CHAPTER I.MOTHER AND CHILD.

MYRA,THECHILD OF ADOPTION.

MYRA,

THE

CHILD OF ADOPTION.

“One look upon thy face ere thou depart!My daughter! it is soon to let thee go!My daughter! with thy birth has gushed a springI knew not of—filling my heart with tears,And turning with strange tenderness to thee—A love, O God! it seems so—that must flowFar as thou fleest, and wrap my soul and thee.Henceforth thy love must be a yearning charmDrawing me after thee. And so farewell!”—Willis.

“One look upon thy face ere thou depart!

My daughter! it is soon to let thee go!

My daughter! with thy birth has gushed a spring

I knew not of—filling my heart with tears,

And turning with strange tenderness to thee—

A love, O God! it seems so—that must flow

Far as thou fleest, and wrap my soul and thee.

Henceforth thy love must be a yearning charm

Drawing me after thee. And so farewell!”—Willis.

The windows were all open, but shaded fold after fold with muslin transparent as dew drops, and snowy as the drifts of a summer cloud. The floor was spread with East India matting, and in a corner of a chamber stood a couch shaded with clouds of delicate lace and clad in snow white even to the floor—a great easy chair, covered with chaste dimity, stood close by the bed, and further off a miniature couch, snow white also, save where the soft rose tints of an inner curtain, light and silken, broke through the waves of snowy gossamer that flowed over it. Upon the pillow of this pretty couch lay a bouquet of flowers tied loosely by an azure-colored ribbon, and more beautiful still a sleeping infant, with one tiny hand resting like a torn peach-blossom, on its little bosom and its sweet lips parted smilingly, as a bud uncloses to the warm sunbeam. There, in its snowy nest, with the fragrant flowers sending their breath in and out throughthe misty draperies, and half smothered in delicate lace, lay the beautiful infant; and a little way off, upon the larger couch reposed another being in the first bud and bloom of womanly beauty, not asleep, but with her large eyes wandering tenderly toward the infant, and from that to a bouquet of orange-blossoms and moss-roses that, feebly clasped in her delicate fingers, was yet falling apart and dropping its blossoms over the counterpane.

An air of gentle languor lay upon this young creature, and there was something more than that affectionate tenderness with which a mother regards her young child, in the look that she, from time to time, cast upon the slumbering infant—a shade of sadness, that but for her feeble state, might have taken the strength of passionate regret, seemed ready to break from her eyes in a flood of tears, whenever they dwelt longer than usual upon the babe. But when her grief was ready to break forth, she would allow her eyes to droop toward the flowers that seemed to have some pleasant association connected with their fragrance, and a sweet smile—not the less sweet that there was sadness in it—would part her lips while a faint sigh floated through them.

All at once the infant began to nestle in its crib, and opening its large brown eyes, turned them upon the recumbent female. As if her tears lay so near the surface as to require only this motion to set them flowing, the young mother, as she encountered the infantile glance, shuddered faintly, and large drops gathered in her eyes, and fell one by one over her full but pale cheeks.

“I must not look at it, I must not learn to love it so,” she murmured, turning her head away, and shading her tearful eyes with one hand. “Ah! why should I, a mother so young, and with a husband likehim, always find every feeling, every impulse shackled as it springs from my heart? Why was there no one to shield my youth from the blight, that I feel, too surely, will cling around me to the end?”

The infant began to cry, and there came into the room a colored woman, tall and with that superb luxuriance of form that so frequently characterizes the dusky-hued woman of the South. She approached the crib and took the child in her arms, hushing it with a sort of cajoling attempt at tenderness, that seemed to annoy the young mother not a little.

“Give the babe to me!” she said, feebly reaching forth her arms.

“Better not, better not, missus,” replied the woman, pressing her full lips upon the velvet cheek resting on her bosom—a most unnatural pillow, as the unhappy mother felt all too keenly. “Nurse said last night that young missus must be kept quiet, and the baby not left to fret her so much.”

“Fret me! my child fret me! Give it to me, I say,” cried the young mother so passionately that the color broke over her pale cheek, like the abrupt opening of a rose-bud. “It is cruel, it is unkind, thus to keep a babe from its mother’s bosom.Henever ordered it. I know well enough it is not his wish that I should be tortured in this manner.”

“Take the child to its mother. Why do you hesitate in obeying your mistress?” cried a firm and manly voice from the door; and with his lofty step somewhat subdued, a gentleman entered the chamber, whose air of authority awed the negress at once. He approached the young female, who had started eagerly up from her pillow, with every manifestation of deep tenderness in her voice and manner.

“Have you been waiting for me, Zulima?” he said, bending down to kiss the fair forehead of his wife. “I was kept longer than usual at the counting-house this morning.”

“Oh! I knew that you would be here soon,” replied the young wife, taking his hand between both hers, and kissing it with a degree of passionate tenderness that thrilled through her feeble frame, till, in her weak state, excess of feeling became almost painful.

“What! because I scattered my path to your bedside with the flowers you have been wasting?” was the smiling reply.

“They were welcome and very sweet, for they told me that you were soon to follow,” said the young wife, gathering the scattered flowers together with her hand. “See! your little daughter has kept hers in better condition. She is not old enough to tear her flowers to pieces the moment they come within reach!”

“Like her mother, ha! Zulima!” said the gentleman, shaking his head, but smiling fondly all the time. “She must have more patience and less pride than her mother, this pretty child—or she will be”—

“As unfortunate and as unhappy as her mother has been,” said the young wife, and her eyes filled with tears.

“I only hope she will be as lovely and as innocent, whatever her lot may prove, and as truly beloved, Zulima,” he added, after a moment’s pause; and with an expression of deep feeling, mingled with a shade of sadness, the proud husband gazed upon his wife and child till the tears clouded his own fine eyes.

For a moment there was silence between the husband and wife. Both were gazing upon the infant, and both were occupied with thoughts where pain and tenderness were almost equally blended. Pride, stern and lofty pride, tinged the sweet current of his reflections, and she—impulsive young creature—thought of nothing but her sufferings, her passionate love for him, and of the beautiful child she was sheltering upon her bosom with one fairy arm, from which she had impatiently flung back the loose sleeve of her night-dress, as if detesting the delicate lawn for coming between her and that little form.

“You will not send her away!” said the young creature, lifting her eyes to the face of her husband, which was becoming more and more thoughtful each moment. “Ah! if you knew how much I love her!”

“I know—I know, Zulima,” said the husband, interrupting the beautiful pleader with an accent which, though not unkind, told how the slightest opposition chafed his proud nature. “It is natural. You must love the child; who could help it? but do you not love me better?—do you not love its future fame? its father’s fame?—your own reputation, well enough to relinquish her for a time?”

“I have thought of it all—I know what the world will say of me—but I cannot give her up—indeed, indeed I cannot.” The young mother rose in the bed, and with her child folded to her bosom with one arm, cast the other round the proud man’s neck, and drew his face down till it touched the infant, as she covered his forehead with kisses. “You will keep us both—you will not take our child from me!”

“Zulima, it must be,” said the husband, drawing gently back, and freeing himself from her fond embrace, while his fine features bespoke the terrible pain which it cost him to be firm. “While the man who has once claimed you for hiswife remains unpunished, I cannot acknowledge you mine, legally, innocently mine, as in the sight of Heaven you are.”

“I do not ask it. Let the world think of me as it likes. I will submit to reproach—to suspicion—any thing—but leave my child—never!”

“Zulima!” was the firm and almost reproachful reply; “do you think that your reputation is separate from mine? Shall I cast a stain upon my wife which no after time can efface, and then produce her, wronged and sullied, to society? Listen to me, Zulima; cease weeping and listen! The man is yet alive who has called you wife”—

“I know—I know!” cried the poor young creature, shuddering from head to foot, and burying her face in the pillows; “Oh say no more! I will give up the child—but spare me that subject!”

“No, Zulima. Let us speak of it this once, and then it shall be banished our lips forever. Think you that it is not painful to me as to you?”

How painful it was might be guessed by the colorless cheeks and the quivering of that proud man’s lips while he was speaking.

“While a mere child you became the dupe and victim of this vile man, De Grainges. He wronged your confidence, wronged your love”—

“No, no! I did not love him—I was a child—I knew not what love was!” broke in passionate murmurs from the pillow where Zulima’s face was buried. “Do not say I loved that man!”

“My poor wife! I know that you did not love him. I know quite as well that you do love me. Look up, sweet child! I would give worlds that I could speak of all this without distressing you thus. Bear with me only a minute longer. My only wish is to reconcile you, if possible, to the inevitable.”

“I will listen,” replied the tortured young mother.

“I know, Zulima, that you were deceived by this bad man—that he wedded you while his wife was living, and that you fled from his home the moment this truth was made known. Of all this I was thoroughly convinced before you became my wife; but until this man is convicted in open court and before the whole world, how can I convince society of that which tome is a sacred truth? how, before the fact of his previous marriage is thus publicly substantiated, can I proclaim the union which has made me more than happy? Zulima, I am a proud man—sensitive to public opinion—careful of my standing in the world. Were a breath of suspicion to rest upon the fame of my wife, I should never be happy again. You are young—supposed to be unmarried—living here under the roof of my dearest friend, who, with one exception, is alone in my confidence. In a few months this man, now in prison, will receive the punishment of his crime. Do you not see the peril of keeping this child with you till after that event enables me to claim my wife before the world? Zulima! look up—say that you forgive me the pain I am causing—say, that, for my sake, you will submit to have this little one sent from you for a season—only for a season.”

Subdued and touched to the heart by the depth of feeling with which this appeal was made, Zulima arose from the pillow where she had been striving to subdue her grief, and taking the infant in her trembling arms, motioned her husband to receive it. The moment she was relieved from the sweet burden, the young creature fell back, and closing her eyes, tried to check the grief that, however suppressed, still clamored at her heart. It was all in vain: the tears gushed like shattered diamonds though the thick and silky lashes, and she grasped the counterpane nervously with one hand, in a terrible strife to force back the agony that was choking her. Poor young mother! she felt with that keen intuition, which is like a prophecy, that she was not parting from her child for a season, but forever.

“You consent, Zulima? You will give up our little one with no anger, and without all this bitter grief?” cried the strong man, pale as death, and bending over the young mother, with the child pressed to his bosom.

“I will, I do,” burst from those pale and trembling lips.

The husband turned away; his limbs trembled, his eyes were blinded with moisture, and the weight of that little babe seemed to bend and sway his strong frame, as if he had been a reed. He looked back upon the mother. There she lay, the wet eyelids closed and quivering—her white lips pressed together, and so pale, that but for the agitation of her featuresshe might have seemed stricken dead in the midst of her anguish. He returned to the couch.

“Zulima, would you kiss the babe before it goes!”

“I dare not—I dare not,” broke from those pale lips; then Zulima held back her sobs, for his footsteps were departing—a door closed—husband and child both were gone. Then the mother’s anguish broke forth, her arms were flung upward, her quivering hands clasped wildly together—a moment and they fell heavily upon the orange flowers that still littered the bed, crushing them in her utter insensibility.

Then, while the young wife lay so pale and deathly there stole toward the bed that negro woman, who bent down till the bright Madras ’kerchief turbaning her forehead mingled with the chestnut tresses that lay scattered over the shoulder and bosom of the sufferer. She listened a moment, as if to make herself quite certain that what seemed so deathly was not death itself, and then glided from the chamber.

The negress stole softly through the open hall, and into a spacious garden; a row of small white buildings stood at the farther extremity, gleaming in snowy patches through the vines and trees that embowered that portion of the garden. These were the slave-dwellings belonging to a rich plantation some three miles from New Orleans—belonging to the husband of Zulima, and occupied for a season by his bosom friend that the infancy of his child might be honorably sheltered. And here in a little whitewashed room of the slave dwelling this bosom friend was impatiently watching the approach of the female slave whom he had placed—a dark spy—in the bed-chamber of that helpless young wife. With his face close to one of the four panes of glass that admitted light to the humble room, he watched the fiery colors of the Madras turban, which the woman always wore, as it glided like some gorgeous bird through the thick foliage, nearer and nearer to the den where he had for two hours been waiting for news from the sick-chamber. The slave entered her dwelling, and sat down before her master, full of that consequential assumption that a little power is certain to call forth in one of her ignorant and degraded class.

“Well, Louisa,” said the master, with a show of careless indifference, for he was of a cool and subtle temperament, withpassions slow and calculating, but all the more grasping for the deliberation, with which, like well-trained hounds, they were let free from the leash of his strong will; “Well, Louisa, how is the lady this morning?”

“Oh, she am about de same, Massa Ross—no danger of her going off dis bout anyhow,” replied the negress, turning her head on one side and moving a palm-leaf fan before her face, with an air of self-conceit that made her auditor smile, spite of his preoccupation.

“She just had a little fainting spell when I come out, but it won’t last long—no danger!”

“Has she had any visitors this morning—hashebeen there, Louisa?”

“Dar, now, you ask me dat, Massa Ross, just as if he didn’t come ebery morning of him life.”

“Then he has been there,” rejoined the man, “and left her fainting. Tell me, Louisa,—oh here is the Napoleon that I promised.”

“There, that am something like Massa Ross,” and the negress tied the gold in a corner of her handkerchief, and thrust it into her bosom. “Yes, he was there a long time.”

“Well,” interrupted Ross, evidently getting impatient, “tell me all that passed, word for word; do not forget a look or a syllable—and another gold piece is ready when you have done.”

And the negress, thus stimulated, told him all. That scene of tender anguish—the struggle of love and pride which she had witnessed in the sick chamber—all was related; and oh! how its exquisite pathos, its touching dignity was desecrated by the vulgar mind and coarse speech of that slave woman!

Ross listened to it all, his face changing with every sentence; for, with only that coarse witness, he did not think it necessary to control his features with the dissimulation that had become a habit. He listened, and as he felt, thus the evil man looked. When the woman ceased speaking the exultation of a fiend was in the smile that curled his lip.

“And he was determined—spite of her caresses, spite of her tears. I knew that it would be so. He is not a man to waver, having once taken a resolution—but the child, Louisa? I have recommended a woman up the river to take charge ofit, but you, my good Louisa, must still be its nurse. It seems a feeble little thing; do you not think so, Louisa?”

“Feeble! Lor a massa! No; it’s the best-natured, healthy little thing I ever see,” was the reply, and Louisa agitated her palm-leaf fan with considerable violence.

“But away from you, Louisa, with some one less kind, it may become sickly in a very little time, you know.”

“Sure enough!” and Louisa half suspended the action of her fan, as she fell into a fit of profound contemplation.

“With you to give it medicine and superintend, if it were ill, I should feel quite safe,” said Ross, and a strange, fiendish smile crept over his lips. “Of course, I should come and see you very often.”

“Oh! you would. Well, den, I haven’t nothing to say against going with the baby.”

“Wherever I send you, Louisa?”

“Well, yes, I don’t care, if it isn’t so far off that you can’t come once a week or so to see us, Massa Ross; but I won’t go far, now I tell you.”

“Well, now, go to your charge. I will see you again to-morrow.”

The negress arose, and with an insolent twist of her head to the left shoulder, stood in the door-way fanning herself.

“Well,” said Ross, impatiently, “well, what are you waiting for now!”

“Dis piece of gold in my bosom, Massa Ross,” and the negress placed a plump ebony hand upon her heart. “It is ’gun beginning to feel lonesome.”

“Oh! I had forgotten; here, here.”

Louisa drew forth the pocket handkerchief, which, from its embroidery and exquisite lace, must have been purloined from her mistress, and a second Napoleon was nested in her bosom.

“Stop,” said Ross, as she was going out; “You said that the lady was fainting—thathetook the child forth in his arms. Where is it now?”

“How should I know? I s’pose he took the baby to your wife. She was in the back parlor, and he turned that way.”

“There he is now. Go back into the room, Louisa, go back!” Ross seized his hat as he spoke, and leaving the slave-house, wound through a grove of fruit trees that shelteredhim from sight, and taking a serpentine path, came leisurely forth into that part of the garden, where he had seen Mr. Clark. The proud man was walking hurriedly forward, his arms folded, and one white aristocratic hand thrust into the bosom of his black dress. He was very pale, and his finely cut features bore traces of great internal anguish. He saw Ross, and turned quickly toward him.

“It is over, my friend; it is all over,” he said, grasping the hand which Ross extended, and wringing it hard. A smile, full of proud anguish, broke the firm and classical beauty of his mouth, and his eyes spoke volumes of suffering.

“What is over? what has happened?” inquired Ross, startled and turning almost as white as his friend.

“My wife! my child!”

“What of them? what has happened to them, my friend?”

“Nothing but that which was inevitable. But Zulima, my poor, poor wife! It would wring your heart to see how she suffers from the separation from her child.”

“But the child; is it yet with her?”

“Hark!” said the other, lifting his hand. “Do you not hear?”

It was the sound of a carriage driving rapidly from the house. Mr. Clark seemed listening to the sound as if his life was departing with it—fainter and fainter from his bosom. There was something in his countenance which Ross dared not disturb, though his soul was burning with curiosity to know why the common sound of carriage-wheels grinding through the gravelly soil should so profoundly agitate his benefactor. The sound grew distant, and died away before another word was spoken, then Mr. Clark turned toward his false friend, his nerves hitherto drawn to their most rigid tension relaxed, and his eye met the gaze with which Ross was curiously regarding him with an appeal for sympathy, that would have touched a heart for stone.

“It is gone!” he said, in a broken voice. “My child is gone!”

“Your child gone? when, where?” cried Ross, fearfully excited. “Surely you have not sent the infant from its mother so abruptly—and—and without consulting—I mean without informing your best friend.”

“That carriage—you heard it—bore away Zulima’s child!” said the unhappy father, mournfully.

“But where has it gone? With whom is it placed?”

“It is placed with one whom I have long known, the noble and childless wife of an old and dear friend. Myra will be to them as an own child, till I claim her again.”

“And may I not know the people, and the place?” inquired the false friend. “The child of my benefactor is dear to me as my own.”

“I have pledged myself to secrecy in this. It was the desire of my friend,” repeated Mr. Clark; “but for that you should know every thing. All this concealment will soon be over; a few weeks and this man must be sentenced. Then wife and child shall take possession of their home before the world. In this you can help me. I can not well appear in person to press forward this man’s conviction, but you, my friend, will use every effort to relieve me from this painful position. My poor wife scarcely suffers more than I do!”

“I will do every thing that you desire. Indeed, the commonest gratitude should insure that,” said Ross, pressing his patron’s hand, but with restless and nervous haste in his manner. “Shall I set out for the city at once?”

“No, no; seek your wife first; tell her to comfort my poor Zulima. I can not see her now; without wishing to reproach me, she could not help it. I tell you, Ross, I would rather encounter a squadron of armed men, than the look of those soft eyes, as they followed her child this morning, when I took it from her. It was the glance of a wounded fawn, as we have often seen it, turned upon the hunter.”

“I will see my wife at once,” replied Ross, unable with all his duplicity to conquer the disappointment that was consuming him; “then I will depart for the city, and make a strong effort to bring De Grainges to his trial.”

“It is strange,” said Mr. Clark; “but some influence that I can not fathom seems to keep back this man’s sentence. The court, as if it were trifling with his case only to perpetuate my troubles, keeps putting off his sentence from day to day with cruel pertinacity. But now I am resolved that it shall be more prompt; this hidden influence must and shall be revealed.”

Ross listened to the first portion of this speech with a cold and crafty smile playing and deepening about his mouth, but at the close this smile died away, and with it every vestige of color—his eyes wandered rapidly from object to object, avoiding the face of his benefactor, and when Mr. Clark would have spoken again, he forgot all the habitual deference of his manner and interrupted him.

“Have no trouble about this man, De Grainges; I will attend to him at once. The cause of this unaccountable delay in the court shall be ascertained and remedied. Now that I see how deeply your happiness is involved, no effort shall be wanting on my part to bring the trial to an issue. To this end, I must start for the city at once.”

Ross held out his hand, and grasped that of his patron.

“Accomplish this for me, Ross, and no being ever lived more grateful than I shall be,” said the generous man. “I depend on you.”

“You may, most positively,” was the emphatic reply; and wringing the hand he held, Ross left the garden. He met a servant in the hall, and accosted him with the sharp command to have a horse saddled. Then, passing into the inner room, he spoke a few hasty words, not to his wife, but to the black woman, Louisa, and then hurried to the stable.

With the sluggish habits of his race, the negro was lazily dragging forth a saddle from its repository, when his master came up booted, and with a riding whip in his hand.

“Walk quick, you scoundrel!” he said, laying the whip over the sleek negro with a force that made the old fellow start into something resembling haste; but even this unheardof activity did not satisfy the master; he snatched the saddle, flung it over the horse, and set his teeth firmly together, as he buckled the girth. Sharply ordering the man out of his way, he sprang upon the horse and dashed toward the city, at first in a light canter; but the moment he was out of sight, the high-spirited animal was put to the top of his speed, and horse and man flew like lightning along the road.

At each turn of the road, Ross would lean forward on his saddle and take a new survey of the distance, muttering his disappointment in half-gasped sentences, as he sped along.

“Oh, if I could but overtake the carriage before it reachesthe city! A single glimpse of it might be enough—nothing should take me from the track; nothing, nothing. Ha! that is it—no, only a sugar-cart. Why did I let him keep me? I must, I will know who these people are—no, no, I am foiled at last!”

This exclamation was followed by a sharp check to the horse, who was still bounding forward at the top of his speed. The city lay before him; but along the winding highway, over which his eye ran like lightning, there was no carriage at all resembling the one that Louisa had described to him as that which had borne her young charge away.

At a slow pace, but with his horse reeking with the effects of his former hot speed, Ross rode into the city. He took a circuitous route, to his own counting-house, and held a long consultation with a young man whom he found there. This lasted several hours; and then the two walked arm-in-arm toward the city prison.

Through the gloomy labyrinths of this prison the two men made their way, conversing together in low voices; a turnkey went before them, humming a tune to himself, and sometimes raising an accompaniment by playfully dashing a huge iron key, which he held in one hand, against the door of some prisoner’s cell, smiling grimly as he heard the poor inmate spring forward, in the vain hope that some friend had come to break the gloom of his bondage. From time to time, the two visitors seemed to study this man’s face with close scrutiny; and as some new manifestation of character broke forth in his manner or his song, they would exchange glances that were full of meaning.

“Offer him gold!” whispered Ross to his companion; “say that is for his trouble; we can judge something by the manner in which he receives it.”

“True,” was the emphatic but whispered reply, “it will be a sure test.”

The officer paused at the entrance of a cell, and placed his key in the lock. “This is De Grainges’ cell, gentlemen; how long will you wish to stay with him?”

“We may wish to remain so long that you will suffer some inconvenience,” said Ross’s companion, dropping his hand into a pocket with that easy grace which renders the most singularacts of some men perfectly natural in their seeming. “Here is something to repay the trouble we may occasion.”

The turnkey reached forth his hand eagerly for the silver coin which he supposed the stranger was about to offer him, but when he saw a bright piece of gold glittering in his palm, the sudden joy of his heart broke with a sort of gloating ferocity over his face, and with a low chuckle he folded his other hand over the gold, and began to rub the palms together, with the coin between them in a warm clasp, as if he thought thus to infuse some portion of the precious metal into his own person.

Ross and his companion had stepped within the cell, and thus, clouded with semi-darkness themselves, watched the man, whose face was fully revealed in the broadly-lighted corridor.

“It will do,” whispered Ross, smiling, “it will do.”

“Yes,” said the other thoughtfully; “he is one of those who would sell his soul for money.”

The man said this with the air of one who reflected sadly upon the infirmities of human nature, and really felt shocked at the gross cupidity that himself had tempted; and so it was. He did not reflect that he himself was there for no purpose on earth, but to barterhis ownsoul for the very yellow dross, only in a larger amount; that he was ready to yield to this man’s bartered treachery; that all the difference between himself and the man he tempted, lay in the price which each set upon his integrity. But the great villain despised the lesser sincerely, and sighed that human nature could be so degraded. So it is all over the world. Those who shroud their crimes in purple and fine linen, ever do and ever will look down with benign contempt on those who fold lesser crimes scantily in poverty and rags; so scantily that the world sees them as they are, coarse, rude, and glaring.

Thus, shaking their heads and sighing over the degeneracy of the human heart, these two arch-villains entered the cell of De Grainges, the bigamist, leaving the officer without to gloat over his piece of gold.

A tall man, pale from confinement, and yet possessed of a certain air of languid elegance, sat within the cell writing. He looked up, as the two visitors entered, and regarded them withan expression of nervous surprise, but observing that they were gentlemen in appearance, arose courteously, and placed the chair, in which he had been sitting, for Ross. The cell contained but two seats, and the prisoner stood up with his arms folded, and leaning in a position that had much grace in it against the wall.

“You have come, gentlemen,” said the prisoner, in a low, sad voice—“you have doubtless come to tell me that the time of my sentence has arrived?”

“No,” said Ross; “that would be a painful task, and one from which we are happily saved. We come, as friends, to ask some questions regarding this singular case. Perhaps we may have the power—we certainly have the will—to serve you.”

“It is too late,” replied the prisoner, sadly. “My trial is over. Why they have not sentenced me before this is incomprehensible.”

“To you, perhaps, but not to us. You have strong friends outside; those who have done something in keeping back the sentence, and may do more—obtain, for instance, a new trial.”

“To what end?” questioned the prisoner. “I am guilty. I have confessed it. In the wild delirium of a passion that was never equaled in the heart of man, I married the most confiding and lovely creature that ever lived. The fraud was detected. My wife—my living wife forced herself into the home where I had sheltered my falsely-won bride. Zulima would not love the villain who had wronged her. She left me; and without her I care very little whether it is to a prison or a grave.”

“But what if Zulima loved you yet? What if she only desired that in this trial your right to her could be established?”

The prisoner shook his head.

“I only say,” continued Ross, “if this were the case; if a new trial were granted, if there was no lack of funds to pave the way through court, would you not, having a new trial, suppress the proofs of this former marriage? Might not your wife herself be persuaded to aid in clearing you?”

“No,” replied the prisoner, firmly. “It could not be. Mywife pursues me with that strong hate which is born of baffled passion. Zulima ceased to love me.”

“Because she believed her marriage unlawful,” said Ross.

“It was unlawful. I have acknowledged it again and again. Zulima had nothing left—nothing but her freedom from the man that had wronged her to hope for. I would not deprive her of that.”

“And if the means were before you? If you could obtain a new trial, this first marriage, you are certain, would be proven against you?”

“I am very certain,” replied the prisoner.

“Remember, if they fail to prove the first marriage, you are free forever, and Zulima is your lawful wife. Is not this worth an effort?”

The unhappy man clasped his hands, and for a moment there broke through his sad eyes a luster that was perfectly dazzling.

“Worth an effort!” he said. “Oh, heavens! I would die but to see her look upon me again with love for a single moment.”

“Then why not make the effort?”

“Because I know that Zulima has ceased to love me. She is young, beautiful. I feel that she has brought me here, not for revenge, but that herself may attain honorable freedom. I would not raise my hand to thwart her in the just object.”

The two men looked anxiously at each other. They were astounded by the strange magnanimity of the prisoner.

“I tell you,” said Ross, earnestly “this thing can be brought about. Your counsel have seen the witnesses. Gold is a potent agent. Even your wife yields; she will not appear. You can be cleared of this charge; you can claim Zulima as your lawful wife. We pledge ourselves to accomplish all that we have proposed.”

“Gentlemen, you seem kind, and I thank you; but Iknowthat the wrong which I inflicted on that young girl has been followed by her aversion; she has told me so. She is not my lawful wife; without her love—her firm, earnest love, I would not claim her if she were. All that she desires is freedom; that she shall have, though it cost my life instead of a few years’ imprisonment.”

Ross arose and went into the corridor, where he conversed in a low voice and very earnestly with the turnkey. Meantime the prisoner sat down in the empty chair, and burying his face in his hands, seemed to be lost in bitter thought. When Ross returned he arose and stood up, but his face was haggard, and he seemed to suffer much from the struggle that had been aroused in his breast.

“Then you are determined not to claim a new trial?”

“I am,” was the reply.

“Perhaps it is as well; but we are the friends of Zulima. She suffers, she shrinks from the thought of your imprisonment. This new appeal may be impossible, but there is another way. Your trial has done all for Zulima that can be accomplished; it sets her free. Now she would give that to you, which your self devotion will secure to her—freedom. To-night, De Grainges, the means of escape will be provided; at daybreak, to-morrow, a vessel sails for Europe; you must become one of her passengers.”

“And doesshedesire this?” asked the prisoner, aroused all at once from the stubborn resolve of self-sacrifice that had possessed him.

“She does; we are her messengers.”

“To-night—this is sudden! and she desires it? She deems the trial that has taken place sufficient for her emancipation from the hateful bonds that made her mine. You are certain of this?”

“Most certain.”

“And the means of escape?”

“Leave that to us. The time, midnight; be ready. That is all we desire of you.”

“I will be ready,” said the young man, falling into the chair which Ross had just left, and overcome with a sudden sense of freedom—freedom given by the woman whom he had so deeply wronged. His nerves, hitherto so firm, began to tremble, and covering his face with both hands, he burst into tears. When he looked up the two strangers had left the cell.

The next morning, when Ross entered his counting-room, he found the turnkey talking with his partner. Just then Mr. Clark entered also, but with a harassed and anxious expression of countenance.

“My friend,” said Ross, advancing toward him, “you have come at the right moment to hear this man’s news from his own lips. I fear it will give you pain. No, I had better tell it myself; he is a stranger, and knows nothing of your interest in the mother. Step this way, sir.”

“What is this? For what would you prepare me? Zulima—”

“Is well, and becoming reconciled to her loss; but De Grainges—”

“What of him, sir? what of that unhappy man?” inquired Mr. Clark, sternly.

“He has broken prison; he escaped last night.”

Mr. Clark staggered. The color left his lip, and he leaned heavily on the back of a chair. “My poor, poor wife! will her trials never have an end?” he exclaimed with deep feeling, and, turning hastily, he left the counting-room.

“It will be some time before he acknowledges her now,” said Ross, in a low voice, to his partner. “See how his step wavers.”

“That may waver, but his pride never will,” was the low reply.

“Never!” said Campbell.

And he was right. Poor, poor Zulima!

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