ar Fifty hands, lifted the rider. f Fifiy—a hundred hands lifted the horse. The rider smiled faintly. The horse was dead. “ Avhard gallop,” he svid. Eleven miles in forty minutes! Am I in time ?” “Horra! hurra! herra!’* shouted the mob. They lifted the bold rider in their arms ; with a surge, they brought him to the gal- lows foot, and he held uP the paper he had in his right hand, as he said: “Where is the sheriff? This is a pardon for Alice Home, signed this morning by his majesty the king. Where is the sheriff?” “ Sir, 1 am here,” said the sheriff, as he rose up in his coach—the top of which was made to open. and had been, by his orders, cast loose, that he might do his duty, and sce that the execution was performed. “Then, Mr. Sheriff, this is for you.” “Oh! ab! dear me!” “Sir?” “Tt's all right, young’ man. Who may you be?” “King's messenger.” “Oh! ah! God save the king! Good peo- gle this is a pardon in full, and an order for 6 irstant release of Alice Home ; and dated this morning, at Kew.” Another cheer from the mob. “No doubt—no doubt about it?” “You know his majestys signature, Mr Sheriff, I presume ?” said the messenger. “O dear, yes! It’s right enough, Mr. Brand.” “ Yes, sir.” - . “You must release the prisoner.” _ But, sir—” : _ “Can't help it. Here is bis majesty’s or- “She can go back to Newgate, Mr. Sheriff, and then Mr. Mould enn do as he pleases.” “No!” said the messenger. _ “ And who are you, that says ‘no,’ I should like 10 know ?” “Tam one who will make your knaves’ | bones ache, my friend, if you are insolent! Listen to me, good people all. Here is a full “pardon froin tie king, which the sheriff says |. iene ig eG Pe oe saa | is burning in the grate. Owlet, the Robber Prince. is sufficient, and that the prisoner should be immediately released; but this thief-taker, | Jonas Brand, resists it. Ieall upon you all, | in the king’s name, to help the sheriff and the king!” Jonas Brand turned pale. There was a tremendous roar from the a and a rush of many thousands of peo- e. Sheriff, officers, cart, gallows, king’s mes- senger, and people were, in another moment, all. mingled up together in a mass ef confa- sion. ‘ But the messenger made himself heard by those about him. “Help me, good folks," he said. “A coach—a coach—a coach for me and the par- doned girl!” A hackney-coach was forcibly seized upon ; and the messenger, springing into’the cart, eried out fiercely : , “Where is Alice Home ?” “Here!” said Gerald. ‘“ She has swooned.” “ Out of the way! What is this ?” “ God bless you !—ever and ever bless you, sir !”” Gerald had flung his arms round the neck of the messenger, and fairly embraced him. “ Why—why, who are you?” “T love her, sir, and—and'she—” “OhIsee! Well, then, you had better fol- low me!” “ With all my heart!” The messenger caught up Alice as though she had been no heavier than a child, and at one bound he was out of the cart with ‘her. Gerald followed: : The hackney-coach was gained instantly, and they were all three within it. ' Some pre- vious directions must have been given to the driver ;- for be set off at as hard a pace as his horses would go, and soon dived down a nar- row street in the Oxford Road, close to where Regent street now stands. , CHAPTER VI. COLONEL BLANCHARD. The exigencies of ‘our story enforce a rapid changé from place‘to place; but soon these apparently fragmenta! portions will combing ake form one harmonious whole, from which shall arise such human action and human feeling as shall illustrate as strange a page in the domestic history of England as was ever opened to public gaze. ' We novy transport the reader to what is called the “Guard Room” of old St. James’ Palace. : Close to the court-yard, which goes by the name of the ‘‘ Color Court,” there exists an ancient apartment, in which the officers who are on guard are accustomed to sit. Adjoin- ing to this guard-room is a suite of tliree other rooms, which, for the time he is on duty, belongs to the officer in command of the palace guard. It is to the largest of these rooms that we would conduct the reader. It is an apartment of about twenty-four feet. square, and its windows look directly in- to the “Color Court.” A bright sea-coal fire The finely-carved marble chimney-piece is warm to the tonca. The old pamting of the walls has a sombre tint, and the massive furniture—from which the gilding is passing away—is of an age long *| anterior to the Georges. Yet about the room there is an air of sub- stantial comfort, and indeed magnificence, which gives it @ regal aspect, and proclaims it to be part and parcel of a palace. On the table lies the sword of the officer in command of the palace guard. That officer himself is pacing the room with his hands clasped behind his back, and there are lines of deep thought upon his pale face. ; No one who had seen that face once could ever again mistake it. Colonel Blanchard is the offieer who, with agitated steps, marches to and fro in that chamber. He is in full uniform as lieutenant- colonel of the Coldstream Regiment of Foot- Guards, and he is a man who becomes his rank and dress; but what a look of anguish there is upon his face! For a full half-hour he continues the rest- less march to and fro in the room, and then with an embroidered han Ikerchief he wiped his brow, as he flong himself with an air of exhaustion into a chair : AMZ ; 4 “Tt will drive me mad!” he said; “ that will be the end of it. I know that it will drive me mad !” He was then silent for a few moments, and appeared to be in deep thought. 3 “No!” he then ny “No! I cannot kill him.” No! I cannot lose my soul in’ that fashion! The fearful oath he made me take rings yet in my ears, Oh, it is horrible !— most horrible! But although I cannot kill him, yet I can die myself. Ah! some one comes.” There was a tap at the door of the room; and the colonel] made an effort to compose his f-atures to calmuess, as he said, in as col- lected a voice as he could: “Come in—come in!” The door was opened, and an orderly ser- geant made his appearance. “ Well, what is it ?” The sergeant respectfully saluted his colonel as he said: - “ Please your honor, it is ten o’clock.” “Ten owlock! What then?” “Please your honor, you ordered me to come to your honor at ten o’clock.” “ Yes—yes! I reeollect now. Shut the door.” *“ Yes, your honor,” “Sergeant, I am still very uneasy about the possible fate of Captain Beauchamp !” ‘So are we all, your honor.” “His mysterious disappearance is a ve serious—I was almost going to say—reproac: to the regiment. What do the men say about it, sergeant 2” a “Why, your honor, they say as how that they can’t make it out atall, your honor; and young Mr. Charles Beauchamp has been among the men for the last day or two about ik” “ What does he want 2” ; “Why, your honor, he wants to get from the men what he calls memoranda of all the outgoings and incomings of the captain, on the last day he was seen alive; and you see, sir—” - A sharp tap at the door at this moment, interrupted the sergeant, and Colonel Blanch- ard started to his feet. The sergeant opened the door, and there appeared on the threshold a young man of care-worn aspect, and almost. as pale as the colonel himself, He bowed courteously, as he said : ace “Colonel Blanchard, my name is Beau- champ—” ; “ Beauchamp?” “ Yes, Charles Beauchamp, I gm the twin brother of Captain Beauchamp, of whom nothing now has been heard for six weeks, two days, and one hour. Sir, I wish to speak with you.” Colonel Blanchard bowed, and motioned to the sergeant to leave the room. When the door was closed, Colonel Blanchard, whose lips now were almost white, pointed toa chair, as he said : “ Pray. sir, accept a chair, and my sincerest sympathies.” The young man sat down, and fixed his blaek eyes full on the face of Colonel Blanch- } ard, who found this scrutiny, silent as it was, so distressing that he was fain to break it by saying : : “I think Captain Beanchamp did once say that he had a twin-brother named Charles,” The visitor bowed slightly. “You will permit me, sir, to offer you re freshment ?” “ Certainly not, sir!” Sir?” There had been a something go cold and harsh about the manuer in which these words, ~ “certainly not!’ were uttered, that they might without much sensitiveness have been deemed offensive. “No, sir,” added Charles Beauchamp, “T do not come for refreshment ; but to ask you a few plain questions.” “Sir, you will permit me to say, then, that — you do not come in a manner which is likely to procure answers to your questions.” : “I am, perhaps, unfortunate in manner, Colonel Blanchard; but yet I hope for the answer to ac least one question I shall put to_ you. ing my lost brother, an scrething.” “T congratulate you.” pe lin et etee bg. sir, The ery is, that on the night of his diss Ihave discove % Ihave been making inaniries concern- — >
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at a quarter-past one o’clock, he was seen with you in St. James’ square!” “Seen with me in St. James’ square ?” * Yes, Colonel Blanchard! And in the dep- osition you have made concerning him, you have stated that the last you saw of him was st half-past nine o’clock that evening preced- ing, when he left you here to go home, after eoming to you to say that he did not feel quite wel.” Colonel Blanchard was silent for a few seconds, and then, with a great command of temper and voice, he said: “Is that all, sir?” “ That is the beginning.” “Then it is untrue—that is all; and who- ever has told you so much has told you what is falge !” £ ‘“No, Colonel Blanchard !” “Sir?” The colonel rose instantly, and looked ried at/his visitor, who likewise gained his ect. f “No, colonel!” added Charles Beauchamp, “that statement is not false; and I demand of you my brother !” You are mad, sir!” “No, neither am I miad; but I demand of you how it came about that you were with my brother in St. James’ square at one o’clock in the morning, and that, he never having been heard of since, you concealed that fact?” “Tt is no fact.” “T assert it.” “Then, Mr. Beauchamp, I fancy your ob- is accomplished, which must have been o insult me.” ** Colonel Blanchard, I offer you an alter- native. You shall make a clean breast of this transaction, and tell me all you know about my brother, or you shall give me a meeting.” “T understand you, sir; and will gratify ou.” “Tt is wall, sir. When, and where?” * Sir, if You fancy Iam going to meet you in déadly conflict in any manner contrary to the usages of gentlemen, you are mistaken. *I will accept a hostile message from you, so soon as it is brought to me oY proper hands,” «It shall arrive, Colonel Blanchard.” The colonel bowed. Another moment, and Charles Beauchamp was gone. Colonel Blanchard flung himself on a chair, and 09 Bk his hands over his eyes, he ut- tered a deep groan. ° “ Another — another!” he said. I must kill him now! I must kill him! O Fate— fate !” F “ Who blames Fate, colonel ?” cried alight, cheerful voice. “ Fate is conduct, and con- duct is fate. Ha! ha! Tho Malls full of the élite of fashion. The queen has shown herself at Buckingham House, and—halloal What now !” : Colonel Blanchard sprung from his chair, and grasped the intruder by the arm, as in a voice of concentrated fury, he said - “Villain! fiend! devil! you must seek my destruction !” } ; has happened, cousin?” “ Hey-day, colonel.” “Tell me! Tell me in a word, who, and what you are? You know me too well.” A slight smile played for a moment over the face of the new-comer, and he said, gently : “The door is not close shut.” Ah” “ Allow ine.” He went and carefully closed the door, and then turning to Colonel Blanchard. he folded kis arms across hig breast, and regarded him in silence. Colonel Blanchard opened and shut his hands ‘nervously, and stamped on the floor, as he said: _ “Tell me now onee, and for all, what is to be the end of all this? Speak—speak!” “ What has happened ?” The visitor spoke quite calmly : He was a young man of handsome figure and fate, and ressed in the uniform of an ensign of the Guard. His age might be about eight-and- er: and his form was one that combined the highest amount of elegance, with an evi- - dent power and strength, that few men, even in the middle of life possessed. The broad shoulders—the deep chest—the well-aet neck —the long, muscular arms, all betokened an athlete. Fy ‘This was Harold Blanchard—Ensign Harold Blanchard, as he was in rank—of his majes- ty’s Coldstream Guards, and cousin—as it was believed—to Colonel Blanchard. ~ _ “ Well?” said Harold, after a pause, “ What £ Prot “ty iy Owlet, the Robber Prince. 9 eer “Ob! that farce ” * Farce? What farce ?” “ Cousin!—cousin! Sir, I know you not.” “Indeed I see that you are discomposed.” *« And well I may be. Who, and what you are, sir, I know not, since our acquaintance is but of six weeks’ standing.” “Ah!” « And began in such folly—such misery !”” Harold stepped close op to the colonel, and looking him close in the face, said : “ Have they found the body ?” “ Good God, no!” “ Oh 1” s The colonel staggered back into a chair, and groaned aloud : “T think so long as the body is not found that you are safe enough,” added Harold, and if a few weeks more should elapse, it will be so far decomposed as to render indentifi- cation all but impossible.” “Oh _ if I were but dead!” “Dead? Why my dear friend you would be as bad off as Captain Beauchamp then. But cheer up. This is but a probation. The time will come when I myself will step for- ward, and proclaim your innocence.” “ Now—oh, now!’ “No. It would not do; neither you nor I would be believed now ; but the time will come when what I say I believe will be sufficient!” * You terrify me!” : “T do not wish to do so, You can serve me, and in time I will serve you. But what is it that specially raised this storm in your im- agination ?” “Charles Beauchamp, the twin brother of Captain Beauchamp, has been here. He says that I was seen at one o’clock in the morning in St. James’ Square, with his brother. You know that it is true.” ; “Some meddling fool hasseen you. What further says this young man ?” “On my denial, he insults me, and chal- lenges me.” “And you will have to fight him?” “T shajl, and perhaps add another crime to my soul, and yet I did not kill Captain Beau- champ.” ’ : “You did; but you mean to say you did not murder him.” “ Indeed I did not.” “Certainly not. Youand he were engaged at the hazard-table, at the old Tennis Court in the Haymarket. He won of you a paltry thousand pounds, and you gave him your ac- knowledgment on a leaf of your pocket-book for the money. He had drunkdeeply, and was touchy and quarrelsome. You both left the pale 2 together ; and in St. James’ quare he assailed you, saying, that he would o home with you; there and then, and have is money ?” He did—he did!” “ Finally, he struck you: you had no sword, but he had his ; and in a struggle you got possession of it, and in his blind ary he ran upon it, and was killed,” f “Tt was sol Alas—alas!” 4 At that moment I came up and advised ou.” “ Fatal advice !” “T advised you to say nothing about it, but to get rid of the body, and let it be believed that Captain Beauchamp had mysteriously disappeared : and I it was who climbed the railings of the Square garden, and placed the body in a little garden tool-house within the inclosure.” “Tt was all so.” “J saved you then from the reproach of that man’s death ; for everybody would have said that you killed him because he had won of you a thousand pounds. Your reputation would have been blasted — your good name |, gone, and all your hopes of future fortune and advancement demolished.” Colonel Blanchard moved his hands ina despairing way. * But now all you will have to do will be, just to let blood a little from this twin brother, and you will silence him ; for after fighting you, his lips are closed.” “T will let him kill me,” “ That would be foolish.” “ At least I should be clear from you.” “From me?” ' _ “Yes, Who and what you are, I know not; ut I do know that, by your possession of this fearful secret, you have compelled me to be- | come your slave.” “ You rave, colonel.” teeta’ et | cousin ? ‘the Guard? Do I not come to you whenever with you, sir. Are you thirsty ?” “What! Have I not said you were my Have I not got you an ensigney in you send forme ? Did I not, early this morn- ing, at Kew, so manage and maneuver, accord- | ing to your orders, that the king was left alone in the plantation ; and I know not, even now, what has happened to him—for I came | to town at once.” “Be easy: nothing has happened to him. He is well as ever; although, possibly not with quite so royally are an appetite, be cause some food for meditation has been giv en him.” ‘Who, in the name of Heaven! and what are you?” cried the colonel, as he dashed his hand on to the table. “ Hush |” “ Eh ?”? “The door. Some one knocks.” CHAPTER VII. THE RING IN HYDE PARK. In answer to the colonel’s ‘‘ come in!” the orderly sergeant again presented himself, saying, sharply : al “Major O’Balriggin, sir.” “ Major who?” “ O’Balriggin, Colonel Blanchard,” said a tall man, in an undress military coat, and @ rofusion of gray hair and whiskers. ‘* Ma- jor O’Balriggin, unattached. The top of the morning to you, colonel; and it’s mighty pee am to see you. Sir, I’m your hum- le sarvant—to Ensign Harold. Bedad, thin, colonel, I had an idea, sir, that I was m luck this morning; for [ put on my right hand glove, sir, half the way on my left hand, sir—and when the O’Balriggins do that, sir, it manes something.” “Pray, sir, what do you want with me?’ “What do I want with you, colonel? Whiff! Hoo! It's mighty aisy to guess what Major O’Balriggin ever wants with » gentleman he don’t know.” “Well, sir, what is it?” “ And it’s after asking what is, you are? You are there, are you, colonel? and migh- ty innocent you look. Whist! Get rid of the sub. Whist! Take it? * Oh, the girls of Kilare, They are young, they are fair.’ The top of the morning to you, ensign, and a ‘ open the door for you, sir, if you ase ?”” ‘ The major had insinuated into the hands of the colonel a note, which a hasty glance at let him see was a challenge from Charles Beauchamp, and naming the major as his friend for the occasion. _“ Very well, sir,” said Colonel Blanchard, rising. ‘1 am quite sure that Mr. Harold, m cousin, will act for me with pleasure, an therefore I leave you together.” The colonel left the room. “ By my great ancestor, Brian Boroo,” said the major, “and that’s mighty cool, any way. Sir, I have the honor to hope you know Ma- jor O’Balriggin, sir.” “T have heard of you, major.” “To be sure, sir—to be sure; and I thinkif the colonel had only said: ‘ Gentlemen, are Mes thirsty?’ before he left the room, it would ave had a mighty gentale sound with it.” “Well, major, let us to business.” * “Business? Is it business you call it? It’s pure pleasure, sir, I’m after thinking.” “That is a matter of taste, sir.” “ Tt’s not a taste of anything I've had this morning, I can assure you, Mr. Harold; but the long and the short of it is, that Mr, Charles Beauchamp wants satisfaction, sir, of the col- — onel,” “For what?” “ Bedad, thin, I forgot to ask him that.” j “Must there, then, be aduel?? “Must there? I should say, yes; for af-, ter calling mein, I fight my principal, always, if rd ih gut you igo be \e “ Very well, major, what do you propose ie The ring, wiry? ¥ bat vd ; “ Agreed.” “Swords.” “ Agreed.” “Six o'clock to-morrow morning.* “ Agreed.” f “Give me your hand, young man. then, and it’s rale elegant youth you are; and if ever you want a friend, rely upon old Major O'Balriggin. It’s a pleasure to meet ? a
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' will be weli. 4 Well, sir, so it might, and don’t know _ Very well what to i <oc ReeneNe DP Sats ei sin “ Not the least.” “Tt's the only fault you have, then. Good day to you, sir; and its first on the field we shall be.” “ We shall see. jor:” : The major left the room, humming an Ir- ish ditty; and Harold ealled to the colonel, who was in the adjoining apartment, and who could have had no diffieuity in hearing all that hal! passed on the subject of the duel. “You have heard?” said Harold. “Yhave ; but I cannot kill that young man,” “')here is no oceasion—only you must not Jet him kill you. 1 fancy you are master of the sword ?” * Tolerably so.’ “There is a peculiar guard whith is hard- ly kuown in England, which I could show you, and which, if followed up at the mo- ment by an assault, places your opponent at your merey for a space in which you may count eight, if he be a good swordsman, and ten, if a bad one,” ; “No, no. I will go as I am, and I care not for the result.” The young ensign looked at Colonel Blanchard witiva certain expression of mourn- ful compassion. - * Be assured,” he said, “that if the time should come that 1 can make all this up to you, and relieve you from the load of misery that seems now to weigh you down, it shall be done: and you will no longer think me the Mephistopheles of your existence. I have ob- ects,” “Are they honest ?” “ As the daylight.” “T will hope so—I will hope so. Do not fail me at six to-morrow ; for | must meet this young man, come of it what may.” “I will be with you in good time, colonel. Keep a stout heart, and believe yet that all Till to-morrow, adieu !” “ Farewell! farewell!” Ensign Harold Blanchard, as he was call- ed, passed out of the apartments of the eolo- nel, and through the guard-room, in which a aig hd officers were playing at chess. “ Halloa, Harold!” cried one, “am I right or wrong *” “ About what?” “That old fire-eating Major O’Balriggin. Ie it possible he could call on a man without in x Good morning to you, ma- i brin, him a challenge ?” % ise me,” said Harold. “That is an answer. Good-morning.” Harold passed on, The sextry brought his musket to “attention.” The young su- baltern slightly touched his hat, and then strolled out into St. James’ street. He took his way about half way up the atreet on the left-hand side of the way, and then dived down a narrow half court half street that was there. Another moment, and he had pushed a door open, and was in a perfectly dark pas- Sei . The doer swung shut behind him. Tn another quarter of an hour, there emerg: ed-into the narrow street, by the same door- way, a quiet-looking man, dressed as a supe rior tradesman, and epparently about the middle of life, He walked sedately to a liv, ery stable in Piccadilly, and entering the yard, he said, in a somewhat stately tone: “I want my horse. Mr. Sadgroves’ horse.” “The black horse, sir ?” “Yes.” “All right, sir. Hey, Jem! Mr. Sad- grove’s horse.” Mr. Sadgrove loitered at the entrance of the inn-yard till a beautiful black charger was brought out to him, on which he eareful- ly and slowly, as a middle-aged gentleman might, mounted. “ What is that you were telling me, James,” he said, “about some highwayman on the Richmond Road ?” \ «Lord bless you! yes, sir—the Owlet. | Why, sir, only Jast night, Sir Francis Double- day’s carriage was stopped on the common.” “The common ?” ~ ; “ Barnes’ Common, sir; and he was robbed ef more than seven hundred pounds.” “Indeed.” x “Yes, sir; and if you go that way, I would advise you to take nothing with you.” _ “But that might provoke this highwayman, a or Owlet as you call him, and bring danger on me.” — | The swoon which Owlet; the Robber Prince. | “That is just my opinion, James. Goed- | when first the word “reprieve” struck upom jay. Here is your money.” “ He’s a funny gentleman,” said the hostler, looking after Mr. Sadgrove , “and though he has put up his horse here for more than a yeary I don’t know a bit more of who or viiat he is now than I did the first day. But he pays like a king—that he does. Mr. Sadgrove rode toward Kensington, and when he got fairly out of London, he reined in ig horse, and patted it on the neck, as he enid . “So Leo—so here we are again, safe and sound, my brave Leo.” : The hoarse appeared to comprehend him ; for it arched its neck, and made a grateful sort of sound. “Well, Leo, you shall see a coronation, I hope, some day, old friend—if all things go well. The Owlet may vanish from the scene, and the young subaltern, Harold Blanchard, may disappear, and Mr. Sadgrove may be known no more ; but a new king to Englawd may claim the allegiance of a nation.” Now if any one had heard these words, they must have been sirnck with the likeness of the voice to that of Ensign Harold, and, in fact, on that black horse—of such symmetry and blood that it was the admiration of all who saw it—sat none other than the much- dreaded highwayman, the Owlet, who had the address to become an ensign in the king’s Guards, and to bafile, as yet, all pursuit and al] inquiry. He had said he had objects, What they were, a perusal of this narrative will shortly disclose. They were as strange as they were —in his mind—legitimate. He then rode on at an easy pace, and passed through the old village or town of Hammer- smith, and took a narrow road, which led him toward the old wooden bridge at Fulham. By this bridge he crossed the Thames, and riding down a country lane—the tall trees on either side of which made it dark and op- secure even at mid-day—he paused at a-emall hut that could hardly be nereeived amid the dense foliage which surrounded it on all sides. The Owlet then—for we may as well call him by that name, since he is under the greenwood tree—blew a quavering note on & silver whistle, and then there was a movement among the bushes, and a man appeared. “ Captain, is that you ?” “Tt is. Is all still?” “Not a mouse stirring.” “Tt is well. Take Leo, and let him be teady for me heré, at sunset.” “ Ay, ay, captain. Then is the time for us.” | “ Silence !’’ ' _ The man said not another word, and the Owlet parted the long branches of whr’ seemed an impenetrable bush, to the right and to the left, and found within it a narrow ‘path, on which he entered. The bush then eras up behind him, and he was lost to sight. And what was his most gracious majesty King George the Third doing now? and how did he escape from the folds of the Owlet’s cloak ? And what was said by my lords Seaford and Hamilton, and by her gracious majesty Queen Charlotte, when she heard of the ter- rible adventure ? Simply nothing. re His most gracious majesty King George the Third thought it better to keep the whole matter to himself, and said not one word about it. He had emerged from the cloak after a time, when he heard all still about him, and had made his way into the palace by a private door, of which he had the key. _ But he missed the broiled trout. CHAPTER VIII. _ ‘THE YOUNG LOVERS. We return to those young hearts, whieh, from a depth of despair from which they would have themselves said there was no re- demption, were lifted up to a heaven of joy. Gerald Alton and Alice Home. Oh, what sunlight was in his eyes, as he tremblingly held in his the hands of Alice, and looked into her eyes, as—half-doubting if she had not actually passed the dim portal of the grave aie sat opposite to him in_ the | ” ‘coach, which rapidly conveyed them both from the terrible scene whic acted around them at Tyburn. — . reve r 6) 2. had been en- | “had come ‘over Alice | her senses, bad not, lasted long. Joy soon, brings, to counteract whatever ap- parently disastrous. effects: it-may have, ite own. antidotes. And so Alice opened. her eyes and, looked at Gerald, who, with so. much ecstasy of affee- tion, was gazing at her with aH his soul in the fixed attention with which he regarded her. And when he saw those gentle eyes once more, with the light, of life in their pure depths, he uttered. a. cry of such joy—such rapture, that Alice could not but echo it. The third person in the coach—the king’s messenger, as he called himself—shrank back, for he felt that there was something sacred in the affection of those two young hearts; and but that at that moment he must, by any further action indicative of his presence, have introduced disturbing elements in their hearts, he would have stopped the eoach and left it. But they forgot him, They did not see him. If all the world had heen gazers!upon their looks and acts, and listeners fo their ; words, they would have forgotten. that they : ly lived under such observation ; and all in a to each other, they would have looked into - each other's eyes, and found there the only world they cared to remember. Then, for a moment, Alice seemed to think + that she was no longer an inhabitant of this ; earth, and that Gerald had followed her to the grave. s “* Ah, Gerald!” she said, “ why did you not stay?” . : “ Alice! Alice! could reply to her. And hi clasped each other's hands, and My Alice!” was all he with looks of ineffable affection they regard- ed each other in silence for a time. The coach rumbled on; and the narrow, * rious shadows and. its various noises into the vehicle, so that those two enraptured and ro- dark street in which they were, sent its va | mantic young souls were likely soon to be’re. | called to the fact that they were still in. the } midst of the busy, every-day world they had been accustomed to see about them. The king’s messenger was the first to break the silence. ~ F “Let me explain to you both,” he said “what it is necessary you should know.” At the sound of his voice, it seemed as if they had just become cognizant of his pres~ ence, and they turned to him with looks of surprise, “Calm yourself, Gerald Alton,” he added, . “and you too, Alice Home. All is real about yows and: in, me wou see. the man who was well-pleased to be-the means of bringing the pardon from the king.” 4 These words,. plain and simple as they were, at once stripped from before all the circumstances that had occurred the vail of doubt and uncertainty ; and they both under- stood the true position of affairs, ye '“ Ah, sir,” eried Gerald, as he seized the hand of the stranger, “how can I live long enough to thank you, and to show you how’ | grateful I would fain be?” “ And I—and i,” said Alice. ‘“ You have snatched me from a terrible death.” “JT will not commit the affectation,” said the stranger, “ of attempting todenyit. Had I not reached Tyburn in time, you would have fallen a victim to the severity of the criminal code of this country, which has the same punishment for a petty larceny as for a hideous murder.” “ But, sir,” added Alice, “sir, you must know that I am innocent.” Mery “That I can well believe. A judicial mur- der is not so rare a thing that one need doubt it.” 4 The coach stopped. The sudden cessation of the wheezing, and rumbling, and swaying from side to side ‘of the vehicle, produced a certain amount of alarm in the heart of Alice ; and she held the hands of Gerald still tighter, as she said, faintly: R ; There is no danger? O Ge if even yet—” “Be calm,” said t \ 5 a Niet rald ! Gerald! eit a ie
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tthe vehicle open, as he said, in the soft, gentle ‘woice which seemed to be natural to him, when he made no effort to assume a different ‘tone: “ Alight here, and fear nothing.” They were in another moment by the side of the stranger, on the narrow pavement of a few open hous-s or entrances to houses, but which seemed to be bounded on each side by the walls of tall buildings, and the palings and brick divisions of yards and gardens. The coach rumbled off. “Now, follow me, and fear nothing,” said éhe stranger. | “We will follow you, sir,” said Gerald. * Take us where you will; we follow you with avery confidence.” « Yes, Gerald,” said Alice , that is right.” | Gerald had not the most distant idea in re- ee eee | entirely absorbed had he been, while in the eoach, by a coutemplation of Alice, that he had taken no note whatever of the route by whieh they had proceeded from Tyburn. And in London there were so many dull, dingy, narrow, old streets, exactly of the pat- tern of the one they were in, that there was nothing by which he cvuld particularly iden- tify. it. ' To be sure, on casting his eyes to the cor- mer, wheu he reached there, he saw the half- obliterated name posted up: «King Street.” That was the name of the street then; but as in London there were’ then about three hundred King streets (and about five hun- dred now), such @ name by no means local: zed the spot. With Alice's arm closely clasped under his own, Gerald followed the stranger. * Dear. Alice,” he said, ‘* how different is the present hour to those dreadful ones—” Alice burat into tears, and Gerald paused. “ Dear one, I have sre ou.” “@ Gerald! Gerald! my heart is so weak I have suffered ao. much.” , “L blame. myself, my Alice. It is not I ‘Yoehe should revert to the past, or recall to rer mind the horrors we have both gone ” aug must strive to forget them, Geraid.” “ Yes, dearest—yes.”” “ And yet, how wrong, how wicked it would be, if I were to forget all your devotion and all your love, Gerald! Can I forget how you followed me to seeming death? How you ‘would. have died for me, if they would but have let you do so? O Gerald! Gerald! I . did not know that you could love me as you did.” ! “As I do, dear Alice.” “ Yes, Gerald, as you do; and I will never, mever forget.” Gerald pressed one of her hands in his, as he then said, falteringly : “ And, Alice dear, will you likewise recol- let that—that—” “ What, Gerald ?” “That you said—that is, that when you thought our last words were being spoken— that you then said you would haye no re- serves, and that you would'tell me truly from: our heart that you loved me.” : “Yes, Gerald,” replied Alice, faintly. 25 Sa “Do you recall that confidence ?” ay Ls “No; no.” mic. , “O Alice—my own dear Alice!” ive “T will recall no word of truth or affection, Fe Gerald. I have said that I love you, and I may not gainsay it now.” Ny >. “Alice! My Alice! What king—what she @mperor so proud and so happy asI? Alice! pine my Alice! Gift of Heaven! I will love you eo dearly that the life we shall pass together Cy shaJl seem but the sunny lapse of one long W eummer’s-day. “Who is it that has said man ight be so happy if he would? That his Yel ly care shou 7 the season’s difference ? } ‘My Alice! we shall be happier than that ; | for all seasonsehall be alike to us, be full of the weet sunshine of our love.” . “Gerald Alton!” gard to what part of London they were in. So | ee mall street, which appeared to contain but | | safe ?” some garden or stable, and he stood aside for them to pass through before him. ‘Come, dear one,” whispered Gerald. They passed through the small door. The stranger followed them, and carefully closed it behind him. At a distance of about six paces there was another door, which the stran- fer warned them of, saying : “Do not advance in the darkness. Let me pass you.” They paused; and, hand in hand, they would have been well content there to pause for any length of time; but they heurd the sound of a key turning in a lock, and then there was the creaking of what seemed tu bea heavy door upon its hinges, and there came a faint beam of light from the other side of it. “Now go on,” said the stranger. well. You are safe.” “ And, sir,” said Gerald, “were we not “All is *T will tell you of that shortly.” The second door that the messenger had opened was of iron; snd as he closed it, they , could see by the light of a lamp that was in a niche in the wall above it, that it was elab- | orately fastened. They were ina narrow passage, the floor- | ing of which was thickly carpeted, and the’ walls of which were covered with a sort of felt, which must have had the effect of most completely deadening any noises that might take place within the mysterious passage. “ Let me preeedé you,” said the stranger. “There are other doors ' to open, of which I} have the keys.” He passed. Gerald and Alice, and soon they all reached some stairs up which they ascend- ed; and Gerald, as he dil so, counted thirty- seven steps. He counted them rather me- chanically than with any object in so Heine At the top of these steps there appeared a door that was covered with green velvet ; and above that door, on a bracket, was another lamp. Then the stranger placed a key in the lock of this green velvet covered door, and opened “Come in, and welcome,” he sata. There was a sudden transition to the eyes, from the dim, artificial light of the gloomy assage, and the staircase, to the light of ay ; for ata distance of about two feet from the door with the green velvet covering, another door stood open, that led into a ap+- cious apartment, the windows of which com- municated with the open nb But atill the light was of a subdued quality, and only at the moment appeared bright and white to Alice and Gerald, because they had it to contrast with the dim radiance of the lamps in the dark passage. The apartment in which they found themy selves was of large extent—some thirty-five feet in length and about twenty-four in width, Three tall windows faced them, and’ they could see the boughs of trees—on which the greater part of the leaves still lingered— close, apparently, to the panes of glass. “The room was rather meretriciously far- nished. It was a blaze of crimson and gold, Crimson silk hangings—a crimson velvet carpet—and gold everywhere—on the ceiling —on the mouldings—and, in fact, wherever it could be at all placed to aid the general effect—which was that of the heavily-mag- nificent. Alice was dazzled. Gerald, too, looked about him in some sort of amazement, as he said ; “Where are we? Is this a palace ?” * Yes,” eaidthe stranger. ‘ A palace isthe abode of a king, is it not ?”” “ The king's palace?” cried Gerald. “Then the pardon—” | Gerald scarcely knew what he was saying. Some ¢oniusedly romantic ideas began to take posession cf him—that the king had not only sent a pardon to Alice; but that he. was in- tent upon making her some amends for all the suifering she had gone through. Here the stranger smiled as he said: “We will not talk of that just at present. It will be rear w that I should know what are your wis ed and what are your re solves. Sit you down, Alice Home, and you too, Gerald Alton. | sry “ Yes,” said Gerald, faintly. V. yd Robber Prince. [on hi —oeneg coment he coachman, and then he held the door of wooden doof, in what looked like the wall of “Thad well nigh forgotten. We must ao Ba 24 the wants of Nature.” He clapped his hands together twice, and on the instant a tall, narrow door opened, and a slim, pale, young man appeared, and bowed profoundly and respectfully. “Some refreshments for these friends of mine.” The pale, slim young man bowed again ; but not a word hespoke. He retired at once: , and in the course of a few minutes returned - with a tray of silver, on which were sweetments, biscuits, #mall confectionery, and a crystal goblet, together witli smaller glasses. This * tray and its contents the servitor placed, with an appearance of great respect, on a table, The stranger, who was attended upon with » so much ceremony, made a slight sign, and the young man disappeared through the tall, | narrow doorway, and softly closed the door - behind him. k ‘ “ Now,” said the stranger, “you will be all the better for some refreshment. The soul will fight long and help the body, but ” faintness will come.” Both Alice and Gerald were in truth muck in want of some sustenance, and they were ~ grateful for the new life that seemed to be given to them by the fine, light Spanish wme, that was in the erystal goblet, » The color came hack to the cheeks of Ger- ald, and he looked in the face of Alice with » world of love, a8 he said - “ Ah, my Alice, I never thought to taste morsel more in this world.” “Tt is like a dream,” sid Alice. The stranger smiled, and in the rich soft voice that was peculiar to him, he said : : a We are such things as dreams are made | °o Ha} “ But all this is not?” said Gerald, He glanced around him as he spoke; and then he was somewhat surprised that he could not see the door by which they had entered that costly apartient, with all its gilding, and all its elegance and riches. “Listen to me for a moment,” said the stranger. ‘It is true that-you have been res- eved from death, Alice; but the king did not | willingly grant the pardon which I exhibited | to the sheriff; nor was it in such regular form that, under any other circumstances than the confusion of the moment, it would have been received.” Gerald looked alarmed, and flung an arm round Alice, as he cried: “ Danger still—more peril !” “T did not a“ that there was peril ; I am but explaining facts to you, and pointing out ea e contingencies ; and what I want you oth to do now is, to tell me, in briéf, your position in life, and who and what you are.” “Ali, sir! have you thus befriended us, and do not know ?”’ sad Alice. Ried “Perhaps what I know is sufficient,” said , the ‘stranger. “I would rather hear from ° your own lips the real facts. What is your story, Alice Home ?” “A short one, indeed, sir, with but one mystery in it!’” / } “ Ah! a mystery.” “Yes, I was the only care, and apparently | the only joy of one whom I thought my ~ mother ; but on her death-bed, she, with many tears, told me she did not bear that relation ; to me; but that in a small leathern valise, 4 which was hidden in a dry well at Corfe Cas- tle, in Dorsetshire, I should find full partiou- lars of my history. She had me carefull } educated ; and, at her death, finding inyeult alone in the world, and with but scanty means, IT began to try to eke out a subsistence by teaching, an brose, the jeweler, on Ludgate Hill, to be governess to his two children.. While there, ; was accused of stealing the diamond brace- i et.” * And that is all?” ( “ Yes, sir, that is all!” h | “Did you ever go in search of your mother had mentioned ?” ‘* Alas! no! I have had no means to trav- el; and, indeed, I thought it but the ravings of a disturbed imagination until to-day.” — the valise “And what to-day gave it the semblence of reality ?” ARS “Tt waa very strange; but a man who was ‘in command of the constables who rode by the cart that was conveying me to T: jbutes ne told me, that if I would say where the valise _ - He turned very pale, and then the stranger | was that had been mentioned by my moth , aids auddontys 54) 0}; Me Tpe fh Son fn er death-bed I should be saved.” — R ; ' yy Md } t * h was recommended to Mr. Am- | bh
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Sear : 12 LER RS SDE TOR Tree “You refused?” ‘ Ah! I understand you. Let me think. “At first; but the love of life. and— Can you bear the solitary confinement of these and—” Alice glanced at Gerald. The stranger smiled. “T understand—go on.” “TI told him. But then he only mocked me; and I found that I was deceived.” “The villain, Jonas Brand ?” “ Yes—yes ; that is his name.” The stranger rose and paced the room twice. ‘Then he went to a small cabinet that was be- tween two of the windows, and wrote some- thing on a slip of paper. He touched a spring, and a slight sound, as of a distant bell, came upon the still air of the room. Then the tall, narrow door in one of the panels opened, and the servitor appeared. The stranger handed him the slip of paper; and when he had gone, which he did without a word, after a low bow, the stranger, with a smile, sat down again, and said, quietly : _ “Now, Gerald Alton, your story.” “Ah, sir! Ihave none to tell. My father was a poor gentleman, who had served in the wars ; and when he died, he left me nothing but his name, and a letter of introduction to Mr. Ambrose, the jeweler—who, it appeared, had married some distant relation of his wife’s, my poor mother. The introduction ‘and the relationship were both. very slight ; but Mr. Ambrose made me his apprentice without a fee.” “That is all?” “Yes. But then I saw Alice.” “Where she came to teach ?” “Yes, sir.” “Now, Gerald, tell me: Was there any visitor of Mr. Ambrose’s of rank, who seemed over-intimate with him?” “None but Sir Bernfide Esperance.” The stranger nodded. “That will do,” he said; ‘ that will do. Now, I must) leave you both very soon; but before I go, having heard your simple histo- ries, I will tell you what you must both do in the tims to come.” They both looked in the face of this man, who seemed to speak as though he was the arbiter of their fate, with curiosity and sur- prise. “ You, Gerald Alton, no longer wish to go back to the workshop of Mr. Ambrose ?” & re: heen but that.” _ “And you, Alice, no longer wish to expose yourself to the serious chanees of the »ardon I brought to the sheriff ‘peing questioned ?” “O Heaven!” ; “Phey shall not—they dare not!” cried Gerald, as he sprung to his feet. “They might, but we will foil them. You are now ina house, which has been supposed to be shut up for some years, in St. James’ square. “hose trees that you see are in its back-yard or garden. Now, you will marry, and I will give you this house to live in.” ) * Sire? Sin 9? “You both look surprised. You love each other? Well, you are both young, but I ap- prove of early marriages. I will allow you a sufficient income with which to keep a quiet and fair establishment; and the only recom- pense I ask of you is, that you will inhabit the front of the house, and keep it like other houses; but never interfere with the back, and with a suite of rooms which are built out into the garden, of which this is one.” * Alice and Gerald looked at each other in surprise, “Do you hesitate ?” “ Oh, no—no!” “You accept, then?” “Best of friends!” said Gerald. “ How ean we do otherwise? But such happiness!” “Such mystery !” said Alice. The stranger smiled: “ Now, you must excuse me,” he said, “ for have work to do. Gerald, you will find books with which to while away the time here, mo donbt. Through this door is a passage leading to other apartments. If anything is wanted, you have but to touch this spring, anda bell will sound, which will be answered. “Str—sir?” said Alice. - She rose and held the stranger by the arm. “Sir, I do love Gerald !” “Well — *But—but—” ane “What would yousay® co abpatice ears tha ara incall i ' es panes aa bck a Ywooms for some hours?” “ Oh, yes—yes !”’ * Then, Gerald, come with me.” * Dear Alice, adieu!” ‘ Zam right, Gerald ?” “Ever right, dear one!” “Come, Gerald,” added the stranger; ‘TI am pressed for time—y ou will soon meet again. Come.” For one moment Gerald held Alice’s two hands in his. Then he drew her gently to- ward him, and for another moment ie clasped her to his heart. “T am ready, sir,” he then said. pardon me.” “ There is nothing to pardon. Follow me.” “ Pray, CHAPTER IX. GERALD CALLS ON HIS OLD MASTER, The more Gerald Alton thought of the sin- gular events of the last six hours of his life, the more he began to doubt their reality. That he who, at eight o’clock that morning, should be, with despair at his heart, beating his hands to pieces on the iron wieket of New- gate, and now at ten promised immediate marriage with the object of his heart’s best love, and.a splendid house to reside in, and a competent income, seemed to him all so vague av& void, that when he stood in the little, narrow, gloomy street again with the king’s messenger, he began to think it all a dream. “ No—no,” he said. ‘ It cannot be!” “What cannot be, Gerald Alton ?” “ All that has happened, and all that is happening. I shall awaken soon.” “You think it a vision?” “Of sleep? . Yes.” “Tt is real; and now what I have to say to you is simply this: Ihave business to do, and will need you here again at sunset on this spot.” ‘ “ That will be six o’clock about ?” “Yes, we will say six o’clock. I will bring with me a clergyman—who, armed with au- thority from the archbishop, will perform the marriage ceremony between you and Alice.” “ Nay, sir; that can hardly be.” . ©The Catholic archbishop, Imean. Sure- ly, it cannot matter to you, if you be married, whether it be a Roman Catholic priest or a Protestant clergyman who unites you.” Gerald looked grave. . “ Bach,” he said, “is the minister) of God, no doubt; but yet, dear as Alice is to me, und much ag I would wish to eall her mine, I would not pas ee. to her such a thing.” “ What would you propose then?” “That I get a regular license, and that we be married, then, by a Protestant clergyman.” “So be it. There is money. Only of one thing let me warn you. Alice may be named rightly, so far as her Christian name is con- eal : but her other name is not Home.” Indeed, sir!” ! t “The fact. You can avoid all risk of dis- covery by giving her any name you like.” “ But would that be valid ?” “Quite. Pho—pho! Youare full ofsert- ples. Call her Alice Mortea.” “Morton ?” “Yes. It is as good a name as Home.” “But—” “But again? O Gerald, man of many scruples? Will you take my word now, that her real name is Morton ?” “I will take your word, sir, for anything.” “Then with it take this purse, and meet me here at six without fail.” The mysterious stranger then walked away, leaving Gerald standing lost in amazement and indecision in the little narrow street, that now, of course, he knew was at the back of St. James’ square—but that was all. But Gerald would have been stii: more sur- prised and bewildered, could he have watched the procetdings of the mysterious man who had befriended him and Alice so effectually. Gerald would have seen that that man made his way to a small hair-dresser’s shop in the vicinity of the Haymarket, and that, merely giving a careless nod to the master of the shop, he walked through it, and opening a door at its farther end, went up stairs to the upper part of the house. : e would then have seen, that in about ten minutes there came down again, and passed -| through the shop, with a similar careless nod, - @ young man dressed in the Pin Dis ih OMe) in var, = =e | bed—which uniform of the | help it. ‘ Guards, and that that young man, with’a calm and sauntering etep, took his way toward St. St. James’ Palace. But all this Gerald Alton did not see—ané it was as well that he did not; for he had quite enough of the strange and the incon- fruous to fill up his head and brain, without. mitt additions thereto, pon glancing at the contents of the purse: which the stranger had given him, Gerald, at. a moderate computation, saw that there were: about fifty guineas in it. And now a new and terrible fear came over the head of the young man. “ What is it that this man,” he said to him- self, “ will require further to be done in pay- ment for all this liberality? In what dark. iatrigue, or in what amount of criminality are we to be involved, perhaps beyond all extrication, as Poor ke to him for what he has done, and for what he yet promises to- do?” These were questions as pertinent’ is vin! were embarrassing ; and poor Gerald felt half inclined to go back to Alice; and, placing: her arm beneath his, urge her to fly with. him at once from that gold and crimsom room, and weleome any amount of poverty, rather than encounter the possible evils that: his imagination began to picture. But, then, before he could take two steps toward carrying out this idea, he thought of the kindly looks of the stranger—of hie soft and gentle tones, and he asked himself = “Where! oh! where would Alice have been,. long ere this time, but for him? With the dead! With the dead! Ah! no, I will not I cannot doubt him.” Then Gerald. made his way down the nar-- row street, and he found that, on passing out through an archway, and traversing another street, he was in a third thoroughfare, which conducted directly into St. James’ square. Then Gerald knew where he was. “ Well,” he said, “ Alice has given a tacit consent to this hasty union. Be itso. I wilk to the city, and procure the necessary license: —which I know is but a matter of form and fees—and then I will go to Mr. Ambrose’s, and r bring away from my attic, in which I used to sleep, such things as belong to me, and bid adieu'to my former mode and way of life fore ever.” Full, then, of these ideas, and much re- freshed by the light repast he had had at the mysterious stranger's house, Gerald made hie way to that’ well-known matrimonial mart which lies to the southward of old St. Paul’s Cathedral—a nest of legal spiders which has only even now been but ve ose dis- turbed ;} and there, for a eum of @ out eighteem pounds, Gerald, after various ceremonies, pur- chased a license under the hand of His Grace, the Primate of England, empowering any ordained priest of the Anglican Church to! marry ‘his well-beloved Gerald Alton” to Alice Morton. This special license enabled the marriage- ceremony to be performed anywhere ; and so different from the ordinary license, by which it'is compulsory that the ceremony should be performed in a consecrated church. Gerald then directed his steps toward Ludgate Hill, the residence of his master, Mr.. Ambrose, the jeweler and goldsmith. Tn a narrow court, adjoining to Mr. Am- brose’s shop, there was an entrance used by the workmen; and a door with a swinging weight and pulley led to a staircase, at the top of which was another door, to which the six workmen employed by Mr. Ambrose had each a key. x F This bad jue door led into the workshop. Through the workshop there sppeared | another door, which communicated with the house ; and as it was now twelve o’clock, the workmen had gone to their dinner, and the workshop was deserted. : With some doubt if he had it, Gerald felt. for his key ; for he, too, had one to the work- shop—and he was pleased to find it. _ : “What need I,” he said to himself, “cee Mr. Ambrose at all? He has not been over- kind to me: he persecuted Alice, I do not wish to look upon his face again. I will inake my way silently and softly to the attie in which they have given me grudgingly 6: have always had to make for myself—and I will just take my own things: — and my father’s picture, and deseend a and they shall never see me more if.
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5 I i q rm arith the swinging weight open, and ran up the staircase. He unlocked the door.of the workshop, and let it swing shut and fasten itself—which it did so soon as he let it go. The workshop was empty. “That is. well,” he said. ‘They are all at dinner, I expected so; and I shall have ample time, and shall not require to give any troublesome explanations to any one.” Gerald. was passing rapidly thraygh the ‘workshop, when his. attention was irocted to something glittering upon one of the work- tables. ‘What have we here?” he said.“ Why, this.is the very bracelet that poor Alice was accused of stealing, and which they said she had secreted in her music-roll. Why is it here, I wonder; for it was uninjured when prosaeed at her trial. I suppose Mr. Am- rose. don't like the looks. of it now, and means to alter the setting. O hateful brace- Jet! you shine and glitter, and send forth beantiful rays ; but you do not know the mis- chief you did, nor the tears that were shed on youraceount! O mischievous bauble, I hate the sight of you!” As he spoke, Gerald took up the bracelet, and, with the unreflecting passion of his youth, he flung it on to the floor of the workshop wiolently. Then something went wrong—or right— about it with a sharp,, clicking noise, and ‘Gerald saw that a portion of the gold-setting seemed to have splitinto two portions ; and it was so singular that it should do so, that Gerald lifted the bracelet again from. the floor, to examine how or why such an effect had been produced. Then he saw at once—for he knew sufficient of the trade.to see so much—that if was no artificial work that was in the gold setting of the bracelet, but a beautifully-contrived pening, which fitted so closely that the eye would in vain seek to detect it. Lying within this opening was a narrow strip of paper, which Gerald soon possessed himself of. It was a very thin, white, silvery. iece of paper; and on it, in old Italian-look- ing letters, was written: “ Adela Salisbury, married Oct. 5, 1735 (see cabinet cua. king’s own chamber); died August 1, “How very odd!” said Gerald. “ What ean all this mean, I wonder? Well, I won’t take the bracelet ; but this bit of paper, which is of no value—” ; “ Ah Gerald! of what value was the brace- let, with all its jewels, compared with that slip of old, thin, flimsy paper, if you had but known it ?” ; “Of no value at all,” added Gerald. “So I will keep it, and show it to our friend, the King’s messenger. Pooh! I call him a king's messenger; but that is just because I have no other name to call him. He is—he must ‘be some great lord.” j Gerald placed the slip of paper carefully in his pocket, and then leaving the bracelet which he so hated the sight of lying on the floor ; and, indeed, giving it a stamp with his heel, which materially damaged it so far as regarded the selling, he passed on, and opened the door which led from the workshop to Mr. Ambrose’s private house. f _ There was a long passage or corridor, the floor of whith was covered with green baize. Immediately on the other side of this door, and at the farther end of that, was the stair- «ase that lel up to the attics. In fact, this passage had been made be- a4ween his house and his workshop by Mr. Ambrose, that he might, without the necessi- ty of going out of his shop, and round to the court, visit his workmen, and see what they -were about, and give them orders. : Lightly Gerald ran along the passage, and reached the landing of the stairs. One flight went down—the other up. The downward Alight led to the first floor, and thence, lower atill, to the shop—the upper flight to the at,. ties. Now Gerald had no intention of pausing sone moment when he reached the stuirs. His _ intention was, to go to his attie, possess him- gelf of what was his, and then leave the premises; but, as he reached the landing. place at the end of the baize-covered passage, he heard fortsteps and voices. id paused. and looked over the balus. trades, aes _Owlet, the ‘Robber Prin SSS Fnl} of this idea, Gerald pulled the door eT ea No LLY Oe eee He x ¥ a Two persons were coming up from thy shop, and the voices, as they spoke, although the tones were very low, came clearly up the well staircase to Gerald's sense of hearing, “Tt is alike perplexing and amazing,” said one ef the speakers. ‘ To be baffled in this way is beyond conception.” Then Gerald knew that the person who | thus spoke was Sir Bernfide Esperance, who was'so constant a visitor at the house of the jeweler. “ But,” said the other voice, “ what is to | be done? If the king was moved to pardon her—” “ Pshaw!” said Sir Bernfide Esperance. Then Gerald knew that it was Mr. Ambrose phe was talking to Sir Bernfide Wsperance, and the idea crossed.his mind, that it could be of no other than Alice they were speaking. He eraned his neck and head over the bal- us'rade ; for he did not wish to lose one word of what they were saying on a subject so in- teresting to him. : “ Pshaw !”? added Sir Bernfide. “ But facts,” said the jeweler-—* facts are stubborn things. The sheriff came into my shop only half an hour ago, and said that a king’s messenger had ridden from Kew in for- ty minutes, and Killed his horse, to bring the pardon.” “A trick—a trick!” “ A trick, Sir Bernfide? Why, you cannet mean—” At this moment they had reached the land- ing-place immedintely below that on which Gerald was listening, and the jeweler opened the door of the front room on the first floor, and they both passed in. The door was allowed to swing close ;-but Gerald did not hear that it was fastened. “T must and will hear more of this,” cried Gerald, in an agitated whisper, to himself. He struck his breast as he spoke. “I will hear more, at any risk.” Gerald slipped off his shoes, and tripped lightly down the stairs. CHAPTER 'X. THE GUILTY CONFERENCE. ‘Gerald Alton, without his shoes, did not. make the least noise as he descended the staircase at the jeweler’s house, in order to gain the landing-place of the first floor, to lis- ten to the conversation between Mr, Ambrose. and Sir Bernfide Esperance concerning Alice. Had the conference of these two men been on any other subject than that one which touched so nearly his heart and his feelings, Gerald would have disdained to play the "s- tener. But where Alice was concerned—where her interests and her life, perhaps, were at stake, he did not hesitate, but resolved to hear all he could. The door of the front-room on the first floor had swung close to, Sa in a quarter of | awful scene. aninch. It was a great risk, to stand there and listen to such a man as Sir Bernfide Es- perance, for he was known to be cruel and vin- dictive ; but Gerald had no sensation of fear, although he certainly wished to get what in- formation he could, and then escape with it. He could hear the voices quite plainly. “T tell you, Ambrose,” said Sir Bernfide Esperance, ‘t that there is some mystery in it that I cannot yet fathom, although I will do 80 yet.” “ Well, well,” replied Ambrose. “Tt is not well. It is anything but well. Why, 1 tell you, Colonel Blanchard— for what reason I know not—took it on himself te solicit the king for her pardon.” “The pardon of Alice?” “Tobe sure; but the king, as usual, was obstinate ; and.as the way of all others to make him not do a thing is, to ask him to do Ce. “ Well, well.” “T swore to the bracelet after you had roll- ed it up in her musie, while she was giving lesson on the map of the world to. my little Juliana,” “Villain! O villain!” whispered Gerald, through his clenched teeth, ‘“O Heaven! ee is the lightning to strike such a,vil- , Jain ?”’ ° “ Of course, you swore to the bracelet,” > | said Sir Bernfide Esperance; ‘‘of course.” ~ *' “ Well—what. more could I do ?” * Nothing—nothing.” “Then, sir—” ‘we “Come, come, don’t put on that hang-dog looking face. I don’t come here to blame to be here at a little after twelve.” “Tt is half-past.” ; : * So—so,” thought Gerald, “I must keep - one ear on the shop, or I shall have Jonas! Brand upon me.” ¢ : Gerald had scarcely uttered these words in a very low whisper, to himself, when he heard the shop-door swing open below, anda hoarse . voice cried out: S “Mr, Ambrose within ?” “Yes, Mr. Brand,” said some one; “ but he is up-stairs, with Sir Bernfide Esperauce.” “Oh, all right; I am expected.” “ Ex-pected—” “Get out of my way, hound, will you!” Geral] knew perfvetly well that a door spened from the shop directly on to the staircase; and that, if he would escape Jonas it, as if you want him to do anything you | Brand, who was always quick in his move- must advise him not, why, of course, from | ments, he had not » moment to lose. the moment the colonel spoke, he was resoly- ed to hang the girl.” * And yet—” “ And yet, at the eleventh hour. a horse is | of Brand's fect. Killed, to bring a messenger in time with a pardon,” : “It's very odd.” j “More than odd; and you, Ambrose, have earued your money easily enough.” “My money, Sir Berniide!” “Yes; I gave you « thousand pounds.” “Tush, sir—hush!" . : “Oh, stnfi! you had your reward, and the | earsfal than Ambrose or Sir Bernfide Esper- . , service has failed. ‘That's the state of AEN RN, Woe eat Nae Darting up the stairs which he had 69 re- cently descended, Gerald lay at full Jength in the passage above. Then he heard the tramp The door of the first-floor room was opened, and Mr. Ambrose said : “Who is there? Who is it?* “T” said Brand. “Oh! Mr, Brand ?” “To be sure. Is Sir Bernfide here?” * “ He is. Come in.” Brand entered the room; but he was more ; ne ea fe le bauged the door shut ‘behind ae ‘ : : ’ wT or
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14: a ! “Now I am foiled,” said Gerald, wringing his hands. “Now I shall hear nothing.” Nevertheless, although he was afraid that he would not be able to hear what should be. said in the room ; and which, now that Brand had arrived, would probably be better than ever worth the hearing, Gerald stepped down the stairs again, and reached the door. He placed his ear close to one of the upper nels, and then he found that it was so in- J istinctly, and in so fragmental a way that he heard what was said; that it would be impos- sible to rely upon the exact substance of it. ; But he had already acquired sufficient in- f formation to know that there was a plot 5 against the life of Alice, and that Mr. Am- i brose had been paid a thousand pounds for } his part in it; and such knowledge fell like a fire in'the brain of the young man, and it required all his reason to prevent him from arming himself with whatever weapons the if t house could afford him, and rushing into the , room with an accusation on his lips, and ven- geance in his hands. Then as he was upon the point of giving up all further attempt to listen, he heard the voice of Sir Bernfide Esperance, raised so high that the words he uttered were as plain and distinct as if the door had been open. % “Jonas Brand,” he said, ‘if you really "have any information on which you can rely, ‘you will be well paid for it; but it is of no use speaking to me in mysterious half-sen- tences.” “I know what I know!” said Brand, in as high a tone as Sir Bernfide’s, % “« A fool's specch !” cried Sir Bernfide. “ Very well, sir. Then the fool.can keep his secret.” { “What on earth do you want?” roared Sir Bernfide. “ A thousand pounds!” cried Jonas Brand, at least an octave higher than Sir Bernfide, , “And then you produce the valise ?” a “ Nol” i “ What in the name, then, of —” ey “No!” roared Brand ; “but then I will tell you where it is, or was.” / rr -~ “The man’s.a fool!” \» 1” Peet ate ¥ “ neha good j F Gerald had just time to dart up the astair- SAN ease, when Jovas Brand, ina towering pas- fy . sion, opened the door, and came out on to the Beat.) landing. — tis “The man may be # fool,” he ‘said ; “ but he knows what he knows, and he won't tell it till he is paid. Ha! ha!” { Jonas Brand went clattering down the stairs one towards the ehop, with his hanger banging in upon every step as he went. f Pie “Then Sir Bernfide called after him. ee, | “Stop, Brand! stop!” bos “ What for ?” “TI will tell you when I come down, direct- Ae ly. Good-day, Ambrose, I don’t blame you, ; ood-day.” ‘*Good-day, Sir Bernfide.” Sir Bernfide Esperance ran down the stairg; and he and Jonas Brand left the house to- ‘gether, ‘a “Oh! what villainy! what villainy !” said real Gerald. “What shall I do? Shall I goand r reproach Mr. Ambrose? Oh no, no. He would only raise an outery ; and as I am still his pt rie he would just have me locked up, and then I snoald be, perhaps, assassinated by Sir Bernfide Esperance. No! no! I must be eet and { will take the advice of our kind friend, the king’s messenger. tips . This was certainly the most sensible deter- F mination that Gerald Alton could come to, and he ran up to his own attic, as he had been accustomed to call it, and hastily began to collect together the few things he could Daler 4 really and truly eall his own. eae This was very easily done; and the arti- ‘i cles all went into poor Gerald's pockets. Then he turned from the room which, poor - and squallid as it was, he had a certain affec- tion for—the affection of custom. , “Good-bye,” he said. Good-bye.” “Eh?” said a voice. Gerald started in'alarm, “ Who is that?” “Me!” said the voice. “Timber ?” , “ Yes; it’s Timber. Who did vousay good- | bye to, Gerald?” p trek “Well, I hardly know; but, Timber, come ype here.” A ‘ “Yes, Gerald.” 4 * ; \ Fag i t ale ry te 4 Vals yt crane - ‘Timber was a boy of about ten years of ty ey ABT ay d f Ye, ‘ SEs Sf 3 Owlet, the Robber Prince. | age. He had been found by the watch one night, when about three days old, it was sup- posed, among some shavings in a timber- yard, and taken to the work-house. An imaginative bendle had then thought roper to name him Timber, after the plice in which he was found; and in due time he had become errand-boy to Mr. Ambrose, who was one of the church-wardens of the parish, and got him for nothing. Timber was in that costume so well known in London as belonging to the charity-school. Yellow leather knee-breeches, very baggy at the knees and behind; ribbed worsted stockings; heavy, ill-made shoes ; a cut-away coat of blue serge, with a leaden badge on the breast—which let all the world know that Timber belonged to the Ward of Farringdon without, and was number 82, A muffin cap, as it was ealled—which was about the size of the ladies’ bonnets of the year of grace 1858—completed the costume of the charity-boy. « Timber,” said Gerald, ‘sit down.” Timber sat down on an old tea-chest. * Yes, Gerald.” “ Timber, I think you love me.” “ Oh don’t I ncither,” said Timber. “ You don’t kick and cuff a cove—you don’t wop a chap as isn’t your own size—you don’t—” “ That will do, Timber, Now, Iam going to trust you.” “zg sida a he going to trust you, Timber.” “ ?" Timber thrust his hand‘ deep in his pocket, but there was nothing there. A vague idea seemed to have arisen in his mind that the trust Gerald spoke of must be something con- nected with money, and that in his complete erudition it must needs be reciprocal. Timber therefore shook his head. Gerald smiled; for poor Timber had one of those ingenuous countenances which any one might read. “TI think you mistake me, Timber.” “Oh!” said Timber again. “When I said I was going to trust you, I meant that I thought you were so mucha friend of mine, and so kind-hearted, that if I told you how to do me a service, you would, and that nothing would persuade vou to do me an injury.” Timber stepped up close to Gerald, and while a ‘flash of tears” was in his eyes, he seized Gerald's right hand in both his own, and shook it with ’s convulsive sort of move- ment. Timber had no words just then. Poor Timber! Not his cruel desertion in the wood-yard—not his stern, cold, rough, and unkind stepmother, the Parish—not the kicks and cuffs, and hard words which ‘the poor and helpless are ‘‘to the manner born” —not the sneers and jeers at his “ uniform” —not the constant reminder on the part of Mr. Ambrose’s servants and workmen, that he was a “ charity brat’’—not all these things had been sufficient to extinguish, blot out, | or even blur over, for one moment, the tender, gentle heart that beat beneath that metal badge of his servitude. Timber was a gentleman—one of Nature’s own gentlemen—if we divide the word, and think and believe, that to be a gentleman is to be gentle; and gentle he was, as any young fawn in a forest glade. ‘“ Yes,” said Timber, at last. “Yes, Gerald —dear Gerald ; you—you never called me a ‘charity-brat.” : ‘‘No, Timber, never. I never thought of doing so.” ar “You—you never. you want me to kill myself, dear Gerald, I will be so glad.” ; “Not at all, Timber. But what I want to say to you is this—I am going away.” Yes,” “T shall not be here ever again, I fancy.” “Yes, That is no, dear Gerald.” “Tam going because of poor Miss Alice, “ Bless her!” “ Amen to that dear prayer, Timber.” “She didn’t do it, Gerald, she could not do it. Iwas in the shop. I was cleaning the show-case when that bad man, Sir Bernfide Esperance, came out of the counting-house | with Mr. Ambrose; amd I saw Bes i phie Mr. Ambrose by the coat, and I heard him say: * Now—now !” ; ; |) “Indeed, Timber?” — the poor young thing, “Yes! and then Ter AC KK ch 100s Well, never mind. | If with her roll of music in her hand, was stop- | ed at the door by ‘Mr. Ambrose; and hie ips were white, and his eyes were all ways: at onoe, and his knees shook, and his hair seemed to move on his head, as he said: “Miss Home,” says he, “ Miss Home, I'm. afraid,” says he, “you have something that i don’t belong to you in your roll of music,” ! says he. * You saw all that, Timber?” “J did—I did. Then ‘she turned round and she looked at him; and when he was forced to look into her eyes, he stepped back so suddenly that he broke one of the panes I of glass in the show-case, and Sir Bernfide Esperance went and shut himself up in the counting-house ; and then I saw blood on Mr.. Ambrose’s lip.” k 1 “Blood?” b } “Yes; he bit it himself, you see; and he took the roll of music, and Benjamin Grey and Stubbs both looked on as white as Stole; and he unrolled the music, and out fell the diainond bracelet. And then poor, dear Miss Home looked at it sadly, and she said: ah! who has placed-this trinket in my music ?’? But they have not killed her—she is saved—saved. Oh the great, good king! I was down stairs and I saw the sheriff come: in; and I heard him say to Mr. Ambrose, m royal pardon arrived at the last moment for Alice Home. Hurrah!” Timber, in the excitement of his feelings, flung his’ odd little muffin cap into the air— and being light and eccentric in shape, it floated away in divers currents of air, till it feirly went over the balustrades of the stair- case, and so right down to the door-way lead- ing to the shop. And it so happened that: Mr. Ambrose was just coming up to the first floor room again, when this charity cap—thie- apology for a head-drese—came sailing dowm the well stairease and lit upon his head. “What? Murder! Hap! What is it?” Mr. Ambrose tore the muffin cap from his head, and then terrible wrath came over him. “ It's that villain, Tinrber!” he cried. Hal- lva! you sir! Where are you?” ‘“‘Hush,” said Timber. “I will come back. again. I must go down now, dear Gerald.” “ Go, I will wait for you.” ad went down. se ye “T am very sorry, sir. y cap fell ovex the a rh sod not help it “You are sorry are » gic you charity-be- gotten, vile imp! If 1 were not too busy with other things, I would give you somethin to be sorry for, with a vengeance. Be off, sirrah, and sweep out the workshop.” * Yes, sir.” Timber was with Gerald again in a mo- ment. “ Now—now, dear Gerald, tell me what you want me to do,” “JT want you, Timber, to keep a watch up; on all that passes here. I want you, for my sake, and for the sake of Alice, to find out. what goes on here between Sir Bernfide Hs- perance and Mr.'Ambrose, and if they and: that villain, Jonas Brand, hold any consulta- tions; and I waut you particularly to. find: ‘ out, if Fie ean, if any further mischief ie ; intended to poor Alice, and what they mean. aTiee to do on finding I am gone and do not come | peal back.” : oe aie “Yes; I know—I know.” “And, Timber, you will always find me, when you want me, any evening this week, at nine o’clock, at the railings round the gar- den of St. James’ Square. I know you cam. come with ease.” : f ; “Oh yes. 'Lhey don’t care where I go after Tahal the shop is shut up. You see, they make me sleep in the shed in the yard, along wita hears Teaser.” , > “Teaser? Oh! I forgot. The dog.” “Yes; but he and me are such friends as never was known; and we have such long talks, we do—and if I want to walk at night, or very early in the morning, me and Teaser goes out over the paling, and on to the bridge, Senet a and looks at the river; and nobody cares & ‘ bit whether I’m in or out, so long as I’m ready | to take down the shutters at nine o'clock.” “ Very well, Timber. Now, good-bye—F ; OS hear the chimes of St, Paul’s.” “ It's a quarter to one.” Phat ey ate “Then the workmen Will soon be back; 8! I am going off, for I don’t want to see angy one. ‘Good-bye s.oF bh ene Lae Good-bye, dear Gerald.” Ne : + ee poe ptt
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_ must have possessed many beauties. Owlet, the Robber Prin “God. bless you, Timber—my friend Tim- r.” be Timber burst. into tears, and sat down on the stairs to have his ery out. Gerald stepped out of the house, and with hasty steps took his way westward. CHAPTER XI. THE ROAD AND ‘THE COMMON, We have not sought to mystify the reader. Sufficient for our'story’s strength are its-own incidents. ' Plainly and clearly we show that the young ensign of the Guards, who was named Harold Blanchard—Mr. Sadgrove, who had the henntiful horse—the’king’s messen- ger, who |ronght the pardon of Alice Home at the Inst moment to the sheriff, and the formidab|« xd mysterious Owlet, the high- wayman. were one and the same person. hat the real and ultimate objects of all these disguises were, we shall perceive as our history proceeds. The game, suffice it to say so much for the present, was one well worth the playing: It will be recollected that the Owlet disap- red in the midst of a masse of wild.and eautiful vegetat ion in a wooily district on the other side of the Thames, as Londoners—who dwell.on the Middlesex bank of the river are in the habit of calling the Surrey side, which has a ban set against it by all fashionable folks : that is to say, until some half-dozen miles are passed over ; then the county of Surrey recovers its character, and may. be endured. It is the houses—the dense district lying close to the river,on the Surrey side, that labor under the stigma of being anything but fashionable or even mentionable to ears polite. But the Owlet was free from all the squalid habitations that always throng the shores of ry a, wa river. @ copse, or wood, in which he had dissppeared, was fairly in the country. ; We will follow him through that apparent- ly. sama net-work of shrubs and under- wood. vn | There was a path. A path that was just about wide enough to admit of a passage of one person ; and-when' that person passed along it, the boughs of the shrubs that bounded itfell over itand covered it up penn. It followed, then, that to make way along that path required an.intimate knowledge of its whereabouts, as well as a constant pressure to move those same overhanging ‘~wghs out of the way. But there was art in all this. The path had been regularly constructed. Not a bush or shrub of any kind bounded it on either side that presented any real diffi- culties. Everything that Nature had armed with spike or bramble had been carefully taken away. The lilac, the alder, the priyet—all harmless, stingless, soft shrubs, bounded this narrow path, so that, with the requisite degree of pressure, a child might have passed along it without a scratch. It took a sinuous course, did this path, and it abruptly ended in a pond. But the pond was asthe by various stepping-stones, that the Owlet knew well where to look for. Searcely wetting his feet, he made good a assage across the pond, and then climbed a ence, and alighted in a strange, wild spot that Tt was a deserted garden—a garden that at one period had, no doubt, had all the care and at- tention bestowed upon it that were possible, but which had, for some years, been left to run riot of its own free will. Cultivated plants and flowers had reverted to their old wild eondition. Winter's frosts had killed all but the most hardy inhabitants of the soil, but |) those had made the place all their own. The Owlet trod his way through'a perfect fnaze of flowers and fruit. And then he came to an open space that had once been a pretty lawn, in’ the centre of which was a small stone fountain, which had long ceased to send up a jet of water to ‘ “ Shake its loosening silver in the sun.” Across this lawn, the first glance of any one who should penetrate ‘so far would fall on an/irregularly-shaped cottage. It was built of red Brick. like the palace of Kew, and had many odd angles dod corners, and old parton and fanciful windows about it. En faet, it seemed a kind of architectural | © ce. 15 jumble, and differed as much as Peony | from ordinary house architecture in England, which consists of a huge square box made of brick, in which rectangular holes are made | for windows, and one of the same'shape for a door. A pole was thrust into the ground close to | the cottage, It. was all awry, but a board was nailed to the top of it, on which was the fol- lowing announcement : “ This cottage to let. Apply at the lodge. Spring: guns and steel-traps are set in the ground. Beware of the dog.” An announcement of such a character wus likely to facilitate the active retreat of any adventurous person who might, actuated by curiosity, get thus far in the deserted gardena of the cottage. But the Owlet had evidently no such fears. So. soon as he had fairly passed: the little dried-up fountain, he whistled in a peculiar manner, and then called aloud : “Drift! Drift! Ho! boy! Where are you? Drift! Drift!” . There-was a rush of some animal through the tall grass and wild flowers that had made the lawn all their own, and then a deep- toned, baying sound. “Ah, you are here, my faithful Drift!” cried the Owlet, As he spoke, there bounded to his side one of those huge dogs offSt. Bernard—yellow as 4 lion, and almost as large as one—a creature with the fidelity of a dog, and almost the un- derstanding of a man. The Drift, as he was called, was glad to see the Owlet, and fully acknowledged him as his lord and master, it was evident. It was equally evident that Drift would have been a most uncomfortable personage for any stranger to encounter, who might have penetrated so far into that wilderness of 8 garden. Accompanied, then, by the dog, the Owlet made his way to the cottage; but, just as he reacned it, a. low, gothic door was opened, and a young girl sprang out into the garden, and flung her arms around the neck of the Owlet. : ~“ Dear, dear Harold, I have been so full of fears |” “Fears, my dear Annie? What fear?” “ Oh, I hardly know, dear Harold. I have had such odd fancies !” : “ Well, but Annie you know that I am like. ly to be late at times.” ‘ “ Yes, yea; and still, ever since—” “Since what? But let us come in—I have something to say to you, sister?” “Something else that hag want me to do, dear brother Harold! Oh, you know well that there is nothing in all the wor'd that I would not do or dare for you!” “T know it well, dear Annie!” The brother and sister entered the cottage together; but, before he clised the door, the Owlet turned, and spoke to the dog. He spoke to him in much the same way he would have spoken to any human being : ‘Round the house, Drift—round the a Drift. Keep good guardy Drift!” The dog made a slight sound, and walked majestically away, as though he would have said: “ Certuinly, master, I comprehend ; and if any one disturbs you, it will not be my fault!” With the hand of the young girl in his, the Owlet entered a small room at the side of the hall of the cottage—a room in which a wood- fire burnt cheerfully enough upon the hearth, and which was rather over-furnished than otherwise with couches and sofas, and a great quantity of furs and skins. “My dear Annie,” said the Owlet, “ this, after all, must be buta dreary abode for ou!” “ Not so. dear Harold, so long as you wish me to inhabit it. I contrive to find oceupa- tions, although the intervals between your visits do seem long; and, bésides, [ have not been |here for many weeks.” \ “To-morrow, dear sister, you shall have a change.” ; y “To-morrow, Harold?” | : “ Yes, dear; you shall go to London. I almost begin to think that the clouds which have obscured our fortunes so long are on the eve of breaking, and showing a clearer vista beyond them!” _ “For your sake, dear Harold, I shall be so ne a court and state functionaries were om : : the road. 7 lad v, ; ‘ i “ And I for yours !” “You think more of me, Harold, than you do of yourself?” “No. I cannot take that compliment to my unselfishness, Annie ; but I can in truth say, that no fortune’shall smile upon mé that withholds its sunshine from you, dear!” “) know that well, dear brother. But have you any news ?”’ ark “None that particularly concerns . our main object, dear Annie; but as some guspi- cions acrent to have been excited in regard to the house in St. James’ Square, which I told you of, I have arranged that the front part of it shall be opened, and inhabited in the regular way by a young couple, with whom I shall hope to make you good friends !” “ Oh, that will be charming !” “T hope so; and it will have the effeot of disarming all suspicions and inquiries about the house !” “ And who are they, brother ?” “ Moat worthy, gentle, and good hearts !"$j__ “ Ah, then, it will*be very happy !” “T hope, so, dear!” “But tell me who they really are?" “One was about to be hanged this morn- ing !” “ Hanged ?” “Yes; but I got a royal pardon for her, and she is quite safe !” “ But, brother—” The Owlet laughed : “ Come, come sister, I will not mystify A ha The persons to whom you are about fd be introduced—I beg pardon—I mean whom I am about to introduce to you—” Annie smiled : “ That is more proper, brother. We must not no ourselyes,although the world for gets us!” “ Nay, the world does not know us yet, An- nie; but it will not forget us, I fancy, when it does, The persons, then, to whom I wish to introduce you are most estimable, and will, I fully believe, act with us in all things!” “Then they are welcome. But how much are they to know, brother?” “That is a very proper inquiry, Annie; and I think they ought to know no more than that I am os Mr. St, John, and you a Miss St. John, Soyou will be upon yourguard. Anp now, as I have work to do—for [ want mone —I will leave you until day-break, when will come here, and take you to town; or, if I do not come by day-break, recollect that I will come by about mid-day; for I have an early appointment, which may, by @ possis bility, prevent me coming early.” “ Be it so, brother, I am, as you know, in all things your attached, and humble, and de- voted subject.” ‘‘Hush !—oh, hush! Not even to these walls!” “T will be cautious.” “ Cautions ever, dear Annie, and silent as death itself!” “T will, indeed.” ¥ “Now farewell. Heaven and its saints @nard you!”’ “ Amen. too.” The Owlet turned to a corner of the room, and bowed in a reverent style; but his sister at once stepped to that corner, and opened what looked like the door of a eupboard, and displayed within a regularly-fitted shrine, And you, too, brother—and you, with an image of the Virgin Mary, and the . symbols of Roman Catholicism. She knelt and prayed. The Owlet bowed his head; and, for a few minutes, there was heard nothing in the cot- tage but the voice of devotion. Then Annie, as she was called, closed the little shrine, and with a look of pleased se- renity, she said: > “ Go, brother, I feel sure that you will be under the protection of Heaven. “And I, too; for Heaven protects the right.”’ ; The Owlet pressed his sister for a moment to his heart, and then left the cottage. In another quarter of an hour, he was on horseback, and rapidly making his way to- ward Barnes’ Common. ; Owing to the royal family being’ at Kew Palace, the route from there to London had beeome quite populous; and at all hours of the day and night, the carriages of minin-
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=. pete eS =e a <= I ais See = 4 ied = Es = Owlet, the Robber Prince. By a wild clump of trees on the common, which had withstood many a gale, although not without being much contracted of what would otherwise have been their fair propor- tions, the Owlet drew rein. He, glanced upward at the drifting clouds, as he said, in a Jow, soft voice : “Madam; Luna will soon show herselt through some of those rifts.” Strapped on to the erupper of the saddle was a small, oblong kind of valise, such as some experienced traveler might carry with * him on a journey; and this the Owlet now opened, and took from it a something that would, at the first glance, have much puzzled any one to define, ; y But whatever that something was, he care- fully placed it over his head—after pushing his hair as far back as it would go; andthen, by dint of careful manipulation—for the something he was putting on was elastic—he dragged it over his entire head, and then with ‘care pulled it over his face. * It was his owlet’s mask. So soon as he had it well fitted and close under his chin, he looked completely dis- guised in that fearful visage, and as like a man with the head of an owl as, it was possi- ble to look. \ Then he put ona half-mask, such as were then in use at masquerades (a then fashiona- ‘ble entertainment in London), and placing his hat and feathers over all, he was once again the highwayman, ready for the road, or for any adventure that promised plunder, “This is a strange life,” he muttered, to himself; “and yet it has its charms, I al- most think that I shall regret it, even if the highest fortune to which 1 can aspire in this land shonld be mine.” He looked carefully to the priming of his fixtols, and with a satisfactory,‘ All’s right!” e returned them to their holsters. Then, just as a huge cloud sailed awa from before the face of the sky—like some gi- ‘gantic, floating island in a sea of dark blue— | the moon, which was about half its course, shone out, and tree, and leaf, and wild-flower, » and grass, all became tinged with silvery ra- } | diance. _ The grinding sound of carriage-wheels on the road that passed over the heath now eame clearly on the night-dir. 2 ’ ; “That will do, no doubt,” said the Owlet. “We will see, what Fortune has in store to- night.” e listened for a few seconds ; and then, at an easy trot, he went down the road to meet the carriage. : i* _ There was a slight hollow in the road, which had been but roughly cut over the “heath ; and into that the carriage had just driven, when the Owlet trotted down from the higher ground toward it. He drew from his saddle a pistol, and, sud- cenly wheeling his horse half round, so that he faced the side of the carriage, he cried out, in a loud, clear voice: “ Hal'—halt !” The coachman reluctantly drew rein; but, the moment after, he cried out: Good Lord! it’s a iP pale And he commenced lashing the horses, to get them into a gallop. “ Murder!” cried a footman, who was be- hind the coach. ‘ “Halt, or you are a dead man!” shouted the Owlet. x Bang! went the pistol. The coachman cpandoien the reins, and rolled off the box. “ Stand, Leo!” said the Owlet. / His horse stood still as a statue; and he at J once dismounted, and ran up to the prostrate | coachman. \ \ “Get up, idiot!” ; “ Yes, sir. “Get up!” “T am—I do. But I’m shot!” “You will be, if you don’t stand at your Merey upon me!” - horses’ heads, and keep them still !” “A wife and family, my good sir—seven small children, all under three years of age— IT mean three small children, under seven!” “ Peace! or it will be worse for you!” “Tt can’t be worse, sir, unless the next ar twins! O Lord!—O Lord! I'm lost! Mur- : ) “may Zo ou wit out further interraption 2” ’ Gc ee St ‘ sg EN aa ot “some one else had similar The coachman was silent. “ Halloa! Samuel—Samuel!”’ cried a voice | from the carriage, ‘what is the meaning of all this ?” “ Only a: highwayman, sir!" said the Ow- let. ‘ “ A what?” “ A highwayman !” “Then take that, you rascal!” Bang! went a pistol; and the Owlet felt the whiff of the bullet, as it passed his eyes. “ Ah!” hesaid, ‘too near to be pleasant!” Another moment, and he had reached the coach door, and, tearing it open, he flung up the mask he wore, and, lifting his hat and feathers from his head, exhibited his owl’s head and face, as he said, in the odd, croaking accents of a parrot: “ Who is so tired of life that he will throw it away on the folly of a shot at me?” A lady, who was in the carriage, screamed and fainted at once. A gentleman, with a pistol in each hand, turned very pale, as he said : , “The Owlet! © Then it is true!” “The Owlet!” replied the highwayman. “Tf you wish for another shot at me, take it, and that will give me two at you!” CHAPTER XI. THE BOOTY OF A NIGHT. When the gentleman who had fired at the Owlet, and who still held one undischarged pistol in his hand, heard the be phat ANG speech with which our last chapter coneluded, he dropped the pidtol on to the seat of the carriage, as he said : “ No—I—don’t want to take your life!” “A lie!” said the Owlet. You yillain!” | “Fire, then! You will not harm me; but your own destruction will be certain. Fire !”’ _ The gentleman, evaded the matter, by say- ing: . “What is it you want?” * Your purse, my Lord Seaford!” “You know me?” “Your diamond ring that you haye just taken from your finger and hidden, and your pocket-book.”” ' Lord Seaford looked nstonished. “How do vou know?” “Quick! T have no time to waste!” “There, then ; and as for the shot I have had at you, it was but natural that, when at- tacked on the road, I should have it, as you well know. I hope and trust that robbery it your only object with me.” “That is all; but yet you are in danger.” “Tndeed !” “Yes. Youare looking at your second pis- “tol; and you are thinking that, when I turn my back, you will lift it from that cushion and fire it at me.” Lord Seaford looked confused. “ Confess, my lord, that such was your in- tention.” mY Lord Seaford withdrew his hand from too close a proximity to the pistol. ; “Take my money,” he said, “and go in peace. You need fear nothing.” “Fear!” seid the Owlet, in that strange, bird-like, eroaking voice, which lost ali its grotesqueness, and s.un-led only terrible from the owl's heal. “Fear! Do you think I fear? No, I spoke fur your saxe.” “Mine ?” “Yes. You would have fired &t me. The bullet wonld not have harmed me, and I should have turned and taken your life on the moment—for the act would have been a treacherous one. Beware! I say.” Lord S:aford was silent. He handed his purse—he handed his pock- et-book—he handed his diamond ring to the Owlet. x “You have all!” “T have the honor, then, of wishing your lordship a good-evening.” “One moment.” ‘What is it?” ; “Since you have stopped me, and since the story is not a good one to tell, 1 would rather me in countenance.” “What mean you?” | “Lord Hamilton will in half an hour pass is way,” , “TY comprehend.’ oe “ Of course you do. And now, I suppose, I , mK Ww ly suffered, to keep’ “You may.” The ‘Owlet slowly left the carriage-door. Onee, twice, did Lord Seaford stretch forth his hand toward the pistol that lay still undis- charged upon the cushion of the carriage, and as often did he draw back; for there was cowardice at his heart as well as superstition. The Owlet did not look round. That ounce of cowardice and that grain of superstition, that were in the heart of Lord Seaford, saved him. The pistol was not fired, and the Owlet reached his horse in safety. His own audaci- ty had saved him,.as it had done on other oe- casions. “To town! to town ! Seaford. ‘ tne ecoachman scrambled, half dead with fear, om to the box. The footman crept down from the roof of the coach, on which he had been lying at full leagth during the whole affair. “T hope, my lord,” he said—as he touched his hat, and tremblingly.closed the cafriage- door—* I hope,my lord, your lordship don’t blame me.” “T blame nobody. To town at once |” The carriage drove on, and the Owlet had Barnes’ Common again to himself. The moon had got into a ruck of small, fleecy clouds, which, although they did not wholly obscure its rays, yet had the effect of depriving them of their sharp, silvery beau- ty: a white kind of twilight was upon the ommon. Then the Owlet slowly walked his horse in the direction from which, assuming Lord Sea- ford’s inteHigence to be true, Lord Hamilton would come ; and soon he heard the grinding of wheels upon the loose, gravelly soil of which the road was composed. . But along with that sound he heard the regular beat of horses’ fect, to a greater ex- tent than was at all warranted by the pair of horses in a carriage, or even if there had been four horses. ‘ “ Does ho travel with an escort?” said the Owlet to himself, as he halted some distance from the roadside in a clump of shrubs about four feet in height, and dismounted. «Down, Leo,” he then said. “We must reconnoitre a little. Down, Leo—down !” He touched the horse in a peculiar manner on the fore feet, and the creature slowly and deliberately lay down on its side behind the shrubs—which, otherwise, would have been quite insufficient as a place of concealment ‘toa mounted man. ~ . The Owlet knelt down, and rested bch on the shoulder of his horse, as he looked: through the bushes toward the road. . The noise of horses’ feet,and the grinding of carriage-wheels, rapidly neared. “One, two, three, four,” counted the Ow- let, as that number of horsemen came into sight. bi Sroud officers connected with the court rode on, and then followed the carriage of Lord Hamilton. 7 si It was not that these four officers formed an escort to Lord Hamilton's earriige, except accidentally. They would have felt their dig; nity very much impeached by being mistaken for such; but they had happened to start from Kew at the same time; and the pace they went at, and the pace of Lord Hamilton’s car- riage-horses, kept the party together. It is possible enough that his lordship’s coachman was not sorry to have company upon the road, and so kept up his pace to the four mounted gentlemen; but be that as it may, the Owlet felt that the odds were too much against him, and that it would not doto attempt to stop such a cavaleade, And Drive on!” said Lord cerely hoped would befall him; ©) Horsemen and carriage swept on, until they ‘were lost in the faint light of the balf-obscur- The Owlet rose from his post of — ed moon. observation, and called to his horse : , “Up, Leo! up! We must wait for what ‘ood forture may befall us yet on the heath, t , good horse! up !” The horse was on his feet in a moment, and reve Sige so Lord Hamilton escaped the fate . which his dear friend, Lard Seaford, so sin-
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—— ee These two horsemen were conversihg eager- ty ; and, owing to the intense stillness on the sommon, the Owlet was able to hear very dis- tinctly the voice of the one who was speak. | ing. His words awakened a new interest in the breast of the Owlet; for in them not only did he recognize an enemy, but he had heard { something which put him in mind of what | Alice Home had related to him in the few words that had comprised her artless his- ry: “Then, Jonas,” said the speaker, “ let that be quite understood between us. We meet at Weymouth to-morrow at sunset, and then to i} Corfe Castle ; and if this should turn out of the importance to me that it may be, you shall have your demand doubled, although it may not be conyenient to me to give it to you all at once.” , ’ “T can wait,” said Jonas Brand—for it was ho other than the thief-taker—I can wait.” “Very good. Then I need not take you any further.” : ot only had the Owlet recognized the voice of the officer Jonas Brand, but he knew that of his companion; and he said at once to himself: “ That is Sir Bernfide Esperance, who hoy- ers about the court, and bears no good char- acter. A pistol-shot now would rid poor Al- No—no! It would savor too much’ of the bravo way of eae business—clear away your foes by death! It does'clear them away ; but the method is not one thatrecommends itself to my mind. Yet I will speak to this man.” ; It would have looked manifestly suspicious, if the Owlet had ridden away over the com- mon, after he must have’ been seen by both Sir Bernfide Esperance and Jonas Brand; 60, Kew; but at such a pace that Sir Bernfide would soon overtake: him—unless, indeed, ‘he should take alarm, and turnoff it some other direction. hi eity ant ; t's But in that case the Owlet would have been after him, and Leo would soon have obliterat-: ed the distance between them. » witht “There ig some one on the road, Jonas,” said Sir Bernfide. p Rabat) aedrad ‘*JT see there is.” “ Who can it be?” * “The road to Kew is populous enough. I should say he was an’ ofiver ‘by his mode of riding. But if you have any fears—” “Fears? Pho! ‘I never have any fears!” ' “T was going to say I would ride on with ou.” § aa : ‘No, no. Good-night, good-night. Ihave business at Kew, but I shal] be in town right early in the morning. “ Good-night, Sir Bernfide.” “Double; does he éay ?” muttered Jonas connected with the papers and the ‘valise | which Alice Home declared were hidden in the dry well at Corfe Castle, I will know it, and it is not two thousand pounds that will keep me silent.’ ~ °°)’ be aiidsat a “J must promise that villain anything, so Jong as he is useful to me,” said Sir Bernfide! ' Esperanc?. a8 he rode on. ‘And so”soon as , he ceases to be 80; I will give him an’ ounce of lead in his brains, or a foot of cold steel US +h ae between his ribs ; for I must be rid of him.” The Owlet had ridden leisurely on, and | ; Sir Bernfide was rapidly overtaking him. > Ys “A fine night, sir,” said Sir Bernfide Ee- ; rance, as he came within about a couple of orse-lengths of the Owlet. “Do you ride. to Kew?” Neate bas “No, sir,” said the Owlet. “It is a fine j night, however, for all that.” . ra f “ Very ; although fhe moon is capricious.” “ You are right, sir.” Bak Hr orto " : ‘The Owlet fairly wheeled round his horse, ie . Leo, and ‘faced Sir Bernfide Esperance, who; e bles reined in so suddenly that’ his‘ own horse: lifted its fore-feet from the ground, dnd prane-* ed with them in the air for a moment, as Sir Bernfide cried: “Ah! the Owlet! —" ' \ “Yes; the Owlet, Sir Bernfide Esperance ; “Thé gold that at present jingles in your purse isso polluted thiit even [owillnot touch t; but from out your bad heart Iwill haveia thittet? “b> Heit havie a teh aewi dneoay Bite > eomethitiy / 7 ice at once and forever of that fierce enemy. |, instead of doing so, he rode on as if going to ' |) “Morton.” ° Good-night, Jonas.” |. Brand. “If indeed there be any great secret | | and if you attempt to’ escape, or to’ draw a’ | fe pistol es your saddle; you are a dead man |) ) Owlet, the Robber Prince. AE TTT OLS TT Sees 17 “You—you want my life ?* “No; orif I do want it, I will not take N thus, except on provocation.” Sir Bernfide breathed more freely. He cast an anxious glance behind him; but Jonas Brand was far away. : “Your associate in criminality,” said the | Owlet, “is too far off to aid you. You are alone.” “ Alone—alone, and with you?” “And with me. Speak, and speek the truth, Sir Bernfide Esperance, or I will tear it from your heart.’ ; ' With a bound, Leo was by the side of Sir Bernfide’s horse, and the pistol of the Owlet wis within two inches of the eyes of the bar- onet. ner val - ‘‘What would you have?” he said, faintly. What can you want to say to me ?””’ “ You are thé representative of the younger branch of the Morton family. The earl of that name—” : ‘ ‘“Well; all the world knows that.’ “You are waiting for the deith of the poor mad Earl Morton, who for twenty-two years has now been an inmate of an asylum, in order to claim the title’and estates.” ; “Because then the elder branch of the family will be extinct.” “No 1? “ But—” “T say no; and you know well that it is “so! You know well that the earl’s brother— Men was a proscribed Jacobite—was marri- e "” 1“) “ No—J-—" * Pence! Do not force me to any act of anger which my calmér judgment might de- nounce;'without enabling’me to undo. You know not only that he married, but'that, when he’ was assassinated; ‘he left behind him a daughter." 9 @t ; **But, my good sir, it is of an earldom we speak of. ‘Daughters, you know, are of no nse.”’ Oo Bai } ’ > “There was a special patent granted in the reign of Charles thé'Second to the then’ earl, which made the title and estates’ pass to fe- ‘male héirs in regular descent.” ~~ “ AbrT™ tf obo 7 WwW “Yes; and you know it well. The daugh- ter, therefore, of the presént poor mad ¢arl’s brother will be; or should be; ‘the Countess of Poti (RMA PU ANA Cae blow “Well, sir,” said Sir Bernfide Esperance, “ginee you are'so Well ‘advised, and 86 well ‘instrneted in atthe“ of the family, why ‘stop you me upon this ¢ oomy common?” “Tt is wéll asked, dir.” 9 Sir Bernfide made an ironical sort of bow to the Owlet; whd took fio notice of it, but added: “Are you Ly alse admit the right of |’ Captain the Honorable Charles” Morton's ‘daughter, then’ P= » *Oh yes!” * At once?” ‘As soon as that right is proved.” “Proved? How put ror ann “According to law.” “And you will fight the orphan, then, with her own property, of whith you will get pos: ‘session ?” “My good sir, what would you have ?” “Twant a letter which was addressed by Captain Morton, ftom Bruges, to his brother, | announcing his marriage, and stating where and how the proofs of it could be procured.” “A letter ??' The baronet, with an instinctive movement, pressed his‘ arm upon @ pocket ‘in’ the inside wou SD a, Nn cae 4 of his vest. ‘' ‘ “You have betrayed yourself.” row how ry ss “You havé that letter about you.” “Never. If such a letter had ever existed, it Would have been folly riot ‘to’destroy’ it ; that is to say, if you do right in the motives. Di and in the unscrupulous line of conduct attribute to me!” '' tee ' “¥et you'have it!” “a No—no parm * ¥ Pig Ya lich stol from } f ‘men like» om, to reserve documents whic , on the instant:” sebrciclee.: reney otbhinis destrietion ; and 'so'T ‘say you ae “Oh! ab! Well, I suppose—eh ?—that I} have auch a lotter, and I will have it?" "" R ‘#m to be robbed.” Hipde fer he m8 TTC Se writin yA Tife PI WH caeveR OE” eo: the Weupod cP Ceath iiay ti apna: ate ne x Oat hal ‘staal book tied round wit if aj, ; 5 a ne / : “You res eall it ‘old blood’ if the words please you, Sir Bernfide Esperance,” said the Owlet;. “ but my blood is warm enough with indignation, and so is yours with fear; but yet [ will not murder you.” “Tt would be murder.” “It would after this parley. Before it, F should only have called it killing!” “A nice distinction, truly.” So soon as he thought his life safe, Sir Bernfide could be cool, keen, and sarcastic.” — SCOUTS StS ST ay “ But,” added the Owlet, without eee | the sneers, you have a sword, and I fight you for that letter. will take it from you, even though it should be half obliterated with your heart’s blood. If you conquer me, you can claim the credit of having overcome the much-dreaded Owlet in fair fight.’ “No, I will not fight with you. You ma have hidden associates, who will kill me in any case.” “T am alone!” “ How do I know that?’ “Look around you. There the moom comes kindly from behind a cloud to let you see the common. We are both alone; and no sound of horse’s hoof or grate of carriage- wheel disturbs the stillness of the spot. Ser Bernfide Esperance, you must and shall fight!” ; “ And if I refuse ?” “TJ will slash a cross upon your face with my sword, and I will skin you, but I will find the letter.” Sir Bernfide Esperance turned white for » moment, even despite his swarthy complex- ion, and then a red flush of anger, combined. with fear, settled about his eyes. “Come,” he éaid, “ since'it must be so, I will fight. Shall it be on horseback, or on foot?” “On foot. Dismount!” The Owlet was on ‘foot in a moment; and then the baronet made one despairing effort to escape, by suddenly plunging the spurs intovhis horse’s’ flanks, in the hope of, by a ‘plunge, freeing himself from his companion, and being able to gallop away. ' But the Owlet’s hand was on the rein, He pressed the horse back on to its haunches. “Your steed is restive, sir,” he said. “TI am afraid you accidentally touched him with ithe spur. Dismount!” ~ Myelhy | Sir Bernfide dismounted. The horse at oned galloped off, “ My horse is gone!” “Your own fault.” “ Nay—” “You goaded it.’’ “But what shall I do now--on Barnes” Common, and my horse gone from me ?” * You will not want it. It is a grave om Barnes’ Common that you will want—not ‘horse !” ‘foe The Owlet drew the long, thin, straight. sword he wore, and it flashed in the moon- light, ne he added; my ' - Now, sir, come!” “ But—if I refuse ?” “T will run you through at once.” “ Perdition seize you!” A violent and frantic accession of rage had come over Sir Bernfide Esperance; and he tore his sword from its scabbard, and made a furious onslaught upon the Owlet, who par- ried all his thrusts with consummate skill and? coolness, as he said: - Sy hapa MaBee ' “ Ah! that is as it should be. You fight now—you fight now! and fight well, too, con- sidering. » dae By Nose | © Devil!” * No, no.” _ “Fiend! if I only could kill you!” “Try. Good, good! but that is a long way off from killing me, my friend» Exetse If I conquer you, I r ~ ine calling you friend; but I’ always feel‘ — sort of. bastard affection for a man when I fight with him. This is the way. You lounge | this’ ‘way, you parry thus, then a feint, and __ | then you do it—ah !” sie) b Bw NT ee lO et ' The long, glittering sword of the Owlet passed through the body-of Sir Bernfide Es- aga who uttered a loud shriek,'und then, fter beating the airwith his-own eword for & moment, fell to the ground. va “God! God! God!” he eried. _Eaoh time that he uttered the majestic name of the Divinity, he tore up.a handful of jase ro . the | TONS hE oe ae ety The Owlet bent over him. He tore o his vest, and in an inner gone found @ FEO Cfome 5 4 * a silk. He cutthe ¥ -
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silk, and opened the book. A faded letter | met his sizht, and by the moonlight he read the address : t “To our dear and most worshipfulle brother, the . Earl of Morton—these.” i. “That will do,” he said. “This is import- ri) ant for Alice.” } Then he leaned over the prostrate form of 2 the wounded man, and spoke : hi “Sir Berntide Esperance, are you deal ? “A are you dead? Silence will give consent, and, 4. I will fliny the body into the pond by the end ‘ of tle @ommon.” ne i “No,” said Sir Bernfide, fuintly. . “ Mur- 4 der! mufder! murder!” th! “Not at all. But it is as well you spoke. And now I bid you good-night, my friend ; and I have only one last remark to make to you. You will not go to Corfe Castle with ha your friend, Jonas Brand, to-morrow.” (or Ah f” v4 , “ You hear me?” : “ Fiend {devil !"" ie “No; if I were, | would take you with me. aye Good-night |” CHAPTER XIII. ALICE IN HER NEW HOME. The day that Alice spent in that magnifi- - cent apartment to which she had been intro- duced by the Owlet, was the one most full of strange and varying feelings that had ever passed over her young head. It was not likely that she would feel any weariness. Her escape from a terrible and disgraceful death was a theme for such entire congratulation and thankfulness, that she could never tire of it. And then the new sort of relation she held to Gerald, whom, in a few short hours, she at told that she loved, and consented to wed. W. How strange and dreamlike everything ap- : , peared to her ! ee The room itself, too, was an endless source i of amusement to her. It was filled with those thousand and one nic-nacks which wealth scatters about such an apartment with such lavish profusion. at) There was one thing, however, which was Bisa.” not in accordance with any other object in dein the room, and which awakened the curiosity of Alice. An iron gauntlet. Such a gauntlet as a knight of the Middle Ages might have worn. It was placed by it- self, without a fellow, or any indication as to whom it had belonged to, on a marble table. rs Alice could not help regarding this gauntlet 5d om tee Bee Se eSe Rat asin someway connected with her fate and “tr history ; and yet she could form no tangible theory upon the subject. The whole suite of rooms—there were four hy —engaged her, attention; and it was some hours before she began to ask herself if Ger- ald ought not to be back again. . Six struck by a splendid clock, ornamented with gilding, and series of compartments beautifully painted, and representing Area- > dian scenes. eh Alice did not know that at that hour of six ; Gerald had reached the little, old, wretched street called King street, and was waiting for their friend, whom they only knew. yet as a king’s messenger. _ And Gerald was anxious to see Alice, and it was a great disappointment to him that he saw not at that, the appointed time, the mes- senger. | us But Gerald had not waited many minutes, when he heard a rolling noise, and something } fell at his feet, which had slid off from the roof of the small outhouse just over the gar- den wall. . He picked it at It was a stone with a ae of paper rolled about it. mn the paper were the following words : “Follow him who will lead. Iam busy, and far off.” ; Hardly had Gerald time to read these words, ' when a small man, in a suit of very dingy ' black, passed him, saying, as he did so; _ ~“T lead? , ; 1 '| alarming about my appearance?” ._ ; t—?? 4 3 in which he had left Alice. Such, however, was not the fact, for the small man in the dingy black, and who had very much the air of a priest, led him into another apartment, in which a boy with refreshments was placed, and through a half-open door from which might. be seen a bed chamber. The small man in black made a sligit bow, and left Geraid at onee alone, closing the door very softly behind him, but not so softly that Gerald did not hear the lock slide into its sucket. The idea that he was a prisoner was not a Speemar one to Gerald. He glanced around nim with some uneasiness, and then he ‘saw, pasted on a large mirror that was in the room, a slip of paper. This paper had writing on it, and Gerald perused it with curiosity, if not with content- ment. “ Rest, Gerald Alton, and to-morrow you will see her whom you love, and him who is your and her friend. Rest content, and in peace and in safety.” “Ah!” said Gerald, with a sigh, as he sat down, “it seems that I have no other re- source; and yet, why should I be discon- tented, ungrateful that I am for all blessinys, and, most of all, for the saving of my Alice? Yes; I will rest. Iwill be content. I will contrast my ‘present position with what it might have been, even at this moment.” And Gerald covered his eyes with his hands, so as to shut out external objects, and his. mind looked in, so to speak, upon itself; and he saw all that shouting, yelling crowd that was accompanying his darling Alice to death ; he saw. the officers mounted on those rough, strong horses, with which they could trample down opposition. He saw that vil- lainous Jonas Brand, who made a point of doing all he could to quench the life of Alice. No wonder, then, that many a shudder passed from heart to brain of poor Gerald, and that a radiant smile glanced through his tears as he looked again around him, and felt that she was saved. j ‘‘A life of devotion and love to her,” he said, “and a life of gratitude to him who saved her. I shall be happy, if Heaven will but permit me to spend the remainder of my days in such, pleasant occupations.” erald was full of these thoughts, when he heard a slight cough from some one who, from the character of the sound,’ evidently adopted that mode of letting him know that he was no longer alone. _ Gerald started to his feet, and looked around him, hurriedly. : Leaning on the back of a chair—his old, thin, sharp face just visible above it, was a man who, with keen, intellectual eyes, was regarding Gerald. “ Sir,” said Gerald, “I did not know—” “No; you did not know that I was here— but this mansion is full of surprises, Be assured, however, that, let the fashion of my entrance into this room be what it may, I am a friend to you, and a devoted servant to him of whom mreapene speaking.” _ “Of whom I was speaking, sir? I did not speak.” | Pe Ah! You were not aware, I see, that the warm effusion of your gratitude was uttered aloud. Come, there is no harm done.” __ The man slipped from behind the chair, and then Gerald saw that he was attired in a long kind of gown, of ribbed black silk, fast- ened by a band round the waist, and that on the shoulders of this gown-like garment was embroidered a cross in crimson silk. : The slightly-foreign accent, too, in which this man spoke, and the tonsure that showed itself amid his gray hairs, all betoked him to be a foreign ecclesiastic. al Gerald, too, from his figure and his voice uessed him to be the little man who, in faded black, had accosted him in King street, and told him to follow him. : ' # Well,” said the priest, with a smile, after Gerald had regarded him for some time with fixed attention. ‘* Well, there is nothing very '@®No, no! Bu “Bat what?” abet d at your costume.” pri Oh amazing that man should feel anger at his brother-man for the manner in which he shall choose to worship the Creator, who is acknowledged by all. But that is not m object here. It is to earth, and to earthly objects and: feelings, 1 must give my atten- tion.” Gerald was silent, for the words of the priest seemel to him to be of too abstract a character to interest him; but be was soon roused from his inattention; or, rather, his want of interest. The priest, after regarding him in silence for some few moments, suffered his lips to part into a kindly smile, as he said : “ Alice Home f” Gerald started at the name, and uttered © ery: i i Alice! Alice! What of her ?” “Ah! that rouses you? Well, it is of her I come to spenk to you.” : “Of Alice? Oh! tell me whatt’ What has happened? She is well—alive—” “Oh yes. She is both alive and well, and I i thought that it would cheer your solitude if - you could hold converse with her.” “Tt would. Oh! takemetoher. Take me { to her, sir, at once.’”’ ' - “Be patient. This room that you now <« occupy adjoins another that you have seen.” - “The large saloon ?” é : “Just so. And this—and this small oval girandole turns on a centre, as you see.” The priest touched some spring in the gilt frame of a girandole, which was near one of the panels of the room, and it turned on two pivots, or points, at the extremities of its magic axis, so that a space was left on each side of it; and no sooner was that accom- plished, than Gerald heard the voice of Alice. “ Dear Gerald, I am so happy, and so glad * to see you!” “ Alice pial Alice !” Gerald could just look through the small opening in the wall. Alice stood upon a chair. ‘ Then he put one arm on each cide of the } girandole, the edge of which was toward him, : and taking the Sands of Alice, he covered them with kisses. “Dear Gerald,” she said, ‘you have come * amok setely. j _“ Yes, my Alice; and we will part no more. God’s blessings be ever upon you, dearest.” “ And upon you, too, Gerald.” “ We shall be so happy.” | “Yes; so happy—if—if—” “Tf what, darling Alice ?” “Tf it be not yet all a dream ?” “Oh! no, no—a thousand times! We are in the hands of some kindly and beneficent being, who is intent upon making happiness for us.” «“ We are in the hands of Heaven, Gerald.” “ Yes, dearest, yes. Do you know I have procured the necessary license and authority ‘or our marriage?” j _ “So soon ?” Ah, yes. Can it be too soon for us to be united, in the name of God, to part no more?” “ You are right, my Gerald ; and, after all ‘that has taken place, I will not be guilty of the affectation of denying that my heart bounds with joy at the idea of being ever and ever with you.” \ “O my Alice!—my own dear one—my first, last, and only love! How can tell you what rapture—what exquisite joy vour words bring to my heart. Dear, dear Alice—if all the devotion—all the tenderness—all the dear affection—of a heart that will know no change —no change—” ) The tears of Gerald fell fast. His voice © was choked by sobs of delight. He could - only press the hands of Alice alternately to his heart and to his lips. i And she too! Was she not ey in the , love of that noble soul, which ha _ already shown such devotion and affection to her? iy Ah, Pe !—happy—happy Alice. ‘ erald,” she said, after a pause, “you © know I am but a poor orphan irl.” al Se “©And what am I? said Gerald.. “Ah, | my Alice! it seems’as if, by the goodness of! pet Ty Re < ne —sN
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f — — rr i a ran na _ 5 a ad a i a iano — ee eee eter ne po me = = te 6 a a ee Te LSS ee i “ Alas! I know not.” in the morning, when Ensign Harold Blssede. And it was the sword which was the weapon “The villain! Oh, the time will come— ard made his way, in a sauntering, careless slmost always in use. and that shortly too—when I will force the manner, toward the guard-chamber of St. Indeed, the decline of dueling, and its ex- confession of villainy from his lips where all James’ Palace. | tinction in England, may be dated from the shall hear it. Alice, dearest, I have been | A change of* the sentinels would take place p '| sword, and throwing his cloak over hisshould- Lie ble ‘ but still, as ak arb I feel or. “T have promised.” gre 0 hurried in the direction of Hyde oO Sir ” at you are not killed! a “And having promised, dear Gerald, I di know that you Tit Keop your word.” ae “Tn truth I will, dear, dear Alice.” % The old priest muttered something which | em was too indistinct for Gerald to hear, and Bs then he said, aloud : Bot “Do you know that, in doing what I have Colonel Blanchard and Harold had gone “Tsay I feel bound to preserve you by all from the old Palace by the entrance next to | the menns in my power, Colonel Blanchard.” St. James’ Park, and were walking rapidly up | _ “1 donot comprehend you. What possible : the Mall, in order to cross the green park, | Means can a third person have of preserving and so make their way to Hyde Bark any one who is fighting a duel? Nothing Hargrave saw them in advance, and only short of a personal interference—and that ia i A cat ag 2 x ” j - | too absurd to think of—coul | y effe ‘ : —that is, in coutriving this interview be- eee off that he. might escape ob on the fortune of oe fight!" Heyo-any-eieet +i 4g Bi: tween you—I have transgressed my instrac- Dueling in England has already been con- “T don’t know that, colonel. We shall see, AS Be hyn! tions,and done heb 3 but I thought it would demned, and contrary to law; but there have | I had a very strange dream last night!” wait " i FES } gene eae i =. tt ean k ” been times when fashion dictated the hostile “Indeed? So did I.” mn t os wel ; ba bibas th ae yee a wid a AX you... | meeting as the only mode by which the dis- “You too. Perhaps yeu will tell me yours, } ‘ai SEF Aa Ee Spal you,” added Alice, “ with putes of gentlemen could be settled; and vane and then I wil ven you mine.’ ” : KK ‘ Hotta f when dueling was so common, that scarcely a |. “Nay, you mentioned your dream first. Pra Ry “Rest then, now, content. Each to your} ¥..) Padadt witbows an encounter, resulting | Let us have it. We can wax fast and still’ ay, : ehambers, and let sleep picture to you both} ; Tore or less mischief. conversé.” ea, ; leasant visions.” Te -“ Adieu, dear, dear Alice.” , *Good-night, my Gerald.” The old priest closed the opening in the Petal | wall; and then, with a faint smile, he opened fs a tall, narrow door, which looked like a por- tion of panneling merely, and left the room. The back of old Montague House, in * Very well. Idreamt then about this duel, ae Bloomsbury Fields, had at one time been the | and thought that Charles Beauchamp had pel Soe favorite place of meeting ; but at the time of wounded you, and that he had his sword at a whiclr we write, “ The Ring,” as it was called, | your throat, when another person stepped in Hyde Park, had the preference. ' | oyer you as you lay upon the ground, and in This “ Ring” was a nearly cireular piece of | a very strange voice, which did not sound — turf, so formed; and left by several paths | human, said: ‘Let us finish! and in a mo- and roads which surrounded it; and although | ment had run Charles Beauchamp through it was pretty well exposed to observation, no | the neck.” CHAPTER XIV. one ever thought of interfering with the sport | | “ Who was it?” eet d * (Si Pee ina gs Se 7 of gentlemen, if they chose aa ane u - Caps chanee but the voice sounded like = ‘wanted about twenty minutes to six o'clock haa a little diversion m the ri hae: OF @ parrot bis . a ae ‘ cep deee sty Hae SRY, tie EP hp Vers EA pea (ee i"
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ae Se es ch e i 7 Ven ah my i ; ie “ A parrot?” “ Yes, or a cockatoo, that had been taught * ¢o speak well. And from a glimpse—only a glimpse—I had of the face, that was like an owl.” “ Dreams — dreams! what incongruities they present to us!” “They do indeed; and now for yours.” “Tt concerns you.” “No!” “Yes; in truth it does, although about as absurd as that an owl ora ag epg should some and take my side in the duel.” “Well, well !” “I thought there was a bright light like a fire, or a blaze of torches, and that I looked from a window in the old Palace—” “ St. James’ ?” ' “Yes, it was one of the windows that look into the Color Court, and who should there look from another window, but the king. “Ah?” “Yes, he called out, kill him — kill him! Treason, kill him! on which there was a rat- tle of musktry, and some one fell dead.” “Some one?” “Yes, and by the blaze of the torches I saw the face for a moment; and who do you think it was ? a ~ “Go on.” “You, Harold.” I could not be mistaken.” “Well. Be it so.” “But it was only a dream.” ‘ “And they, you know,” said Harold, with a smile, “ go by contraries ; 80 I am not to be shot in the Color Court of St. James's Palace,” . ‘Tt would be very odd if you were.” “Odd, indeed. ; But here we are.” Sr hinted “To be sure. Come on.” * Now, colonel,” said Harold. The colonel slowly Jaid his cloak on the green sward, and then took off his coat. Charles Beauchamp did the same, The colonel rolled up the shirt-sleeve of his right arm, as he said : “Js it their coach, Harold ?” “ Never mind it.” “Well, it don’t matter, Iam ready.” The colonel stepped forward, with his sword in his hand, and bowed. Charles Beauchamp did the same, and then held out his sword, as he said : “ Shall we measure, sir?” The two blades were placed side by side. “Nota shaving the difference,” cried the major,,clapping his bands together. The adversaries bowed again, and in another moment the sword-blades clashed together. Delight was in every feature of the major, and he slowly wagged his head from side to side, in the intensity of his enjoyment, i Then Charles. Beauchamp made 9 rapid lounge at the evlonel, who parried it, and at- tacked in his turn, but no mischief was done. “ Beau—beantiful—beauti—fal!” eried the major, as he danced round the combatants in | the exuberance of his glee. ‘ i Then he ran against Harold, who—it would haye seemed to a spectator—took some pains to place himself in his way. z ‘A thousand pardons, my boy! Bedad, I didn’t see you.” “ Tdiot!” said Harold, “ Sire” “ Tdiot LT say.” : '“ Bedad, sir.” . Ml “Oh! if you would like satisfaction—” “ If—I—would—like—satisfaction?. Young man, before you are six hours older,,or one They had reached the park, and at about | hour wiser, you will hear from me in a fashion two hundred paces from them, two persons | that may not be agreeable.” stood close to the ‘ Ring.” “ And there are our friends,” said the colo- nel, “ Our foes, rather.” “ Stuff!” “ What?” a , ; Stuff !.I say. . Stuif, major, if you area major, and not some great, fat, awkward im- »“But what is that yonder, close tv the | postor. Why notnow? Why not now? At trees ?” * A coach, I think.” , “ Can we not warn it off?" . “Oh! it is theirs, most likely.” once—you have a sword. Draw it, sir—Ide- mand satisfaction of you. I know you, sir. A bully—a brawler by, profession—a fomenter of quarrels and tayern brawls! Oh! sir, I “True—true!; Of course itis. There don’t | know you!” ; seem to be another soul in the park.” “Not one!” “il The major’s face turned purple with rage. “ Draw, sir!” : Ensign Hargraves was at that moment,|. The major uttered,a perfect howl of indig- drawn u,, a3 thin as he could make: himself, | nation, and tore his eword from; its scabbard. behind a tree,; so that ne escaped observation. arold was on the defence at the same mo-, ‘The colonel and Harold moved on: to the | ment, and they stood foot to foot and face to “Ring,” and when the e»lonel pansed, and Harold went forward without him, the -burly’ form of Magor O’Balriggin immediately put itself in motion likewise. wth “'Lhe top of tue morning to ye, sir,’ said the major ; ‘and it’sa mighty great pleasure, air, to do business with the likes of you,” Harold bowed. . r ; ih ai ‘Is it the colonel, sir, that’s quite well this morning?” 1» ; _ Quite well, sir. And Mr, Charles Beau- ehamp.”’ . ; Bad ) ; “As fresh as a lark, and as swate as a daisy.” ; _ ‘Lam glad to hear it, major. Are you, too, quite well?” i. frac Kee. biti ‘‘Niver letter, sir. Is that your caach be- yant there?” “ Yes.” 4 ’ : “Oh! thin, that’s all right.” igus 82! Dols , Major —- major!” cried Charles Beau- champ. “What is the answer?” “Oh, bedad! thin, I was after forgetting. } Mr. Beauchamp, sir, says, that if the colonel will say on his word of hoitor, as an officer and gcntleman, that he was not with Captain eauchamp in St. James’ Square at one o'clock in the morning, on the day mentioned, he will forgive him.” “ Major O’Balriggin !”" “Sir to you.” en “We come here to fight.” “Good luck to you.” “And fight we will.” Ey. To be sure. Give us your fist. You are ae the right sort, my boy. Whoop,hur- { “ What does he say, major 2” inquired _ Charles Beauchamp. i “Why, my dear boy, he’s mighty polite, and he says he'll see you—well, he says he'll | Bee you biammed first.” — bell Ee one ery well, we Achar cee P oa biel |, of face. hha eae . ict ade “Boy,” said the major, with concentrated rage in, every tone and every feature, ‘ you have gone so far that you must kill me, or I | must kill you.” Shoyit “The former, if you please,” . , The colonel and Charles Beauchamp were | dy this time, hotly engaged, and some blvod was bag trickling down Beauchamp’s arm, where he had received aslight wound; but this altereation between the major and En- sign Harold could not but reach their ears. and eyes, and, both on guard, they stepped back a pace, to regard what was going on be- tween the seconds. .. 4... unc * For God’s sake, gentlemen,” said Charles’ Beauchamp, “ cease this strife! What does it mean?” , “Hold, Haroldl—hold!” eried the colonel. “ One or both,” yelled Major O’Balriggin, ‘six feet.of turf for one, or both.” 4. He attacked Harold furiously. His boots. dug. into the damp. soil, and, the grass was spurned from wherever he trod ;.and nowand then he uttered an unearthly sort of yell of rage, as he gained ground on his young ad. versary- y #3 ' : Harold gave way step by.step..5 5 ©. Step by step, inthe directiou of the trees, where stood the coxch. The major pressed on him. {nes Hold, ph mp !” cried Charles Beau-. ‘| champ.‘ This is madness! What can possess you both?” the gob Woe ashy _ “You bleed, tr,” said the colonel, “Only a seratch.” es “ Look to your guard, then.” “ Ab! and you to yours!” Their swords again clashed together. -. _ ‘And still, step by step, did Ensign Harold | lead his big and burly antagonist toward the coach; aud when about ten paces from it, he paused. — é ys TE TINA PIB Vs “ME ys SSDS aL OER Ns rt oo Owlet, the Robber Prince. “Now!” he said. There was a flash of his sword-blade, » rapid parry, a feint, and then a lunge, and right through the broad chest of the major ran the thin blade, till the hilt stopped its further progress, and struck with a dull sound upon the bone. “Gash! God! Ah! blood!” yelled the major. Harold put up his foot and thrust the bod off his sword; and as it came gleaming fort! with hot blood raging after it, the major ut- fered a scream, and fell dead on the green turf. . “ Through the heart,” said Harold. “That ery proclaims it. Now, for the other!” The coach door was at that instant myste- riously opened from within, and Harold sprang into the vehicle, The door was closed again. Once more had Colonel Blanchard and Charles Beauchamp paused and stepped back, each a pace, as the death-cry of the major came upon their ears. If would have been impossible to feign in- difference to, the terrible result of the im- ‘promptu dyel between the major and Ensign Harold, And there stood the two principala in that already blood-stained contest, alone together to fight out their quarrel, or then and there to end it as best they might, if it were poesi- ble so to do, without further strif@; and had the quarrel been one of an ordinary charae- ter—had it been a dispute bearing about it any of the common characteristics of such Inatters, a few brief and conciliatory words might haye brought it to an end, But such could not: be. . Those two men had met upon a ground of disagreement that admitted of no condona- tion. The colonel must either divulge the fearful seeret which satso heavily at hie heart, or he must fight to maintain it. Charles Beauchamp. must either consent te let the fate of his brother rest in doubt for- ever,.or he, must. pursue this. contest with Colonel Blanchard — who, to his mind, was proved to be the last man,seen in his eom- pany before he disappeared... ‘And so they faced each other still. * And each kept on his guard. And the blood still trickled from the wound in the arm of Charles Beauchamp, , . + “ Sir,’? said Colonel Blanchard, for he was more anxious, feeling that he was wrong, to forego. the contest than was Beauchamp, the Shalnaee «sir, you will perceive that we are now alone?” “T do, sir.” ¥ >. ! “Then, if we fight still—” ‘ “Tf, sir, say you?” ; “ Yes. 1 was going to say, if we fight still, we, do so in contravention of all established rales, for we fight without seconds ; so that, if an accident should happen to either of us, the other would be placed in an ungracious position.” : ae i de ‘Sir, we began with seconds; and if those seconds desert ug on business of their own, it is no fault of ours.” | * Be itso, then!” . ; “ On. guard, ecolonel—on guard!” Charles Beauchamp. seemed to be resolved to bring the protracted contest to an end, one way or. the other, now, a8 quickly as possi- ble; and the fight between him and Colonel. Blanchard took more the character of a con- tinuous contest than, it had yet done. It was evident that whoever gave the next wound to his adversary, would have the best of the battle... _ , vali Colonel Blanchard felt that, and the love of life came strongly over him. He fought val- iantly. .Onee again he touched Charles Beauchamp with the point of his sword, and blood showed itself. iets : Charles did not speak, but he made a rush forward in attack. The colonel parried the fierce lunge, and then Charles Beauchamp gaye ground. Colonel Blanchard pursued him too close- ly, and his foot slipped upon the damp grass. - For an instant the sword losthits. guard. Then he felt as though a red-hot iron had — touched him, and he was aware that the sword of Charles Beauchamp had passed through his right shoulder. ; ee The colonel sunk on to one knee. “Speak!” cried Charles, with the voice or. ey in avenger, “speak! it is for my brother I Jask youl? nif aden § eae ft me ey np rn er OE Sie er <A Wie eh i]
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a = os ace Fey ae = ST PARES Ss RDA Ge ERIE Rte ge + Owlet, the Robber Prince. “ Killed—killed! I knew it!” “Speak, I say! Where is my brother?” “ Help—Heaven !” * You will not!” “No; not in this world!” “Then precede me to the next, where, when I come, I will yet question you!” Charles Beauchamp drew back his sword, and was about to plunge the weapon through the heart of the colonel, when the latter, ex- hausted by the loss of blood he had sustain- ed, fell flat upon his face on the grass with a — groan. hen, with a rush, some figure, that Charles Beauchamp only saw for the first moment like a cloud or a vision before him, reached the spot; and, placing one foot over the pros- trate body of the colonel, the figure interpos- ed a long, bright sword between Beauchamp and his antagonist. CHAPTER XV. THE DREAM. REALIZED. The sword of the new arrival on the scene of contest rang with a sharp, jarring sound on that of Charles Beauchamp ; and, as it did 60, a voice—at once so strange and unnatural that it made Charles Beauchamp feel a cold sensation to his inmost heart—broke the still- ness. ~ “No!” said the voice; “his time has not come !”” ‘ Charles Beauchamp looked up. Wonder was the dominant expression of his counte- mance. It was not a human face he saw. be- fore him, but that of some hideous bird—an owl— fearful in sits shape and aspect,. and glaring at him from the large, round eyes, which seemed to flash with strange fire, and to paralyze him by their gaze. “Good Heaven! what monster is this!” “T am he who avenges, as well as he who saves. Charles Beauchamp, your time has come!” “ My—time I”, “ Yes; you would have slain» this man? Those who slay with the sword will perish by the sword!” . 7 “ Who? and what?” . oie his » It, matters. nothing. Look around you. It is your last look of earth!” Even ashe spoke, the Owlet strode for- ward another step, and Charles Beauchamp retreated. ; “Help! This.is some fiend!” “‘ Now,!? said the Owlet....... , He dashed down the guard of Beauchamp ; but he. did not, at the moment, tuke advan- tage of his state. ! meh .“Oraven. heart!) he said, “will you die without a struggle even for life!” These words recalled the fainting spirits. of Beauchamp, and he rallied and stood on his defence. ‘ i “No, no,” he said; “I am-no craven ; and were you the arch-fiend himself, I will fight with you!” ; t ei There was a lond: clash of swords. a ery, and-then Charles Beauchamp felk upon the green sward, bathed in his. blood c. # is enough for the time!” said the Owl- et. fas Au he spoke, he dashed toward the coach ; and, springing in it, at once set off at a mad gallop. How it was guided—how the pair of powerful horses that.drew it were kept in check—would have appeared a grvat mystery to any one who, from even a short distance, had seen that coach making its way; but an accurate observer, who might have been en- abled to take a closer observation, would have __ geen that it was driven from the inside, and 1 that the reins passed through-the open front + window, and were in the hands of some one within the vehicle. ; __ And now that we have related the events of that blood-stained field of battle, on which there seemed to be three corpses, it is neces- aary that we should pay some attention to the only other person who had been a spectator of any of the events which had taken place with such startling rapidity. : _ The young subaltern, Hargraves, who had placed himself behind a tree as closely as he thought he could venture to go to the * Ring” _ without being discovered, had seen, with sen- _ timents of surprise and terror, all that had / oceurred. ; But until the Owlet had made his appear- _@nee upon the scene of action, this young soldier did not think thet he was justified in dnterfering, a = , ‘ ' f ae ae T 2 either on the part of the colonel, or on that of his opponent. It was still man to man. He considered, too, that let the issue of the original duel be what it might, he could, atits termination, easily step forward and say: “I saw all this, and no one is to blame but the seconds, who, for some personal quarrel of | their own, which seemed to have grown with the suddenness of a tropical tornado, choose to fight with each other.” But the appearance of the Owlet on the scene had altered the whole aspect of affairs. No sooner did the young officer see that he made an appearance and bestrode the ap- parently dead body of Colonel Blanchard, than he felt he ought to interfere. To be sure, he was too far off to see who or what it was, except that.it appeared to be a man ina half-military half-fanciful coutume, and with a cap and feather, who then made himself the champion of the possibly killed colonel ; but he ran forward with what speed he could make, shouting as he went : “Hold, gentlemen! Hold! ‘This must not be! Hold, I say!” But the fight was over before he could reach the spot. Charles Beauchamp lay on his back, bathed in blood, and the Owlet was off and away. Such, then, was the state of affairs, when the subaltern reached the spot of the encoun- ter, and he at once saw that he eotld do no- thing without: assistance ; 80, on the chance of some one hearing him, he shouted aloud: ‘Help! Ho! Help! Ho! Help! Help!” There was no response. Hyde Park was by no means as populous then as it is now. There might not, especially at that early hour, be any one passing for a Jong time. “TJ must ran to Knigtit’s Bridge,’’ said the young subaltern, to himself. “I shall get aid quicker than by waiting here.” Even as he made this determination, he heard the beating of drums and the clangor of martial music. The subaltern cast a keen glance around the confines of the park; and then, winding up from the Bayswater Road, he saw a line of glittering horsemen. “Troops,” he said; “T Will claim their assistance.” He ran in the direction the troops were coming ; and, when he reached a mound, he thought he shoyld be seen if he waved a sig- nal for assistance; and he did so, with his handkerchief. ’ .# Ah!” he said, “they come this way. That is-well. I see the advance-guard open- ing or gates. They are about to cross the park.” Some gates, that would obstruct the way of horsemen or carriages were opened, and the cavalry of the Guard began by threes to en- ter the park. Then the young sabaltern saw a string of about six carriages ; and- he knew that no car- riages but those of the royal family were per- soe to drive over the green sward of the park, “Tt is the king’ returning to town from Kew,” he said. “ Ah, there will be plenty of help, now.” : } The band, which was a mounted one, be- gan to play the national anthem. ‘God save the king !” cried the young su- baltern.. * Yes, it is the king; and here is the vidette. Help! Hallo! Help! Help, here |” A couple of troovere rode up. An officer, az parently dispatched in haste from the royal cortége, rapidly followed them. “What is omiss, sir?” he said, to Har- graves. ‘ Whatis the matter, that you cry for help loud enough for his majesty to hear ou?” “Tt is not for myself. Yousce I am in the service.” é‘ ; «The Coldstreams, I think.” “Yes, sir. Yes, colonel—” “ General.” “T bee pardon—T am go confused.” “ An officer, sir, should never be confused,” “Pardon me, sir—even you would, if you had seen what I have. But that is not the question. Yonder lies Colonel Blanchard— killed, I think. By his side, nearly, lies a gentlemen who has fought with him; and, No actual unfair conduct had appeared, | “Then, sir,” said the general, “ it appears to me that there has been a wholesale slaugh- | ter, and that I may congratulate you upon being the only survivor.” “No, sir—no. I had nothing to do with i¢.” By this time, the carriages of the king and his suite had reached the spot, and another officer rode up, and said: “His majesty wants to know what has happened.” t “This young gentleman seems to know all ° about it,’ said the first officer.’ “It’s a seri- ° ous affair, I fancy—some mad-headed duel.” + “Indeed, general.” “Yes, First file, dismount. Follow me.” The general dismouuted himself; and a — trooper took charge of his horse, while he - and a file of men went forward to’ where the , bodies of Colonel Blanchard and Charles , Beauchamp were lying. / Then His Most Gracious Majesty King ; George ILI. thrust his head out of the car- riage-window, with all that impetuosity which ; was incidental to him, and called out, in \ those unmistakable tones of royalty : “Eh? What? Whatisit? Eh? Murder! ; No. Yes. Eh? Whois it? What is it?” ** Come and answer his majesty,” said the second officer. ‘* You are in the Guard?” “ Yes—the Coldstreams.” * Come on, then.” i Hargraves was, in another moment, exe- . cuting a very low bow at the carriage-window » of the king. ; i “Well, what, eh? Speak out. Dumb, eh}. Are you deaf and dumb? Can’t you say—} eh? What is it?” i Y * Please, your majesty, a duel.” { “ Eh—what? Now, Look sharp. Stray shots — might come this way — pop! bang if you know, and there’s an end of us—eh ?” Y “Gott Gracious!” said the queen. “Duel! Duel! Eh? Where? Keep our faead out of the way —eh? Was challenged ; once ourselves, a long while ago. Woul n't! fight, though. Oh dear, no! Great rascal— eh? No. By no means,” ‘ “The duel is unfortunately over, may it , please your majesty.” “ Unfortunately—eh?. A good job. No, more stray shots—bang! Pop! and away you go. Eh?” “‘ And I fear, your majesty, that four per sons are killed.” “What?” roared the king. “ Four — four?” “Yes, your majesty.” walang “Drive on—drive on! Don't like the f sound of it! Do'you hear, Charlotte? Four ie persons killed. Might kill us. Drive on!” |. ‘Gott gracious!” said the queen, ; At this moment, the general officer who had been first sent to know what was amiss, and who had dismounted to make his own obser- a a came up to the carriage-door, and said : “May it please your majesty, Colonel . Blanchard, of your majesty’s Guards, is badly wounded,” ““What—ch? What, our Colonel Blanch- , ard? Owes me aguinea, I think—somebody ¢ owes me a guinea,” . Rent ‘* But he is not killed, your majesty... Then young gentlemaz is just alive, and no more, who appears to have fought with him.” . “Rascal—rascal!, Eh? Serve him right!” “ And, your majesty, a Major O’Balriggin, unattached, is killed outright !” “ What—what—what ?” “ That.is all,\your majesty.” “ All—all! Enough, too, we think—enough, too. Eh, Charlotte ?” “Mine Gott! Yes?” said the queen, “Take them up. Bury the wounded, and _ send the dead to. the hospital or somewhere ; ° no, I mean—bless me !—the dead—what do I mean ?”” ; , “T have seen to all that,” your majesty. “Very well. Drive on, then—drive on!” «But, your majesty,” said Hargraves, “I. haye the most curious part of the whole affair © yet to relate to your majesty.” “Eh? What? Stop—stop! What isit?” “Thad nothing todo with the duel, your majesty ; but suspecting one was about to take place, I followed the colonel and his sec-. ond; and I saw that the colonel was down, and A ee SE | ey ae further on, lies Major O'Balriggin—killed, I | that another person came, and fought and kill- think ; and I should not be at all surprised ‘to find Ensign Harold Blunchard lying some- 4 where, in the same condition.” Sai St nna nie wena of FL TRE TS > Sas tee nig 5s Saas 3 ft Ske ee ee eee ~ = 3 - A ee | “I don't know, your majesty.” td his opponent.” “Who—who? Eh?” | Sige oe cutie ah * ae aor no nest * a
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$5 ce PP NE AE EN eR EN TL I aE —— 22 —- Lp silent “This note, your majesty,” said an officer, perils. The slant raye of the setting sun “has been placed in the hands of one of the escort by a man on a black horse, who then rode away ata prodigious pace toward the eountry.” “ What—what?” “Tt is addreesed ‘to the eyes of all whom it may concern.’” “ Odd address—very odd! Open it—open it, eens ; Open it at once. ell—well !” he general opened the note, and read aloud : “Tf the areteries of this morning require elucida- tion. the Owlet will be happy to make them clear.” “+The what?” “The Owlet.” “Drive on!” roared the king; “drive on atonde. The Owlet! No—no! Don’t want him to make anything clear; too clear by half. Driveon! Murder! Don’t want any- thing elucidated! What—what—what? Ras- ca]—great raseal! Go on at once!” The royal postillions cracked their whine, and the carriages traversed the greensward of Hyde Park at arapid pace. But the general remained behind, and with the assistance of about a dozen of the soldiers, and some of the bundles which were abun- dant in the park, a couple of rude litters were ~ made ; and Colonel Blanchard was placed on, and conveyed to St. James’ place. On the other was placed Charles Beau- champ, and carried to an address which was found on his cards in his pooket. The colonel was in a deep swoon when he was placed in his own rooms, adjoining the guard-chamber, and the surgeons of the regi- ment were soon with him. Then, as if nothing very particular had happened, young Hargraves sat down in the guard-chamber, and called to the orderly ser- geant, saying : “Has Mr. Harold Blanchard come back?” “No, sir.” “When he does, say to him that I must Speak with him at once.” “Yes, your honor.” - —— Fh _ CHAPTER XVI. THE MARRIAGE AT STs JAMES’ SQUARE. It was about one hour past noon on the morning after his mysterious lodgement in the house in St. James’ square, that the tall, narrow door in the wainscot opened into the room that Gerald Alton occupied, and the mysterious man, whom he only knew as yet as the messenger of pardon to Alice, entered the apartment. ; There was a frank and cordial smile upon this person’s face as he said, in his quiet, gen- tle way: . “T owe you apologies, Gerald, for seeming neglect of you; but, in reality, I was engag- ed on business of yours.” “ Of mine, dear sir ?” “Well, of Alice’s; and I fancy I may call that business of ada T not?” “Oh yes—yes! There is nothing that can eoncern her that does not lie very close to my heart.” “Of course—of course. And now I have something to ask of you before I communi- eate to you the information I have become possessed of.” . “My whole heart and mind are open to ‘You. 1 will answer you frankly, ask me what you will; for I feel assured you are the sin cerest of friends.” “It is well,” replied the Owlet. “Tt is well, indeed, that you should have that assur- ance, for it is one that may stand you in good stead in the time that is to come, Gerald Al- mony’ yes, - ; “T have but one hope in the time that is to come,” said Gerald, with kindling enthusi- asm, ‘‘and that is, that I may be spared to Alice, and Alice spared to me. Oh, sir, if I could but look forward to the felicity of residing in some humble home, some low- _ ly cottage nestled in roses, and with, per- chance, a rippling stream to carry on its breast the shedding leaflets, with Alice by my hearth, how happy, happy I should be !” “Then your tastes are not for admixture with the great world about you?” * Ah! no—no. I would tend, perchance, afew sheep; I would be cunning and euri- } ous about plants and flowers, and the wild __ birds should all know that our little domain was a shelter and 4 home for them from al} fi A A any Fi Peet ‘about dear Alice, it must et would close my day, and I should rest in peace ; its earliest beams would rouse me to a new day of calm delight. I would sigh for nothing else.” “ And would you be heedless of the war of interests about you? Of the politics of Eu- rope—of the world?” ** All heedless should I be, while they left me peace and love.” “Peace and love,” said the Owlet, as he pened the room twice. ‘ Peace and love. I ad peace and love. But now—now! Oh! hush, proud heart. It may not be. The strife for power—the war of factions. Well. It is well. I, too, have had such dreams of Arcadian praplioity and serenity.” “Then he turned abruptly to Gerald, as he said, with a faint smile ; “Why, my dear friend, you would be a monarch, in your home of delight. You would need to be addressed as a serene high- ness.” Gerald smiled. “Thave heard that title ill-bestowed upon the most restless minds the world ever saw. But I am sincere in what I say.” The Owlet smiled again, and laid his hand, in, a kindly manner, upon the shoulder of Gerald, as he said, gently : “JT don’t think, my young friend, that there are ten years of age between us ; but, during those ten years, 1 have drank deep draughts of the world’s philosophy, and I can tell you that you dream of a Utopia which, in thie part is not to be discovered by any voyag- er. No, Gerald, we are all of the world, worldly, and we must play our parts in the eat drama of existence.” “ Indeed, sir.” ‘Yes; and it is not permitted that any of us should have the power to stand aside, and say we will only be spectators.” Gerald sighed. “But be comforted. As happy a destiny as that which you have pictured to yourself —nt least, as serene s one—may be yours, and yet you may fulfill the role of your ex- istence.” : “T will hope so.” “ And now, tell me, have you, of yourself, nothing to add to the simple story of your life and of your love?” “ Nothing—nothing.” “ And, to the best of your belief, has Alice nothing in the way of ‘mystery to add to her recital ?” “Nothing — nothing. Ah! you do not know her. She has no secret chambers in her brain in which to hoard up mysteries. Her mind is like one of those flowers, so simple in its organization, that at the first gleam of kindly sunshine it opens all its sweetness to the balmy influence.” “Tt is well. Let methink. And yet, why should I be hidden and secret? I have vome- thing to tell you, Gerald, of Alice.” “Of Alice? Of my Alice?” « Even go.” “Then let her hear it. Let it be told in, her presence.” “ Nay ; it is no charge against her.” “T did not, for one moment, dream it was, sir, If there be anything that I know not he something that, like fresh fragranee to the rose, ean only add new lustre to her excellence.” “O faith! faith! what a glorious heritage art thou!’ exclaimed the Owlet. “Yes; I have faith in Alice.” *“ And I, too, my friend. We will go to her. Come; no doubt she will be found ip her own apartment. Follow me.” Tt was with eager steps that Gerald follow- ed the mysterious man through the tall, nar- row door in the panel; and, with a ery of joy, he was soon aware that he was in the large and costly room to which he had been at first introduced in that mansion, and Alice advanced from one of the deep-recessed win- dows to meet him, ‘ Dear Gerald!” “* My Alice !””_ The Owlet smiled. “ Come,” he said, “to business; unless, in- deed, you will tell me that the only business of such young hearts as yours is, to love.” he hx Nay, sir,” said Gerald, “ we will attend to ou. “Then Alice,” said the Owlet, “I have, in ‘a few brief words, to tell you who and what you are.’ ey “Ah, sir—” . | your life by the accusation of stealin the Sarabe hrecclat: voi. the sternand Di wlet, the Robber Prince. cn “ But I will love you still,” said Gerald. The Owlet smiled again, “There were two fair sisters, Alice,” he said, “ who belonged to a once very rich and very haughty, noble family, although it had met reverses in the many social, and political, and religious revolutions of England. One of those sisters married a king’s son. The other married the brother of an earl. But. the earl himself was married.” “ What earl, sir? Will you not give ue names ?’’ said Gerald. “«T will. The earl was the Earl of Morton; and it was the younger sister who was mar- ried to his brother, who was named Captain the Honorable John Morton.” “And the sister who married the king’s gon ?” : ““ We have nothing to do, at present, with that part of the family. It is of this sister who was wedded to the earl’s brother I would speak.” ‘We listen, sir.” . “The earl himself was married, and three children of his stood in the way of the sue- cession of his brother to the title and estates. The brother, then, feeling that he was shut out from all hope in that quarter, went abroad, and died in an obscure skirmish between the Turks and the Moldavians. His infant daugh- ter he had left in England, with a faithful servant.” “But the wife—the mother ?” said Alice. “She had died young. The child was am orphan ; and it so happened that, within one month of her orphanage, a contagious disorder sweptaway the three children and the wife of the Fear! of Morton, leaving him a widowed and childless man. His mind sunk under these calamities ; and before he could take any steps about his affairs, he became lost to this world in permanent insanity.” “ Does this poor pn still live ?” “He does. Then a branch of his wife’e family, represented by a man named Esper- ance—Sir Bernfide Esperance—set up a claim to the care of the lunatic earl and his vast essions. Court interest favored him, and e is now in actual possession of the estates that belong to the brother's daughter — for the grants of nobility carry the titles to heire female, and the titles carry the estates, “ And what became of her?” said Gerald “Her life was thrice attempted by Sir Bern- fide Esperance, and the faithful servant be- came so alarmed for the safety of her charge that she concealed, even from the girl her- self, the secret of her birth and rights; and, having many documents which would full rove her case, she carefully hid them, fancy- ing that nothing could be done, or ought to be done, until the child was one-and-twenty years of age.” “‘O Heaven!’ cried Alice. “You begin to see ?” “T do—I do—” Gerald turned very pale. “She hid these documents,” added the Owlet, “in a small valise, and flung it, with its precious contents, into a deep-dug well.” “At Corfe Castle, in Dorsetshire?” ex+ claimed Alice. “Yes.” “Then, then, O Gerald!” ' # Alice! Alice!” “ You are the child,” said the Owlet; “ you. are the daughter of that noble lady and of the brother of the Earl of Morton. It is your life that Sir Bernfide Esperance has sought.” “ And then,” faltered Gerald, “ Alice is— is—” { “ The Countess of Morton, in her own right, go soon as the breath of life has departed from the poor mad earl, her grandfather.” “Good Heavens! O Alice!—no, I mean. lady—” ‘ “ Gerald.” ; Alice went toward him and pleced a hand } on each of his shoulders. “My Gerald, am I not still your Alice? Do you reject me now?” , et ‘« Reject—you—you, Alice, who are noble _ —high—great—rich—” , “ And yet your Alice, who will love you all the same.” Rea A flush of tears came to Gerald’s eyes. The Owlet spoke in a tone that showed that he was fully amenable to human emotion. “ You will now comprehend,” he said, “why ‘itwas that the vile plot was formed against Wine ise 4 FA 1 I ae tae 9 ne RS eT ood~
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air,” said Gerald. Owle poet A laws of England make a capital of- nee.” “ Oh yes, yes; Iam soinnocent. I did not take it. I did not dream of such a thing.” Alice sobbed aloud. * Be comforted. Heaven will work in its own way, dear girl, Avengers will arise. They have arisen.” “They have, indeed,” cried Gerald, as his cheek flushed and his eyes sparkled. ‘TI will not sleep—I will not eat, drink, nor rest until I have met that man face to face, and charg- ed him with his villainy. I can, too, corrob- orate all this. I have heard it all. Listen to me, you, dear sir; and you, my Alice, list en!” “You have some news, then,” said the Owlet. “T have—I have.” Gerald then related the particulars of his visit to the jeweler’s workshop, and the con- versation he had overheard between Mr. Am- brose and Sir Bernfide Esperance.” And then he sprang to his feet, saying : * Oh, sir, lend me or give me a sword, ind Jet me at once seek out that man.” “He has been sought.” , “ Sir ?” “ And-you are avenged.” “Avenged? How?” “He may be picked up by now; but the fast | saw of him was, lying in his blood on Barnes’ common: my sword placed him, for atime at least, out of the way of doing ao- tive mischief.” “ Oh, sir, how can I thank you?” “Ts he dead ?” said Alice. “T know not; but I got from him this let- ter, which is from your father, dear ehild, to his brother, the earl, and which contains an account of his marriage with your mother— and so is valuable collateral evidence,” ‘My poor father!” sobbed Alice. The Owlet handed her the letter, and her tears fell on the faded writing. “Sir—sir ! will you let me keep this?” “Tt is yours. Iam glad to be able to place such a document in your hands; and now that you know who and what you are; will you still wed this jeweler’s apprentice ?” Alice smiled, and hel out her hand to Gerald. The tone in which the Owlet had spoken was not an unkind one, although the ths made Gerald redden to the roots of his air. “Ought I—ought’"—he said, in a half-choked voice—‘ ought I to take to myself this fair ‘hand, which would be a prize for the highest and noblest 2” “ Ah, Gerald!” said Alice, “will you evep now refuse me? You do not love me?” “ Alice! Alice! What dreadful words!” “Come, come,” added the Owlet. “That isall managed. Let us have no coquetting. Your name, now, is Alice Morton. So, if Ger- . ald has the requisite papers, yon marriage ean take place this day, and I will put you into formal possession of this house— or, at least, of that part of it which you will please to inhabit.” “ And we shall owe all this happiness to you, sir,” said Gerald. “Oh! how can we repay you.” : * You can be of great service to me b inhabiting this house as Mr. and Mrs. Alton, which I wish you, for the present, just to call elves: and if any inquiries are made here, you will be able to meet them fairly. I have friends who visit me here, buf those friends will seem to visit you; although you will see them but seldom, still there might ome an occasion when you would be able to 0 me infinite service by seeing those friends ; but all this to you, at present, is mysterious and vague; and I regret that it must, for a time, remain so.” ; “We will do all that you wish, sir,” said Gerald, “ and we shall still think that all too little to show our gratitude to you.” “Tt is well. It is well. Twill not be un- mindful of your interests, Alice. In due time your claims shall come before the proper tribunal,” ; “It will be an affair for the Privy Council, “Tt will; and the king ‘presides there when he pleases ; g0 you shall trust to the king.” * There was a”peculiar smile upon the face of the Owlet as he spoke. + - “Stop. Sir—sir!” exclaimed Gerald. | “What is it, my friend?” forgot about a scrap of p ors ‘per that, ly found at Mr. Ambrose’s, concealed in the | very bracelet which poor, dear Alice was ac- cused of stealing.” “ What is it ?” “This, sir.”’ “Ah! let me see it. “You are ill, sir?” “ No—no.” The Owlet had staggered back and sunk upon acouch. He looked fearfully pale. “ You faint, sir.” “No; I—am—better now. ‘ Adela Salis- bury, married Oct. 5, 1785 (see cabinet, right hand king’s own chamber); died August 1, 1736.” The Owlet read these words on the slip of paper that Gerald had found in the bracelet, with such an intensity of interest, that they seemed to take away his breath. Both Alice and Gerald looked at him in some alarm ; for it was only very slowly that his color came back to him. “Does that paper, dear sir, awaken any recollections ?” said Gerald. “ Recollections ?” gasped the Owlet. “ Or does it concern you in any way, sir?” “Does it concern me? It is my life—my crown. Hush! What am I about to say?” Sirs? “Tell me again—again tell me how and where you found this paper. Let me listen to the minutest detail.’ The Owlet hid his face in his hands, while Gerald again described exactly how he had found the slip of paper concealed in the brace- let. Then, with a deep sigh, the Owlet spoke. “Yes,” he said—as he paced the room, and seemed to forget for a moment or two that he was not alone—“ yes; that bracelet must have been Adela’s. Ambrose was the court jeweler—I see it all now. Oh, chance — chance! O Father in Heaven! how strange- ly you work in human affairs! This is indeed & most unlooked-for discovery.” t “Then, sir,” said Gerald, “that scrap of paper does interest you?” “Interest me! It is life to me. Uneon- sciously, you have done me such a service that it is impossible I can ever repay it.” “ Indeed, sir, I am rejoiced !” “ And I—andI. There is no obligation om your part, let me do what I may for you; and I hope that I shall have the power to do much—much—far more than your wildes¢ dreams, Gerald, can ever picture! The infor- mation contained on this serap of paper at once condenses, simplifies, and renders easy what before was full of difficulty, and full of ane and uncertainty. I am, in truth, mush eholden to you, Gerald Alton.” It was evident that these words gave great satisfaction to both Gerald and Alice. “ Soon,” added the Owlet, “ you will better eomprehend all this. At present, Gerald, I leave you for one hour, by which time I dare say you will be able to finda Protestant eler- gzyman to unite you to Alice, if you will not think that the Abbé Deplesis can suffice,” “The Abbé Deplesis, sir ?” “Yes. That is the ecclesiastic whom you have geen, Gerald ; I did not know him,” “Ne—no. But that is his name.” “T would rather have the Protestant elergy« man.” : “And I, too,” said Alice. “Be itso. God forbid that I should begin now to be intolerant. Beitso. Ihave, Alice, a sister, whom you shall be introduced to. She is a Young and artless girl, and you will find her friendly and kindly disposed toward you. She has been living in solitude for some time, and I am happy to give her such & companion and friend as yourself.” “ But, dear sir,” said Gerald, ‘as yet we have not even @ name by which we ean call ou.” “Tam Mr. Harold Blanchard, of His Majes- ekg Coldstream Regiment of Guards, at pres- ent.” “© At present 2?” _“ Yes, at present. Good-day. I shall be with you both again in one hour; and do you, Gerald, find a clergyman, The house is open now, at the front facing the square, for you to go in and out at your pleasure, andthe - servants will recognize you as their master.” With a kindly smile, the Pre left the Good Heavens!” went down to the hall ete pent t, the Robber Prince. — there everything arranged like a well-ap- pointed residence. A hall-porter dozed, as is the custom of hall-porters to do, in a large leathern, half chair, half watch-box. Various servants, in 4 crimson livery, were about, and they all seemed to have been shown Gerald somehow; for they saluted him respectfully as master of the house. And all this was so surprising that, more than once, Gerald trembled as he reverted to the idea that all was but a dream of unusual distinctness, from which he might at any mo- ment awaken, to find himself in his attic at the jeweller’s in Ludgate Hill, { But he went for a clergyman, and found no difficulty, on production of his reseript from Doctors’ Commons , and within the hour there stood in the crimson and gold drawing-room in St. James’ Square the bridal party. The Owlet led in the young girl he had brought from the cottage, in the wild, neg- lected garden, and in a courtly fashion intro- duced her.) : “My sister,” he said, “ who is ever pleased to know my friends, and to make them hers.” Alice was delighted at the first glance with this young girl, and received her Soy fully. Then the ceremony was performed, and Gerald and Alice were man and wife. It was exactly twenty-six hours from the wah when Alice was in the death-cart, un- er the cross-beam at Tyburn, from which she was to be suspended, to the present time ; aud now she was a bride. From a condemned criminal—from the most hopeless condition that it appeared possible for any one to fall into—she emerged, rich, happy, married, and with apparently a life of | happiness before her. Who shall despair ? CHAPTER XVII. THE WOUNDED COLONEL BLANCHARD. Tt was toward sunset on that same day, when the Owlet had done so much for the ~ happiness of Gerald and Alice, that he, in his ey Sem as a subaltern in the Coldstream Guards, walked leisurely into the soldiers’ guard-room, to the left of the arched gate- way of the old building. “Sergeant-—sergeant !” he called, | “ Yes, your honor.” “Ts it true what I am told, that neither Mr. Charles Beauchamp nor Colonel Blanchard are dead ?” “ Quite true, your honor.” “ Oh, I am delighted !” “ Mr, Beauchamp, your honor, is out of dan- ger, they say ; but not the colonel.” “ Alas!” “No, your honor. It is a bad wound.” “ My poor. cousin !” “But all don’t die, you know, of bad wounds. His honor, they say, has asked for ou.” “Tam glad to hear it. You see, sergeant, I was the colonel’s second,” “Yes, your honor.” “And no sooner had the colonel engaged ‘ wih Mr. Beauchamp than Major O’Balriggin, who was Mr, Beauchamp’s second, forced me into a fight with him , and I was.compelled te kill him, or be killed myself.” “ Yes, your honor,” “So Iran him through; and-then, at that moment, I thought I saw the colonel kili Mr Beauchamp ; and, as we had agreed that, if such was the case, I should go into hiding a little time, till all was settled off, I went.” “Yes, your honor.” * “But a kind friend has brought me word of the real state of affairs. So here I ain.” * Yes, your honor.”’ Aug “ And that is the whole story, sergeant.” * Just so, your honor.” re “And now as I don’t suppos? anybody cares a jot whether old Major O'Balriggin ig alive or déad, I will go and see my cousin.” “No, your honor—yes, your honor.” | The mureregt formally suluted Harold Blan- chard, and stepped aside, and the ensign walk- ed up etairs to the officers’ guard-room. No one was there, eee 4 _ Ah! he will be alone,” said the Owlet, “In good trath I hope he is not badly hurt,’ I shall, I hope, be able, most fully, to recom- pense him for all he has suffered, both men-' tally and physically, and 1 willdoso. He,’ too, like my | iends, Gerald Alton and Alice, ‘will find great changes.” + 5% The Owlet very slowly and silent), opened _ en) , a Rr ORD 5 SRN ie i oh a * S454 COE De te han Oe q Tags ees
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24 ; the door that led from the officers’ guard 1 ‘chamber to the private rooms in the occupa- i tion of the colonel. 2 ‘tt And there, immediately on the other side | of the door, he found the soldier-servant of Hi the colonel, who drew himself up and saluted the Owlet. . “ Oh, that is you, Stephens ?” “Yes, your honor.” “ How is the colonel ?” “ Moans bad, your honor,” “Tam sorry to hear that.” “He asks for your honor.” “Then I will go to him at once. Is he alone 2 “Yes, your honor.” The Owlet found that it was in the third room of the suite that the colonel had been removed to; and he was lying on a camp- bedstead, apparently half-asleep, by the char- bs acter of his breathing. This room, which will form other and im- portant appendage to incidents which we shall have to relate in full, deserves a descrip- tion. ; It was the third one, then, of the sufte which was in possession of Colonel Blanchard, as commanding officer of the Palace Guard. The first of these was a private sitting- room, of which we have already given some “brief account.. The second room was a dressing and ac- coutrement room, in which the arms, uni- forms, and private property of the colonel were kept, and into which no Visitors were ever shown. F The third was the room in which the wounded colonel was now lying, and which was of the same size as the second room. 4 This apartment, the aspect and appearance oe . of which we wish to fix in the mind of the 4 reader, was about twenty-two feet square, and , had two windows that looked into the ‘Color Court” of the palace ; that court, in the cen- tre of which there is now a post, with staples Be) and rings in it, through which the flag-staff of the colors of the regiment of Guards on duty at the palace can be placed. The walls of the room were of very dark oaken paneling, and the roof was shaded so as to imitate a dome shape, and some allegor- ical subject had been painted in the centre— nothing of which remained very clearly but a sprawling figure, which might represent some goddess, or a court beauty at the period of the Second Charles. A . Exactly opposite to the door of entrance to this room was another door, with similar gilt Jf moldings and gilt furniture; but the key-hole was a blank, and, to all appearance—although the door looked as if it would open—it was merely there for symmetry, as it was on one side of the chimney-piece, and there was an- other door on the other side exactly alike, _ which did open. ; The other door, though, only disclosed, when opened, a deep cupboard or closet, with shelves and pegs—and, in fact, in every way adapted as an armoire or wardrobe. The chimney-piece was of fine statuary marble, and very elaborately carved. { The floor of the room was covered with plain crimson cloth. The windows were shad- ed with orimson silk curtains, but wofully faded. The furniture was of the same de- scription as that in the outer room, but more faded and out.of repair. Indeed, it would seem these superior parts of the palace were furnished with the cast-off finery of the principal rooms, whether adapt- ed for them or not. And yet the apartment had a rich, and not altogether unhandsome look ; and had it not been for the low ceiling—which is a radical defect all over St. James’ Palace—the room - might haye looked palatial, and even grand. + Opposite to the twonndows was the camp- ; __. bed of Colonel Blanchard. Rinne? ‘This bed had no hangings; but half-sur- ; “ rounding the head of it was a very beautiful ' ; tee costly Indian screen, of six leayes or ; compartments, which, if fully opened, would S eee SE Poteet a — —e a ae wish was pl “One ye wes of ows ' am i ~ Owlet, the Robber Prince. f rhs: suffice completely to surround the camp-bed- | a stead, with i 1a re that | ratels | some eooling drink, which he was to take freely —for a glass, three parts full, stood close | to the jug, and within his reach. The sword of the colonel, with its belt trailing on the floor, was laid across another table; and about the room was a variety ot small articles—partly for the toilet and partly connécted ‘with the arms and appointments of an officer of rank. The Owlet had opened the door of this room go softly, that, if indeed the colonel were sleeping, the sound would not disturb him ; and as 3 y the regular and deep-drawn breath- ing of Colonel Blanchard the Owlet consid- ered that he was in a state of repose, he stood about two paces within the room, after closing the door yery carefully, and looked, tee an expression of great iterest, about im. “What it was exactly in the fashion, shape, appearance, or appointments of the room thet so deeply interested him, would have been difficult to say. Twice, then, he turned completely around, So that no corner of the apartment escaped his serutiny; and then he went forward and listened attentively to the low breathing of the wound- ed colonel, who still slept. It was that kind of sleep which follows the exhaustion of a wound, and which, on the field of battle, is so often the sleep of death. Not a word did the Owlet speak, even ina whisper, to himself; but, holding up his sword carefully, that it should not trail or strike against the floor, he now approached the bed- side of-Colonel Blanchard, and looked fixedly at the pale face of the wounded man. There was blood upon the coverlit of the bed, and upen the pillow ; and a faint, blueish tint was upon the forehead of the colonei. The Owlet shook his head, as if he had, in his own mind, very great doubts about the possibility of his recovery ; and then, for the first time, in a faint whisper, he spoke : “Tt must be soon,” he said, “or these apartments will belong to another—for, should he die, he will be removed from the palace at once, a8 is_the custom with every one who dies within its precinets. Yes, it must be soon!” } Being satisfied, then, that Colonel Blanch- ard slept, the Owlet walked softly across the room as foot could fall, and placed his hand upon the lock of the door, which was on one side of the chimney-piece, to balance that of the cupboard on the other. The handle was a fixture. _ 7 % Then the Owlet carefully examined this door, looking up and down the sides: of it, and scrutinizing itin every possible way ; for he seemed to have a doubt in regard to its absolute artificiality. Those doubts, however, at length yielded to the fact. The door was a mere imitation. There were no hinges; there were no means of opening it ony more than any other fixed panel of the wall. The Owlet shook his head, and then nod ded, as though his mind was quite made up on the point. His next movement was to the cupboard on the other side of the chimney-piece. That door was easily opened. It created, however, a little on its hinges. The Owlet then took from his pocke a small bottle, and from it oie a few drops of very limpid oil over the hinges, and the creaking ceased. Then he took along and curious survey of the inside of the closet, and carefully passed his hand over the shelves. One only of them was loose, and could be lifted out. east It was @ heavy shelf; and before lifting it,” which he had every inclination to do, the Owlet stepped back into the room, and bent low down, with his hand behind his ear, to lis- ten to the sleeper. ’ ‘All was still. 4 Then the Owlet slowly and carefully lifted | the shelf off the side-brackets that sup sorted it. The shel, was so strong and heavy, that the side or edge of it was about two inches in id "Where the edge next to-the paneled wall of the closet had touched, a piece of crimson loth was glued, or’ otherwise fastened, all along, which would make the shelf fit tight, and exclude dust from coming on to it from This bit of erimson cloth was very. pat on, and was exaotly the * aay’ bus aad Wa h ot @ of the shelf. i pee h was very aceu- | The Owlet carefully ran his finger along #. All was hard beneath it, until he got to with- in about four inches of the end of it. Then his finger sunk a little. There was some hollow or hole there, be- hind the piece of crimson cloth that was so well fastened to the wall. “ Ah!” said the Owlet. The sound broke the stillness of the room, “ Who? Who — is — it?” said Colonel Blanchard, faintly. The Owlet in a moment replaced the shelf, and noiselessly closed the closet door. “ Some—one—surely spoke,” moaned the colonel. “Jt is I, dear friend,” said the Owlet, as he stepped forward to the side of the couch. “ ” . Be not be alarmed. I come to see how ou were. I found you sleeping, and looked rom the window until you should of your own accord awaken. “Harold ?” : “Yes; 1am Harold! Are you very much hurt? I sincerely hope not. How do you feel now ?” ; “Thardly—know. But the fellow’s sword must have “ What would you say ?” “Red hot! Red hot!” “Tt is the inflammation of your wound that. makes you think so.” “Yes, I suppose so ; I suppose so, because it would not have been poaanle® “ Certainly not.” “My foot slipped.” “No doubt.” “ And the villain took me then at disad-- vantage. It was so very—very—” “Very what ?” “Strange that all the dream came true? Your dream, you know—not my dream!” “ Tndeed {” “Yes. You went off I don’t know where, after, as I thought, killing that major.” “J did kil] bim.” “You zoey killed him ?” “T did. He forced me into a fight with him. I fancy it was his intention so to do from the first, but I could not avoid it; so it became a question of him or me; and as I soon made up my mind about that, I ran him through the heart, and there was an end. she) i “ But what were you saying, colonel, about: a dream?” “ Not my dream, but yours, you know.” “ Well.” “Drink! Oh, give me some of the drink? It is on the table. I burn with thirst. I feel certain now.” “ Certain of what ?” asked the Owlet, as he held the glass to the colone!’s lips. “ Certain that his sword was red hot.” “Oh, that is all imagination, my dear colo- nel — mere imagination! But about thie. dream ; what was it ?” ’ “Do you not remember the Owlet? Well, I slipped, you see, and Beapatanip, with the red-hot sword, although how he kept it red hot I don’t know, but he was on the point of taking my life, when some one strode over me and crossed swords with him.” “Yndeed! Is it pene ed ‘““ Yes, saw the face fora moment. It was like an owl exactly—exactly.” « You surprise me, colonel.” “Tt was 80; or I am mad!—mad!” “Then it was really this strange being with the face of an owl who saved you?” | “Yes, from another thrust which he (Beau- champ) would have given me; and he killed : him, I think.” “No, He is badly hurt, but not yet dead.” L “ He suffers ?” “ He does.” “ Ah! and I suffer, too. Owlet’s sword was red hot!” I wonder if the Tt was at this moment that the Owlet heard have voices in the outer rooms, and he paused 3 his discourse with the wounded colonel to the ee CHAPTER XVIU. Gs MR. AMBROSE IS SENT ON A DANG ig * Tt was about half-past five o © door of Mr.. r je, gold on Ladgate A ; i een—haye been—” 4
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CL —*: repented (consequently) citizen from his slum- ers. There are some folks who are always un- comfortably affected by any unusual noise or unusual visitor—and Mr. Ambrose was one } of those folks. Pale and trembling he sprang from his bed, f and opening a window on the second story : of his house, he looked out into. the street below. A throng of*persons were there. He could . see the dirty-white great-coats:of the watch, and some half-dozen people seemed to be ) speedily surrounding a alae chair. { Bang! bang! bang! went another appeal i to the knocker of'Mr. Ambrose’s door: for the people below did not see his head, adorn- ed with a nightcap, protruding from an up- per window, as he had not yet spoken. ; Now, however, that his fears were a little assuaged, and that he did not think the people below came on an errand for his arrest, he gathered heart to speak : “Halloa there! Halloa! this ?” G “There he is!” cried half-a-dozen voices at once, “There he is!” This sudden recognition of him awakened oun all the fears of the jeweler, and he was silent. “Mr. Ambrose—sir—sir!” cried one from below. “If you please, worshipful sir!” The guilty jeweler took courage again—for those words were far from’ menacing. “What is all this disturbance about?” he cried. “Tt is vexations that a respectable citizen should be roused from his bed in this way!” “ Bat, sir, it is a gentleman! and as he is killed, he asked to be brought here, you see sir.” i “ A gentlemian ?” “ “Yea, gir.” j x “But if he be killed, this is not the proper ks place to briny him.” ie “ Fle is not dead, sir,” saidanother ; “and r the says his name is Sir Bernfide Esperance, + amd he has been set upon by thieves or by r ~ «murderers, Mr. Ambrose, and nearly killed.” ie “Good gracious !— that is quite another thing—I will be down ina moment!” _ The jeweler did come down ; upon sallying “out at iis door, he saw that the sedan. chair had been opened, and in it, looking much more like a corpse than a living map, sat Sir Bern- fide Esperance. _His lips were white and ashy; his eyes blurred and blood-shot, and his apparel all disordered and soaked with gore. He could ~not speak. “Good Heavens! how has this happened ?” said Ambrose. , By a great effort, Sir Bernfide Esperance raised one of his hands and pointed into the house. There was no such thing as mistak- ing the gesture.. He wanted to be taken in; and as tle jeweler would much rather he was in his house than in any other—considering what perilous secrets they had together, and that he was in a dying state—he made a vir- ss _ tue ofthis convictions, and cried out: A “ Certainly—of course—of course! God forbid that I should hesitate for a moment in affording any possible aid and shelter to any one who is hurt, whether they be friends of mine or not. Bring him in, my men—bring Sep in! He shall bast bed and board with a ; me ” : bm ’ The wounded man was duly brought into | the house, and carried up stairs to a spare et bed-room ; and then, as Mr. Ambrose wished to keep a character with everyboily, he was t quite Roeral in his rewards to the men who had picked eee Bernfide on the common, and brought him to Ludgate Hill. , “He could speak when we found him, poor be a entleman!” said one of the men. “And a the only thing he said, was: ‘Take me to Mr. Ambrose’s, on Ludgate Hill’ ” “You were quite right to bring him here. } 1 will see that he has every possible atten- Pes ” ae men departed very well pleased ; and ‘eeraey Mr. Ambrose at onee sent for a surgeon, who + era “dressed Sir Bernfide’s wound, and then shook : is head, saying : che sat pee days will decide it.” y “Will be live?” asked Ambrose. What is all — . ie aS Ft 2G a a ae ak sic ee 8S ee. oe A ie ee 4 ds 2 ke, i me the has the one *hance—” fe has. The poliee ought to be inform- | { a a > rere or A Mere I; comes nin abies Aer ae « The chances are a hundred to one against | Pee _ and all will go well.” Owlet, the Robber Prince. “My dear sir, I am, as you know, an alder- » man and a magistrate, so I will see to that.” “True—true, I wish you good-day, sir, and will send such medicaments as the poor | gentleman’s state requires; but above all | things he must not speak.” * Very good, sir.” “Must he not speak?” said Mr. Ambrose | to himself, when the surgeon had gone. ‘That is just the very thing that he must and shall do!” Mr, Ambrose then sought the bed-side of Sir Bernfide Esperance, and having closed the door of the room, he said close to his:ear, in a low tone: “ How has this happened? Is it an acci- dent? or does it in any way concern our plans ?” ‘ Sir Bernfide made a terrible struggle before he could speak; and then he said, faintly : * Concerns us.” bi, “Oh! How?” “ He—he—” “ Who ?”? “The dev—” Mr. Ambrose started, » “ Owlet!” added Sir Bernfide. « Who?” z “Owlet!” “You don't mean that the eelebrated high- wayman who goes by that name has wound- ed you?” DE i hed “To rob you?” \ “Too much !—knows—too much !—all.” “ He knows all?” ‘7 st Vaal? “ The—villain !”” Sir Bernfide just had strength enongh left to stretch out one hand, and to clutch the arm of Mr. Ambrose, with a painful intensity. “It—it may be my—death—to speak, but I must—I must !” ; “To be sure—go on!” ‘ “ You must’ go—to—to—Corfe—Oastle to- night—to-night, and get the small valise—at the bottom of the dry well—dry well, and bring it—bring it—” “Here ?” “ Yes—or all lost !—lost{” “TY will—I will.” : be ‘* You—safe—while you have—have—” “You mean that I am safe while I have that ?” e i “Yes! They must —terms with you.” “ My denr friend.‘ : “Then you must go 'to—asylum and tell him—settle the earl at once—you see—settle aia 2 ' } “To be sure I will.” I “Then if I live — you see —I shall live if ou send—send to Antwerp for Soljeuin Berg- eim.”" “ Who ?” “ Doetor—chemist—eonjuror.” “ Oh 1? . “Get him-he eure me! I—earldom and estates—you half—sign paper! Save me! That's all!” ; “T comprehend, my dear friend, You will, if I do all that you require, give me one half of the Morton Estates ; and you are willing to sign oe ) paper to that effect that I please?” “ es »” “Then depend on me.” “Yes, Send—Antwerp. Berghe:m—ehem- ist. Everybody knows him. Quick! Ves- sel! Expense nothing! Say for me—write letter! He will come—rogue !” “My dear Sir Bernfide, all that you have ordered shall be done. In about two days ani nights, I have no doubt, the man yqu name can be brought from Antwerp. I will, within one hour from now, charter a fast ves- sel in the Thames, and dispatch her.” “ Do—one half—so help—God !” “ My dear Sir Bernfide, don't swear it. I will have a proper deed drawn up for you to sign, which will be much more satisfactory.” . ‘‘ Yes.” “Good-bye, now. Keep yourself quiet, ' “se Yes.” The jeweler was as gooa as his word. The : papnase of one half the vast estates of the fortons was a bait that he was sure to snap at; and he knew that, with the death of Sir Lernfide Esperanee, all further chance of fingering a sinyle guinea more than hé had atringent, that he would give him’ half'the estates, he would think no more of cutting his (Mr. Ambrose’s) throat, to get rid of the obligation, than he would of pealing an or- ange. The fast sloop was’ sent off to Antwerp, in search of the Datch surgeon in whom Sir Bernfide had such faith ; and Mr. Ambrose then made ready for a journey into Dorset- shire on that evening, and ‘caleulated that, if he used great dilligence, he might reach Corfe Castle somewhere before daylight on‘ thenext morning, by partly availing himself of public conveyances, and by partly sine 4 on homatncle the latter portion of the road. But Mr. Ambrose was not at all aware that there was an attentive listener to all that had passed, in the person of poor Timber, the charity-boy. nape? > Now, ‘Timber had seen the crowd of peo- . le come with the sedan-chair up Ludgate rill, and had seen Va pala at the jeweler’s door. One glance had let him know who it ; was that was brought there in so deplorable « a plight. t /When, then, Timber heard Mr. Ambrose express “such hospitable intentions in.regard to Sir Bernfide, he; Timber, ran round to the |, court, and got into the house by that way ; | and, knowing well that there was but one room in the house in which there was a spare : ‘| bed; Timber got'at once under that bed, as the best place he could be in, to get well-in- formed of all that took place. ry No sooner had Timber fairly ensconced . himself under ‘the huge, old bed, than Sir . Bernfide Esperance was brought in and plac- | ed upon it. t Thus Tinber heard all that passed; and, when Mr. Ambrose left the room, he crawled out from under the bed, and after shaking his | clenched fists pantomimically toward Sir Bernfide, he made his ‘way out of the house, and ran toward St. James’ square. ‘ But as he ran, poor Timber recollected , that it would not be until nine o’clock at- night that he would lave an opportunity of seeing Gerald Alton with his news, ‘What was he to do?» ro "The only place where he, Gerald, could be. fourid, was at the railings of the square gar- den, so far as he, Timber, was informed, “What is a cove to do?” said Timber, as? he rubbed his head under the little mufiin- | \ cap. ie! Timber was tolerably ingenious and fertile,’ in expedients, but he could not convert seven !, o’elock in ‘the morning into nine o'clock in| the evening. t ; “ Well,” said Timber, to himself, after a - few moments’ reflection, ‘I will wait here till » he does come. He may live about here, and ' so he may come past; 80 here goes, and here I waits.” Timber then, with great agility, mounted to the top of a post, and there he sat, with his yellow and wasted legs dangling before him, and his metal badge on his breast pa- tent to all beholders, Hour after hour passed away, and there sat Timber. . } .To be be sure, a perpetual sort of skirm-— ish — sometimes with words and sometimes | with stones— was kept up between him and boys who passed. He was informed, at least fifty times, that he was a “ charity brat,” and | asked, deridingly, what he would take for his leather smalls. mt But Timber kept his post. And the day waned; and Gerald Alton was ‘married to his own dear Alice ; and, with her hand clasped in his, he stood by the window | of the mansion, and looked out upon the world, which wore so different an aspect ta him now to what it had ever done, Then suddenly he started. Alice looked alarmed. “What is it, dear Gerald 2” ‘One moment, dearest. That boy!” « Boy ?” “4 : “Yes, on the post. Hels a friend of mine, and wants me, 1 am certain.” ” ' “tis Timber,” said Alice. now. He was at Mr. Ambrose’s.” _ “ Yes—yes, dearest. It is Timber; and I “a cea he waits for me. Timber! Tim- ¥ er ? Gerald Alton had opened the window, and stepped out on to the balcony of the house. already aeqnired on that affair would be at | Timber heard him, and, with a ery of joy, he uck him that should Sir Bern- an end. It never str fide recover, ators iter ae Ae Mr hee clapped his hands together, and sprang off the post : “Halloa!”’ eried the hall-porter—as Tim- ¥ fo “T know him ©
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26 way into the hall of the mansion—“ Halloa! | what do you. want ?” ; “Gerald! Gerald!” \ j “ Eh ” ; _ By. this time Gerald had made hie way down into the hall, for he rightly aed tk poor Timber would find some dufeulty in passing b the Cerberus at the.door. Y “Ah! there he is,” said Timber, as he saw Gerald, with a smile on his face, advancing to meet him, “ there. he is!” “Yea, Timber, { am here ; and I fancy you have something to tell me.” “Lots,” said Timber. : “Come this way, then, and youshall see an if old friend, who, you will. be glad. to see, is i much happier than when you Jast saw her.” He “Then it is thet dear Miss Home.” “ Yes, but Miss, Home.no longer. . Follow me, Timber.” “Yes, dear Gerald, I will —I will; but AK there is no time ;.indeed, there is:no time.” ‘For what, Timber ?” “T will soon tell you. Stop here. Letus sit down on the stairs. They are quite as hs fine as any room. Let us, sit here, Gerald, and I will tell you all about. it.” Hit Gerald smiled, but he took Timber by the _ arm, and led him into a small room on the drawing-room floor, and seated him in the deep recesses of a comfortable chair, and then he said: “Timber, you are pale.” hi “No breakfast, and I think, too—do you a bat Gerald ?—that it is mow dinner-time, 0.” “Tt is, indeed, Timber.” Gerald touched a bell, and ordered the best that the house afforded for Timber, who wns Api i so struck by the silver plate, on which the i viands placed before him reposed, that his thay appetite almost forsook him. Hi “Come—come,” gaid Gerald; “ eat—eat Pity freely, my dear friend.” ‘He calls me his dear friend!” said Tim- ber, ‘O Gerald, I hope--I—I—” “You hope what?” 4 “No matter ; oh, of course, it’s all right. i ee What does the copy-book say? ‘The pewter bo latter of honesty is better than. the gold Ah Aigh of—’ ” pars 4 “Timber! Timber!” interrupted Gerald. res “Can you, for one moment, suspect that Bye these comforts and these luxuries that you haa see about you, are come by in any other way AG ' than honestly ?” be Ng e«no," replied Timber. ‘It’s all right. What's that, Gerald?” Timber pointed to a deeply-cut decanter. in which glowed and sparkled some rare golden Spanish wine. ' “Wine, Timber?” Wis “T’ve heard of it.” As) _ And did you never taste wine ?” eae _ Timber shook his head, “Then do so now.” Timber tossed off aglass of the bright fas- eination; and then he said, with a look of j wonderment ; “Wurrah! But I don’t think much of it. Oh dear! ob dear! what a wretch I is!” “A wreteh ?” “Yes. Let me tell you. There’s that Sir Bernfide, half dead, as he ws, at Mr. Am- brose’s ; and Mr. Ambrose is worse than he is, | can tell you; and somebody—that is, the old esr], as they call him — is to be settled ; and Mr, Ambrose is to go this very night to Corfe Castle, and to get something out of a well; and a ship is to go to Antwerp for— be able to.recollect his name; and you see I ‘was under the bed all the time, and heard all e 3 about it, dear Gerald. It makes me wink,” ey “Wink? “‘Why—how?” _ “The wine 1 mean,” : , “Oh, that is nothing! But, indeed, Tim- fo ber, the news you bring is most important.” _, Gerald touched the bell again, and when a footman appeared, he said; ; “Ts Mr. Blanchard within?” — ‘No, sir!” “T am here,” said a voice, at this moment ; and the Owlet, with a calm smile upon his face, oN Appeared at the door of the room. “Tam here, Gerald, and have just come in from duty | ; at the palace.” SOS ree ‘Timber looked as if some vague idea of i Gerald laid his right hand upon the coarse serge collar of iy making his escape had come over him, but | or—ah! I thought I should—I should never |, 1 the charity coat, ashe said: |. mar a) wea ie hi A id . $ Owlet, the Robber Prince. : | ber, in his fall parish costume, made his | 4 This is a good friend of mine.” “He is very welcome, Iam sure, then,” said the Owlet. “He brings news,” added Gerald. The Owlet and Gerald then stepped into the recess of a window, and the latter rapidly repeated the intelligence that Timber had. brought respecting the state of affairs at the ieweler’s house on Ludgate Hill. “The villains!” said the Owlet. ‘ We must defeat all that. I thought when I had put that rascal, Sir Bernfide Esperance, out of the way of any active personal 'villainy for a time, that. the matter, as connected with the valise, said to be at the bottom of the dry well at Corfe Castle, would keep a little.” “But you see, sir, that villainy never sleeps.” “Well; and we will not sleep. Iwill own that I am more than busy with other: affairs at present, but yet I will notneglect this mat- ter. Let me speak to this poor boy who has brought the news?” “Yes. He will tell youall truth. I would trust his word fully.’’ “ He has an honest face,poor fellow !” The Owlet turned towhrd/Pimber. “Come, my boy,” ‘he said, “ tell me what you think the wounded Sir Bernfide Esper- ance wanted Mr. Ambrosesto do for him.” _ “Do send for the doctor inca ship ; to go to Corfe Castle and get something ous of @ well, and to kill the old earl !” “ One, two, three things.” “Tat’s:it.” “ Aad you think he was to do those three things in that exact order.” “ h b pda ‘“«T mean that he was to do those things, one after the other, as you have mentioned them.” “Tam sure of it.” “Then he has sent.the ship to Antwerp ? So it is too late to stop that if we wished ; and it is of no consequence, if.we could. . He has started; too, by this time, for Corfe Castle, so he cannot be prevented from that journey but the next best thing can be-done.” “ And that, dear friend?” “That is to let him go, and get the valise which, I have no doubt in my own mind, con- tains the legal evidence of the marriage of the Honorable John Morton-to Alice’s moth- er; and then intercept him and take it from him, even at the door of his own house, whith- er he is quite cerfflin to take it.” “Ah! yes,” cried Gerald, “ that will be the thing to do; but the poor, mad Earl of Mor- ton must not be allowed to fall vietim to these villainous men.” j “ He will be quite safe, you may depend, if they find the valise not in their possession. I do not think, after all the time that has elaps- ed, that they would commit an aimless mur- der. Besides, while Sir Bernfide Esperance is in the least dread of Alice finding friends and evidence to substantiate her claim to the title and the estates, it is more to his interest to keep the insane earl alive. It would only be in the event of his finding that he had for- ever quenched Alice's claim, either by her death, as he tried to do, or by himself having possession of the only documentary proofs that jould serve her, that he would feel the earl jo be in his way.” ‘* 1 see—I see.” ‘Leave all to me, then. This is Wednes- day ; and let this man Ambrose make what speed he may to Corfe Castle and back; he cannot see Ludgate Hill again until very late to-morrow night.” “That would be to be quick indeed !” “Tt would; but I will give iim eredit for every speed and every facility on his jour- ney, and you may safely leave the matter to me,” “ With all the confidence in the world.” “Tt is well—itis well. Aud now, my friend, you are aware that—although you occupy the whole of this house seemingly — there are apartments at its back, which ean be reached by the route you know of by the way of King street, which t still hold in my possession.” « Ah, sir! is not the whole house yours ? DoI not feel that I and dear Alice are the crea- tures of your bounty, and that you have treat- ed us like a king 2?” The Owlet smiled. ‘4 “ You think so!” he said. _ “We both thinkso. Our utmostgratitude, and our most eager wishes to meet your views in all things, will not express a tit we feel.) |_| Ee UII i : } ‘ 4 aac 4) re -soon as ‘all these affairs are over, which -nnated paupers from the various parishes ai of one. — eof what | ‘This coat effectually prevented the watch Tee | Pate Raw't pany Ie hte | Wipe Cede deer eee “Tt is well. Let me add, then, to what E was saying, that you must not feel surprised) if you should, from this portion of the prem- ises which you occupy, hear any sounds indi- } cative of the presence of people in the back. ; part. 1 “T will not.” | “ They will be friends of mine.” “ That, then, is more than sufficient.” “‘T thank you with all my heart.” “ But how fain would I aid you, sir! What- ever may bé your objects, and I am sure they are good ones.” “They are legitimate !” said the Owlet, with @ stress upon the word. “Of that I am certain ; and I was about to say that I hope the time will come when you. will have sufficient confidence in me to allow me to be of assistance to you,” “T have that confidence now ; and you are of assistance to me—of very great assistance— of more than you know of. Besides, have I not, through you, seenred the happiness of one near and dear to me ?” “ Of Alice ?” “Yes. But time presses now, and I am sure you fully eomprehend me. Adieu for the present, and trust this affair of the valise and of Mr. Ambrose solely to me, I will see'to it in every particular.” The Owlet left: the room and the house ain, and Gerald turned his attention to: Timber. “ My dear Timber, you shall now stay here, and share with me my good fortune.” Timber shook his head. “Not yet, Gerald—not yet. It’s better, you know, for me to go back to Ludgate Hill. Perhaps I may be able to bring ins some more news, you know ; and now that I know where to find you, I can come to you at any time.” “You are right you are right; but, so complicate the fortunes of dear Alice, then, Timber, you shall no longer be the slave of any one; but, a8 my friend, I will see’ to your fortunes.” , Timber wrung the hand of Gerald, and : dashing his hand across his eyes to clear the clustering tears from them, he manfully bal- anced his muffin cap on the side of his head, and set’ off for Ludgate Hill. CHAPTER XIX. THE CONSPIRACY. Twelve o’clock had just boomed forth from the many church-steeples of London. The deep tones of St. Paul's had formed the base of the chorus of sounds, while some lagging: © at clocks in the suburbs, with a faint, high treble, were the last to make proclamation of the midnight hour. It was an intensely dark night. ; Dense masses of clouds hud, from about nine o’elock in the evening, swept over the sky, and they had‘thickened and aceumu- lated until they almost seemed to rest upon the chimney-tops of London. The lazy old watchmen woke up, and with dizzy, yaltaomnolent steps, paraded their several beats. “Past twelve, and a cloudy night.” ‘ That was the ery of the so-called guardian: a of the night, whose duty it was then, and ras even for many years afterward, to proclaim ty both the hour and the weather. Ve Only it not unfrequently occurred that the Mp so-called guardian of the night took s songet nap than usnal, and woke up some two or three hours later than he thought it was, and ‘ at three or four o'clock in the morning would ny howl out his : poe 4 de VAN “Past one, and a foggy morning.” _ « The fog, too, would beth and about his own 7% eyes and brain. peat But those were rare times for the midnight is burglar — for the footpad — the street-thief, : and even the assassin. 1 AN amen ath bs The ‘watchmen were made conspicuous, © Be that they might be seen “by all evil-doers from a distance—as if the object had been to warn them just to get out of the way, and to suspend operations for a few moments. — i y These watchmen, then, were old, superan~ ee - Their attire consisted of an immense great coat, made out of a coarse material as thick twee aga blanket and, when new, about the color Sat 7 Nie =See pe. eS ¢
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te ° i Aa * % man from moving much quicker than a man — with the gout. Then—in order to keep out the night-air— the watchman himself had a thick, woolen night-cap, palled right down over his head and ears. This effectually prevented him from hear- at his side. In one hand he carried a huge lantern; in the other, a thick bludgeon. Round his waist, attached to a cord, was a rattle. Voila the English watchman, to whom the property and the lives of the sleeping inhab- itan's of London were intrusted, up to the year 1830 or thereabouts. These old men were all called “ Charley.” Why, no one seems vo be aware. Perhaps, when it is discovered by some philologist why an ass is named Neddy, the discovery of the reason the old watchmen were called Charley may be eliminated from the same researches. It was twelve o’clock on that September night in old London; and the watchman of that district took his meandering, half-stupid, dozing way, down King street. The King steeet: which was at the back of Gerald Altons fine house in St. James’ square. “ Pust twelve o'clock, and a cloudy night. Eh? Who are you? Move on?” “My dear friend,” said a mild voice, in most gentle accents. ‘ Mr. Smith thinks you must feel cold.” “Eh? Move on.” “ And he has seat out for you this dram.” “A dram ?” “ Yes, dear friend. He says that it is a sad thing tu awaken in the night, and feel that a respectable man——a man who has seen better days,.and nights too—is abroad, and calling the hour, with nothing to drink.” “So it is—so it is. _He's'a gemman he is. Mr. Smith is he?” Yes." “And the—a—dram ?” ¥ “It is herein this bottle.” , “ Good !” , “You will find it so without a doubt." “All's right. Here's his health,” “ Good night.” “Good night, sir, Past twelve, and » cloudy — it is good — night. Past—strong, too, it is—twelve, anda clou—Ah! it’s the right stuff—dy night. Dear me—how—very —sleepy—I do feel. Pastnight, and a cloudy twelve —no—a cloudy clock. Eh? Move on there! ‘Move on, will you! You ot, nate. Oh! it’s only a post—a—a— post, Past—Smith, and a cloudy—dram. Ah!”” The watchman slid down by the side of a post, at the corner of King street. The bottle, now empty of its dram, rolled into the kennel and broke. The watchman slept. The clouds above now opened a. little The darkness of the ene was not quite so intense, and a soft rain began to fall. Then a tall figure, muffled up in a red-col- ored cloak, made its way into King street, ‘and marched with long strides toward the little door in the garden or stable wall, through which Gerald had first been intro- duced by the Owlet. ( \ A peculiar tap was given to the door, and it was opene! on the moment. Some one word was uttered, and the tall figure glided in, and the door was shut. Hardly had this incident taken place, when another figure, mufiled, if possible, still closer in a cloak, appeared in King street, and, after glancing around suspiciously, made its way toward the same small door.’ But before this second person could tap with his knuckles for admission, a third appeared in King street, and reached the door hurriedly. A few words passed between these two per- sons before the door was opened. “Tam glad to seé your grace,” said the one who had reached the door first, “ Wush!—hush !” said the other. The door was opened, “Crown!” said he who*had said he was ‘glad to see “ his grace,” and then they both assed in, aN ht ~The watchman slept profoundly. ‘then two together, and finally no less than thirteen had passed in at the little door, and _ _ soft rain fell pattering down, and not a foot- fall disturbed the repose of King street. — ¥ ‘i Cau! A - Another and yet another man, in eloaks— | 0 ee - No more came, All was still as the grave. The watchman ceased to make even a slight gurgling sound in his throat. The watchman was dead. He had taken his last dram. It was no longer a cloudy ‘night to him, ing anything short of a twelve-pounder fired , And now from the gloomy and rain-be- dragzled exterior of that mysterious house, | we will step into an interior that has all the | appearance of the most profound caution and mystery. A large room, very thickly carpeted, and hung all round with cloth, is in the oecupa- tion of thirteen men. A very dim lamp sus- pended from tle ceiling sends sickly-looking rays upon tlie frees and the apparel of the per- sons grouped beneath it. They have not cast aside their elonks wholly, but they are no longer so mufiled up in them as they were, and beneath those cloaks may be seen plain, but rich as regards quality, apparel. They, one and all, wore swords; and from the bulky and irregular set of some of their vests, it might be supposed that some of them had concealed fire-arms, A round-table was in the room, covered with a cloth of erimson velvet. Paper, pens, and ink were in profusion on this table. The chairs in the room were fifteen in num- ber. There were thirteen of crimson velvet, with gilt frames; there was ove all plain black cloth; there was another, on the back of which was a gilt royal crown, which just gave it that additional height above the others. A faint buzz of conversation was going on among the thirteen persons there ccsuitied. It was so subdued that it sounded—taking in- to consideration the peculiarities of the Eng- lish language—like # half-suppressed hissing, with only now and then a deeper tone mingled with it. : A door then opened noiselessly, and a por- tion of the cloth hangings were drawn aside. The priest, who had been named as an ab- bé by the Owlet to Gerald, glided rather than walked into the room. “Ah!” said one, “ here is our friend, the abbé. How are you, abbé?” The priest bowed low. “T have the honor, my lord, to be quite well,” he said. “That is right. We should miss you, abbé, as our able secretary arid clerk of council.” “You are very good, my lord.” “Tt gets late,” said another. The abbé seemed to be counting the mem- bers present, for he then said : “ Thirtvren—all here. I was not quite sure but that only twelve had come.” “No, monsieur l’abbé,” said one; “ we are all here.” “T see it is so, roe grace,” The abbé then left the room, in the same way by which he had entered it, and the cloth ‘anging settled down behind him. Then there was a ire in the whispered conversation among the varions persons as- sembled, and a general drawing together around the table. About three minutes might have passed away in mute expectation, and then from one portion of the room the cloth hanging wa' abruptly drawn aside; and a low, but clear, Voice said “The king!” With a firm, quick step, the Owlet entered the room ! The thirteen persons bowed low, and then stood in respectful silence, “ Mv lords.” said the Owlet, ‘be seated.” He then himself sat in the chair which had the’ covered and gilt erown at its back; and the thirteen persons present took seats around the table. j The abbé glided in again, and took/a scat ata small table, a little apart, on the black chairs. , “My lords!” said the Owlet, “ now that we are in privy council assembled, and all pres- a: we have an important communication to make,” plied i ; and_ The thirteen heads were all again bowed. “That elear and irre ble proof exist- ed,” added the Owlet, “of the marriage Of Frederick, Prince of Wales—the son of his ma~ jesty, King George the Second—with the Lady Adela Salisbury, we never entertained a aoubt ; and that those proofs were among the private: papers of the royal family, we fully believed. | The difficulty was, to know where to lay hand# upon them.’ “ Nevertheless,” said one of the council, “we Ma Se majesty’s privy council are quite satisfied, from the documentary and other evidence which your majesty has produced to us from time to time, that such marriage did take place; and that i wh majesty is the issue of that marriage, and, consequently, the rightful king, by royal and legal descent, of these realms.” «There can be no doubt of that,” said an- other; “the wae reigning sovereign — King George the Third, as he is styled—ia legitimate enough ; but he is a younger son, anil half-brother to your majesty, by Prince Frederick’s second marriage.” “That is the case,” gaid several, ‘is it.” “ And, moreover,” said one, who had not "ie spoken—“ since his majesty, whom we ave the honor to see now before us, has been brought up in the holy Catholic faith, we, ae “ That Catholic noblemen, cannot but feel a specia} interest in placing him on the throne of his ancestors.” A general v4 ar of assent followed ‘this speech ; and then the Owlet spoke again = “Tt is so, wy lords; and, as we have ap» pointed you all as members of our privy council, and to various high dignities about us, we hope that we shall have the pleasure of confirming these appointments before alF the world.” The lords of the council bowed again. “ And so, my lords, we will now state to — you what the circumstance is that induced us to call this ee meeting of our council. A most extraordinary accident has placed in our hands a memorandum, which we have no: doubt whatever was written by our mother, the Princess Adela of Wales, which pointe out precisely where the proofs of her mar- Ns & with our rqyal father are to be found.” look of surprised gratification passed over the faces of the council. “ Here is the document,” said the Owlet. He placed on the counocil-table the little slip of paper which Gerald found in the brace- let, at the jeweler’s shop. The council passed it from hand to hand, and regarded it with evident looks of satisfaction. “Your majesty is evidently favored by Providence,” said one ; “but still these doc- uments mentioned, or mentioned by implica~ tion, in this paper are difficult, if not impos~ sible of access.” “Nay, we have a plan for that,” said the. Owlet, with a smile, A small bell ‘at this moment rang sharply: and violently, somewhere close at hand, CHAPTER XX, _ THE SPY IN THE COUNCIL. When the strange meeting in the house im St. James’ square, of the pretender to the crown of England and his council was inter- rapted by the sharp, loud ringing of a bell, there was a general start o: surprise, and Some appearance of consternation. The Owlet glanced toward the abbé, who rose in his usual quiet, gliding way, saying, ; “Tt is aothing, your majesty and my good lords. It is, no doubt, one of our emissaries, with some report.” The bell sounded again. : “Are you sure of that, abbé?” said the member of the couneil who was called “ your grace.” , NAV “Yes, if the bell sound a third time, your race.” { The sharp tingle of the bell a third time almost mingled with the quiet tones of the abba’s voice. There!” he said; “it is a friend. Your majesty will, doubtless, exeuse me for a mo- : ment?” The Owlet bowed, slightly, ‘The abbé left the eouncil-chamber. “moments, which was broken by the Owlet A marked silence ensued for some few *>¢ >. >’ = © x : 2a eee 1 saying; ie : 4 A ‘My lords, as we said, we have s plan
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+ 2 _ contemplate in the reigning head of this 28) whieh promises every possible success, and which will put us in possession of those’ pa- p °s. which our royal mother has, no doubt, well-preserved, with the hope that Heaven, in _its own zood time, would render tuem service- able to us.” i The abbé, at this moment, glided into the room again, and stood os if waiting permis- gion to ers . “Well, abbé,” said the Owlet, “ we shall be glad, as we always are, to hear your re- pert.” “Tt will be in your majesty’s recollection,” said the abbé, “that it was the opinion of your, majesty, and of your council, that the adhesion to your majesty’s claims and rights, of the Frénch embassador was a point worth gaining.” : “Just ao,” replied the Owlet; “and, if we recollect rightly, Monsieur l'Abbé, you eom- municated with the Marquis de Villefort on the subject ?” . “I did, your majesty; and as the mar uis possessed the same holy and Catholic faith as ourselves, I put. to him an oath, that he dared not break, that if he should decline to share with us the peril, if any, and the glory which would be certain of placing your majesty vupon the throne ef your ancestors, he would “keep within the recesses of his own bosom all that I micht tell him.” “ Exactly, Monsieur l’ALbé. You did wa- wy as you ever do.” he abbé bowed profoundly. “The Marquis oe Villefort, then, your majesty, as I had the honor of stating at the time, took one week to consider before giving his reply. The week is over.” 4 Ak, is itso? We guess, then—” / “ That Monsieur le Marquis de Villefort is here, your majesty, and crayes permission to avow himself your majesty’s most faithful friend.” “That is well. What say you, my lords ?” “Tt is wells” said one, “ your majesty, be- eause it must be well; but—but—” “ You look doubtfal, my lord.” “TI feel doubtful, sire. The Marquis de Villefort is well-known as an intrigant. He has the reputation of being one of the—the —what do you call those men in Paris. abbé, who believe in nothing ?” ‘ “ Nay, my lord—” : “Yes—yes; they haveaname. Ah, I re- collect. They are called, your majesty, en- «yclopediasts.” — . “JT think,” said the abbé, quietly, “they do believe in something. At all events, the mere personal honor of such a man as the Marquis de Villefort would insure his good | faith ; and, besides, he has everything to gain and nothing to Jose by the change of mon- archs; and, besides—” . ; “ Well, abbé, what besides ?” “He is here.” ‘There was a smile upon the faces of some ‘of the council, and uneasy looks upon others The Owlet, however, spoke with an air of con- fidence. ~ “ Abbé, your last reasoa is as good as all the others. And there is one thing we must be careful to avoid, my lords, as it is the way in which traitors are most readily manufac- tured, and that is. we must not let ary one ‘see that he is mistrusted.” : _ There was a general and immediate assent to this doctrine; and then the Owlet added: “We will, then, receive the Marquis de Villefort.” The abbé bowed, and left the room. he one spoke now until the abbé returned, bringing with hin the French embassador, who was perfectly well known to all present, He was received with grave looks and recog- nitions; and he stepped up to the Owlet, and bowed very low indeed, as he said, in tolera- ‘ble English, but with that strongly-marked accent which no Frenchwan ever yet suc- eeeded in getting rid of : “T beg to offer to your majesty my most | — humble and devoted services.” ‘And we are glad to see you, marquis. What do you think will be he bainion at the Court of Versailles, on such a change as we eountry 2” tf) “Tt annot be, your majesty, anything but jl your majesty can wish. The steady de- scent, through legitimate cliannels, of, all crown - “siden a ; s, cannot but be a matter of congraiu- | Owlet, the Robber Prince. | Catholic faith,” said one of the council, “‘is a great thing on the part of the monarch of this country.” . “My lords,” said the Owlet, “we would not have you expect too much on that score. We think that the Protestantism of this coun- try is strong to fanaticism, but yet’ we shall have the opportunity of enunciating such coneessions to Catholicism as shall make its residence in this country much more easy than it is now.” ‘Beyond a doubt,” said the French em bassador. His Majisty Charles the Second, who was a sincere Catholie, was able to do much.” “And His Majesty James the Second lost his throne,” gaid the Owlet, “ by trying to do more. My lords, we must not let our royal fortunes be wrecked on that rock. We pray you to be seated, Marquis de Villefort, and ne make, on this occasion, one of our coun- ci Bg . The marquis looked around. There was no chair for him. The abbé then brought his own chair, which was covered with black cloth—and, bowing, he placed it at the table. : “By the next council meeting, marquis.” he said, “there shall be a proper cliair foy vyou. I perceive you look curiously at this chair. It is one I oceupy from choice.” “ From choice ?” “ Yes, marquis ; and I glory in these stains that even show through the covering.” “ Stains, M. Abbé?” ; “Yes, marquis; they are blood.” “Ah!” “The blood of a traitor. We have had one—and only one—traitor here. He was killed in that chair.” The Marquis de Villefort turned very pale. “ Oh, I can stand,” he said. “Nay, we beg that you will be seated,” said the Owlet. ‘Your majesty’s wishes are commands,” replied the Marquis de Villefort, recovering his composure by a great effort; “and but that a faithful friend may have a slight natur- al reluctance to oecupy the seat which is stained with the blood of a traitor, the chair will do right well.” The Owlet inclined his head slightly in as- sent; and then, turning his observation toa member of the council, he said: «“ We will now hear you, my lord.” A man with light, flossy hair, and whose complexion, lips, eyes, hair, and face seemed all alike—white and dusty-looking—spoke; in a calm, cool voice : “Your majesty and my lords, I am decid- edly of opinion that what I am about to pro- pose is a something which, although at first sight it may present to you a repugnant as- pect, is still the only plan which will ulti- mately be found the most humane and the most judicious for us to adopt.” They all listened with evident interest. “If your majesty should succeed in pro- curing the important documents your ma- jesty mentions it would only be by a tedivus appeal to the legislature of the kingdom, that anything could be done ; and from that mo- ment, England would become @ focus of in- trigne.” “ True—true !’’ said several. “ Therefore’—added the speaker, slightly raising his voicr, as he either warmed with his subject, or gathered courage from the ap- proval that his exordium had produced— “Therefore, what I propose is, that there should be no rallying-point for sedition—no peg left on which to hang treasons and plots, and no name by which evil wars might be fomented.” : The speaker paused a moment, and then, amid the intense stillness of the council, he added : j “T propose, then, the death of George the Third, as he is styled.” The Owlet drew a long breath. The council were silent. “Tf he be permitted to live,” added the speaker, “ England will rue it for many a long day, and blood will be common in the land : He is coarse, brutal, and obstinate. He will see no reason, and hear no reason, why he should be. ousted from the throne he now oceupies. You will be dealing with a hali- madman, who has all the cunning of pecpie | in his condition, aud all, the savagery and b west order. > wn mental organ’ zation, parted t 1 the. sige) mreet wag again desert propose’ that Gedérge the Third be put outvof the way of making himself mischievous. What say you, gentlemen ?” ; There was a whispered conference among the eouncil, and then another spoke : “Tt will be hardly sufficient,” he said, “to decide that, in the interests of his majesty, here present, and of true humanity,,George the Third, falsely so styled, should be put to death. The difficulty will be in regard tothe circumstances under which it shall be done.” “Let it be this way,” said another speaker, «suppose that the present usurper—for such he is—be put to death, I should advise that his majesty, whom we acknowledge, be there on the spot—in the palace, and that we all surround him, and call upon the Guards to acknowledye him as king, showing the offi- cers the proofs of his parentage and birth. The great officers of state can be sent for; one by ene, and when they find what is the state of affairs, and are convinced of the real and lezitimate claim of his majesty, their adhesion, [ think, will be certain. “Vote, my lords’’—said another — “ vote on the question of the death of the present king.” Ney—oay!” laughed the Owlet, we are the present king, or the king present.” “T humbly beg your majesty’s most-gra- cious pardon. «It was a * of the tongue.” ‘And so we take it. It is not worth s thought, my good lord, for we know you as a friend.” “Let the vote be taken by ballot,” said another. “ Be it so,” said the Owlet. : A hat was placed on the table, and the va- rious members of the council tore off from the sheets of paper that were lying before them, like slips, and shading them with their hands from each other, they each wrote a word, and then folding up the little slips, they threw them into the hat. “Now, abbé,” said the Owlet, “we shall see the decision of our council.” The abbé turned all the slips from the hat, and then opened them one after the other. The word “Death” was on twelve slips. « Life,” on one’ only. “ He is to die,” said the abbé. The French embassador looked uneasy. Then the Owlet spoke. “ My lords, all,” he said, I, and I alone, will take care that. the decision of this council is carried out.” j There was a solemn stillness. | “T alone, I say, will see to it, And, now, my Jords, absolving you from all blame or censure on this account, I will request of you, that you meet me on the night of Saturday next.” ““ Where, sire 2” “ At St. James’ palace,” There was a visible sensation. : “There is a window,” added the Owlet “which looks into the Color Court, It is the ‘centre one of three, which are at equal dis- tances from each other. They all look to the southward.” The members of the council bowed, to sig- nify that they understood the window indie cated. “ Some time,” continued the Owlet, * be- tween the hours of twelve o'clock and two, on Saturday night next, I will open that window epi within, and ery out: ‘Long live the in. ”» io; And we,” said several of the lords—* we will ery out : ‘ Long live King Harold the See- ond!’ “ We shall thank you, my lords ; and now, breaking up this council, we leave you to make what adherents and what strength you . can, among your several families and con- nections. Every officer of the army who joins with us shall have his next step in rank, at once; and all civilians shall have such rank and position as befit their several con- ditions, but all in advance of what they are.” The Owlet rose from the chair with the crown at the back of it, and bowed to the — eouncil. é i oe igt The council all rose on the instant. “Way for the king!” said the abbé, as he drew aside the erimson cloth, which covered the door by which the Owlet had entered the room. vaten Another moment, and he was gone. One by ane then the strange coun ne way they ee an -J { as ‘ é os
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The dead watchman still leant against the post, and the rain pattered upon his corpse. The Duke De Villefort walked at a. rapid pace toward the French Embussy, which was opposite to the Green Park; and as he went, he opened and shut his right hand, as he mut. tered : “T have them all —I have them all now. We shall get our treaty signed, and these heads will all lie low enough. Ha—ha! mes- sieurs, I have you now. It don’t suit the Court of Versailles to have a revolution in England now—sacre, non |” CHAPTER XXI. CORFE CASTLE.—THE DRY WELL. Mr. Ambrose, the court jeweler of Lud- gate Hill, in the good city of London, had quite made up his mind to place himself and his fortunes in the same boat with Sir Bern- fide Esperance. The thousand pounds he had already re- ceived for the villainous attempt to bring poor Alice to a disgraceful and awful end at the gallows, had whetted his appetite for farther plunder from the magnificent Morton estates. He resolved, then, to do all that Sir Bern- fide Esperance required of him. But, first, Mr. Ambrose drew up, himself, with much deliberation and caution, a deed, by which Sir Bernfide bound himself to make over to him a clear moiety of the estates of Morton, in the event of his becoming legally invested with them. This deed he took to the bedside of the wounded man, and placing a pen in his hand, he said: “Sir Bernfide, this is the legal document which will secure to me the performance of your apes nye : “ Yes,” said Sir Bernfide, feebly “I — will sign.” “ Shall I read it ?” “ No:;” “ You take it on faith, then?” “TI do—I do! The pen.” “Then, I assure you, Sir Bernfide, that there is no more in it than is sufficient to carry out our mutual wishes in the matter, and you may sign it without seruple.” ‘I have no seruples—never had any.” The deed was signed. “That willdo. Sir Bernfide, I thank you.” “The ship ?”. Has gone to Antwerp.” “Ah! The valise ?”’ “T start for Corfe Castle directly.” “The mad earl ?” “He shall die to-morrow !” “Tam content.” “ And so am I,” said Mr. Ambrose, as he left the room; and, as good as his word, at once set off for Dorsetshire. Traveling was very different, indeed, in those days to what it is now, when the rail will whirl a man from London to Dorsetshire, if such be his destination, in a few hours. Mr. Ambrose could not even get a stage- coach, until quite late in the evening ; 80, al- though the expense was serious, he resolved to post to Lymington, from whence he intend- ed to take water conveyance to the coast of Dorset opposite, and so make his way as se- eretly as might be to Corfe Castle, the posi- tion of which he knew tolerably well; and that it was a ruin which stood a few miles in- land from a small bay called Studland. But Mr. Ambrose was not quite aware that he was not the only person who was on the road from London to Dorsetshire that night, It so happened, that no sooner had Mr. Ambrose left his house on Ludgate to under- take the journey to Corfe Castle, than Jonas Bran4, the thief-taker, arrived at the shop. Jonas looked ill and pale, and he had his arm in asling, but his tones were as harsh and brutal as ever. } “ Hilloa!” was the polite exclamation. “I want Ambrose—where is he ?” There was a shopman of the jeweler nam- ed Phillipson, who was remarkable for the ' suavity of his manners, and he answered Jonas” Brand with his perpetual provoking smile, and eireumlocution of p . “Why, if you please, Mr. Jonas Brand? And hoping at the same time that you are nite well, sir, and that your arm — your pre- hehe as I may call it—is not seriously hurt, although I do see it in a ma sir—” A growl like that from an enraged bear came \ x Sen eS ares you for Mr, Ambrose.” ‘Well, Mr. Jonas Brand, since, sir, you are rather impatient—and I don’t know, my dear sir, and would not take upon myself for the _ Owlet, the Robber Prince: | “T didn’t ask you about my arm. I ask — world to say that you have nota right to be , room, and Sir Bernfide Esperance shook his. impatient—” This was too much for Brand. He darted his most savage look at the shopman; and, muttering something about there being no necessity to'stretch his tongue, but a hope that he might, some day, have the pleasure of stretching his neck, he then passed through the shop; and, assuming the privilege of an acquaintance, he made his way through the door that opened into the stairease—that door and that staircase which Gerald had to watch so narrowly while engaged in listening to the conversation between the jeweler and Sir Bernfide Esperance—Jonas Brand darted up to the first floor of the house. “Hilloa!” he ‘cried. “Ambrose! Am- brose! Where, in the name of all the fiends, are you, Ambrose, I say ?” Jonas Brand then paused to listen, and he thought he heard a low groan. ‘‘ What—what’s that ?” The groan was repeated. Jonas Brand followed the sound. He felt convineed it came from a room on that floor. He puslied open a half-glass door, and was in the bed-room devoted to the use of Sir Bern- fide Esperance. The groan came a third time to his ears, and he strode up to the bed and held aside the curtain. “ Hilloa!” Sir Bernfide opened his eyes. They were fevered, and a strange glisten was about them. “ Who is that?” he said. “Me,” replied Jonas Brand, “You? Who—who?” “Brand.” et Jonas ?” \ “Just so.” “Ah; You—you?” * “Yes, I. You seem to have been hard hit, Sir Bernfide.” . ; “T am—I am—the Owlet.” “Oh, that’s it, is it? Well, there’s an end of the little expedition to Corfe Castle.” “ No—no, Ambrose.” bog 1 Ge Sir Bernfide had said what he did not in- tend to say, for Jonas’ Brand was about the last person to whom he would have confided the fact of the journey of Ambrose to Corfe Castle, in search of the valise at the bottom of the dry well. But Sir Bernfide’s mental faculties, usually so keen, were under the influence of the fever that consumed his heart, and he hardly knew what he said. Jonas Brand, however, had heard enough to guide him, so he said, with a light and jo- cose air: “Oh, you have sent him}? “ Him—him? Who?” “ Ambrose.” “ Where is he ?” “ Why, you have sent him to Corfe Castle, you know, to get the valise and bring it to ‘ou.’ ¥ ** No—no.” “Tsay, yes!” “No, I say. Jonas Brand, you are wrong.” Jonas laughed. “ Well — well, what does it matter, you know, Sir Bernfide Esperance, so long as you have it?—so long as we have it among us, ou know? Iam quite delighted that Am- peaes has gone for it, because — because you see—” } ** What—oh, what?” ‘ “T can meet him there yet, and make him give it up to me.” “To you?” “To be sure. | He is not the kind of man to be trusted by such men as you and I, Sir Bernfide ; and so I will take possession of it, and keep it till you get better.” “Oh?” “ That is quite agreeable.” “Yes, quite. Oh, of course! I tell you what we will do, Jonas Brand.” “What?” * “He will bring it here, and then I will send for you to take it away with you.” “To be sure—to be sure! That will be the way to do it. Ha! ha! Good morning! | You will soon be well again.” “You think so?” j 29 “Of course, do. Peopie whoare born to be hanged, you know, are sure to get well of ereegee else. Ha! ha! It’s an old eay- ing, butatrwe one. Good morning, Sir Bern- fide: I will call and see you again soon.” Jonas Brand walked, whistling, out of the clenched hand after him, as he groaned out: “Oh! that I were but as I was yesterday, you should sleep the sleep of death this night, villain that you are; but I shall recover. I | shall get quite well, and then, Jonas "Brand, | look to yourself.” There wasa baleful, threatening look about the eyes of Sir Bernfide Esperance, as he half closed them and sunk back on his pillow again. Jonas Brand, within twenty minutes of that time, was on a stout horse, and on his route for Dorsetshire. He felt quite convinced that- he was preceded by Mr. Ambrose, the jeweler. And in truth Ambrose had the start of him ; but as they went by different routes, Ambrose was not aware that Jonas Brand had got some miles ahead of him. Ambrose went direct to omnes where: he proposed taking a boat to Studland Bay. onas Brand =i into Dorsetshire, leaving Lymington on his left. Money was not an object with Jonas Brand when he Was on an errand that might possi- be; se so profitable a one as the present. e rode his own horse thirty miles only, and then he put it up carefully and hired another ; and so he went on, stage after stage, with a power of endurance that Mr, Ambrose could by no means have competed with, until he got. into Dorsetshire by a town named Winsborne, intending to ride to Poole, and there take a boat across the bay toward Corfe Castle. Jonas Brand had ridden one hundred and forty-two miles in sixteen hours. He had started from London at about half past ten o'clock in the forenoon. He was at Poole, in the neighborhood of Corfe Castle, about half past four on the following morning. It was a cold, wretched autumn morning— all damp, sloppy, and cheerless—when Jonag- Brand rode into Poole, and halted at a hostel: in the High street close to the market-place,. Not a soul was astir in the town. But hostlers and inn-keepers have no objeo-! tion to being disturbed for customers, and Jonas Brand soon made himself heard. He ut up his horse, promised to return in a few ours, and then went down to the beach to see if any fisherman was about, whose boat he could hire to take him over to the bay. There were boats enough in the creek, but no one who owned them could be seen. Jonas Brand, however, made a racket | against the door of a hut close at hand, and soon roused a poor fisherman, to whom he cried ont: “ A guinea, my man—a guinea for a cast over to Studland.” “ Ay, your honor, that will be a good morn- ing’s work,” said the man, “if your honor really means it.” f “ Here is the gold.” The sight of the guinea dispelled all the fisherman's doubts. of such a piece of good fortune ; and he roused his boy; and soon. the well-made sea-boat was dancing over the. waves toward Studland. “ Corfe is close to Studland, I fancy,” said. Jonas. y “ Quite, your honor.” “ What boat is that yonder?” “The fisherman could just see, through the night-haze, a boat with a square sail and jib. “ An early fisher, I should say, sir.” “From Poole?” “No; from Lymington, I take it, by the look of her, so far as one can see by this light,’” “Oh!—ah!—well! No—no. It cannot. be Ambrose—I am far ahead of him.” ~ es fee eu har. Ske ae rd It was Ambrose, though. ry The fact was that Ambrose, too, felt that a little money would not be badly spent on the project of getting possession of the valise, which probably contained the pa- per 8o essenti erry of Alice Home, as she was called. Sir Bernfide Esperance did not pay » good price for such documents, she would; and, in any case, they were of immense value- to whoever might be so fortunate as to hold ‘possession of them, | ae ; _ Therefore was it that even as Jonas Brand had spared no cost to get to Poole with ‘speed, Mr. Ambrose had spared none to get. '| with expedition to Lymington, “_ to the proof of the birth and —
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77 aN i RAC PR i a eat 30 yale rae hr nn a nt nl eT The post-chaise had carried him—take it for al} in all—very much about the same rate ¢hat Jonas Brand had succeeded in traveling on horseback ; and at the very moment that Brand had trotted into the High street of Poole, Mr. Ambrose had set sail in a small vi fishing-lugger from Lymington. But there were some cross currents about } the coast, which necessitated a long tack on Va the part of the lugger, while no such neces- sity existed in respect to the rowing boat Jonas Brand was in. The consequence was, that Jonas Brand j Janded at the little Bay of Studland about ay, * half an hour before Mr. Ambrose; and he had, therefore, the start of him in the route hi to Corfe Castle. It was not much, but it produced rather il important results both te Jonas Brand and to Mr. Ambrose. There is a small village called Corfe close . to the castle. This village boasts of an inn, " and some little cooped-up places that are dignified by the name of shops, in which, as wt in country places of such description, every i possible thing is sold, that can by any means e supposed to Se wanted by the residents of the neighborhood. To one of those shops Jonas Brand made his way, for he wante:! some articles that he had not been able, in his haste, to bring from London with him, and which, had he spared | himself time to procure them, would have much poly a ova him on his journey. A long rope Jonas Brand wanted, of suffi- cient stoutness to support a good weight— that good weight (good only on account of its ponderosity) being himself. Then he wanted some stout hooks and a hammer, ail of which things he got—saying they were for a yacht lying out: in the bay—at one of the beforementioned shops at Corfe. Then, just as he fond: by consulting his \ watch, that it was six o’clock in the morning, a Jonas Brand, commenced his walk up the hill iD to Corfe Castle. , The castle had held out, during the civil au wars of the commonwealth in England, against - the forces of Cromwell, in the cause of the ‘ra ' king.. : it was 80 pape a struggle, that, when it was,over, and the castle taken, Cromwell said that royalists should have no future .oppor- tunity of giving trouble by holding pcsses- gion of it; so he blew it up. The thick walle wore rent asunder by the blast of powder. The huge gateway was cleft in two, and one balf lifted up some five feet from the other aide. The fractured arch remains to this day. a In fact; the whole pile was a complete ruin ie ' when Jonas Brand reached the top of the nome - mound on whieh it stands. The dawn was very aye to be seen com- dng, and a cold wind was whistling about the old time-worn and gunpowder-blackened stones of the castle, ’ CHAPTER XXII. JONAS BRAND ENDS HIS CAREER. “ How shall I find this old well of the cas- tie ?”’ said Jonas to himself, as he entered the lofty building, and felt bimeelf in a darkness _ which would not be in any degree dispelled “get for a good hour to come, To be sure he would have found no diffieul- _ ty in procuring 4 guide from the village; but ; his was an errand that did not afford witnesses, t eo he rather chose to lose some time in search- ing for the well, than to bring some person with him who would point it out, and then be too officious in remaining to see what his ob- ject was. ) Through ancient halls, the ceilings of which “had long since departed, and the floors of Ws which were mounded up with rubbish, and Bee weeds, and wild grasses —Jonas Brand took ‘his way; down crumbling old, staircases. in turrets that were fearfully off the perpendic- ular, and across court-yards that had long since been reclaimed by the thistle, the dan- eaves, from anything him, and after Heer he came upon what he thought must bas we es bs for the valise would be hopeless. With his lantern in his hand, Jonas Brand stooped over the little stone coping, or par- apet, to make his observations ; and then, with a pang of disappointment, he saw that, al- though there was an evident circular depres- sion in the earth, indicatipg that there had been a well there, it was now filled up. This was a discovery that seemed to settle the whole question. If the well were filled up, easy as that pro- cess no doubt had been, considering the quan- tity of the castle ruins that lay ready at hand for the purpose, it would be weeks ot labor before it could be cleared out again. “ That's over,” said Jonas Brand. But there was a gloomy feeling of diseon- tent in his mind that he should have come so far, and ridden so hard for nothing, and he stood gazing at the closed well in deep cogi- tation. Then Jonas Brand set down his lantern on the little coping-stone that surrounded the hol low in the ground, that indicated that there a well had been, and drawing the short hanger -that he wore, he dug its point as deeply as he could in the green turf. An exclamation burst from the lips of Jonas Brand—an exclamation of satis'action. The! point of the hanger had certainly touched some wood-work. “T know all about it now,” he said. ‘The well is only covered over with planking, and turf has been placed upon that again.” Jonas was night. By removing the turf, he came upon some thick oaken planks, which, by their half-eharred ends, showed they had belonged to the castle. They were easily lifted aside. And there was the well. “ Dry or wet?” said Jonas Brand, as, crouch- ing down over the deep, black chasm, he slow- ly, one by one, dropped some pebbles down, and then listened to the sound they might make. ° So still was. the old ruin—so hushed was the whole neighborhood, that the slightest ceports from below must have reached the ears of that attentive listener. There was a grim smile of satisfaction on the face of Jonas, as he scrambled to his feet again, and uttered the one word : “ Dry hd He had no doubt about it. The well was dry, and the descent would be easy enough. But Jonas Brand had heard of foul air con- gregating in such places, and he knew that it would not be safe to go down until he was as- sured that the breath of life would be taken from him by nephitie gases. He kney, too, that what will i combustion in the shape of flame, will support life, 80 Jonas set to work providing for his own rsa _ He ties the lantern to the end of the rope he had with him, and he slowly let it down into the well. As he let the rope go through his fingers, he made a rough estimate of its length by count- ing it off i feet, as nearly as he could guess, At the number forty-five the rope slacked. fy lantern had reached the bottom of the well, | Then Jonas Brand began to haul up. The light was still burning. “ All is well,” he said. “ Forty-five feet is no great depth to go, and by the light burn- ing I have no doubt that the old well-shaft is from the top. It will be all right.” His arm that had received an injury pained him a little ; but Jonas Brand was a man o. reat ph ysical. endurance, and he would not et it hinder him. Securely between two of the coping, or edge- stones of the well, he fixed the iron hooks he had brought with him. To them, then, he tied the rope. The lantern he fastened to his waist. 7 Then down went Jonas Brand. At the moment that he fairly disappeared beneath the surface, a pale, anxious face peer- ed round one of the old ruined walls of the castle. : A hand, then, and an arm—the hand was elenched—- made threatening gestures in the air toward the well. | maledictions. © — The face was that of ventilated in some way that one cannot see © A voice muttered some scientific experiments in regard to the quality of the air in the well were satisfactorily con- eluded ; so that from that point he had beens spectator of the whole proceedings. And now, crouched low down—crouching like some huge reptile—-Mr. Ambrose ap- proached the spot and listened. He heard strange noises down the well. There came u from its depths a faint, flickering light. voice, as if from the bowels of the earth, awakened an odd echo in the old ruins. “1 have it,” said the voice. “ Ah!” ejaculated Ambrose. ” “ He—has— it. Boom! At that moment came a morning gun, fired from some ship at sea, The report echoed in a strange, rattling, disconnected fashion, from hill to hill of the whole line of coast. “He comes!” gasped Ambrose. He, with trembling hands, drew a knife—a jong, sharp knife—trom a sheath thet was fitted into a pocket of his coat, wade ex- pressly for it. He comes! The rope was agitated. The faint light from the well increased each : moment, There was a dull, scraping noise. ’ The head of Jonas Brand appeared, but his » face was in the direction away from Ambrose; — with amazing strength and skill he was elimb- iny the rope. Something was slung around | his neck—a valise. Yes; a valise of black + ened leather. He unloosened it from his f neck. With one hand he tossed it out of the well on to the rank grass. “ There!” he said. h “And there!” said Ambrose, as he with ; one blow of his knife severed the rope. Jo- | nas Brand wrenched round his head and saw © his enemy. Then, with a shriek that echoed fearfully among the old ruins, down he went. CHAPTER XXIII. ; THE VALISE REACHES ITS RIGHT OWNER. In the excitement of the moment—wrought up to a pitch almost of frenzy from fear, as’! he was, Nir. Ambrose echoed from, his own lips the fearful shrick with which Jonas Brand unged to the bottom of the dry well at old borfe Castle. Ther there was another half-stifled, agon- ized ery from deep down in the well—some- thing-like a half-wail and half-sob; and the fancy of the jeweler—for he was quite a man of imagination, was Mr. Ambrose—made him think that he heard the Bs ra of bones and blood, and mangled flesh, with which the thief- taker reached the bottom, And still crouched down in the same atti- tude in which he had been when he cut the rope, Mr. An.brose remained, looking pale and ghastly—his eyes staring—his lips con: tracted, and the knife held up threateningly,. as though he thought it possible that Jonas Brand might yet find power and means to crawl up the sides of the well, and engage with him in a combat of life and death. , And that man—that Mr. Ambrose, the jew- € eler, who could in cool blood join the plot for Ibe: the destruction of Alice at the hands of the hangman, was appalled because he had him- self to be the executioner in the case of Jonas Brand. His coward soul was all aghast when he hiniself had a deed of death to do, but he would scareely have felt a pang if, on that fearful Monday morning when Alice was taken to Tyburn, she had been legally strang- teak led there and then, ix a¢complishment of the 3 objects of Sir Bernfide Esperance, and for his Ld inept} in which he (Mr. Ambrose) had received a fee of one thousand pounds. v The cold perspiration rolled in large drops from his brow, and the damp of death ap- pen for a time to take possession of his imbs. t , Still he crouched down by the well, with his Vo: See ae right arm upraised to strike. uy And the dawn came. , : an The young day—the advent of which had _ RISD been proclaimed by that gun at sea—slowly — 1 ues stole out of the heavens, and asoft, graylight == began to creep about the old ruins of Corfe Castle. A italien Far away eastward the horizon of waters. was dappled with faint colors. Long, cloudy — st upon pH e } a
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Owlet, the Robber a ee re en tee Indian shell ; and then a gilt streak glittered and glimmered over the sea, and the first long pencil of sunlight shone upon hill, and tree, and stream, on pebbly beach. The dawn had come. Then Ambrose drew a long breath, and looked about him on the ruin, and on a | pleased every moment. London. I feel quite light of heart now with such success.” Mr. Ambrose was getting more decidedly rie was quite forget- ‘ ting that hideous spectacle at tho bottom of bright streak of light that came through a | erack far above his head. A bird then perched on the topmost pinna- cle of the old castle ; sang sweetly “a twit- teringly as it plumed itself in the sun’s first | One of those glorious days of autumn | rays. was coming, which at tines redeem the Eng- lish climate from all its bitterness. And in the well a}l was still. Still as death could be. “He is dead! He must be dead!” gasped Ambrose. “God! whut a ery he gave!” On the opposite side of the well, just clear of the brink of it, lay the much-coveted valise, all green and yellow with dainp and mould. But there it was. And there was he, Mr. Ambrose, the sole possessor of it; and that, too, without baving had the trouble, the risk, ont the terror of descending the well to get t. There was deep congratulation in that. Ambrose tried to smile as he thought of it, but a hideous contortion of countenance was all that he could produce. Then he inclined his head on one side, and listened at the well’s brink. , Not a sound—not a sigh. Dead! dead! But he. wanted to be so very sure about it, eo he looked about him, and presently he saw a fragment of the castle—a large, jagged cor- Sait ankwotd piece of rock. It might weigh eome hundred and fifty pounds—of course he could not lift it, but he could push: it, roll it, propel it, in some fashion, along. And he didso. Right to the brink of the well. Then he toppled it over. With a hideous sort of crash it reached the bottom. Mr. Ambrose placed both hands over his ears, He was, afraid some yell of mortal @gony would come up from Jonas Brand, as this rough, jagged piece of rock wouid grind into his flesh and bones. No. AIL! was still. Jonas Brand was past being hurt by pieces of rock. ‘ “ Ah!” said Ambrose, “I am satisfied now.” He then began to look:about him with some soolness ~some judgment, and he soon sw how the well had been opened by Brand, The idea came strangely across him, that it would be far better for him to restore the well to the s‘ate it seemed as if it had been in be- fore Jonas’ visit. than to have it thus staring open, with that dead man at the bottom of it. So he set to work. He replaced the wood-work. He covered it over again with the turf. He removed the iron hooks from between the stones. Then he patted the whole down as well as he could. Jonas was buried. “ It’s a kind of family vault,” said Ambrose. “The world will see him no more.” Then he lifted the valise. Tt was a small one —such, indeed, as might without difficulty have been strapped on to a horse's back. Despite the mould and the de- cay that were alout it, there was ample evi- dence of it having been made in a costly man- ner. Mr. Ambrose looked at it with intense interest. ‘ A question arose in his mind. | Wouldn’t it be better to open it, there and then, and take out its contents, and stow them about him in his various pockets, or take the whole valise, as it was, to town? — He decided upon the latter plan. “Yes,” he said, ‘ itwill be better, I will take a good look, thoukh, at what it contains, before Sir Bernfide Esperance shall be aware that I have returned. And now to London with what speed I may. Iam rid of that Jo- nas Brand, too, who was such a pest.” AG “Mr. Ambrose having got over his fright, was beginning te con ratulate himself. tiful, by the time he reached the village, but he passed across a field or two, and avoided 4 . He had told the lugger-to wait: for in the Bay, and he was soon in sight of it. in Lions ss RARE Se eel SMS The day had come, broad, bright and beau, . the well in Corfe Castle—that man with a jageed piece of rock resting upon him. ie was, in fact, was this jeweler and mur- derer, quite sprightly and facetious when he reached the fishing lugger ; and whereas, on his course to Corfe Castle, he had been gloomy and taciturn to such an extent that the boat- men had thought him some person flying from the law, they now, in his change as- pect, did not know what to think of him. And so Mr. Ambrose, sitting serene and happy in the stern of the lugger, made his way back again to Lymington. ‘Then a post-chaise to London was the order at the principal inn; and while it was getting ready, he partook of a capital breakfast. The valise he had rubbed’ and serubbed, and cleaned as best he could, so as to get rid of the appearance it had of having been in some wonderfully damp situation for a fong time. And again the notion came across him that he would like there to open it, and take « look at its contents ; but he abstained. “ No—no!” hesaid. ‘A hotel in London, and a private room. There I shall feel more secure than I do now; not but whatI am ge- cure enough now.” Yes. He was:very secure now. And so he discussed his good: breakfast, and the color came baek to his cheeks, and he no more Jooked the man he did, as he crouch- ed down by the brink’ of the old well in the eastle court at Corfe; than any two of the most dissimilar thizgsin Nature can look like each other. The post-chaise was ready. The postillion nckae his whip ; the smiling landlord bow- ‘ed from the hotel steps, and Mr: Ambrose smiled in return. Off he went—off to London. «“ What an odd old valise that was the gen- tleman had with him!” said the landlord of the hotel, as he ascynded his door-steps. “Ha! hal” Jaughed Ambrose to himself, as the chaise whirled along. “From one or the other, I shall share the vast estates of the Mortons.” It was half past eight o'clock in the morn- ing that Mr. Ambrose started from the inn door to proceed to London, it would, with constant relays and only eeny delays for change and refreshment, is we! il—all is well,” he said. s Ali | . _ serous f aha}laoon pa in | * Mien a6 wae Seer es ; take eighteen hours to get'to London ; there- fore he would not reach the metropolis until half past two, or thereabout. “ Say three o'clock,” said Ambrose to him- self; “three o’clock in the morning. Then I shall have till daylight to thoroughly exam- ine the valise, and mature my plans, As for sleep, I can take it by snatches here in the chaise, when we come to smooth, soft bits of road.” The chaise dashed on. f Through many a country town. and vil- Sage ; through old ecclesiastical Winchester ; through Barringstoke, and to London. Mr. Ambrose had many a sound nap ; and he was in the middle of one when the chaise stopped to change horses at Kingston. Mr. Ambrose was cross. ; “What the —a —a deuce—!” he said; “could you not go on to the next stage with- out waking me up ?” : “ Couldn’t, sir,” said the post-boy. ‘ Hor- ses knocked up, sir!” / “ And what is that to me? Fresh horses directly, do you hear ?” “ Yea. sir!” ‘What's the time? Dear me, I have let my watch ron down |” “It is a quarter to one, sir,” said a portly» man, who was the landlord of the inn which supplied the post-horses. “ Would not your worship like to sleep here for the night?” “No—no!” uy it “Excellent beds, sir.” “No. I say, nol” “ And they do say, sir, that between here and town there are highwaymen!” Bat “Bah—stuff! Driveon!” 955 Crack went the postillion’s whip, and on went Mr. Ambrose, 0 8 Prince. but ON TT oo 31 | from the meadows close to the banks of the | river, a rocket flew up into the air, and burst into a shower of brilliant particles in its de- scent. Then another, at an interval of five min- utes, and another, five minutes after that; Mr. Ambrose saw the last one. “Hilloa! hilloa! Postillion, stop! - What was thint ?” 4 ‘““A rocket, sir! There was three on ’em, as I seed.” *« But what are they for?” ‘Don’t know, sir! But they do say—” “ Well—what ?” “You hain't afeared-like, sir?” “Meafraid? Ah! Ha! ha! Afraid of a ing!” * Well, then, sir, they dosay—” “ Well—what?” “ As the Owlet sends up them rockets.” “The Owlet ?” “Yes, the highwaymen. They do say as he get’em sent up to let him know what road to go on to catch them as he wants to catch.” “Eh? But~but—” “Yes, sir!” “ Well — wel! —1—a — where is the next stage ?” ‘A little the other side of East Sheen, sir.” “ A good house?” “ Well, sir, not at all first-rate.” pO Go on—go on! Oh, it can’t be any mat- rtous. I say, my man.” \ “ Yes, sir!” “ Were you ever stopped by this—a—Ow- let that people talk so much about?” “ Never, sir!” now—drive on. Don't spare the cattle. Om —on!” Mr. Ambrose leaned back in the chaise, and her; his feet on the opposite seat; the valise by his side. He slept. The wheels of the chaise went deep into the soft sand of a bit of common land clog co. Richmond. Mr. Awibrose started wide awake. . The sudden report of a pistol-shot had, in an instant, fared upon every nerve. “O Lord! O Lord!” he heard the post-bo* ery out. “Halt! Quiet!” said a loud, clear voite, * Quiet, and safety! Move, and you die!’ “ O-good Lord!” “ Peace.” ; Bang went down the window on the side of the ‘chaise next to which Mr. Ambrose waa sitting; and then, by the gleam of the car- riage-lamp, he saw a head and a face. ‘he head had on it a cap with feathers, in the midst ot which sparkled a ruby. The face was covered by a mask, ! Mr, Ambrose shook with fear till the springs: of the post-chaise creaked again- “You are in good time,” said a strange, croaking voice, that almost stopped Mr. Am- brose’s blood from flowing, such an agony of fear did it throw him into. “ You are in good time, Mr. Ambrose.” The jeweler’s tongue seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth, and it waa only by a greet effort that he was able to say : “In—in good time, sir?” “ Yes. I commend your diligeneer “My diligence, sir?” “Much. Give it to me! over.” “Oh, have merey upon me! I'm a poor man — a wife, sir, and children, Have oe Ms : Your trouble is afraid 2?” “Spare my life !” : or front life is not threatened yet.” “T thought—that is, you—you~<dear sir, you said, | thought, that my troubles were over, which generally means—means—” — “ Oh, spare me!” ; “I did not threaten. letter to the word. It was your trouble—not “| yur troubles, I said was over.” — Nye _ “I—I—yes, sir! God bless you—thank you.” -yalise—the v “ah rocket! My good fellow, lam afraidof noth . “Of course not—of course not. Drive on - made himself comfortable ; his head ina cor- » hat do you mean? Of what are you \ “Death!” - a You added a final’ “ And now 1 will relieve you of the valise.? | _ Mr. Ambrose uttered a yell of agony, The ; that he had gone so far for _| —that he had committed murder for—that he had nursed up by his side through.so loug “ E eA he 4 icy e b) 4 at, Rs {a eee here Be. “a 1 Fs a (ae 4 ty Pips 3 ans
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‘32; ew Owlet, the Robber Prince. 2 es 8 journey—that he had abstained from open- vegetation, forgetful that the stern realities ing at Corfe Castle—that he had left intact when he was tempted to examine it at the inn —the valise that was the object ofall his hopes and all his expectations, was coolly asked of t of winter must yet interpose, will start into a | new life; the bud and the blossom will ap- pear in the orchard; the geranium will flaunt itp beauty in the well-kept garden; and him, as if it were a bauble, and as if he had | through. all the air there will be the soft feel been just to feteh it for this man, or fiend, who was at the carriage-door, and who spoke like a parrot. No wonder that the eyes of Mr. Ambrose dilated, until they looked awful- ly prominent ; no wonder that he uttered that yell which nearly set the post-horses off into @ gallop. “ What is the matter?” said the horseman. ‘* Matter! the—the matter! Murder! fire! help te “ Are you ill?” “Mad—mad !” “T thought so. But it matters not. The valise, if ‘you please; and I thank you for your pains and your diligence.” “You? you?” TV eu, ** “ But it isyou whoare mad. Ha! ha! A of summer-time. Such, then, was the aspect of the morning after the encounter of the Owlet with the jeweler, when a carriage drove up to the door of the house in St. James’ square, which had been, in so singular a fashion, made over to the occupation of Gerald Alton and Alice. From this carriage there alighted, with all the easy nonchalance of a young man of fash- ion, the Owlet, in his undress uniform as an officer of the Guards. There was a smile upon his face as he gave some brief directions to the driver of the earriage, and then he took something from the interior of the vehicle, which looked like an old, black, mouldy parcel. That was the valise. An immense dog walked into the hall of the there! find cause to blame us if we presume to name you other than Countess of Morton.” “ And is it possible!” exclaimed Alice, “that that can be the valise from the welb at Corfe Castle ?” “T firmly believe if is.” « And you, dear friend,” said Gerald, “ have you been to encounter the trouble and the risk of procuring this valise because you knew that it was important to our fortunes.” “Not exactly. Trouble I have had but little; risk, none at all. At another time I will amuse you with an account of how I be- came possessed of this valise. Let it euf- fice, for the present, that I have it, and that I did not go down a well in Corfe Castle for it. I generally get our enemies to do any such work as that.” ) “ Our enemies, sir ?” “Yes; but we waste what may possibly be precious time ; and, indeed, I have much to think of and much to do.” A slight shade of sadness passed across he face of the Owlet as he spoke; but he ap- by highwayman, and he sees that a valise is all | house: after the Owlet. ; 5 peared then, by a sudden effort, to shake it i my luggage. Ha! ha! Nothing in it—no- “This is a friend of mine,” he said, to the | away. - He looked at Gerald and Alice with a thing but crusty, musty law-papers — of no | hall porter, as he patted the dog on the head. | his old, familiar smile; in which, by the i use in all the world to anybody but their | ‘‘ He will, I am sure, be made very welcome | way, there was even a slight toxeh of melany © fi owner, and not much to him. Ha! ha! My | by Mr. Alton, your master; and he will sit | choly. Hy mre of course; my watch, of course. | down here in the hall by you, and wait for “Who,” he said, “shall open this val ‘ee al? me.” ise?” ia “Mr. Ambrose,” said the horseman, “it “ Dear me, sir, what a fine dog!’ said the Shall I, dear Alice ?” said Gerald. i seems to me, sir, that you must have taken | hall-porter, “* Yes, Gerald.” ha Ieave of your senses. I send you to Corfe fr ite is, indeed.” The valise was locked and strapped secure- Naa Castle for a valise, you kindly go to much “ Perhaps, sir, he —he won’t be contented | ly; and Gerald turned it twice over, with- trouble and expense to get it, and then you fancy that I would rob you. Ohno!” “ You—sent—me ?” t “Yes.” “You? Then who—who—. Oh it is too absurd; and yet, how come you to know? You sent—” ** Yes, Lsent you.” . “Then, in the name of all that is diabolt- eal, who are you?” “ Just 80.” “ Just what?” yelled Mr. Ambrose. The horseman lifted the hat and plume pe his, head, and then the mask from his ace. There was the owl's head and face, beak, "eyes, and ears—all perfect. “The Owlet!” gasped Ambrose. “ Just 80.” 4* Lost—lost!”” , “No; found. It was lost at the bottom of ‘the dry well at Corfe Castie, but it is now found. The valise — the valise, I aay, that 1 sent you for!” . There was a rush of blood to the head of Mr. Ambrose ; a cold feeling was about his heart, Witn a cry, he slid off the seat of the here with me.” “Oh yes. His name is Drift.” “ Drift, sir ?” “Yes. You will stay here, Drift, for me— here. You understand, Drift?” The dog looked at the Owlet fora moment, and then quietly and composedly sat down by the side of the hall-porter; who, however, id not seem to be quite well assured of the coutinued pacific intentions of an animal as large and almost as powerful asa lion. Then the Owlet, with the valise in his hand, walked (slowly up the principal staircase of the house, and made his way to that room in which there was the gilt furniture and the silk hangings. The room was empty, but the Owlet went to a particular portion of the wall, and press- ed his fingers‘upon what looked like the head of a nail. : Probably some spring was touched, which struck a bell; for in a few seconds one of the tall, secret doors in the paneling of the room was cautiously opened, and the abbé peeped into the apartment. “Come in,” said the Owlet. The abbé made a very low bow, and came into the room. out being well able to make up his mind how to open it. The Owlet smiled again. “Come, now,”’ he said, “ let me advise the shortest way of opening such a case as this.’” He turned the valise completely over, and with his sword he cut the bottom of it open along its’ entire length. “There,” he Za “Tt is but the casket in which we expect to find a jewel.” Gara pameily pulled out the contents of the valise. Old, musty papers ; letters ; the title-deeds of a small estate, which had been given from the patrimonial property to the Honorable Captain Morton by his brother, the earl; some medals and stars for foreign service in the wars of the Low Countries, and a small tin ease, tied round with crimson ribbon. “J fancy,” said the Owlet, “that inthis ease will be what we want.” Alice’s eyes were filled with tears as she saf?’ these words of her dead father brought to light, and she could scarcely speak. _ Gerald's hands shook so much that he could not open the tin case. ; “Permit me,” said the Owlet, and he at a chaise, and fell in a swoon on to the mat at me once opened the case. ee a the bottom of it. He spoke in his softest and lowest tones, as There was a small, gold locket, containing Wy i The Owlet reached in his hand at the open | he said: . ; @ miniature. i: window, and took out the little valise. “May I hope that your majesty is quite “Her mother!” said the Owlet. “ How (a “ Postillion,” he said. _ | well, and that all has turned out according io | like!” “O Lord! yes, sir.” your majesty’s wishes ?” “My mother!” cried Alice; and her eyes ia “This gentleman is Mr. Ambrose, jeweler “Yes, abbé ; but you had better not call | ran over with tears as she looked at the min- and goldsmith, of Ludgate Hill, in the City | me ‘majesty’ yet. I am what I seem always. | iature. of London. You will drive him home, and | You see my uniform, and with it I am En-| “ Yes, yes.” “2 : he will pay you. But, since you haited at | sign Harold Blanchard, of the Coldstream | “And you, dear friend, you knew her?” once when [ cried halt, take these.” Guards.” , “TJ did; that is, I have seen her.” i The Owlet held out his hand. The abbé bowed low again. “ And you think this miniature is like?” ‘3 “ Your cap !”” he said, “your cap !”” “Ts Annie well ?” “Tt is, indeed.” The postillion took off his round-crowned cap, and held it, and the Owlet flung into it “ Her royal highness is quite well. “Good. You will now, abbé, summon to “But you did not tell me that you knew my mother, dear sfr.” = a handful of guineas. me Mr. Alton and Mrs. Alton, as she is call-| “No. But I do not think that I need any Hes! >" “Remember me!” he said. “Come, Leo!” | ed, but in reality the Countess of Morton. I | longer oe secret from you, Alice, that your mile : Another moment and he was gone. After have, I hope and expect, in this valise—which | mother and mine were sisters.” Re ie ¢ him, too, the postillion saw go a very large | has cost far less trouble to procure than I Alice uttered an exclamation. . * dog, which kept up pace with the coakblack could ever have imagined—the proofs of her Gerald looked deeply interested. *y horse. claim to the title and estates of the Mortons.” “Yes,” added the Owlet, ‘‘ what I am telle. < Paper: “Your majesty could create a Countess of-) ing you is a matter in which you may rely; mts CHAPTER XXIV. Morton without proofs.” although it is not, I warn you, all that I hope THE. MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE — MR. AMBROSE’S “Yes; but it will be more satisfactory, by to be able to tell you.soon. There were two | PLAN. far, to the countess, to have her claim put in | sisters; and one married your father, the 3 The morning was fair and bright, after that | such eform that she will feel she owes it to | Honorable Captain Morton, the brother of. - _ night of horror to Mr. Ambrose, the jeweler. a Py ars descent, rather than to the favors | the Barl of Morton; the other married my , ’ Fair and bright to all who, with honest mind | of # king.” ‘ father.” ees Vie. and foalt t about righteous work, but | The abbé bowed again. “And who was he?” asked Alice, in the — « "most unwelcome in its heavenly beauty to| — “In regard,” added the Owlet, “to Mr. | most innocent manner in the world. ae ; those who, amid the storm of evil passions, | Gerald Alton, we can easily confer upon him | _ A faint, sad smile came oyer the face of the: oe would rather Nature had put on its gloomicst | # patent of nobility when the proper time | Owlet as he replied : : 2 : { aspect than the sun of that almost supple- | comes.” : ; “ Dear cousin Alice, I cannot ary yet tell % f mentary summer should impart its golden | The abbé made no remark; but, with an- | youthat. You will understand that both the 2 = beauty to old England. : other low bow, he left the room. marriages were secret ones—your father’sand @ _ of caprices, It does bat sometimes, in our climate that, for a short period in the sutumn of the year, the sun will shine forth in its yellowest splendor ; soft airs from the ‘The Owlet smiled as he shook hands with In five minutes more, both Alice and Ger- ald were with the Owlet. them, and pointed to the v: my father’s. I am still seeking for legal proof of my legitimacy. You have beem - of yours,and, if I mistake = seeKing for pro not, Sareke ae ; ~ ‘South’ will puff gently over the land: and| “1 hope, Alice,” he said, “that you will | Asmall folded paper was in the tin onee, Me cy i “ I j = ae j , ze 5 \- ; ae 3 : ‘ aN tee Meat = cs Rast Sie aed 4 PAC drial Maps nae er tons oe ys Lye <5 oF 7 an
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-@nd what the man is. An then I think Mr. e! “a J <a <: =e as glong with the miniature. The Owlet un- Molded it as he spoke, and cast his eyes hasti- ly over it, “Yes,” he added; “ a properly-attested cer- tificate of your father’s marriage with your mother, at the Hague, by the ehaplain to the atadtholder. Dcar cousin and countess, I give you joy!” “And my mother was Alice Salisbury?” “The Lady Aliqia Salisbury was her name. [ fancy, too, that your real name should be Alicia. But you are the Countess of Morton an your own right.” A slight flush of color came to the face of ’ ‘Gerald as he said: “My Alice, you might have made a nobler alliance than the poor apprentice of a jeweler.” “No, Gerald, no. Do not say so. My no- dlest choice is the noblest heart; and Nature bas granted you, dear Gerald, a patent of no- bility in etd and thought, and purpose that kings might envy.” “That is well,” said the Owlet ; “and yet titles go for something in the world; and we must see what we can do for Gerald in that way on the first opportunity. At present, dear Alice, I would haye you rest con'ented that you are in possession of the important document. . There will come a time soon, I hope, when it may be produced; and then justice will be done to you.” “We will wait your pleasure, sir, in all things,” said Gerald. “Tt is well, You will lose nothing by so waiting. Your uncle, Alice, the present Earl of Morton, is insane, and the inmate of an asylum. Sir Bernfide Esperance has seized apon the family estates; and hence he was desirous of your death.” “The villain!” exclaimed Gerald. “True. There does not, I believe, exist a | aay villain ii all the world than that man ; ut, if I mistake not, he now lies atthe point of death, at Mr. Ambrose’s. the jewelers ; and there let him lie for a few days. Iam occu- pied with an affair that, until I now see the end of, will engross me fully.” The Owlet’s mind seemed, ench moment, to ‘be getting more and more pre-oceupied ; and he now paced the large apartment, with dis- ordered strides. The task that. he had set himself in the eoungil chamber — to free the throne of its then oceupant—was beginning to press heay- ily upon him. “ eg You are disturbed, dear friend,” said Ger- ald. “Is there anything in the world that I oan do to aid you?” , “ Nothing—nothing.” “Tf, however, itshould be possible for me ‘to ve of any kind of assistauce, you can searcely guess what pleasure it would be, both to me and to our dear Alice, to make some attempt to prove our gratitude.” “T am sure of that—I am sure of that!” At this moment there came a low, cautious tap at the door of the appartment—that is to aay, the ordinary door of it, and not at any of its secret entrances. The Owlet stepped back a pace, and plung- ed his hand into the breast of his apparel, as if he had there some concealed weapon of defence. And so in truth he had, for he knew not at ‘what moment some mal a propos circumstance aight occur, to place him in imminent danger. t was the abbj, though, only, who appear “Oh! it is you?” “Yes, your—” “ Ah!” The abbé bowed law, and then added: * Yes, Mr. Blanchard. Yes it is I.” “That is well.” . “T have come to say that there is a man dn the hall who, strangely enough, asked to see Mr. Alton, and who has been trying to ‘question the hall-porter concerning the in- habitants of the house.” “Indeed ?” “No one can know I am here,” seid Ger- ald. “Nor I,” said Alice ; “for I have not been without the house.” P _ The Owlet consilered for a moment or two an | then said : ‘‘Let this yalise, and all that it contains ‘be removed into the next apartment.” “ Yes, yes,” said Gerald, “I will take charg: ef them.” “Do so. And you, abbé, ascertain who a TS =z om Alton should see him, for our object is not— to—to bring suspicion on the house.” Gerald and Alice glanced at each other, and then Gerald said, in a tone of entreaty : “Oh, kind and good friend, to whom we owe so much, if vou would only trust us.” “T dare not yet.” Gerald bowed and was silent. The abbé came back. “Tho man says his name is Ambrose.” “ Ambrose!” exclaimed Gerald. ‘ Ambrose,” faltered Alice. “The jeweler,” said the Owlet. The abbé looked from one to the other of them, and stoutly rubbed his old shriveled hands together. ‘‘What can he want here?” said Alice. “ Some'villainy, of course,” said the Owlet “Let me think. Yes. That will do.” The Owlet remained in thought a few mw ments more, and then he. said, freely and rapidly : “Gerald, you will see this man in this room ?” “ Yes, sir.” “You will then find out what he comes for. It is most likely some villainy about the val- lise ; but do not on any account own that you have it, or that you have seen it,” “T will not.” “You will comprehend that, for the sake of confounding the villain—of catching him, so to speak, in his own snare, I shall be a listener to all that passes; and when you hear a slight tinkling sound, which will be in reality a clock playing an air, you will, on any excuse you like, leave Ambrose alone in this room.” ' “T will,” “Then all the rest I will arrange ; and you will be free of him once and for all. will you return. to your own room. Pardon me for assuming such mastery in the house, dear cousin.” “We rather feel more gratitude,” said Alice, “ for all your goodness.” A few minutes, then, and the valise and its contents were removed. Then the’ Owlet watched until Gerald was out of the apurt- ment for a moment, conducting Alice to her room, and he touched a spring that opened Alice,” Owlet, the Robber Prince. one of the secret panels, and tpn through, © The albé bowed profoundly ; and when poet) returned, he was rather surprised to nd the abbé in such an attitude of obeisanoe to the wall merely, as it appeared to him. « Abbé ?” “Eh? Oh!” “T will now see this man.” The abbé slided out of the room; and, ina few moments, pale, hrggard, and half dead with the fatigue, the fright, and the mental commotion he had gone through, Mr, Am- brose appeared. Ambrose had evidently quite made up his mind what course of action to pursue; and he put on a sickly smile as he held out his hand, which Gerald paid no attention to, and said : é “No doubt, my dear Gerald, fou are quite surprised to see me, your old master, -here— Hem! Well, some explanation ia.due to me from you, and from me to you. * see I watched ‘limber, or rather I got some ta watch him, to this house. Well, when I got somebody to tind out that you it was who resided here, and that you were actually mar- ried to Alice Home, my dear boy, I con- gratulate you—I do indeed—hem! Well, do ou know I have found out that that Sir ernfide Esperance is a terrible rogue.” “ Tndeed, sir.” “Yes, my dear boy—hem—yes. And what is more, I have found out that Alice is his—his cousin, I suppose, and the real heir- ess to the estates of the Morton family. Now I—I, my dear boy, ‘only, can help her unto the possession of them! Sir Bernfide offers me half the estates if [help him! Here is the deed to that effect; but I would rather help you and Alice. Come, will you do the same ?” A slight tinkling noise came upon the still air of the room, and Mr. Ambrose started. It was a French waltz being played by a clock. “Eh! What is that?” “ Only a clock, Mr, Ambrose! If you will wait for me here, you will soon have an an- ewer.” 5 “To be sure—to be sure! Consult Alice —consult Alice! To be sure! But of one roe Fase fey Se Nae thing be assured, that T, and I only, cam help you to the titles and estates of Morton, if you make terms with me,” ; Gerald bowed slightly and left the room. CHAPTER XXY. SIR BERNFIDE ESPERANCE AND MR, AMBROSE ARE TOO CLEVER FOR RACH OTHER. When Mr; Ambrose found himpelf alone in that old palatial-looking apartment, he licked his parched lips — pirched with the fovea : anxiety and far, and looked curiously ab , him. . ‘A fine house, indeed,” he said. “ Hem! ~ A very fine house. Gerald is well lodged. I - can’t quite comprehend it, unless some one | has jaton him by the hand on account of Alice, who knows that she may become pos- - sessed of the estates of Morton. I am quite , clear though, now, about my policy. Sinee , the valise is gone, it is into the hands of friends of Gerald and Alice that it has so : gone, or of people who will make terms with them about it; and,so as I am first ‘in the field, if I can make a good bargain all will be { well.” ‘ Mr. Ambrose was not quite sure that. after all, he was doing’the cleverest thing, and yet ’, it had occurred to him to do what he was now : doing as a grand stroke of policy. He had been home. But he had not set any one to watch Tim- ber, although he had been watched by a man in. his employment, who had done so on his - own account. % When, therefore. Mr. Ambrose reached his . own house, which he did at a very early hour! in the morning, with his heart full of disap: { pointment and bitterness, he had abstained ¢ awe om seeing Sir Bernfide Esperance, but he sat down to try and arrange his thoughts as to what he had better do. : Then was it that this workman and shop- man of Mr. Ambrose came to him quite fall of his news, that he had observed something, so peculiar about the incomings and outgo- | ings of Timber, that he had followed him, and found him go into a grand house in St. James’ . Square, hed that, by dint of careful inquiry, ¢ he had ascertained that a Mr. Alton lived} there, who was just married. La “And indeed, sir,” added the spy, ae stood by the railings opposite the house, and I saw our apprentice, Gerald Alton, and ihe | teacher, who was going to be hanged for stealing the diamond ‘bracelet, both look out } from the balcony, as grand as any duke and [ duchess. That Alice had found friends and protee- tors was, of course, evident from this; and » therefore, in the politic views of Mr. Ambrose, © she was the person toside with now, before } it should be too late. Hence his visit to St. James’ square. But the difficulty that Gerald had bad to keep his hands off him he little knew, be- cause he was not at all aware that Timber had been ina position to enlighten Gerald, concerning his villainous compact with Sir Bernfide Esperance. Indeed, it was only on account of the strict promise he had made the Owlet, that Gerald abstained from taking ‘ summary vengeance, there and then, upon the jeweler. z And so Mr. Ambrose was alone, and look- - ing about him with curious observation at | everything in the apartment. “ Mae Jittle thought what eyes were upon im. “Yes,” he muttered, “I shall be right at last, and have nothing to fear. That Jonas Brand is dead, and there is no one else who knows anything about the whole affair but Sir Bernfide, and he lies in rather a precarious state at my house.” ; A strange smile flitted for a second over the face of the jeweler. “ Yes; in a very precarious state at my house. So very precarious, that if he were to drink anything that would not agree with him—ha, ha !—there would be an end of him. And he is extremely likely to do so!” Mr. Ambrose looked pleased, “then I can, by siding with Alice, he cer- tain of reward, and the death of Jonas Brand and the death of Sir Bernfide puts out of the world all evidence that I plotted or planned, or had anything to do with the other side, And ag regards the bracelet, it was Sir Bern. — | tide who rolled see in Alice's music, not 1 id ‘Tt was he who did it. I was compelled t roseeute, Besides, did I not recommend he a
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Sess — Owlet, the Robber Prince. to merey? Of course I did. But that high-| “No—no, I did not!” wayman troubles me.” r. Ambrose shuddered, as he thought of | will be worse for you. the Owlet. “But still—still, he added, he will procuce the valise in their interests, and I will tell Gerald and Alice, that having extorted from Sir Bernfide the secret of where the valise was, that I went to get it for them. I will make a good story of a dreadful fight that I 4 say I had with Jonas Brand, of how I as robbed by a highwayman, and soon. Oh, yes. The other aie dead, I shs:! he on the right side, and do well; only I wish two “now who it was that had taken up the affair for Alice and Gerald, and placed them in this fine house.” “ {tia I!” eaid a voice. Mr. Ambrose fell to the floor, with a seream, and then on his hands and knees, he glared up in the face of the Owlet. Yes. There was the Owlet standing a few paces from him, in his full costume of a high- Wayman, with that fearful owl's face, and the few words he bad uttered had the memorable parrot-like croak about them, that he (Mr. Ambrose) knew go well, as having heard them on the common, near Richmond. “Tt is I!” repeated e Owlet. “Good God!” “ Ay, you are right.” “Right?” “Yes.” “T, well, my dear Ow, sir. brain. I suppose I am mad.” “ What do you want here ?” “What? do, I, oh! it was, my dear, good Ow—air, it was to do good—good.” “ What oy ?” “ Hel r. Alton, and Miss Alice Home— Miss Alice Home, in particular, to herrights.” “What rights ?” “Her title—her estates. J do believe, on O my poor “ Which a will prove that she— that is, Miss Alice Home, that was, is the Countess of Morton in ber own right.” Ah ” “ And eo I was very anxious—that is to say, very desirous, indeed, of aiding, assisting, abetting oe see, in what was right, and in restoring the young lady to her inheritance.” + “When ?” “Eh? When? Oh! as soon as possible.” “TI mean, when did you become anxious to estore her to her inheritance ?” ; “Oh ! always—as soon as I knew who and what she was, my dear Mr. a—Ow—sir.” “A lie.” “ Sir? “A lie, You knew perfectly well who and what she was, when, in conjunction with Sir Bernfide Esperance, you tried to get her hanged on a false charge of robbing you of a diamond bracelet.” “© Lord! OLord!” “Which you had yourself stolen, inasmuch as it belonged to the late Lady Adela Sulis- bury.” The hair very nearly stood up on end on Mr. Ambrose’s head. His be glared wpon the Owlet, and he opened and shut his hande convulsively. “ You—you seem—to know—” SR Mr. Ambrose groaned aloud. He beat his breast with his hands, as, upon his knees, be- fore the dreaded Owlet, he still moaned. Yes,” added the Owlet, ‘I do know all. Your plotting, your planning, and your svheming are all in vain. 1 know that youare a villain, who, for tke love of gold, would have sacrificed without a pang the young, the no- ble, and the inuocent.” “ Mercy !” “ Had you merey when you permitted that diamond bracelet to be rolled up in the music of that innocent girl, who, to procure an honest subsistence, came to your house ‘# 7 “Oh! Oh!” “ Had you merey when she was condemned to die a terrible death atthe hands of the pub- lie executioner 2” ; _ Mr. Ambrose beat his breast again. “ And when she was preserved from that fearful fate, did mercy find a place in your heart, when you still combined with Sir Bern- of Morton?” fide Esperance to murder the poor mad Earl | a OH. ae Do not lie to me or it I say you Sea were to do these things when that wretched man, who is now hovering between life and death at your house, was brought to you in the sedan chair, dabbled in his blood.” “ These things—” “ Yes, you were to send to Antwerp for the learned man who was to cure him.” “Oh! you know that, too?” “You were to go to Corfe Castie and get the valise from the well.” ““Yes—yes!” “ And you were to communicate with the brutal keeper of the asylum—so called—in which the mad Earl of Morton is confined, that the time had come when he was wanted to Jive no more.” Mr. Ambrose felt faint and sick. “ You see I do know all,” “ But still you will have some mercy upon me. I am uot alone in the world—I have two children! Oh sir, for their sakes spare me !”” “ Alas! “ But—but, without me they would be poor indeed. I work for them. For them you see, sir, I strive; and if you take my life, all will be confusion forthem! Oh! pray spare me, if you have one touch of pity, for my children’s sake! I see, I hear, that nothing is unknown to you. My heart trembles to ask itself who and what you are: but you are something more than human. Let me im- plore you, then, to spare me. Let me live— oh! let me live!” “ Wretch !”” “I am—I am indeed. I feel that I am, and yet you will be merciful.” “ On one condition.” “ Any condition—any in the world ; — say what are your commands, and I will obey them as never yet slave obeyed his master.” “The condition is, that from this moment, until you are called upon by me to do 80, you will let all these transactions be locked up in your own breast, and that you will not, to man, to woman, or to child, breathe one word concerning them.” “Too easy—oh ! all too easy! Set me some task. Say that I am to do something that will be powerful, difficult, and will require some effort.” ‘*No—I have spoken. Now you may go, but¢beware! I say beware!” Mr. Ambrose shuddered. “ Twbed—at board—in the thronged streets —amid the silence and solitude of your own chamber—in the air above the earth, or in its lowest depths below, if you disobey me, I will find you, and woe be to you!” “Oh! say no more. I will obey—indeed I will. Iam your slave; I live now but to obey you. I feel stronger even with the thought that I am under your orders. “ Rise. “Yes, yea!”. Mr. Aube scrambled to his feet. “ Go home/now, anébe silent as the grave.” good i] “Tsay you did. “J willI will. And—and, sir— sir?” o “ 1] 9 “What shall I say to Sir Bernfide Esper- ince? He will question me. He will ask me how and why it is that I have not brought the valise from @orfe Castle.” “ Wait !” “Yes, yes.” The Owlet slowly went toward the wall. “ Look from yonder window.” 4Yeg.’? “Tf you so much as turn ee head to glance around this room, until 1 tell you, you are a dead man.” “T will not—I will not!” The Owlet touched the spring in the wall and was gone. The abbé was on the other side. “Go quickly,” said the Owlet. “ Let the valise be tied up as best it may—but empty— and then bring it to me. Gerald Alton will give it to you.” The abbé bowed and went for the valise. The Owlet watched Ambrose, and saw that he did not make the slightest attempt to look round, “He is thoroughly terrified,” said the Owlet to himself. ‘The law shall deal with him in good time. It is not for me to execute its vengeance.” ne ‘the abbé brought the ae ; ae or children with such a father !” - “That is well.” The Owlet then touched the spring of the paneled door, and was in the room again. “Behold!” he said. Ambrose looked round. Here’ is the valise. The sight of it wil? satisfy Sir Bernfide Esperance. It is emptied: of its contenta, but he will not know that. Let him have it.” “ Yes—yes !” “ Now go.” “ And—and—” ““ What more ?”’ “T was only saying that you would protect. me; that you look upon me now as—a—a— friend.” “ Wretch, begone !’” Mr. Ambrose darted out of the room and down the staircase. He crossed the hall and . was out of the house in another moment; and. | with the valise in his hand, he ran all the wa from St. James’ square to Ludgate Hill, where he arrived 80 faint, and so weary, thay he fell prostrate on the floor of his own shop. The assiduous shopman picked him up. “ Dear!—dear!” he said. “What can be the matter? My dear sir, you are hurt—only say that you are hurt! Why, the learned Doctor Bergheim has only just left the house —he came all the way from Antwerp, do you know, sir, to attend on the worshipful Sir Bernfide Esperance ?” Mr. Ambrose sat uy on the floor. “Doctor Bergheim ?” he said. sYes, sir. He and Sir Bernfide seem to be quite old friends, dear sir.” “ How do you know?” ‘ “Oh!—I—I thought that perhaps you would like to know, so you eee, dear sir, I be went up the stairs a little way and— an aro “ Listened ?” “ Well—I—a—yes !” “ You were quité right; 1 did want to know if they were old friends. But row, help me up. That will do. Now I have something to say to you!” “To me, sir?’’ “Yes, in the bowels of the earth, or up in the air, you say one word, or even think s word, of what you know—beware! beware! beware! ; Woe! woe! woe!” rf Mr. Ambrose thought that he was imitat- dng th Owlet to perfection. he assiduous shopman turned pale “Lord, sir! I won’t say a word!” “Don’t! Beware! beware!” Mr. Ambrose clutched the valise in hie hands and went up stairs to Sir Bernfide Esperance. “Timber !” called out the assiduous shop~ man. “Timber, I say! Timber!” “ Here you are,” said Timber, “Timber |” “Well?” ; “Tf ever you, by looks or winks, or nods, or words or kicks, or in any sort of way say what you know—beware! woe! Beware of woe! Vengeance! Ah! woe! Beware!” “Lor”! said Timber. “No more! no more! Hush! whisht! Boo! Ha! ha! Beware!” The assiduous shopman retired into the eounting-house. “He's gone a liltle mad,” said Timber, with a philosophical look, ‘but I'll go up stairs and hear what I can about Sir Bernfide and Mr. Ambrose, for they will be sure to haye a talk together now.” Sir Bernfide Esperance’s room was shaded by the blinds being carefully drawn down— only a faint sort of twilight made its way in. Sir Bernfide was better, but he felt fearfully languid, and it was quite an effort to him to raise hand or foot. é It was fhe loas of blood that produced this effect. A fearful quantity of the vital fluid had made its way from his veins while he was being conveyed from the common to Ludgate Hill after his wound. And yet, despite all this languor—despite ell this weakness, which reduced him almost to the helpless condition of an infant, the — bad, bold, scheming intellect was active, ahda malignant smile was on his lips, He was muttering to himse poet faintly, mutteying the full designs of hissoul, «“Tts strange,” he said. “ It’s very arene’ that I hear no more of Jofias Brand. I should have thought, now, that he would be sure to | come. Well, well, it don’t matier—not a nota t me up bit. Bergheim will soon se ea eon Sree Sat ret If ever in bed, or on a board, or f_ 2:
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“ee +gry — ~ ‘ e' a = ee pus: “ +
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cee = Owlet, the Robber Prince. have sent for Doctor Bergheim, who brought with him an invaluable syrup, a few drops of which in water—I have it here—acts as such a@ restorative, that let a man be ever go hurt, ever.so weak, ever 80 Weary, ever so sad, ever #0 perplexed, it revives, comforts, and up’ holds him.” “ Indeed ?” ‘ “Tt kus saved me from death; for he swears to me that I have not a quart of blood left in my veins.” “You don’t say so ?” “Yes. Here it is.” “ The syrup?” “Yes. I keep it close to my hand, 60 that dt should be safe. Ah, invaluable medica- ment! well I know that Bergheim alone possessed the secret of your preparation, or I would not have sent to Antwerp for him!” “Ts it agreeable ?” “ Delightful, because you know what good ait does.” : “Tt looks clear and bright.” “ Mind—mind, don’t spill it.” “T won't. Iam not strong justnow—I am ‘very weary, as you may well imagine.” * Come—come, put it down.” “ But—” “Put it down, I say. I tell you man, that ZI can get no more of it; and it is life to me. d want every drop of it myself.” “T should like just to taste it ?” “ No—no.” “ Nay, Sir Bernfide, if, after all I have done for you, you won't give me one dose of your ‘wonderful restorative, it is strange indeed!” “But but—well. You certainly have brought me the valise. Don't take much of dt. You have certainly got me rid of Jonas Brand. Hold—hold!” “Tt is pleasant.” “ Very.” “T have not taken much.” yet enough ?” “* And “Eh? “Enough, I say, to make you feel a new man soon, my dear Ambrose.” “ a ae “Why do you sigh?” “Did T sigh ?” i “Indeed you did.” “T was unconscious of it. Ah!” “ There, again |” Ambrose pressed one hand over his eyes —, moment, and — he said: oes your wonderful syrup i ee ¥ Well La Past bt yrup induce sleep ? ** Because — because — J — ml Aste?” I | feel “No.” “Yes. Itis getting dark. Perhaps a storm ~yes, a storm. T hear it raging. O God!” > What is the matter ?” What is this —what is this? All dark. What strange, rolling masses! Mountains @ome over me. Help—help!’ “ Silence, fool !” “ Help!” rE Fine. Sir Bernfide made a wonderful effort, and dung his pillow at Ambrose. “Ah! God—God! I feel it, know it now. I am—I—I am poisoned!” “ Of course you are. Ha, ha! Did you think, poor fool, to play at such edge-tools with me as half my fortune? Ha, ha! Gool—yood! Why, you are half dead— ow your legs are dead!” “ Dead—dead ?” <n ow your arm—now your heart !” With a stifled groan, Ambrose fell on his dace ott the floor. “Dead altogether,” said Sir Bernfide, “They will bring it in apoplexy! Ha, ha! ‘The valise mine, and Jonas Brand dead, and Ambrose dead, and I fast recovering from my wounds! All will be right now; all mine— alt mine! <A drop of the diet-drink. 1 muat keep myself cvol, and nice, and comfort- able.” Sir Bernfide licked his lips after he had ‘taken the drop of the diet-drink. “A new flavor,” he said—“a decidedly new flavor. Why, why—eh?” _ Like some hideous spectre, Ambrose strug- Jed from the floor. ‘There was blood upon Is it his lips—blood oozing out of his eyes—blood m his hands. He uttered one awful yell, pad alctabed Sir Bernfide by$the beard and | ir. His blood-stained lips were preesed in- Za cavity ey haiares Mya a is po Ha! hal? Then Sir Bernfide screamed aloud. There was a rush of people from the shop below. Sir Bernfide screamed again, and tried to shake off the dead body of Ambrose—for he was dead now; but he could not get the dead hands disentangled from his hair. Despite his wound—espite all the rapidly- accumulating agony of the poison, he rolJed out of the bed, still in the dead clutch of the jeweler. Once more he screamed with awful yehe- ence, and then he rolled over on the floor. The terrified workmen and shopmen flung the door of the chamber open. Timber emerged from beneath the bed, and set off at a wild pace for St. James’ Square. Both Sir Bernfide Esperance and Mr. Am- brose, the jeweler, were dead ; but they held each other in so firm a mutual clutch, that they could not be separated. CHAPTER XXVII. THE LANY ADELA AND THE OWLET. Breathless with the apeed he had made, and in a state of great excitement, from the ter- rible scene of which he had been the only witness, at the jeweler’s house on Ludgate Hill, poor Timber reached St. James’ square, To make but one wild rush into the hall and to call aloud upon the name of Gerald’ were actions so at variance with the usual staid and orderly habits of Timber, that the Owlet, who was slowly descending the grand staircase, felt certain that something most extraordinary had happened. Timber had been mentioned to him both by Gerald and by Alice, so that he had no difficulty in his recognition. / “Gerald! JI want Gerald!” cried Timber. Oh dear! oh dear! that-a fellow should see such things, and hear such things, and then be obliged to dream about ’em all his life.” Timber wrung his hands, and wept. The terrible deeds he had been a witness to had been too much for his sensitive organization, and it would be long before he would recover the even serenity of his mind. «“ Come with me,” said the Owlet, in his soft and gentle tones, “1 will take you to Mr. Alton.” “ Yes, sir—yes. To Gerald.” “Yes, to Gerald. Come.” ‘ Timber was trembling in every limb, but he followed the Owlet up the grand staircase of that stately mansion. The Owlet took him through two rooms, and then ‘tapped at the door of a third. A voice called out, “ Come in!” and the Owlet opened the door, and taking Timber by the arm, he led him in, saying: “J fancy, Gerald, that our young friend, here, has something more than commonly interesting to tell you.” “ Ah, it is you, Timber.” “Yes, Mr. Gerald. They are both dead !” “Dead? Who?” “Mr. Ambrose and Sir Bernfide Esper- ance.” “ Ah!” said the Owlet. “Is itso? Iam not surprised, however. ‘Tell your tale, my boy, and be calm and cool, and speak low and ently.” The calm serenity of the Owlet seemed to have all the effect of a seJative upon the nerv- ous system of Timber, who was able, with a tolerable degree of composure, to relate all that had happened at the jeweler’s house. “This is retribution,” said Gerald. “Tt is, indeed,” added the Owlet. “So that episode ia over, and Alice will have but little difficulty in the substantiation'of her rights, but still you will keep to our agreement, Gerald, and wait yet for a short time.” “« | will, in all things, do as you wish. And- as for you, Timber, the house at Ludgate Hill is no place for you now.” “No—no. I—1 will go back, then, to the workhouse.” Timber rested his head on his hand, and sobbed aloud. “ Treason!” said the Owlet, with a smile at Gerald. “Treason, is it not, to friendship and | to feeling ?” “Tt is, indeed. Timber, my friend, do you back to the workhouse? Are you not my r friend ? Will you desert me now, after being so kind to me? No, Timber, I am eure youwill not. You willstay with me, aud my -s think, for a moment, that I will let you go | “so, special eee et he we will be your home, and my fortunes your fortunes, Timber.” The boy looked up. He was but a boy— almost a child, and the young heart had its own dictates. He flung his arms round Ger- ald’s neck, and Jaid his head upon his breast. “ Dear—dear Gerald!” The metal badge of the peu that was on Timber's coat, fell bard and harsh against the silken vest of Gerald Alton, but he revirned Timber’s caress for all that. . “T am glad of all this,” said the Oylet. “A fair day to you hoth, and mucli happiness. I am now about to make a short journey, and shall net see you, Gerald, until sunset to- morrow. Farewell.” : “Can I not be of some uge to you? Shall I go with you, sir ?” “No—no! Farewell until to morrow.” The Owlet again slowly descended . the stairs, and reached the hall. The great dog was there. “Come, Drift,’ he said. ‘“ Come with més? Drift made but one bound into the street, and they left the house together. The Owlet then took his way to a stable in the neighborhood, and asked for his horse. In a few minutes, Leo was brought out to him. Drift and Leo were old friends, and the huge mastiff gamboled round the horse, and barked furiously, while Leo, who knew well that all that was just in good fellowship and friendship, Pane kindly at him. The Owlet mounted and rode off. The dog bounded after him. No one knew where this singular man went for the remainder of that day, and for the succeeding night; but on Saturdaysmornin he might have been secu slowly riding weed St. James’ square. The feet of Leo were covered with dust and sandy road, particles, which seemed to indi- cate that he Mad been in the country. Drift, too, was weary and dusty. And so they reaclied St. James’ square. and the Owlet entered the mansion he had made over to Gerald and Alice. They were both in the large drawing-room, and they advanced eagerly to meet him. “ Ah,” said Gerald, “ you have come bask to stay with us pow.” “ Only for one hour. But Ihave something to say to you both.” There was a certain mournfulness.about the air and manner of the Owlet, which filled them with the most serious, although the most vague apprehensions. He felt certain that he was on the eve of some enterprise of more than common danger and importance. “ Ah, sir,” said Gerald, “ if you would only confide in me, and let me see if I could be of a service to you.” he Owlet shook his heal. “T will build up,” he said, “if I can, butI will not pull down.” This speech was too enigmatical for Gerald to comprehend, and he looked as if he would fain have asked fur an explanation. “Forgive me,” said the Owlet, “ ifI fillyour minds with conjectures, I cannot at present be more explicit. But there is one thing that I should like you to do, Gerald.” “ And I will do it, with pleasure, if it be for you.” “Come to the great gate-of St. James’ palace, to-night, at half past twelve, and there wait the course of events.” “The course of events ?” “Yes, you will hear from me, or of me.” “T will, sir.” “Tt is well. Take you, Alice, this packet; and if [ am not with you, or you with me, to-morrow at midday, open it with your hus- band, and act upon its contents, for I shall be deal!” “ Dead? Oh, no—no!” The Owlet smiled faintly for a moment, and then a bright flush of color came to his face, and fire seemed to flash from his eyes, as he added : “ Yes, dead, or something’ different—so dif- ferent from anything that you dream of in re- spect tome, that you will scarcely ever cease to wonder at Fortung’s strange caprices. Now farewell, and may the choicest lessings of Heaven fall upon you both !” . The Owlet turned tb the door. “One moment,” said Alice. “ You are my cousin, you know.” i eis: She held out her hand to him. — ‘AY, ad you are our cousin!” y, God bless you! “
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We just touched her brow with his lips, and then with a smile and a wave of his hand to @erald, he took his departure. Tears forced themselves to the eyes of Al- fee as she said, mournfully : “We shall never sve him in life again. Oh! who and what is he? and what fearful adven- ture is he contemplating ? There is a some- thing that sits heavy at his heart.” “There is, indeed,” said Gerald; “ but I will obey him in all things: and I will be at the palace gate, not only at the time -he has mentioned, but before it!” “Do so, Gerald, and I will not rest until you come back to me, with news of him.” We now follow the Owlet. Upon leaving the house in St. James’ square, he went direct to the Irving stables, where Leo had been before put up, and left him there. Drift he left in the hall of the house, reclining on a mat. And so the Owlet was alone. He then took his way to that obscure court, where once be- fore we have watched him, and made his way into the house, where he had evident means of changing his apparel. : On this occasion, all he did was to put on his full dress as an ensign in the Guard; and when he emerged from the narrow court, he bore no appearance of fatigue, or of haying been ona journey ; and he sauntered down St. James’ street toward the palace, in as easy and unconstrained a manner as any young subaltern of the Guard might do. _ Close to the palace he met Ensign Har- Taye. * Ah, Harold! is that you?” said Hargrave. Why, where on earth have you been these two days, nearly?” “On earth you may depend.” “Yes; but you have been missed !” “No doubt of it. Folks like you and I, Hargrave, are sure to be missed. But how is Colonel Blanchard ?” ‘‘Muceh the same.” “Not worse ?” ; “Why, no. But he don’t mend. That sur- geon of ours says that he thinks there is something on his mind!” “Indeed ?” “Yes. And so doI!” “ That’s a pity, poor fellow!” “Tt is; for-a aetaae heartier man, and bet- ter officer does not live than Colonel Blanch- ard)” “That is true, Hargrave; and I don’t think your expression of such aa opinion will do you any harm!” “What do you mean?” “Oh! nothing—nothing at present. Iam going now, to see my cousin!’ as Base fellow! you will be sure to find him at home.” “ By-the- Pe" added the Owlet, “ have you heard how Charles Beauchamp is?” “ Better—getting well, in fact.” “Tam very—glad of that!” Are you on guard?” “No. Ducie is until sunset.” * And then?” : Ae “Then I go on until morning.” “Very good. I had leave, which expires to-morrow at mid-day.” The Owlet walked into the palace slowly, and Hargrave took his way up St. James’ street. The sentinel saluted the Owlet, who touched his hat ceremoniously, and then he passed through the common guard-room, and was soon in the officers’ guard-chamber. + Omg} ae : The young ensign—almost a boy—Viscount “ Ducie, was there on duty. ic “Halloa!” tre cried’; “is that you Harold et Blanchard ?” Bi “Yes, Ducije. How are you?” Se “Oh! quite right, but dull—dull, you know. a One must suffer, though, in this life!” oe Suffer » dah ; “Yes—yes! I was a king’s page for eigh- teen months, and now I am an ensign in the Gnard. If you don’t call that suffering, I don’t know what ig!” ; ‘You will survive it, Ducie.” “Yes, thanks to a strong constitution, I may. I suppose you are going to see your @ousin, the colonel?” : “You are right, Ducie. By-the-by, you $0 off duty at sunset?” “Yes, and Hargrave comes on.” But if he should not?” “Then I should have to stay}; for there €B9 #0 many of our fellows on leave.” = Seco kage crete % | ehange has been made. Jover ik”? Owlet, the Robber Prince. — > “Oh yes! But Hargrave will be sure to | come. He never neglects duty !” “To be sure—to he sure! But I wonder that the palace duty is left to the subal- terns?” “ Why, you see, my dear fellow, the Grena- dier Gad will relieve us soon, and 60 no The lieutenartt-col- onel is forced to be here to take orders from the king. Well then, you see, the captains of the two companies who are on duty here go off, for they know they are not wanted, and the subs have to do the duty.” “ Ah! just so!—just so !” The Owlet opened the door of communi- cation with the rooms in the occupation of Colonel Blanchard, and passed on to his bed- room. The colonel was half-asleep, and moaning. An old woman was dozing by.the bedside. The Owlet touched her on the shoulder, and she started awake. “Yes, sir. Yes!” she said. ‘More trouble!” “Hush!” “Oh dear, sir! Iwas not asleep. Indeed { was not, I assure you!” , “If you were, it don’t matter.” “Dear me, sir, a body do get fagged.” “T am the colonel’s, cousin—Mr, Harold Blanchard.” “Yes, sir, if you please.” “To-night I will sit up with him, which will give you a rest.” “You are very good, sir. I'ma poor lone body, sir, and—” “Hush! If he should know of it, he will he sure to object, beeause he will think it ma take me off my duty to-morrow. You mer am an officer.” “Yea, sir, I sees you are a hosifer.” “So you will say not a word about it to the colonel; and at eleven o’elock I will come here and relieve you, and you can go home till morning then ; and here is a guinea.” “Oh! sir, I will say it, perhaps, as should not, but yeu are the completetest and hand- somest young gentleman as ever I seed.” “ Huish !—not a word! Well, colonel, how are you now ?” At the sound of the Owlet’s voice, address- ed thug to him, Colonel Blanchard slowly opened his eyes. “Tt is you?” he said. * Yes—Harold |” “ AhI” ‘* How are you, colonel?” : “J don’t recover. I am full of wild fever. I think Iam dying!” “Oh, no—no! I will promise you, in the most prophetic manner in the world, that you will be much better by to-morrow at noon !” “Why? Why?” “J cannot tell you why, but it will be so.” “ What a funny gentleman he is,” eaid the nurse. “ Nurse,” said the colonel. “ Sir, to you.” “JT want to speak to my—my cousin, You ean come back in half an hour.” The nurse left the room, and was soon in the soldiers’ guard-room, stating what a real gentleman young Mr. Harold Blanchard “were.” “Harold,” said the colonel, with a look of great anxiety, “I shall never get well.” “You will, indeed, colonel.” “No, no. Ido not think that the wound would have killed me; but you see, lying here all alone—for I am practically all alone —my mind goes back upon itself. Life has stood still with me since the duel, and lama creature of the past. I bave always before me the face of Captain Beauchamp, with its dying look.” ian “ Come, eome, colonel, you let your imag- ination play you tricks. What if Captain Beauchamp did fall by your sword? What thea? You did not mean to kill him.” “ But I did kill him.” There was such a look of anguish upon the face of Colonel Blanchard, that the Owlet was constrained to turn away hia eyes. “ Tf I could but restore him to life again,” he said, “I think I would give some few years: of my own existence for his, if it would bring you back peace of mind. It was but a mis- adventure, after all.”’ “Yes; if I had had the moral cou to | 1 Fata it, pl to —s at the Aaa ae 1 | strokes.of the clock. It was nine. t r t ought to have done, then I might have got “Be at peace. You shall still get over #.” “No, no. The body.” “Now, listen to me. I have had the body carefully taken away and buried ; so that thers is nothing to dread on that score.” “That is something; but yet, if the affair , should come to the ears of the king, lam # ruined man.” The Owlet smiled. “ And if the king made you # major-gen- eral, and said that, upon a careful considera- tion of all the cireumstanees, he thought that, whatever there might be to disapprove of im your conduet, you had suffered more than enough for it?” “ Impossible !” “Not so. Have patience yet awhile,” “That drink, Harold. In the blue jug.” , “Do you drink this freely ?” k “JT should expire from thirst if I did not.’” “Well, well. Keep up your spirits, now, colonel,and I will keep my word. By to- morrow at noon, you will be very much bet- ter than you are now; because something will happen that will relieve your mind of some portion of the burthen that weighs upon it.’” “T will hope.” “Do so—do so. And now, good-day. EF shall see you again soon, probably.” “Yes, Harold. Do you know Pars glad to see you, now ?” “You are ?” ‘ “Yes. Almost as glad as if you wero real+ ly akin to me. I no longer have the same sort of shuddering dread of you that I had.’” “I am very gina to hear that. Believe me, that I am most desirous of being your friend; and now, good-bye for the present.’” “ Good-bye, Harold.” The Owlet was touched to the heart b this slight interview with Colonel Blanchard, and there was a look of great sadness on his face as he walked up St. James’ street in search of Ensign Hargrave. The ensign was at a tavern—clubs were not then in existence. “My dear fellow,” said the Owlet, “I have just seen Colonel Blanchard, and he says that my being off duty so long is apt to be pre- judicial to me; so, if you wonld let me re- ieve Ducie to-night, I should be much oblig- ed to you.” “With all my heart, Marold.” “Thank you! Thank you! All goes well,” said the Owlet, to himself. “No one opposes me. The path seems to be smooth- ened before me. All is well—all is well.” _loe OHAPTER XXVIII. THE TWO KINGS. The sun has set on that eventful Saturda —it has set in a blaze of crimson and gold, and the last faint beam from its dying glories has flitted away from the old red briok tup- reta of St James’ ae The Owlet, with a smile on his lips, walke in his usual quiet way through the common guard-room, and gains the officer’s guard- ehamber. Ensign Viscount Ducie is there. The viscount is very weary—very tired of his own company, which is singularly unin- teresting, and he is yawning, and smoking, and now and then using language that is de- cidedly beneath his patrician condition. But he is pleased to see the door open. “Hargrave,” he said, “is that you? By Jove, no! Itis you, Blanchard, is it?” « “ Yes, Ducie.’ “ Well, it’s a shame !” “ What's a shame ?” “What? Why, Hargrave not coming hero to relieve me.” 5 “ Well, I have pala all that with him, , He wants a rest, and I want duty; so here I | am to relieve you.” “ You are ?” “ On honor!” * Good-day! good-day !” Ensign Viscount Ducie was off and away without another word. The palace-clock struck seven. The Owlet sat down and rested his head upon his hands. A whole hour passed away. The epee struck eight. Another hour. The Owlet looked up and counted the The room was profoundly dark. ‘ ue Owlet went to a silken pell-pall, whiels: = See aide =
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~ 38 Owlet, the Robber Prince. hhe could only find by movin -'sd wall fer it, and summon C) et “Lights, sergeant.” “Yes, your honor. honor bad come in.” “Tt matters not, his hand alon the sergeant 0 We did not know your eant brought a pair of silver candle- sticks with wax lights. “This parcel is for your honor,” he said, as he uced a paper parcel finely tied up and sealed. ‘*'Ves. Leave it on the table. **'Yes, your honor.” *“*Who brought it?” ** A young woman, your honor.” “Tt is well. You can go; and you can take the night-duty till I send for you.’ **- Yes, your honor.” The sergeant left the room, and the Owlet listened until his footsteps were no longer heard, “A young woman!” be said. ‘“ They call Annie a young woman, now; but they shall gall her Your Royal Highness soon—if 1 live!— if I live!” The Owlet now passed two more hours in pacing the room to and fro, It was eleven. o’clock. The wind had risen, and was blowing in fierce gusts about the courts and turrets of the old palace. “Tt is time,” said the Owlet. He opened the door that led to the colonel’s apartments, and as he did so, he saw the old ‘woman apparently waiting for him. “ You may go, now,” he said. “Thank you, sir! Thank you, sir! I’m sure I’m tired—I_ am, sir; and thanks to you for a night’s rest.” ‘Go—go. Take the staircase to the left, and you will not have to pass through the guard- room.” “Yes, sir, if you please.” The old woman was gone, The Owlet was alone in that suite of rooms in the palace. He went to the door of the officers’ guard-room, and locked it. ‘‘T must be secure from interruption in that direction,” he said. The Owlet then untied and unsealed the parcel that bad been brought to him. It contained a court-suit, with a diamond royal star upon the breast of the coat. He rapidly exchanged his regimentals for this suit, and then throwing over him his military cloak, he went out of the officers’ guard-room toward the colonel’s bed- chamber. - He could hear the wind roaring and battling about the old chimney-tops and turrets—some- times wailing like some one in mortal agony, and then dying off in sighs, only to come back again with sudden flapping bursts, like the dash- me mighty wings. ‘he colonel slept. The Owlet stood by the side of the couch, and looked intently at bim. ““No—no,” he said. ‘‘He must have the nar- cotic. He might awaken at any inopportune moment; and it can do him no harm, I am assured of that.” The Owlet then took from his ket a small bottle, and decanted its contents into the night- drink, He then touched the colonel lightly on the shoulder. ** Colonel—colonel?” Yes—O God !—yes.” “Hush! There is nothing amiss.” “What is it?” “Nothing—nothing! You were asleep, and I have awakened you, perhaps, rather suddenly. “That is all, I amon duty songs and have only come in to see how you are. ill you have some drink?” “Oh! yes—yes.” The colonel drank deeply of the drugged potion. < ‘“‘$o you are on duty?” he said, faintly. “oe Yes. ” ** What is the time?” * Eleven o’clock.” “ Ah! what is that I hear?” “The wind raging about the palace, Itis a tt. 7 boisterous nigti “Very—very. Good-night, Harold. I don’t understand, you see, what your objects are; but I don’t Shink—I don’t—that you area bad man— no—no, not a bad man—not bad--” The colonel was in a deep sleep. “Rest in ce,” said the Owlet. “And he took off his cloak, and placed it on a chair. It was a very startling and strange circum- stance to Gerald .Alton (who had taken up his station since eleven o’clock close to the gate of the palace) that at that hour there arrived a coach at the palace, from which alighted no less than six persons, two of whom were in full uniform, as general officers. The others were in court suits, and Gerald heard one say to another: “Well, uis, this will be a good deed on gs part, in regard to the king, which should forever remembered.” Visit Then the person addressed as marquis said: “*T obey orders from Versailles.” ; The whole party then went into the palace. In the course of the next ten minutes, the sentries were doubled at the gate, and Gerald heard one of the men say to the other: “What have we all got ball-cartridges to- night for? Eh?” cold feeling of dread, of he knew not what, came over the heart of Gerald Alton. But we return to the Owlet. There was a night-lamp burning in the colo- nel’s room, and this the Owlet now took in his left hand, and with his right he opened the closed door, within which he had made such Fi akc discoveries upon a former occasion. All was precisely as he had seen before, and he set down the light-on a table near, and gently drew out the shelf, behind which he had found the piece of cloth with the indentation in it. The Owlet ran his finger now along this piece of cloth, Again and again it sunk at one part. A rapid slit with a pen-knife soon disclosed that the hollow place was a keyhole. * As I thought—as I thought,” said the Owlet. He had removed from a pocket in his regi- mentals a bunch of pick-locks, and now he set to work, silently and skillfully, to open the lock that corresponded with the key-hole behind the strip of cloth. With a slight, grating noise, the lock turned. There was a creak, as if paint or damp had stuck the hinges close, and then, in obedience to the pressure of the Owlet’s hand, the whole panel gently opened. A dark void appeared beyond. A slight exclamation came from the Owlet’s lips. e had expected to find a room on the other side of the secret door; but there was no such thing. He stretched out bis bands into the darkness; he touched a wall—a wall of panel within two feet of him. He stooped to feel if there was a floor; for he could not tell but he might be en the brink of some abyss. Yes, there was a floor. He felt the dust of ages on it like soft snow or wool. When he looked at his hands, by the light, they were per- fectly black, Then he held the night-light close to the pan- eled door, and looked out, The space beyond was a narrow passage, along which one person only could pass, “This is between two rooms,” said the Owlet, so faintly that not even a weasel could have been disturbed by the sound. Then, with the night-lamp in his hand, he slowly walked along the passage to the right. But it seemed interminable. The Owlet paused. He refleeted for a few mo- ments, and then crept back to the colonel’s room. The wounded man slept maney The Owlet then took a folded paper from his breast-pocket, and laid it on the table, and opened it. It was a plan of St. James’ palace, with all suites of rooms set forth. “Yes,” he said, ‘I am right. The king’s chamber must be next to these rooms, and its two windows, or three windows, must look into the Color Court.” He left the plan lying on the table, and once more teok the night-light and went into the narrow passage. He moved the light up and down the wall—that is, the opposite wall or paneling to that which was at the back of the closet—and then suddenly he said: “ Pound!” There was a key-hole lying horizontally in the wall; and he set down the lighton the dust-piled floor, and carefully used his pick-locks. The instrument did its duty—a lock moved— a door slightly creaked, opening toward him. Then a faint ray of light came from some slight opening. The Owlet paused a moment, and pressed his hand upon his heart. ‘* Be still—be still!” he said. Then he blew out the night-light. The ray of light from a long crevice was stronger. The Owlet stepped over two feet of flooring and pushed a door, It opened noiselessly, and he bent eagerly forward. He was in the chamber of the king—a room hung with green silk and gold tassels; a bed, with a canopy surmounted by a royal crown: tall candelabra, one wax-ligbt in one of which was alight; some wine and fruit upcn a marble table; a slight odor of perfumes; a deathlike stillness. The Owlet stood like a statue, and his eyes took in all the sights. He could hear nothin in the room; but he could hear the beating o his own heart. He stepped forward another pace. His feet were now on a soft, thick carpet that effectually deadened all sound, He made another step forward. “T will not kill him,” he said, faintly. ‘I eannot kill him, Unless he should resist—unless he should be dangerous; but he will be my prisoner. My prisoner—this false king—this usurper! This—” The Owlet paused. He thought he heard a faint, slight noise, like the clatter of armsin the Color Court below. “What isit? What isit? Oh, itis a friend. They are there. It is about their time. The lords of my council. They were to get there by the private door of my Lord Chamberlain's office. Yes—yes, they are there.” The clock of the palace struck twelve. “Tt is time,” said the Owlet. He approached the bedside. The occupant was ly completely covered over with ample Lasts The Owlet laid his hand heavily upon the sleeper’s shoulder—if sleeper he were. “One word!—one cry! A movement even from your recumbent position in this bed, and you are a corpse!” A slight exclamation came from the person in the bed. The Owlet then sprang to the middle window of the three that looked into the Color Court; he tore down the blind; he flung the window open, and in a loud voice he cried out: “ Long live the king!” A rush of night-wind came into the room, and blew out the a light in the candelabrum, but a torch flared up in the Color Court, and a loud voice said: ‘Long live King Harold the Second!” ‘* Descend, your majesty,” said another voice. “The Guard is with us.” * Ah, that is you, marquis?’ * Tiis.? “Close the palace gate! The distance is nothing. I will leap down to you. George is petrified with fear. He will not stir.” ‘Long live the king!” cried several other | voices. A drum beat furiously. ‘*Where is the abbé?” cried the Owlet, as he with a leap cleared the window-sill, and alighted a in the Color Court. “Bly !—fly!” shouted a voice, “ Ah!” “Treason!” said one. There was a rush of feet. The Owlet stood alone for a moment, ‘*What is this?’ he said. What is all this? Friends! my Jord—where are you all?’ A window was dashed up on the other side of the Color Court; that is to say, opposite to the window at which the Owlet had sprung out. ; There was a blaze of light at that window, and to his surprise the Owlet saw George the Third in person standing just within it. “T am betrayed!” he said. One glance around him showed him the state of affairs, To his right was the cloister, as it was called—a low range of arches; the glitter of military uniforms was there. The other three sides of the court were irclosed by walls, and windows, and close1 doors, se Betrayed! Betrayed!” he cried out, twice. “ Fire!” yelled George the Third. There was a volley of musketry from the troops in the cloister. The Owlet lay pierced by twenty bullets. Then the French embassador stepped up to the wy eat bowed to the king at the window, as he : ‘*T congratulate your majesty upon being rid of so dangerous a ‘teaitor.” sesty_ pe Fin “What is it? Oh, tell me! tell me!” said Gerald Alton, to an officer who came out of the palace burriedly. Pee a man shot who wanted to assassinate @ king. Gerald felt that it was his friend, and he ran home to Alice with pale and ghastly looks, The next day, the story was all through Lon- don of how a man had penetrated to the king’s chamber, in which, as his attempt was known one of the soldiers of the Guard bad volunteered tosleep, and that the traitor had been shot in the Color Court. Gerald Alton went to see the body, and recognized his friend. There was a precipitate flight from England that same night of thirteen noblemen, all Roman Catholics; but a man in the costume of an abbé was found lying dead beneath the cloisters of the palace. He had been killed by a bayonet thrust through the chest. t was some days after these tragical events that Gerald opened the sealed packet left him by the Owlet. It contained some valuable jewels, and a conveyance to bim of the house in St. James’ square, and a’ recommendation that he would take care of the horse Leo and the dog Drift. It ended with these words: “Tf you open this, I am dead, because, if I live, I shall ask it of you. Accept what I give you—it comes from the King of England, Be kind to Annie our sister. Haroip Rex.” Alice ‘wept bitterly, and Annie joined her tears to thoze of Alice, and then it was Gerald who said: “This is the work of Providence, He is happier now than if he sat upon the throne. He is at peace!” [THE END.] The Sunnyside Library. 1 Latta Rooke, By Thomas Moore.... .......- 106 2 Don Juan_ By Lord Byron...:........2+---0+6 20¢ 3-Parapise Lost. By John Milton...... .. 10c 4 Tae Lavy or tHe Lake. By Sir Walter Scott.. 10¢ 5 Locttz. By Owen Meredith... ... ... «...., 10¢e 6 Unpine; or, THE Warer-Sprrit. From the German of Friederich De La Motte Fouque.. 10¢ For sale by all newsdealers, cr sent, post id on oy! of bara cents for single Inbar double numbers twenty-four cents. § CTO: Publishers, 98 William street, N.Y.” fa : sr Bs Ss i ——
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SToRIEs. BIG JOKE BOOK SERIES, “OH! MAMMA, BUY ME THAT!” A Cortection or Jotty JOKES AND Forny Illustrated. 64 pages. GRIN’S CATECHISM OF FUN. THE TROUBLES OF MR. AND MRS. BOWSER, Illustrated. 64 pages, MoGINTY’S JOKE BOOK. WIT AND HUMOR OF THE BENCH AND BAR. 48 pages. - i WIDE-AWAKE SKETCHES. SOME SCREAMING YARNS. ROARING JOKES FOR FUNNY FOLKS. “JOLLY JOKES FOR JOLLY PEOPLE.” Illustrated. 64 pages. “THE BUTTON BURSTER; or, FUN ON THE RAMPAGE.” Illustrated. 64 pages _ LAUGHING GAS; orn, DRIVE DULL CARE AWAY. PUT THROUGH; or, FREEMASONRY AND ODD FELLOWSHIP | EXPOSED. By “ Bricxropr.”’ “FUN ON THE ROAD.” A Recorp or American Wit AND Humor. 48 pages. 64 pages. | Illustrated. Illustrated. 64 pages. Illustrated. 80 pages. { Illustrated. 64 pages. J Illustrated. 64 pages. | Illustrated. 64 pages. Illustrated. 64 pages. | PRICE 12 CENTS EACH BY MAIL. POSTAGE STAMPS TAKEN. i _ HUMOROUS PUBLICATIONS. . THE CELEBRATED LAUGHING SERIES. ary MOTHER-IN-LAW. By “Bricketor.” Mlustrations by 4 Hopkins, 88 pp., Paper, 8vo. This is one of the most humorous stories of the day. Every man and (Woman in the country should read this serio-comic experience of a man with mother-in-law, who made home torrid for him, and how hesucceeded, after Many attempts and failures, in getting rid of her. OUR FIRST BABY; on; Tae Inreticrrms or Our Honry- MOON. By the author of ‘‘ My Mother-in-Law,” etc. Illus- trated. Paper, 8vo. This is a witty and charming narration of a young married couple. It pre- ts vividly the first attempts of a young husband at housekeeping. MITH IN SEARCH OF A WIFE. By the author of “Our First Baby,” etc. 64 pp., Paper, 8vo. This story is not founded on fact, but there is so much comical human in it that truth couldn't make it any better. It should be read by every+ ly contemplating the great lottery of marriage, Laughably illustrated by ‘Thomas Worth. FARMING FOR FUN; or, Backyarp Granarrs. By “ BrioK- top.” Illustrated by Thomas Worth. Paper, large 8vo. A laughable story. The experience of Timothy Budd and his wife at city rdening is brimful of fun ; and thousands who read it will exclaim: “I've been there!” | PARSON BEECHER AND HIS HORSE. By “ Bricxrop.” . Illustrated by Thomas Worth 96 pp., Paper, large 12imo. This is a thoroughly enjoyable book, brimful of fresh, brilliant humor and laughable situations, the author claiming it to be the best of his many humor- ous productions, _ FRED DOUGLAS AND HIS MULE. Companion to “ Parson Beecher and His Horse.” By the same author. Mlustrated. )) 96 pp., large 12mo. - 7 Asastory of the late war it deals with people who “were there,” and will fe doubly popular with the ** Vets,” many of whom enjoyed the very fun that is here depicted. } | | BOUNCED; or, Toe ADVENTURES oF AN Unnucgy MAN. Bry Joun Carsoy. Illustrated. Paper, 8vo. THE QUIET YOUTH; on, Jusr Lrxe His Unotz. By “Baron top.” Illustrated. Paper, large 8vo. BEANWHACKER’S TROUBLE; on, Nor a Brr Lrxe His) Uncie. A sequel to ‘Just Like His Uncle.” By Joan Carsoy. Illustrated. Paper, large 8vo, DEACON BOGGLES AND HIS LIVER PAD. By Wu Wanver. Illustrated. 64 pp., Paper, 8vo. tig This book is a humorous record of the Deacon's frantic struggles with that! malignant enemy of the human race—the dreaded Liver Pap. THE KNIGHTS OF PYTHIAS SHOWN UP. By “ Bricg- tor.” Tlustrated. Paper, 8vo. ‘Don’t make any mis- | take.” JOINING THE GRANGERS; or, Expermence or SAssaFRas Doveer. . By the author of ‘‘My Mother-in-Law.” 64! pp., 16mo, DRY GOODS DRUMMER. By Tom Wonver. 88 pp., 16mo, This is one of the funniest of all the Laughing Series, and its glimpsesof the trials, scrapes, and troubles of a Drummer on his travels are precisely the medicine to cure the blues and make the reader happy. TRIP OF THE SARDINE CLUB. By “Bricxror.” 96 pp,) 16mo, Profusely Illustrated by Thomas Worth. This book is full of fun and sentiment, giving personal observations and historical reminiscences of places on the Hudson between New York and Albany. \ SCRAPES OF FARMER SKOOPENDYKE. Milustrated. He buys a Billy Goat. He Gives Widow Snugg a Sleigh-ride. His Experience with Dr. Bungle. Mrs. Maloney’s Goat, etc., etc. Paper, 8vo. 80 pages. Any of the above books sent by mail on receipt of 12 cents. Postage stamps taken. k ‘ M. J. Ivers & Co.. Publishers, (James Sullivan, Proprietor) 979 Pearl Street, New York.) om <i i a 4 1% z ty ~
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Youngs People’s Series: papun’s DIME mn YOUNG P wide range _ sul of Priquette- erses- Ball-room Book of Beauty. Riding Book 0 Base-Ball Player Ja “s f text- fitted for every pers’ _the old and the Jearned at They are of co 1. Cook Book. 2, Recipe Book. 8, Housekeepers Guide. 4, Family Physician, Millinery 5. pDressmaking & ented complete biographies, 10 len. e Lafayette, Boone. *_Terael 1x.—Kit Carson. xX. —pecumseb. Lincoln. HAND BOOK OF WINTER SPORTS 9 Xi.—Pontiac. EMBRACING: R CURLING, pe ely! oS MERICAN SOOTRAEL . eee > je . AND ICE-BOATING, NEA. Together with th Skati e Special a Congress, and Code of Rules for Prize ah pena see a leg Skating of th Edited by Weare ee and = o> d Tha abovs hooks aze sold by all. or aent. post Di Paps Eig WRC eT WA ee es ia, AD PERE, ae kr RE a Fc RT SRE ES oa tats