Chapter Eighty One.

Chapter Eighty One.Heads Down—Heels Up!Without suspicion that he had been seen leaving the house—except by Pluto, who had saddled the grey mustang—Calhoun rode on across the prairie.Equally unsuspicious was he, in passing the point where Zeb Stump stood crouching in concealment.In the dim light of the morning he supposed himself unseen by human eye; and he recked not of any other.After parting from the timbered border, he struck off towards the Nueces; riding at a brisk trot—now and then increasing to a canter.Por the first six or eight miles he took but little note of aught that was around. An occasional glance along the horizon seemed to satisfy him; and this extended only to that portion of the vast circle before his face. He looked neither to the right nor the left; and only once behind—after getting some distance from the skirt of the chapparal.Before him was the object—still unseen—upon which his thoughts were straying.What that object was he and only one other knew—that other Zeb Stump—though little did Calhoun imagine that mortal man could have a suspicion of the nature of his early errand.The old hunter had only conjectured it; but it was a conjecture of the truth of which he was as certain, as if the ex-captain had made him his confidant. He knew that the latter had gone off in search of the Headless Horseman—in hopes of renewing the chase of yesterday, with a better chance of effecting a capture.Though bestriding a steed fleet as a Texan stag, Calhoun was by no means sanguine of success. There were many chances against his getting sight of the game he intended to take: at least two to one; and this it was that formed the theme of his reflections as he rode onward.The uncertainty troubled him; but he was solaced by a hope founded upon some late experiences.There was a particular place where he had twice encountered the thing he was in search of. It might be there again?This was an embayment of green sward, where the savannah was bordered by the chapparal, and close to the embouchure of that opening—where it was supposed the murder had been committed!“Odd he should always make back there?” reflected Calhoun, as he pondered upon the circumstance. “Damned ugly odd it is! Looks as if he knew—. Bah! It’s only because the grass is better, and that pond by the side of it. Well! I hope he’s been thinking that way this morning. If so, there’ll be a chance of finding him. If not, I must go on through the chapparal; and hang me if I like it—though it be in the daylight. Ugh!“Pish! what’s there to fear—now that he’s safe in limbo? Nothing but thebit of lead; anditI must have, if I should ride this thing till it drops dead in its tracks. Holy Heaven! what’s that out yonder?”These last six words were spoken aloud. All the rest had been a soliloquy in thought.The speaker, on pronouncing them, pulled up, almost dragging the mustang on its haunches; and with eyes that seemed ready to start from their sockets, sate gazing across the plain.There was something more than surprise in that stedfast glance—there was horror.And no wonder: for the spectacle upon which it rested was one to terrify the stoutest heart.The sun had stolen up above the horizon of the prairie, and was behind the rider’s back, in the direct line of the course he had been pursuing. Before him, along the heaven’s edge, extended a belt of bluish mist—the exhalation arising out of the chapparal—now not far distant. The trees themselves were unseen—concealed under the film floating over them, that like a veil of purple gauze, rose to a considerable height above their tops—gradually merging into the deeper azure of the sky.On this veil, or moving behind it—as in the transparencies of a stage scene—appeared a form strange enough to have left the spectator incredulous, had he not beheld it before. It was that of the Headless Horseman.But not as seen before—either by Calhoun himself, or any of the others. No. It was now altogether different. In shape the same; but in size it was increased to tenfold its original dimensions!No longer a man, but a Colossus—a giant. No longer a horse, but an animal of equine shape, with the towering height and huge massive bulk of a mastodon!Nor was this all of the new to be noted about the Headless Horseman. A still greater change was presented in his appearance; one yet more inexplicable, if that could possibly be. He was no longer walking upon the ground, but against the sky; both horse and rider moving in an inverted position! The hoofs of the former were distinctly perceptible upon the upper edge of the film; while the shoulders—I had almost saidhead—of the latter were close down to the line of the horizon! The serapé shrouding them hung in the right direction—not as regarded the laws of gravity, but the attitude of the wearer. So, too, the bridle reins, the mane, and sweeping tail of the horse. All drapedupwards!When first seen, the spectral form—now more spectre-like than ever—was going at a slow, leisurely walk. In this pace it for some time continued—Calhoun gazing upon it with a heart brimful of horror.All of a sudden it assumed a change. Its regular outlines became confused by a quick transformation; the horse having turned, and gone off at a trot in the opposite direction, though still with his heels against the sky!The spectre had become alarmed, and was retreating!Calhoun, half palsied with fear, would have kept his ground, and permitted it to depart, but for his own horse; that, just then shying suddenly round, placed him face to face with the explanation.As he turned, the tap of a shod hoof upon the prairie turf admonished him that a real horseman was near—if that could be called real, which had thrown such a frightful shadow.“It’s themirage!” he exclaimed, with the addition of an oath to give vent to his chagrin. “What a fool I’ve been to let it humbug me! There’s the damned thing that did it: the very thing I’m in search of. And so close too! If I’d known, I might have got hold of him before he saw me. Now for a chase; and, by God, I’llgruphim, if I have to gallop to the other end of Texas!”Voice, spur, and whip were simultaneously exerted to prove the speaker’s earnestness; and in five minutes after, two horsemen were going at full stretch across the prairie—their horses both to the prairie born—one closely pursuing the other—the pursued without a head; the pursuer with a heart that throbbed under a desperate determination.The chase was not a long one—at least, so far as it led over the open prairie; and Calhoun had begun to congratulate himself on the prospect of a capture.His horse appeared the swifter; but this may have arisen from his being more earnestly urged; or that the other was not sufficiently scared to care for escaping. Certainly the grey steed gained ground—at length getting so close, that Calhoun made ready his rifle.His intention was to shoot the horse down, and so put an end to the pursuit.He would have fired on the instant, but for the fear of a miss. But having made more than one already, he restrained himself from pulling trigger, till he could ride close enough to secure killing shot.While thus hesitating, the chase veered suddenly from off the treeless plain, and dashed into the opening of the timber.This movement, unexpected by the pursuer, caused him to lose ground; and in the endeavour to regain it, more than a half mile of distance was left behind him.He was approaching a spot well, too well, known to him—the place where blood had been spilt.On any other occasion he would have shunned it; but there was in his heart a thought that hindered him from dwelling upon memories of the past—steeling it against all reflection, except a cold fear for the future. The capture of the strange equestrian could alone allay this fear—by removing the danger he dreaded.Once more he had gained ground in the chase. The spread nostrils of his steed were almost on a line with the sweeping tail of that pursued. His rifle lay ready in his left hand, its trigger guard covered by the fingers of his right. He was searching for a spot to take aim at.In another second the shot would have been fired, and a bullet sent between the ribs of the retreating horse, when the latter, as if becoming aware of the danger, made a quick curvet to the off side; and then, aiming a kick at the snout of his pursuer, bounded on in a different direction!The suddenness of the demonstration, with the sharp, spiteful “squeal” that accompanied it—appearing almost to speak of an unearthly intelligence—for the moment disconcerted Calhoun; as it did the horse he was riding.The latter came to a stop; and refused to go farther; till the spur, plunged deep between his ribs, once more forced him to the gallop.And now more earnestly than ever did his rider urge him on; for the pursued, no longer keeping to the path, was heading direct for the thicket. The chase might there terminate, without the chased animal being either killed or captured.Hitherto Calhoun had only been thinking of a trial of speed. He had not anticipated such an ending, as was now both possible and probable; and with a more reckless resolve, he once more raised his rifle for the shot.By this time both were close in to the bushes—the Headless Horseman already half-screened by the leafy branches that swept swishing along his sides. Only the hips of his horse could be aimed at; and upon these was the gun levelled.The sulphureous smoke spurted forth from its muzzle; the crack was heard simultaneously; and, as if caused by the discharge, a dark object came whirling through the cloud, and fell with a dull “thud” upon the turf.With a bound and a roll—that brought it among the feet of Calhoun’s horse—it became stationary.Stationary, but not still. It continued to oscillate from side to side, like a top before ceasing to spin.The grey steed snorted, and reared back. His rider uttered a cry of intensified alarm.And no wonder. If read in Shakespearean lore, he might have appropriately repeated the words “Shake not those gory locks”: for, on the ground beneath, was the head of a man—still sticking in its hat—whose stiff orbicular brim hindered it from staying still.The face was toward Calhoun—upturned at just such an angle as to bring it full before him. The features were bloodstained, wan, and shrivelled; the eyes open, but cold and dim, like balls of blown glass; the teeth gleaming white between livid lips, yet seemingly set in an expression of careless contentment.All this saw Cassius Calhoun.He saw it with fear and trembling. Not for the supernatural or unknown, but for the real and truly comprehended.Short was his interview with that silent, but speaking head. Ere it had ceased to oscillate on the smooth sward, he wrenched his horse around; struck the rowels deep; and galloped away from the ground!No farther went he in pursuit of the Headless Horseman—still heard breaking through the bushes—but back—back to the prairie; and on, on, to Casa del Corvo!

Without suspicion that he had been seen leaving the house—except by Pluto, who had saddled the grey mustang—Calhoun rode on across the prairie.

Equally unsuspicious was he, in passing the point where Zeb Stump stood crouching in concealment.

In the dim light of the morning he supposed himself unseen by human eye; and he recked not of any other.

After parting from the timbered border, he struck off towards the Nueces; riding at a brisk trot—now and then increasing to a canter.

Por the first six or eight miles he took but little note of aught that was around. An occasional glance along the horizon seemed to satisfy him; and this extended only to that portion of the vast circle before his face. He looked neither to the right nor the left; and only once behind—after getting some distance from the skirt of the chapparal.

Before him was the object—still unseen—upon which his thoughts were straying.

What that object was he and only one other knew—that other Zeb Stump—though little did Calhoun imagine that mortal man could have a suspicion of the nature of his early errand.

The old hunter had only conjectured it; but it was a conjecture of the truth of which he was as certain, as if the ex-captain had made him his confidant. He knew that the latter had gone off in search of the Headless Horseman—in hopes of renewing the chase of yesterday, with a better chance of effecting a capture.

Though bestriding a steed fleet as a Texan stag, Calhoun was by no means sanguine of success. There were many chances against his getting sight of the game he intended to take: at least two to one; and this it was that formed the theme of his reflections as he rode onward.

The uncertainty troubled him; but he was solaced by a hope founded upon some late experiences.

There was a particular place where he had twice encountered the thing he was in search of. It might be there again?

This was an embayment of green sward, where the savannah was bordered by the chapparal, and close to the embouchure of that opening—where it was supposed the murder had been committed!

“Odd he should always make back there?” reflected Calhoun, as he pondered upon the circumstance. “Damned ugly odd it is! Looks as if he knew—. Bah! It’s only because the grass is better, and that pond by the side of it. Well! I hope he’s been thinking that way this morning. If so, there’ll be a chance of finding him. If not, I must go on through the chapparal; and hang me if I like it—though it be in the daylight. Ugh!

“Pish! what’s there to fear—now that he’s safe in limbo? Nothing but thebit of lead; anditI must have, if I should ride this thing till it drops dead in its tracks. Holy Heaven! what’s that out yonder?”

These last six words were spoken aloud. All the rest had been a soliloquy in thought.

The speaker, on pronouncing them, pulled up, almost dragging the mustang on its haunches; and with eyes that seemed ready to start from their sockets, sate gazing across the plain.

There was something more than surprise in that stedfast glance—there was horror.

And no wonder: for the spectacle upon which it rested was one to terrify the stoutest heart.

The sun had stolen up above the horizon of the prairie, and was behind the rider’s back, in the direct line of the course he had been pursuing. Before him, along the heaven’s edge, extended a belt of bluish mist—the exhalation arising out of the chapparal—now not far distant. The trees themselves were unseen—concealed under the film floating over them, that like a veil of purple gauze, rose to a considerable height above their tops—gradually merging into the deeper azure of the sky.

On this veil, or moving behind it—as in the transparencies of a stage scene—appeared a form strange enough to have left the spectator incredulous, had he not beheld it before. It was that of the Headless Horseman.

But not as seen before—either by Calhoun himself, or any of the others. No. It was now altogether different. In shape the same; but in size it was increased to tenfold its original dimensions!

No longer a man, but a Colossus—a giant. No longer a horse, but an animal of equine shape, with the towering height and huge massive bulk of a mastodon!

Nor was this all of the new to be noted about the Headless Horseman. A still greater change was presented in his appearance; one yet more inexplicable, if that could possibly be. He was no longer walking upon the ground, but against the sky; both horse and rider moving in an inverted position! The hoofs of the former were distinctly perceptible upon the upper edge of the film; while the shoulders—I had almost saidhead—of the latter were close down to the line of the horizon! The serapé shrouding them hung in the right direction—not as regarded the laws of gravity, but the attitude of the wearer. So, too, the bridle reins, the mane, and sweeping tail of the horse. All drapedupwards!

When first seen, the spectral form—now more spectre-like than ever—was going at a slow, leisurely walk. In this pace it for some time continued—Calhoun gazing upon it with a heart brimful of horror.

All of a sudden it assumed a change. Its regular outlines became confused by a quick transformation; the horse having turned, and gone off at a trot in the opposite direction, though still with his heels against the sky!

The spectre had become alarmed, and was retreating!

Calhoun, half palsied with fear, would have kept his ground, and permitted it to depart, but for his own horse; that, just then shying suddenly round, placed him face to face with the explanation.

As he turned, the tap of a shod hoof upon the prairie turf admonished him that a real horseman was near—if that could be called real, which had thrown such a frightful shadow.

“It’s themirage!” he exclaimed, with the addition of an oath to give vent to his chagrin. “What a fool I’ve been to let it humbug me! There’s the damned thing that did it: the very thing I’m in search of. And so close too! If I’d known, I might have got hold of him before he saw me. Now for a chase; and, by God, I’llgruphim, if I have to gallop to the other end of Texas!”

Voice, spur, and whip were simultaneously exerted to prove the speaker’s earnestness; and in five minutes after, two horsemen were going at full stretch across the prairie—their horses both to the prairie born—one closely pursuing the other—the pursued without a head; the pursuer with a heart that throbbed under a desperate determination.

The chase was not a long one—at least, so far as it led over the open prairie; and Calhoun had begun to congratulate himself on the prospect of a capture.

His horse appeared the swifter; but this may have arisen from his being more earnestly urged; or that the other was not sufficiently scared to care for escaping. Certainly the grey steed gained ground—at length getting so close, that Calhoun made ready his rifle.

His intention was to shoot the horse down, and so put an end to the pursuit.

He would have fired on the instant, but for the fear of a miss. But having made more than one already, he restrained himself from pulling trigger, till he could ride close enough to secure killing shot.

While thus hesitating, the chase veered suddenly from off the treeless plain, and dashed into the opening of the timber.

This movement, unexpected by the pursuer, caused him to lose ground; and in the endeavour to regain it, more than a half mile of distance was left behind him.

He was approaching a spot well, too well, known to him—the place where blood had been spilt.

On any other occasion he would have shunned it; but there was in his heart a thought that hindered him from dwelling upon memories of the past—steeling it against all reflection, except a cold fear for the future. The capture of the strange equestrian could alone allay this fear—by removing the danger he dreaded.

Once more he had gained ground in the chase. The spread nostrils of his steed were almost on a line with the sweeping tail of that pursued. His rifle lay ready in his left hand, its trigger guard covered by the fingers of his right. He was searching for a spot to take aim at.

In another second the shot would have been fired, and a bullet sent between the ribs of the retreating horse, when the latter, as if becoming aware of the danger, made a quick curvet to the off side; and then, aiming a kick at the snout of his pursuer, bounded on in a different direction!

The suddenness of the demonstration, with the sharp, spiteful “squeal” that accompanied it—appearing almost to speak of an unearthly intelligence—for the moment disconcerted Calhoun; as it did the horse he was riding.

The latter came to a stop; and refused to go farther; till the spur, plunged deep between his ribs, once more forced him to the gallop.

And now more earnestly than ever did his rider urge him on; for the pursued, no longer keeping to the path, was heading direct for the thicket. The chase might there terminate, without the chased animal being either killed or captured.

Hitherto Calhoun had only been thinking of a trial of speed. He had not anticipated such an ending, as was now both possible and probable; and with a more reckless resolve, he once more raised his rifle for the shot.

By this time both were close in to the bushes—the Headless Horseman already half-screened by the leafy branches that swept swishing along his sides. Only the hips of his horse could be aimed at; and upon these was the gun levelled.

The sulphureous smoke spurted forth from its muzzle; the crack was heard simultaneously; and, as if caused by the discharge, a dark object came whirling through the cloud, and fell with a dull “thud” upon the turf.

With a bound and a roll—that brought it among the feet of Calhoun’s horse—it became stationary.

Stationary, but not still. It continued to oscillate from side to side, like a top before ceasing to spin.

The grey steed snorted, and reared back. His rider uttered a cry of intensified alarm.

And no wonder. If read in Shakespearean lore, he might have appropriately repeated the words “Shake not those gory locks”: for, on the ground beneath, was the head of a man—still sticking in its hat—whose stiff orbicular brim hindered it from staying still.

The face was toward Calhoun—upturned at just such an angle as to bring it full before him. The features were bloodstained, wan, and shrivelled; the eyes open, but cold and dim, like balls of blown glass; the teeth gleaming white between livid lips, yet seemingly set in an expression of careless contentment.

All this saw Cassius Calhoun.

He saw it with fear and trembling. Not for the supernatural or unknown, but for the real and truly comprehended.

Short was his interview with that silent, but speaking head. Ere it had ceased to oscillate on the smooth sward, he wrenched his horse around; struck the rowels deep; and galloped away from the ground!

No farther went he in pursuit of the Headless Horseman—still heard breaking through the bushes—but back—back to the prairie; and on, on, to Casa del Corvo!

Chapter Eighty Two.A Queer Parcel.The backwoodsman, after emerging from the thicket, proceeded as leisurely along the trail, as if he had the whole day before him, and no particular motive for making haste.And yet, one closely scrutinising his features, might there have observed an expression of intense eagerness; that accorded with his nervous twitching in the saddle, and the sharp glances from time to time cast before him.He scarce deigned to look upon the “sign” left by Calhoun. It he could read out of the corner of his eye. As to following it, the old mare could have done that without him!It was not this knowledge that caused him to hang back; for he would have preferred keeping Calhoun in sight. But by doing this, the latter might seehim; and so frustrate the end he desired to attain.This end was of more importance than any acts that might occur between; and, to make himself acquainted with the latter, Zeb Stump trusted to the craft of his intellect, rather than the skill of his senses.Advancing slowly and with caution—but with that constancy that ensures good speed—he arrived at length on the spot where themiragehad made itself manifest to Calhoun.Zeb saw nothing of this. It was gone; and the sky stretched down to the prairie—the blue meeting the green in a straight unbroken line.He saw, however, what excited him almost as much as the spectre would have done: two sets of horse-tracks going together—those that went after being the hoof-marks of Calhoun’s new horse—of which Zeb had already taken the measure.About the tracksunderneathhe had no conjecture—at least as regarded their identification. These he knew, as well as if his own mare had made them.“The skunk’s hed a find!” were the words that escaped him, as he sate gazing upon the double trail. “It don’t foller from thet,” he continued, in the same careless drawl, “thet he hez made a catch. An’ yit, who knows? Durn me, ef he moutn’t! Thur’s lots o’ chances for his doin’ it. The mowstang may a let him come clost up—seein’ as he’s ridin’ one o’ its own sort; an ef it dud—ay, ef it dud—“What the durnation am I stannin’ hyur for? Thur ain’t no time to be wasted in shiller-shallerin’. Ef he shed grup thet critter, an git what he wants from it, then I mout whissel for what I want, ’ithout the ghost o’ a chance for gettin’ it.“I must make a better rate o’ speed. Gee-up, ole gurl; an see ef ye can’t overtake that ere grey hoss, as scuttled past half-a-hour agone. Now for a spell o’ yur swiftness, the which you kin show along wi’ any o’ them, I reckon—thet air when ye’re pressed. Gee-up!”Instead of using the cruel means employed by him when wanting his mare to make her best speed, he only drove the old spur against her ribs, and started her into a trot. He had no desire to travel more rapidly than was consistent with caution; and while trotting he kept his eyes sharply ranging along the skyline in front of him.“From the way his track runs,” was his reflection, “I kin tell pretty nigh whar it’s goin’ to fetch out. Everything seems to go that way; an so did he, poor young fellur—never more to come back. Ah, wal! ef t’aint possible to ree-vive him agin, may be it air to squar the yards wi’ the skunk as destroyed him. The Scripter sez, ‘a eye for a eye, an a tooth for a tooth,’ an I reckin I’ll shet up somebody’s daylights, an spoil the use o’ thur ivories afore I hev done wi’ him. Somebody as don’t suspeeshun it neyther, an that same—. Heigh! Yonner he goes! An’ yonner too the Headless, by Geehosophat! Full gallup both; an durn me, if the grey aint a overtakin’ him!“They aint comin’ this way, so ’tain’t no use in our squattin’, ole gurl. Stan’ steady for all that. Hemoutsee us movin’.“No fear. He’s too full o’ his frolic to look anywhar else, than straight custrut afore him. Ha! jest as I expected—into the openin’! Right down it, fast as heels kin carry ’em!“Now, my maar, on we go agin!”Another stage of trotting—with his eyes kept steadfastly fixed upon the chapparal gap—brought Zeb to the timber.Although the chase had long since turned the angle of the avenue, and was now out of sight, he did not go along the open ground; but among the bushes that bordered it.He went so as to command a view of the clear track for some distance ahead; at the same time taking care that neither himself, nor his mare, might be seen by any one advancing from the opposite direction.He did not anticipate meeting any one—much less the man who soon after came in sight.He was not greatly surprised at hearing a shot: for he had been listening for it, ever since he had set eyes on the chase. He was rather in surprise at not hearing it sooner; and when the crack did come, he recognised the report of a yäger rifle, and knew whose gun had been discharged.He was more astonished to see its owner returning along the lane—in less than five minutes after the shot had been fired—returning, too, with a rapidity that told of retreat!“Comin’ back agin—an so soon!” he muttered, on perceiving Calhoun. “Dog-goned queery thet air! Thur’s somethin’ amiss, more’n a miss, I reck’n. Ho, ho, ho! Goin’, too, as if hell war arter him! Maybe it’s the Headless hisself, and thur’s been a changin’ about in the chase—tit for tat! Darn me, ef it don’t look like it! I’d gie a silver dollar to see thet sort o’ a thing. He, he, he, ho, ho, hoo!”Long before this, the hunter had slipped out of his saddle, and taken the precaution to screen both himself and his animal from the chance of being seen by the retreating rider—who promise soon to pass the spot.And soon did he pass it, going at such a gait, and with such a wild abstracted air, that Zeb would scarce have been perceived had he been standing uncovered in the avenue!“Geehosophat!” mentally ejaculated the backwoodsman, as the passion-scathed countenance came near enough to be scrutinised. “If hell ain’tarter, it’sinsideo’ him! Durn me, ef thet face ain’t the ugliest picter this coon ever clapped eyes on. I shed pity the wife as gets him. Poor Miss Peintdexter! I hope she’ll be able to steer clur o’ havin’ sech a cut-throat as him to be her lord an master.“What’s up anyhow? Thar don’t ’pear to be anythin’ arter him? An’ he still keeps on! Whar’s he boun’ for now? I must foller an see.“To hum agin!” exclaimed the hunter, after going on to the edge of the chapparal, and observed Calhoun still going at a gallop, with head turned homeward. “Hum agin, for sartin!“Now, ole gurl!” he continued, having remained silent till the grey horse was nearly out of sight, “You an me goes t’other way. We must find out what thet shot wur fired for.”In ten minutes after, Zeb had alighted from his mare, and lifted up from the ground an object, the stoutest heart might have felt horror in taking hold of—disgust, even, in touching!Not so the old hunter. In that object he beheld the lineaments of a face well known to him—despite the shrivelling of the skin, and the blood streaks that so fearfully falsified its expression—still dear to him, despite death and a merciless mutilation.He had loved that face, when it belonged to a boy; he now cherished it, belonging not to anybody!Clasping the rim of the hat that fitted tightly to the temples—Zeb endeavoured to take it off. He did not succeed. The head was swollen so as almost to burst the bullion band twisted around it!Holding it in its natural position, Zeb stood for a time gazing tenderly on the face.“Lord, O Lordy!” he drawlingly exclaimed, “what a present to take back tohisfather, to say nothin’ o’ the sister! I don’t think I’ll take it. It air better to bury the thing out hyur, an say no more abeout it.“No; durn me ef I do! What am I thinkin’ o’? Tho’ I don’t exackly see how it may help to sarcumstantiate the chain o’ evvydince, it may do somethin’ torst it. Durned queery witnessit’ll be to purduce in a coort o’ justis!”Saying this, he unstrapped his old blanket; and, using it as a wrapper, carefully packed within it head, hat, and all.Then, hanging the strange bundle over the horn of his saddle, he remounted his mare, and rode reflectingly away.

The backwoodsman, after emerging from the thicket, proceeded as leisurely along the trail, as if he had the whole day before him, and no particular motive for making haste.

And yet, one closely scrutinising his features, might there have observed an expression of intense eagerness; that accorded with his nervous twitching in the saddle, and the sharp glances from time to time cast before him.

He scarce deigned to look upon the “sign” left by Calhoun. It he could read out of the corner of his eye. As to following it, the old mare could have done that without him!

It was not this knowledge that caused him to hang back; for he would have preferred keeping Calhoun in sight. But by doing this, the latter might seehim; and so frustrate the end he desired to attain.

This end was of more importance than any acts that might occur between; and, to make himself acquainted with the latter, Zeb Stump trusted to the craft of his intellect, rather than the skill of his senses.

Advancing slowly and with caution—but with that constancy that ensures good speed—he arrived at length on the spot where themiragehad made itself manifest to Calhoun.

Zeb saw nothing of this. It was gone; and the sky stretched down to the prairie—the blue meeting the green in a straight unbroken line.

He saw, however, what excited him almost as much as the spectre would have done: two sets of horse-tracks going together—those that went after being the hoof-marks of Calhoun’s new horse—of which Zeb had already taken the measure.

About the tracksunderneathhe had no conjecture—at least as regarded their identification. These he knew, as well as if his own mare had made them.

“The skunk’s hed a find!” were the words that escaped him, as he sate gazing upon the double trail. “It don’t foller from thet,” he continued, in the same careless drawl, “thet he hez made a catch. An’ yit, who knows? Durn me, ef he moutn’t! Thur’s lots o’ chances for his doin’ it. The mowstang may a let him come clost up—seein’ as he’s ridin’ one o’ its own sort; an ef it dud—ay, ef it dud—

“What the durnation am I stannin’ hyur for? Thur ain’t no time to be wasted in shiller-shallerin’. Ef he shed grup thet critter, an git what he wants from it, then I mout whissel for what I want, ’ithout the ghost o’ a chance for gettin’ it.

“I must make a better rate o’ speed. Gee-up, ole gurl; an see ef ye can’t overtake that ere grey hoss, as scuttled past half-a-hour agone. Now for a spell o’ yur swiftness, the which you kin show along wi’ any o’ them, I reckon—thet air when ye’re pressed. Gee-up!”

Instead of using the cruel means employed by him when wanting his mare to make her best speed, he only drove the old spur against her ribs, and started her into a trot. He had no desire to travel more rapidly than was consistent with caution; and while trotting he kept his eyes sharply ranging along the skyline in front of him.

“From the way his track runs,” was his reflection, “I kin tell pretty nigh whar it’s goin’ to fetch out. Everything seems to go that way; an so did he, poor young fellur—never more to come back. Ah, wal! ef t’aint possible to ree-vive him agin, may be it air to squar the yards wi’ the skunk as destroyed him. The Scripter sez, ‘a eye for a eye, an a tooth for a tooth,’ an I reckin I’ll shet up somebody’s daylights, an spoil the use o’ thur ivories afore I hev done wi’ him. Somebody as don’t suspeeshun it neyther, an that same—. Heigh! Yonner he goes! An’ yonner too the Headless, by Geehosophat! Full gallup both; an durn me, if the grey aint a overtakin’ him!

“They aint comin’ this way, so ’tain’t no use in our squattin’, ole gurl. Stan’ steady for all that. Hemoutsee us movin’.

“No fear. He’s too full o’ his frolic to look anywhar else, than straight custrut afore him. Ha! jest as I expected—into the openin’! Right down it, fast as heels kin carry ’em!

“Now, my maar, on we go agin!”

Another stage of trotting—with his eyes kept steadfastly fixed upon the chapparal gap—brought Zeb to the timber.

Although the chase had long since turned the angle of the avenue, and was now out of sight, he did not go along the open ground; but among the bushes that bordered it.

He went so as to command a view of the clear track for some distance ahead; at the same time taking care that neither himself, nor his mare, might be seen by any one advancing from the opposite direction.

He did not anticipate meeting any one—much less the man who soon after came in sight.

He was not greatly surprised at hearing a shot: for he had been listening for it, ever since he had set eyes on the chase. He was rather in surprise at not hearing it sooner; and when the crack did come, he recognised the report of a yäger rifle, and knew whose gun had been discharged.

He was more astonished to see its owner returning along the lane—in less than five minutes after the shot had been fired—returning, too, with a rapidity that told of retreat!

“Comin’ back agin—an so soon!” he muttered, on perceiving Calhoun. “Dog-goned queery thet air! Thur’s somethin’ amiss, more’n a miss, I reck’n. Ho, ho, ho! Goin’, too, as if hell war arter him! Maybe it’s the Headless hisself, and thur’s been a changin’ about in the chase—tit for tat! Darn me, ef it don’t look like it! I’d gie a silver dollar to see thet sort o’ a thing. He, he, he, ho, ho, hoo!”

Long before this, the hunter had slipped out of his saddle, and taken the precaution to screen both himself and his animal from the chance of being seen by the retreating rider—who promise soon to pass the spot.

And soon did he pass it, going at such a gait, and with such a wild abstracted air, that Zeb would scarce have been perceived had he been standing uncovered in the avenue!

“Geehosophat!” mentally ejaculated the backwoodsman, as the passion-scathed countenance came near enough to be scrutinised. “If hell ain’tarter, it’sinsideo’ him! Durn me, ef thet face ain’t the ugliest picter this coon ever clapped eyes on. I shed pity the wife as gets him. Poor Miss Peintdexter! I hope she’ll be able to steer clur o’ havin’ sech a cut-throat as him to be her lord an master.

“What’s up anyhow? Thar don’t ’pear to be anythin’ arter him? An’ he still keeps on! Whar’s he boun’ for now? I must foller an see.

“To hum agin!” exclaimed the hunter, after going on to the edge of the chapparal, and observed Calhoun still going at a gallop, with head turned homeward. “Hum agin, for sartin!

“Now, ole gurl!” he continued, having remained silent till the grey horse was nearly out of sight, “You an me goes t’other way. We must find out what thet shot wur fired for.”

In ten minutes after, Zeb had alighted from his mare, and lifted up from the ground an object, the stoutest heart might have felt horror in taking hold of—disgust, even, in touching!

Not so the old hunter. In that object he beheld the lineaments of a face well known to him—despite the shrivelling of the skin, and the blood streaks that so fearfully falsified its expression—still dear to him, despite death and a merciless mutilation.

He had loved that face, when it belonged to a boy; he now cherished it, belonging not to anybody!

Clasping the rim of the hat that fitted tightly to the temples—Zeb endeavoured to take it off. He did not succeed. The head was swollen so as almost to burst the bullion band twisted around it!

Holding it in its natural position, Zeb stood for a time gazing tenderly on the face.

“Lord, O Lordy!” he drawlingly exclaimed, “what a present to take back tohisfather, to say nothin’ o’ the sister! I don’t think I’ll take it. It air better to bury the thing out hyur, an say no more abeout it.

“No; durn me ef I do! What am I thinkin’ o’? Tho’ I don’t exackly see how it may help to sarcumstantiate the chain o’ evvydince, it may do somethin’ torst it. Durned queery witnessit’ll be to purduce in a coort o’ justis!”

Saying this, he unstrapped his old blanket; and, using it as a wrapper, carefully packed within it head, hat, and all.

Then, hanging the strange bundle over the horn of his saddle, he remounted his mare, and rode reflectingly away.

Chapter Eighty Three.Limbs of the Law.On the third day after Maurice Gerald became an inmate of the military prison the fever had forsaken him, and he no longer talked incoherently. On the fourth he was almost restored to his health and strength. The fifth was appointed for his trial!This haste—that elsewhere would have been considered indecent—was thought nothing of in Texas; where a man may commit a capital offence, be tried, and hanged within the short space of four-and-twenty hours!His enemies, who were numerous, for some reason of their own, insisted upon despatch: while his friends, who were few, could urge no good reason against it.Among the populace there was the usual clamouring for prompt and speedy justice; fortified by that exciting phrase, old as the creation itself: “that the blood of the murdered man was calling from the ground for vengeance.”The advocates of an early trial were favoured by a fortuitous circumstance. The judge of the Supreme Court chanced just then to be going his circuit; and the days devoted to clearing the calendar at Fort Inge, had been appointed for that very week.There was, therefore, a sort of necessity, that the case of Maurice Gerald, as of the other suspected murderers, should be tried within a limited time.As no one objected, there was no one to ask for a postponement; and it stood upon the docket for the day in question—the fifteenth of the month.The accused might require the services of a legal adviser. There was no regular practitioner in the place: as in these frontier districts the gentlemen of the long robe usually travel in company with the Court; and the Court had not yet arrived. For all that, a lawyer had appeared: a “counsellor” of distinction; who had come all the way from San Antonio, to conduct the case. As a volunteer he had presented himself!It may have been generosity on the part of this gentleman, or an eye to Congress, though it was said that gold, presented by fair fingers, had induced him to make the journey.When it rains, it rains. The adage is true in Texas as regards the elements; and on this occasion it was true of the lawyers.The day before that appointed for the trial of the mustanger, a second presented himself at Fort Inge, who put forward his claim to be upon the side of the prisoner.This gentleman had made a still longer journey than he of San Antonio; a voyage, in fact: since he had crossed the great Atlantic, starting from the metropolis of the Emerald Isle. He had come for no other purpose than to hold communication with the man accused of having committed a murder!It is true, the errand that had brought him did not anticipate this; and the Dublin solicitor was no little astonished when, after depositing his travelling traps under the roof of Mr Oberdoffer’s hostelry, and making inquiry about Maurice Gerald, he was told that the young Irishman was shut up in the guard-house.Still greater the attorney’s astonishment on learning the cause of his incarceration.“Fwhat! the son of a Munsther Gerald accused of murdher! The heir of Castle Ballagh, wid its bewtiful park and demesne. Fwy, I’ve got the papers in my portmantyee here. Faugh-a-ballagh! Show me the way to him!”Though the “Texan” Boniface was inclined to consider his recently arrived guest entitled to a suspicion of lunacy, he assented to his request; and furnished him with a guide to the guard-house.If the Irish attorney was mad, there appeared to be method in his madness. Instead of being denied admittance to the accused criminal, he was made welcome to go in and out of the military prison—as often as it seemed good to him.Some document he had laid before the eyes of the major-commandant, had procured him this privilege; at the same time placing himen rapport, in a friendly way, with the Texan “counsellor.”The advent of the Irish attorney at such a crisis gave rise to much speculation at the Port, the village, and throughout the settlement. The bar-room of the “Rough and Ready” was rife with conjecturers—quidnuncsthey could scarcely be called: since in Texas the genus does not exist.A certain grotesqueness about the man added to the national instinct for guessing—which had been rendered excruciatingly keen through some revelations, contributed by “Old Duffer.”For all that, the transatlantic limb of the law proved himself tolerably true to the traditions of his craft. With the exception of the trifling imprudences already detailed—drawn from him in the first moments of surprise—he never afterwards committed himself; but kept his lips close as an oyster at ebb tide.There was not much time for him to use his tongue. On the day after his arrival the trial was to take place; and during most of the interval he was either in the guard-house along with the prisoner, or closeted with the San Antonio counsel.The rumour became rife that Maurice Gerald had told them a tale—a strange weird story—but of its details the world outside remained in itching ignorance.There was one who knew it—one able to confirm it—Zeb Stump the hunter.There may have been another; but this other was not in the confidence either of the accused or his counsel.Zeb himself did not appear in their company. Only once had he been seen conferring with them. After that he was gone—both from the guard-house and the settlement, as everybody supposed, about his ordinary business—in search of deer, “baar,” or “gobbler.”Everybody was in error. Zeb for the time had forsaken his usual pursuits, or, at all events, the game he was accustomed to chase, capture, and kill.It is true he was out upon a stalking expedition; but instead of birds or beasts, he was after an animal of neither sort; one that could not be classed with creatures either of the earth or the air—a horseman without a head!

On the third day after Maurice Gerald became an inmate of the military prison the fever had forsaken him, and he no longer talked incoherently. On the fourth he was almost restored to his health and strength. The fifth was appointed for his trial!

This haste—that elsewhere would have been considered indecent—was thought nothing of in Texas; where a man may commit a capital offence, be tried, and hanged within the short space of four-and-twenty hours!

His enemies, who were numerous, for some reason of their own, insisted upon despatch: while his friends, who were few, could urge no good reason against it.

Among the populace there was the usual clamouring for prompt and speedy justice; fortified by that exciting phrase, old as the creation itself: “that the blood of the murdered man was calling from the ground for vengeance.”

The advocates of an early trial were favoured by a fortuitous circumstance. The judge of the Supreme Court chanced just then to be going his circuit; and the days devoted to clearing the calendar at Fort Inge, had been appointed for that very week.

There was, therefore, a sort of necessity, that the case of Maurice Gerald, as of the other suspected murderers, should be tried within a limited time.

As no one objected, there was no one to ask for a postponement; and it stood upon the docket for the day in question—the fifteenth of the month.

The accused might require the services of a legal adviser. There was no regular practitioner in the place: as in these frontier districts the gentlemen of the long robe usually travel in company with the Court; and the Court had not yet arrived. For all that, a lawyer had appeared: a “counsellor” of distinction; who had come all the way from San Antonio, to conduct the case. As a volunteer he had presented himself!

It may have been generosity on the part of this gentleman, or an eye to Congress, though it was said that gold, presented by fair fingers, had induced him to make the journey.

When it rains, it rains. The adage is true in Texas as regards the elements; and on this occasion it was true of the lawyers.

The day before that appointed for the trial of the mustanger, a second presented himself at Fort Inge, who put forward his claim to be upon the side of the prisoner.

This gentleman had made a still longer journey than he of San Antonio; a voyage, in fact: since he had crossed the great Atlantic, starting from the metropolis of the Emerald Isle. He had come for no other purpose than to hold communication with the man accused of having committed a murder!

It is true, the errand that had brought him did not anticipate this; and the Dublin solicitor was no little astonished when, after depositing his travelling traps under the roof of Mr Oberdoffer’s hostelry, and making inquiry about Maurice Gerald, he was told that the young Irishman was shut up in the guard-house.

Still greater the attorney’s astonishment on learning the cause of his incarceration.

“Fwhat! the son of a Munsther Gerald accused of murdher! The heir of Castle Ballagh, wid its bewtiful park and demesne. Fwy, I’ve got the papers in my portmantyee here. Faugh-a-ballagh! Show me the way to him!”

Though the “Texan” Boniface was inclined to consider his recently arrived guest entitled to a suspicion of lunacy, he assented to his request; and furnished him with a guide to the guard-house.

If the Irish attorney was mad, there appeared to be method in his madness. Instead of being denied admittance to the accused criminal, he was made welcome to go in and out of the military prison—as often as it seemed good to him.

Some document he had laid before the eyes of the major-commandant, had procured him this privilege; at the same time placing himen rapport, in a friendly way, with the Texan “counsellor.”

The advent of the Irish attorney at such a crisis gave rise to much speculation at the Port, the village, and throughout the settlement. The bar-room of the “Rough and Ready” was rife with conjecturers—quidnuncsthey could scarcely be called: since in Texas the genus does not exist.

A certain grotesqueness about the man added to the national instinct for guessing—which had been rendered excruciatingly keen through some revelations, contributed by “Old Duffer.”

For all that, the transatlantic limb of the law proved himself tolerably true to the traditions of his craft. With the exception of the trifling imprudences already detailed—drawn from him in the first moments of surprise—he never afterwards committed himself; but kept his lips close as an oyster at ebb tide.

There was not much time for him to use his tongue. On the day after his arrival the trial was to take place; and during most of the interval he was either in the guard-house along with the prisoner, or closeted with the San Antonio counsel.

The rumour became rife that Maurice Gerald had told them a tale—a strange weird story—but of its details the world outside remained in itching ignorance.

There was one who knew it—one able to confirm it—Zeb Stump the hunter.

There may have been another; but this other was not in the confidence either of the accused or his counsel.

Zeb himself did not appear in their company. Only once had he been seen conferring with them. After that he was gone—both from the guard-house and the settlement, as everybody supposed, about his ordinary business—in search of deer, “baar,” or “gobbler.”

Everybody was in error. Zeb for the time had forsaken his usual pursuits, or, at all events, the game he was accustomed to chase, capture, and kill.

It is true he was out upon a stalking expedition; but instead of birds or beasts, he was after an animal of neither sort; one that could not be classed with creatures either of the earth or the air—a horseman without a head!

Chapter Eighty Four.An Affectionate Nephew.“Tried to-morrow—to-morrow, thank God! Not likely that anybody ’ll catch that cursed thing before then—to be hoped, never.“Itis all I’ve got to fear. I defy them to tell what’s happened without that. Hang me if I know myself! Enough only to—.“Queer, the coming of this Irish pettifogger!“Queer, too, the fellow from San Antonio! Wonder who and what’s brought him? Somebody’s promised him his costs?“Damn ’em! I don’t care, not the value of a red cent. They can make nothing out of it, but that Gerald did the deed. Everything points that way; and everybody thinks so. They’re bound to convict him.“Zeb Stump don’t think it, the suspicious old snake! He’s nowhere to be found. Wonder where he has gone? On a hunt, they say. ’Tain’t likely, such time as this. What if he be hunting it? What if he should catch it?“I’d try again myself, if there was time. There ain’t. Before to-morrow night it’ll be all over; and afterwards if there should turn up—. Damn afterwards! The thing is to make sure now. Let the future look to itself. With one man hung for the murder, ’tain’t likely they’d care to accuse another. Even if something suspiciousdidturn up! they’d be shy to take hold of it. It would be like condemning themselves!“I reckon, I’ve got all right with the Regulators. Sam Manley himself appears pretty well convinced. I knocked his doubts upon the head, when I told him what I’d heard that night. A little more than I did hear; though that was enough to make a man stark, staring mad. Damn!“It’s no use crying over spilt milk. She’s met the man, and there’s an end of it. She’ll never meet him again, and that’s another end of it—except she meet him in heaven. Well; that will depend upon herself.“I don’t thinkanything has happened between them. She’s not the sort for that, with all her wildness; and it may be what that yellow wench tells me—onlygratitude. No, no, no! It can’t be. Gratitude don’t get out of its bed in the middle of the night—to keep appointments at the bottom of a garden? She loves him—she loves him! Let her love and be damned! She shall never have him. She shall never see him again, unless she prove obstinate; and then it will be but to condemn him. A word from her, and he’s a hanged man.“She shall speak it, if she don’t say that other word, I’ve twice asked her for. The third time will be the last. One more refusal, and I show my hand. Not only shall this Irish adventurer meet his doom; but she shall be his condemner; and the plantation, house, niggers, everything—. Ah! uncle Woodley; I wanted to see you.”The soliloquy above reported took place in a chamber, tenanted only by Cassius Calhoun.It was Woodley Poindexter who interrupted it. Sad, silent, straying through the corridors of Casa del Corvo, he had entered the apartment usually occupied by his nephew—more by chance than from any premeditated purpose.“Want me! For what, nephew?”There was a tone of humility, almost obeisance, in the speech of the broken man. The once proud Poindexter—before whom two hundred slaves had trembled every day, every hour of their lives, now stood in the presence of his master!True, it was his own nephew, who had the power to humiliate him—his sister’s son.But there was not much in that, considering the character of the man.“I want to talk to you about Loo,” was the rejoinder of Calhoun.It was the very subject Woodley Poindexter would have shunned. It was something he dreaded to think about, much less make the topic of discourse; and less still with him who now challenged it.Nevertheless, he did not betray surprise. He scarce felt it. Something said or done on the day before had led him to anticipate this request for a conversation—as also the nature of the subject.The manner in which Calhoun introduced it, did not diminish his uneasiness. It sounded more like a demand than a request.“About Loo? What of her?” he inquired, with assumed calmness.“Well,” said Calhoun, apparently in reluctant utterance, as if shy about entering upon the subject, or pretending to be so, “I—I—wanted—”“I’d rather,” put in the planter, taking advantage of the other’s hesitancy, “I’d rather not speak ofhernow.”This was said almost supplicatingly.“And why not now, uncle?” asked Calhoun, emboldened by the show of opposition.“You know my reasons, nephew?”“Well, I know the time is not pleasant. Poor Henry missing—supposed to be—After all, he may turn up yet, and everything be right again.”“Never! we shall never see him again—living or dead. I have no longer a son?”“You have a daughter; and she—”“Has disgraced me!”“I don’t believe it, uncle—no.”“What means those things I’ve heard—myself seen? What could have taken her there—twenty miles across the country—alone—in the hut of a common horse-trader—standing by his bedside? O God! And why should she have interposed to save him—him, the murderer of my son—her own brother? O God!”“Her own story explains the first—satisfactorily, as I think.”Calhoun didnotthink so.“The second is simple enough. Any woman would have done the same—a woman like Loo.”“There isnonelike her. I, her father, say so. Oh! that I could think it is, as you say! My poor daughter! who should now be dearer to me than ever—now that I have no son!”“It is for her to find you a son—one already related to you; and who can promise to play the part—with perhaps not so much affection as him you have lost, but with all he has the power to give. I won’t talk to you in riddles, Uncle Woodley. You know what I mean; and how my mind’s made up about this matter.I want Loo!”The planter showed no surprise at the laconic declaration. He expected it. For all that, the shadow became darker on his brow. It was evident he did not relish the proposed alliance.This may seem strange. Up to a late period, he had been its advocate—in his own mind—and more than once, delicately, in the ear of his daughter.Previous to the migration into Texas, he had known comparatively little of his nephew.Since coming to manhood, Calhoun had been a citizen of the state of Mississippi—more frequently a dweller in the dissipated city of New Orleans. An occasional visit to the Louisiana plantation was all his uncle had seen of him; until the developing beauty of his cousin Louise gave him the inducement to make these visits at shorter intervals—each time protracting them to a longer stay.There was then twelve months of campaigning in Mexico; where he rose to the rank of captain; and, after his conquests in war, he had returned home with the full determination to make a conquest in love—the heart of his Creole cousin.From that time his residence under his uncle’s roof had been more permanent. If not altogether liked by the young lady, he had made himself welcome to her father, by means seldom known to fail.The planter, once rich, was now poor. Extravagance had reduced his estate to a hopeless indebtedness. With his nephew, the order was reversed: once poor, he was now rich. Chance had made him so. Under the circumstances, it was not surprising, that money had passed between them.In his native place, and among his old neighbours, Woodley Poindexter still commanded sufficient homage to shield him from the suspicion of beingunderhis nephew; as also to restrain the latter from exhibiting the customary arrogance of the creditor.It was only after the move into Texas, that their relations began to assume that peculiar character observable between mortgagor and mortgagee.It grew more patent, after several attempts at love-making on the part of Calhoun, with corresponding repulses on the part of Louise.The planter had now a better opportunity of becoming acquainted with the true character of his nephew; and almost every day; since their arrival at Casa del Corvo, had this been developing itself to his discredit.Calhoun’s quarrel with the mustanger, and its ending, had not strengthened his uncle’s respect for him; though, as a kinsman, he was under the necessity of taking sides with him.There had occurred other circumstances to cause a change in his feelings—to make him, notwithstanding its many advantages,dislikethe connection.Alas! there was much also to render it, if not agreeable, at least not to be slightingly set aside.Indecision—perhaps more than the sorrow for his son’s loss dictated the character of his reply.“If I understand you aright, nephew, you meanmarriage! Surely it is not the time to talk of it now—while death is in our house! To think of such a thing would cause a scandal throughout the settlement.”“You mistake me, uncle. I do not mean marriage—that is, notnow. Only something that will secure it—when the proper time arrives.”“I do not understand you, Cash.”“You’ll do that, if you only listen to me a minute.”“Go on.”“Well; what I want to say is this. I’ve made up my mind to get married. I’m now close upon thirty—as you know; and at that time a man begins to get tired of running about the world. I’m damnably tired of it; and don’t intend to keep single any longer.I’m willing to have Loo for my wife. There need be no hurry about it. All I want now is her promise; signed and sealed, that there may be nofluke, or uncertainty. I want the thing settled. When thesebothersblow past, it will be time enough to talk of the wedding business, and that sort of thing.”The word “bothers,” with the speech of which it formed part, grated harshly on the ear of a father, mourning for his murdered son!The spirit of Woodley Poindexter was aroused—almost to the resumption of its old pride, and the indignation that had oft accompanied it.It soon cowered again. On one side he saw land, slaves, wealth, position; on the other, penury that seemed perdition.He did not yield altogether; as may be guessed by the character of his reply.“Well, nephew; you have certainly spoken plain enough. But I know not my daughter’s disposition towards you. You say you are willing to have her for your wife. Is she willing to have you? I suppose there is a question about that?”“I think, uncle, it will depend a good deal upon yourself. You are her father. Surely you canconvinceher?”“I’m not so sure of that. She’s not of the kind to be convinced—against her will. You, Cash, know that as well as I.”“Well, I only know that I intend getting ‘spliced,’ as the sailors say; and I’d like Loo for themistress of Casa del Corvo, better than any other woman in the Settlement—in all Texas, for that matter.”Woodley Poindexter recoiled at the ungracious speech. It was the first time he had been told, that he was not themasterof Casa del Corvo! Indirectly as the information had been conveyed, he understood it.Once more rose before his mind the reality of lands, slaves, wealth, and social status—alongside, the apparition of poverty and social abasement.The last looked hideous; though not more so than the man who stood before him—his own nephew—soliciting to become his son!For purposes impossible to comprehend, God often suffers himself to be defeated by the Devil. In this instance was it so. The good in Poindexter’s heart succumbed to the evil. He promised to assist his nephew, in destroying the happiness of his daughter.“Loo!”“Father!”“I come to ask a favour from you.”“What is it, father?”“You know that your cousin Cash loves you. He is ready to die for—more and better still, to marry you.”“But I am not ready to marryhim. No, father;Ishall die first. The presumptuous wretch! I know what it means. And he has sentyouto make this proposal! Tell him in return, that, sooner than consent to become his wife, I’d go upon the prairies—and seek my living by lassoing wild horses! Tell him that!”“Reflect, daughter! You are, perhaps, not aware that—”“That my cousin is your creditor. I know all that, dear father. But I know also that you are Woodley Poindexter, and I your daughter.”Delicately as the hint was given, it produced the desired effect. The spirit of the planter surged up to its ancient pride, His reply was:—“Dearest Louise! image of your mother! I had doubted you. Forgive me, my noble girl! Let the past be forgotten. I shall leave it to yourself. You are free to refuse him!”

“Tried to-morrow—to-morrow, thank God! Not likely that anybody ’ll catch that cursed thing before then—to be hoped, never.

“Itis all I’ve got to fear. I defy them to tell what’s happened without that. Hang me if I know myself! Enough only to—.

“Queer, the coming of this Irish pettifogger!

“Queer, too, the fellow from San Antonio! Wonder who and what’s brought him? Somebody’s promised him his costs?

“Damn ’em! I don’t care, not the value of a red cent. They can make nothing out of it, but that Gerald did the deed. Everything points that way; and everybody thinks so. They’re bound to convict him.

“Zeb Stump don’t think it, the suspicious old snake! He’s nowhere to be found. Wonder where he has gone? On a hunt, they say. ’Tain’t likely, such time as this. What if he be hunting it? What if he should catch it?

“I’d try again myself, if there was time. There ain’t. Before to-morrow night it’ll be all over; and afterwards if there should turn up—. Damn afterwards! The thing is to make sure now. Let the future look to itself. With one man hung for the murder, ’tain’t likely they’d care to accuse another. Even if something suspiciousdidturn up! they’d be shy to take hold of it. It would be like condemning themselves!

“I reckon, I’ve got all right with the Regulators. Sam Manley himself appears pretty well convinced. I knocked his doubts upon the head, when I told him what I’d heard that night. A little more than I did hear; though that was enough to make a man stark, staring mad. Damn!

“It’s no use crying over spilt milk. She’s met the man, and there’s an end of it. She’ll never meet him again, and that’s another end of it—except she meet him in heaven. Well; that will depend upon herself.

“I don’t thinkanything has happened between them. She’s not the sort for that, with all her wildness; and it may be what that yellow wench tells me—onlygratitude. No, no, no! It can’t be. Gratitude don’t get out of its bed in the middle of the night—to keep appointments at the bottom of a garden? She loves him—she loves him! Let her love and be damned! She shall never have him. She shall never see him again, unless she prove obstinate; and then it will be but to condemn him. A word from her, and he’s a hanged man.

“She shall speak it, if she don’t say that other word, I’ve twice asked her for. The third time will be the last. One more refusal, and I show my hand. Not only shall this Irish adventurer meet his doom; but she shall be his condemner; and the plantation, house, niggers, everything—. Ah! uncle Woodley; I wanted to see you.”

The soliloquy above reported took place in a chamber, tenanted only by Cassius Calhoun.

It was Woodley Poindexter who interrupted it. Sad, silent, straying through the corridors of Casa del Corvo, he had entered the apartment usually occupied by his nephew—more by chance than from any premeditated purpose.

“Want me! For what, nephew?”

There was a tone of humility, almost obeisance, in the speech of the broken man. The once proud Poindexter—before whom two hundred slaves had trembled every day, every hour of their lives, now stood in the presence of his master!

True, it was his own nephew, who had the power to humiliate him—his sister’s son.

But there was not much in that, considering the character of the man.

“I want to talk to you about Loo,” was the rejoinder of Calhoun.

It was the very subject Woodley Poindexter would have shunned. It was something he dreaded to think about, much less make the topic of discourse; and less still with him who now challenged it.

Nevertheless, he did not betray surprise. He scarce felt it. Something said or done on the day before had led him to anticipate this request for a conversation—as also the nature of the subject.

The manner in which Calhoun introduced it, did not diminish his uneasiness. It sounded more like a demand than a request.

“About Loo? What of her?” he inquired, with assumed calmness.

“Well,” said Calhoun, apparently in reluctant utterance, as if shy about entering upon the subject, or pretending to be so, “I—I—wanted—”

“I’d rather,” put in the planter, taking advantage of the other’s hesitancy, “I’d rather not speak ofhernow.”

This was said almost supplicatingly.

“And why not now, uncle?” asked Calhoun, emboldened by the show of opposition.

“You know my reasons, nephew?”

“Well, I know the time is not pleasant. Poor Henry missing—supposed to be—After all, he may turn up yet, and everything be right again.”

“Never! we shall never see him again—living or dead. I have no longer a son?”

“You have a daughter; and she—”

“Has disgraced me!”

“I don’t believe it, uncle—no.”

“What means those things I’ve heard—myself seen? What could have taken her there—twenty miles across the country—alone—in the hut of a common horse-trader—standing by his bedside? O God! And why should she have interposed to save him—him, the murderer of my son—her own brother? O God!”

“Her own story explains the first—satisfactorily, as I think.”

Calhoun didnotthink so.

“The second is simple enough. Any woman would have done the same—a woman like Loo.”

“There isnonelike her. I, her father, say so. Oh! that I could think it is, as you say! My poor daughter! who should now be dearer to me than ever—now that I have no son!”

“It is for her to find you a son—one already related to you; and who can promise to play the part—with perhaps not so much affection as him you have lost, but with all he has the power to give. I won’t talk to you in riddles, Uncle Woodley. You know what I mean; and how my mind’s made up about this matter.I want Loo!”

The planter showed no surprise at the laconic declaration. He expected it. For all that, the shadow became darker on his brow. It was evident he did not relish the proposed alliance.

This may seem strange. Up to a late period, he had been its advocate—in his own mind—and more than once, delicately, in the ear of his daughter.

Previous to the migration into Texas, he had known comparatively little of his nephew.

Since coming to manhood, Calhoun had been a citizen of the state of Mississippi—more frequently a dweller in the dissipated city of New Orleans. An occasional visit to the Louisiana plantation was all his uncle had seen of him; until the developing beauty of his cousin Louise gave him the inducement to make these visits at shorter intervals—each time protracting them to a longer stay.

There was then twelve months of campaigning in Mexico; where he rose to the rank of captain; and, after his conquests in war, he had returned home with the full determination to make a conquest in love—the heart of his Creole cousin.

From that time his residence under his uncle’s roof had been more permanent. If not altogether liked by the young lady, he had made himself welcome to her father, by means seldom known to fail.

The planter, once rich, was now poor. Extravagance had reduced his estate to a hopeless indebtedness. With his nephew, the order was reversed: once poor, he was now rich. Chance had made him so. Under the circumstances, it was not surprising, that money had passed between them.

In his native place, and among his old neighbours, Woodley Poindexter still commanded sufficient homage to shield him from the suspicion of beingunderhis nephew; as also to restrain the latter from exhibiting the customary arrogance of the creditor.

It was only after the move into Texas, that their relations began to assume that peculiar character observable between mortgagor and mortgagee.

It grew more patent, after several attempts at love-making on the part of Calhoun, with corresponding repulses on the part of Louise.

The planter had now a better opportunity of becoming acquainted with the true character of his nephew; and almost every day; since their arrival at Casa del Corvo, had this been developing itself to his discredit.

Calhoun’s quarrel with the mustanger, and its ending, had not strengthened his uncle’s respect for him; though, as a kinsman, he was under the necessity of taking sides with him.

There had occurred other circumstances to cause a change in his feelings—to make him, notwithstanding its many advantages,dislikethe connection.

Alas! there was much also to render it, if not agreeable, at least not to be slightingly set aside.

Indecision—perhaps more than the sorrow for his son’s loss dictated the character of his reply.

“If I understand you aright, nephew, you meanmarriage! Surely it is not the time to talk of it now—while death is in our house! To think of such a thing would cause a scandal throughout the settlement.”

“You mistake me, uncle. I do not mean marriage—that is, notnow. Only something that will secure it—when the proper time arrives.”

“I do not understand you, Cash.”

“You’ll do that, if you only listen to me a minute.”

“Go on.”

“Well; what I want to say is this. I’ve made up my mind to get married. I’m now close upon thirty—as you know; and at that time a man begins to get tired of running about the world. I’m damnably tired of it; and don’t intend to keep single any longer.I’m willing to have Loo for my wife. There need be no hurry about it. All I want now is her promise; signed and sealed, that there may be nofluke, or uncertainty. I want the thing settled. When thesebothersblow past, it will be time enough to talk of the wedding business, and that sort of thing.”

The word “bothers,” with the speech of which it formed part, grated harshly on the ear of a father, mourning for his murdered son!

The spirit of Woodley Poindexter was aroused—almost to the resumption of its old pride, and the indignation that had oft accompanied it.

It soon cowered again. On one side he saw land, slaves, wealth, position; on the other, penury that seemed perdition.

He did not yield altogether; as may be guessed by the character of his reply.

“Well, nephew; you have certainly spoken plain enough. But I know not my daughter’s disposition towards you. You say you are willing to have her for your wife. Is she willing to have you? I suppose there is a question about that?”

“I think, uncle, it will depend a good deal upon yourself. You are her father. Surely you canconvinceher?”

“I’m not so sure of that. She’s not of the kind to be convinced—against her will. You, Cash, know that as well as I.”

“Well, I only know that I intend getting ‘spliced,’ as the sailors say; and I’d like Loo for themistress of Casa del Corvo, better than any other woman in the Settlement—in all Texas, for that matter.”

Woodley Poindexter recoiled at the ungracious speech. It was the first time he had been told, that he was not themasterof Casa del Corvo! Indirectly as the information had been conveyed, he understood it.

Once more rose before his mind the reality of lands, slaves, wealth, and social status—alongside, the apparition of poverty and social abasement.

The last looked hideous; though not more so than the man who stood before him—his own nephew—soliciting to become his son!

For purposes impossible to comprehend, God often suffers himself to be defeated by the Devil. In this instance was it so. The good in Poindexter’s heart succumbed to the evil. He promised to assist his nephew, in destroying the happiness of his daughter.

“Loo!”

“Father!”

“I come to ask a favour from you.”

“What is it, father?”

“You know that your cousin Cash loves you. He is ready to die for—more and better still, to marry you.”

“But I am not ready to marryhim. No, father;Ishall die first. The presumptuous wretch! I know what it means. And he has sentyouto make this proposal! Tell him in return, that, sooner than consent to become his wife, I’d go upon the prairies—and seek my living by lassoing wild horses! Tell him that!”

“Reflect, daughter! You are, perhaps, not aware that—”

“That my cousin is your creditor. I know all that, dear father. But I know also that you are Woodley Poindexter, and I your daughter.”

Delicately as the hint was given, it produced the desired effect. The spirit of the planter surged up to its ancient pride, His reply was:—

“Dearest Louise! image of your mother! I had doubted you. Forgive me, my noble girl! Let the past be forgotten. I shall leave it to yourself. You are free to refuse him!”

Chapter Eighty Five.A Kind Cousin.Louise Poindexter made fall use of the liberty allowed by her father. In less than an hour after, Calhoun was flatly refused.It was his third time of asking. Twice before had the same suit been preferred; informally, and rather by a figure of speech than in the shape of a direct declaration.It was the third time; and the answer told it would be the last. It was a simple “No,” emphatically followed by the equally simple “Never!”There was no prevarication about the speech—no apology for having made it.Calhoun listened to his rejection, without much show of surprise. Possibly—in all probability—he expected it.But instead of the blank look of despair usually observable under the circumstances, his features remained firm, and his cheeks free from blanching.As he stood confronting his fair cousin, a spectator might have been reminded of the jaguar, as it pauses before springing on its prey.There was that in his eye which seemed to say:—“In less than sixty seconds, you’ll change your tune.”What he did say was:—“You’re not in earnest, Loo?”“I am, sir. Have I spoken like one who jests?”“You’ve spoken like one, who hasn’t taken pains to reflect.”“Upon what?”“Many things.”“Name them!”“Well, for one—the way I love you.”She made no rejoinder.“A love,” he continued, in a tone half explanatory, half pleading; “a love, Loo, that no man can feel for a woman, and survive it. It can end only with my life. It could not end withyours.”There was a pause, but still no reply.“’Tis no use my telling you its history. It began on the same day—ay, the same hour—I first saw you.“I won’t say it grew stronger as time passed. It could not. On my first visit to your father’s house—now six years ago—you may remember that, after alighting from my horse, you asked me to take a walk with you round the garden—while dinner was being got ready.“You were but a stripling of a girl; but oh, Loo, you were a woman in beauty—as beautiful as you are at this moment.“No doubt you little thought, as you took me by the hand, and led me along the gravelled walk, under the shade of the China trees, that the touch of your fingers was sending a thrill into my soul; your pretty prattle making an impression upon my heart, that neither time, nor distance, nor yetdissipation, has been able to efface.”The Creole continued to listen, though not without showing sign. Words so eloquent, so earnest, so full of sweet flattery, could scarce fail to have effect upon a woman. By such speech had Lucifer succeeded in the accomplishment of his purpose. There was pity, if not approval, in her look!Still did she keep silence.Calhoun continued:—“Yes, Loo; it’s true as I tell you. I’ve tried all three. Six years may fairly be called time. From Mississippi to Mexico was the distance: for I went there with no other purpose than to forget you. It proved of no avail; and, returning, I entered upon a course of dissipation. New Orleans knows that.“I won’t say, that my passion grew stronger by these attempts to stifle it. I’ve already told you, it could not. From the hour you first caught hold of my hand, and called me cousin—ah! you called mehandsomecousin, Loo—from that hour I can remember no change, no degrees, in the fervour of my affection; except when jealousy has made me hate—ay, so much, that I could havekilledyou!”“Good gracious, Captain Calhoun! This is wild talk of yours. It is even silly!”“’Tis serious, nevertheless. I’ve been so jealous with you at times, that it was a task to control myself. My temper I could not—as you have reason to know.”“Alas, cousin, I cannot help what has happened. I never gave you cause, to think—”“I know what you are going to say; and you may leave it unspoken. I’ll say it for you: ‘to think that you ever loved me.’ Those were the words upon your lips.“I don’t say you did,” he continued, with deepening despair: “I don’t accuse you of tempting me. Something did. God, who gave you such beauty; or the Devil, who led me to look upon it.”“What you say only causes me pain. I do not suppose you are trying to flatter me. You talk too earnestly for that. But oh, cousin Cassius, ’tis a fancy from which you will easily recover. There are others, far fairer than I; and many, who would feel complimented by such speeches. Why not address yourself to them?”“Why not?” he echoed, with bitter emphasis. “What an idle question!”“I repeat it. It is not idle. Far more so is your affection for me: for I must be candid with you, Cassius. I do not—Icannot, love you.”“You will not marry me then?”“That, at least, is an idle question. I’ve said I do not love you. Surely that is sufficient.”“And I’ve said I loveyou. I gave it as one reason why I wish you for my wife: but there areothers. Are you desirous of hearing them?”As Calhoun asked this question the suppliant air forsook him. The spirit of the jaguar was once more in his eye.“You said there were other reasons. State them! Do not be backward. I’m not afraid to listen.”“Indeed!” he rejoined, sneeringly. “You’re not afraid, ain’t you?”“Not that I know of. What have I to fear?”“I won’t say whatyouhave; but what your father has.”“Let me hear it? What concerns him, equally affects me. I am his daughter; and now, alas, his only—. Go on, cousin Calhoun! What is this shadow hanging over him?”“No shadow, Loo; but something serious, and substantial. A trouble he’s no longer able to contend with. You force me to speak of things you shouldn’t know anything about.”“Oh! don’t I? You’re mistaken, cousin Cash. I know them already. I’m aware that my father’s in debt; and that you are his creditor. How could I have remained in ignorance of it? Your arrogance about the house—your presumption, shown every hour, and in presence of the domestics—has been evidence sufficient to satisfy even them, that there is something amiss. You are master of Casa del Corvo. I know it. You are not master ofme!”Calhoun quailed before the defiant speech. The card, upon which he had been counting, was not likely to gain the trick. He declined playing it.He held a still strongerinhis hand; which was exhibited without farther delay.“Indeed!” he retorted, sneeringly. “Well; if I’m not master of your heart, I am of your happiness—or shall be. I know the worthless wretch that’s driven you to this denial—”“Who?”“How innocent you are!”“Of that at least I am; unless by worthless wretch you mean yourself. In that sense I can understand you, sir. The description is too true to be mistaken.”“Be it so!” he replied, turning livid with rage, though still keeping himself under a certain restraint. “Well; since you think me so worthless, it won’t, I suppose, better your opinion of me, when I tell you what I’m going to do with you?”“Do with me! You are presumptuous, cousin Cash! You talk as if I were yourprotégée, or slave! I’m neither one, nor the other!”Calhoun, cowering under the outburst of her indignation, remained silent.“Pardieu!” she continued, “what is this threat? Tell me what you aregoing to do with me! I should like to know that.”“You shall.”“Let me hear it! Am I to be turned adrift upon the prairie, or shut up in a convent? Perhaps it may be a prison?”“You would like the last, no doubt—provided your incarceration was to be in the company of—”“Go on, sir! What is to be my destiny? I’m impatient to have it declared.”“Don’t be in a hurry. The first act shall be rehearsed tomorrow.”“So soon? And where, may I ask?”“In a court of justice.”“How, sir?”“By your standing before a judge, and in presence of a jury.”“You are pleased to be facetious, Captain Calhoun. Let me tell you that I don’t like such pleasantries—”“Pleasantries indeed! I’m stating plain facts. To-morrow is the day of trial. Mr Maurice Gerald, or McSweeney, or O’Hogerty, or whatever’s his name, will stand before the bar—accused of murdering your brother.”“’Tis false! Maurice Gerald never—”“Did the deed, you are going to say? Well, that remains to be proved. Itwillbe; and from your own lips will come the words that’ll prove it—to the satisfaction of every man upon the jury.”The great gazelle-eyes of the Creole were opened to their fullest extent. They gazed upon the speaker with a look such as is oft given by the gazelle itself—a commingling of fear, wonder, and inquiry.It was some seconds before she essayed to speak. Thoughts, conjectures, fears, fancies, and suspicions, all had to do in keeping her silent.“I know not what you mean,” she at length rejoined. “You talk of my being called into court. For what purpose? Though I am the sister of him, who—I know nothing—can tell no more than is in the mouth of everybody.”“Yes can you; a great deal more. It’s not in the mouth of everybody: that on the night of the murder, you gave Gerald a meeting at the bottom of the garden. No more does all the world know what occurred at that stolen interview. How Henry intruded upon it; how, maddened, as he might well be, by the thought of such a disgrace—not only to his sister, but his family—he threatened to kill the man who had caused it; and was only hindered from carrying out that threat, by the intercession of the woman so damnably deluded!“All the world don’t know what followed: how Henry, like a fool, went after the low hound, and with what intent. Besides themselves, there were but two others who chanced to be spectators of that parting.”“Two—who were they?”The question was asked mechanically—almost with a tranquil coolness.It was answered with equalsang froid.“One was Cassius Calhoun—the other Louise Poindexter.” She did not start. She did not even show sign of being surprised. What was spoken already had prepared her for the revelation. Her rejoinder was a single word, pronounced in a tone of defiance. “Well!”“Well!” echoed Calhoun, chagrined at the slight effect his speeches had produced; “I suppose you understand me?”“Not any more than ever.”“You wish me to speak further?”“As you please, sir.”“I shall then. I say to you, Loo, there’s but one way to save your father from ruin—yourself from shame. You know what I mean?”“Yes; I know that much.”“You will not refuse me now?”“Nowmore thanever!”“Be it so! Before this time to-morrow—and, by Heaven! I mean it—before this timeto-morrow, you shall stand in the witness-box?”“Vile spy! Anywhere but in your presence! Out of my sight! This instant, or I call my father!”“You needn’t put yourself to the trouble. I’m not going to embarrass you any longer with my company—so disagreeable to you. I leave you to reflect. Perhaps before the trial comes on, you’ll see fit to change your mind. If so, I hope you’ll give notice of it—in time to stay the summons. Good night, Loo! I’ll sleep thinking of you.”With these words of mockery upon his lips—almost as bitter to himself as to her who heard them—Calhoun strode out of the apartment, with an air less of triumph than of guilt.Louise listened, until his footsteps died away in the distant corridor.Then, as if the proud angry thoughts hitherto sustaining her had become suddenly relaxed, she sank into a chair; and, with both hands pressing upon her bosom, tried to still the dread throbbings that now, more than ever, distracted it.

Louise Poindexter made fall use of the liberty allowed by her father. In less than an hour after, Calhoun was flatly refused.

It was his third time of asking. Twice before had the same suit been preferred; informally, and rather by a figure of speech than in the shape of a direct declaration.

It was the third time; and the answer told it would be the last. It was a simple “No,” emphatically followed by the equally simple “Never!”

There was no prevarication about the speech—no apology for having made it.

Calhoun listened to his rejection, without much show of surprise. Possibly—in all probability—he expected it.

But instead of the blank look of despair usually observable under the circumstances, his features remained firm, and his cheeks free from blanching.

As he stood confronting his fair cousin, a spectator might have been reminded of the jaguar, as it pauses before springing on its prey.

There was that in his eye which seemed to say:—

“In less than sixty seconds, you’ll change your tune.”

What he did say was:—

“You’re not in earnest, Loo?”

“I am, sir. Have I spoken like one who jests?”

“You’ve spoken like one, who hasn’t taken pains to reflect.”

“Upon what?”

“Many things.”

“Name them!”

“Well, for one—the way I love you.”

She made no rejoinder.

“A love,” he continued, in a tone half explanatory, half pleading; “a love, Loo, that no man can feel for a woman, and survive it. It can end only with my life. It could not end withyours.”

There was a pause, but still no reply.

“’Tis no use my telling you its history. It began on the same day—ay, the same hour—I first saw you.

“I won’t say it grew stronger as time passed. It could not. On my first visit to your father’s house—now six years ago—you may remember that, after alighting from my horse, you asked me to take a walk with you round the garden—while dinner was being got ready.

“You were but a stripling of a girl; but oh, Loo, you were a woman in beauty—as beautiful as you are at this moment.

“No doubt you little thought, as you took me by the hand, and led me along the gravelled walk, under the shade of the China trees, that the touch of your fingers was sending a thrill into my soul; your pretty prattle making an impression upon my heart, that neither time, nor distance, nor yetdissipation, has been able to efface.”

The Creole continued to listen, though not without showing sign. Words so eloquent, so earnest, so full of sweet flattery, could scarce fail to have effect upon a woman. By such speech had Lucifer succeeded in the accomplishment of his purpose. There was pity, if not approval, in her look!

Still did she keep silence.

Calhoun continued:—

“Yes, Loo; it’s true as I tell you. I’ve tried all three. Six years may fairly be called time. From Mississippi to Mexico was the distance: for I went there with no other purpose than to forget you. It proved of no avail; and, returning, I entered upon a course of dissipation. New Orleans knows that.

“I won’t say, that my passion grew stronger by these attempts to stifle it. I’ve already told you, it could not. From the hour you first caught hold of my hand, and called me cousin—ah! you called mehandsomecousin, Loo—from that hour I can remember no change, no degrees, in the fervour of my affection; except when jealousy has made me hate—ay, so much, that I could havekilledyou!”

“Good gracious, Captain Calhoun! This is wild talk of yours. It is even silly!”

“’Tis serious, nevertheless. I’ve been so jealous with you at times, that it was a task to control myself. My temper I could not—as you have reason to know.”

“Alas, cousin, I cannot help what has happened. I never gave you cause, to think—”

“I know what you are going to say; and you may leave it unspoken. I’ll say it for you: ‘to think that you ever loved me.’ Those were the words upon your lips.

“I don’t say you did,” he continued, with deepening despair: “I don’t accuse you of tempting me. Something did. God, who gave you such beauty; or the Devil, who led me to look upon it.”

“What you say only causes me pain. I do not suppose you are trying to flatter me. You talk too earnestly for that. But oh, cousin Cassius, ’tis a fancy from which you will easily recover. There are others, far fairer than I; and many, who would feel complimented by such speeches. Why not address yourself to them?”

“Why not?” he echoed, with bitter emphasis. “What an idle question!”

“I repeat it. It is not idle. Far more so is your affection for me: for I must be candid with you, Cassius. I do not—Icannot, love you.”

“You will not marry me then?”

“That, at least, is an idle question. I’ve said I do not love you. Surely that is sufficient.”

“And I’ve said I loveyou. I gave it as one reason why I wish you for my wife: but there areothers. Are you desirous of hearing them?”

As Calhoun asked this question the suppliant air forsook him. The spirit of the jaguar was once more in his eye.

“You said there were other reasons. State them! Do not be backward. I’m not afraid to listen.”

“Indeed!” he rejoined, sneeringly. “You’re not afraid, ain’t you?”

“Not that I know of. What have I to fear?”

“I won’t say whatyouhave; but what your father has.”

“Let me hear it? What concerns him, equally affects me. I am his daughter; and now, alas, his only—. Go on, cousin Calhoun! What is this shadow hanging over him?”

“No shadow, Loo; but something serious, and substantial. A trouble he’s no longer able to contend with. You force me to speak of things you shouldn’t know anything about.”

“Oh! don’t I? You’re mistaken, cousin Cash. I know them already. I’m aware that my father’s in debt; and that you are his creditor. How could I have remained in ignorance of it? Your arrogance about the house—your presumption, shown every hour, and in presence of the domestics—has been evidence sufficient to satisfy even them, that there is something amiss. You are master of Casa del Corvo. I know it. You are not master ofme!”

Calhoun quailed before the defiant speech. The card, upon which he had been counting, was not likely to gain the trick. He declined playing it.

He held a still strongerinhis hand; which was exhibited without farther delay.

“Indeed!” he retorted, sneeringly. “Well; if I’m not master of your heart, I am of your happiness—or shall be. I know the worthless wretch that’s driven you to this denial—”

“Who?”

“How innocent you are!”

“Of that at least I am; unless by worthless wretch you mean yourself. In that sense I can understand you, sir. The description is too true to be mistaken.”

“Be it so!” he replied, turning livid with rage, though still keeping himself under a certain restraint. “Well; since you think me so worthless, it won’t, I suppose, better your opinion of me, when I tell you what I’m going to do with you?”

“Do with me! You are presumptuous, cousin Cash! You talk as if I were yourprotégée, or slave! I’m neither one, nor the other!”

Calhoun, cowering under the outburst of her indignation, remained silent.

“Pardieu!” she continued, “what is this threat? Tell me what you aregoing to do with me! I should like to know that.”

“You shall.”

“Let me hear it! Am I to be turned adrift upon the prairie, or shut up in a convent? Perhaps it may be a prison?”

“You would like the last, no doubt—provided your incarceration was to be in the company of—”

“Go on, sir! What is to be my destiny? I’m impatient to have it declared.”

“Don’t be in a hurry. The first act shall be rehearsed tomorrow.”

“So soon? And where, may I ask?”

“In a court of justice.”

“How, sir?”

“By your standing before a judge, and in presence of a jury.”

“You are pleased to be facetious, Captain Calhoun. Let me tell you that I don’t like such pleasantries—”

“Pleasantries indeed! I’m stating plain facts. To-morrow is the day of trial. Mr Maurice Gerald, or McSweeney, or O’Hogerty, or whatever’s his name, will stand before the bar—accused of murdering your brother.”

“’Tis false! Maurice Gerald never—”

“Did the deed, you are going to say? Well, that remains to be proved. Itwillbe; and from your own lips will come the words that’ll prove it—to the satisfaction of every man upon the jury.”

The great gazelle-eyes of the Creole were opened to their fullest extent. They gazed upon the speaker with a look such as is oft given by the gazelle itself—a commingling of fear, wonder, and inquiry.

It was some seconds before she essayed to speak. Thoughts, conjectures, fears, fancies, and suspicions, all had to do in keeping her silent.

“I know not what you mean,” she at length rejoined. “You talk of my being called into court. For what purpose? Though I am the sister of him, who—I know nothing—can tell no more than is in the mouth of everybody.”

“Yes can you; a great deal more. It’s not in the mouth of everybody: that on the night of the murder, you gave Gerald a meeting at the bottom of the garden. No more does all the world know what occurred at that stolen interview. How Henry intruded upon it; how, maddened, as he might well be, by the thought of such a disgrace—not only to his sister, but his family—he threatened to kill the man who had caused it; and was only hindered from carrying out that threat, by the intercession of the woman so damnably deluded!

“All the world don’t know what followed: how Henry, like a fool, went after the low hound, and with what intent. Besides themselves, there were but two others who chanced to be spectators of that parting.”

“Two—who were they?”

The question was asked mechanically—almost with a tranquil coolness.

It was answered with equalsang froid.

“One was Cassius Calhoun—the other Louise Poindexter.” She did not start. She did not even show sign of being surprised. What was spoken already had prepared her for the revelation. Her rejoinder was a single word, pronounced in a tone of defiance. “Well!”

“Well!” echoed Calhoun, chagrined at the slight effect his speeches had produced; “I suppose you understand me?”

“Not any more than ever.”

“You wish me to speak further?”

“As you please, sir.”

“I shall then. I say to you, Loo, there’s but one way to save your father from ruin—yourself from shame. You know what I mean?”

“Yes; I know that much.”

“You will not refuse me now?”

“Nowmore thanever!”

“Be it so! Before this time to-morrow—and, by Heaven! I mean it—before this timeto-morrow, you shall stand in the witness-box?”

“Vile spy! Anywhere but in your presence! Out of my sight! This instant, or I call my father!”

“You needn’t put yourself to the trouble. I’m not going to embarrass you any longer with my company—so disagreeable to you. I leave you to reflect. Perhaps before the trial comes on, you’ll see fit to change your mind. If so, I hope you’ll give notice of it—in time to stay the summons. Good night, Loo! I’ll sleep thinking of you.”

With these words of mockery upon his lips—almost as bitter to himself as to her who heard them—Calhoun strode out of the apartment, with an air less of triumph than of guilt.

Louise listened, until his footsteps died away in the distant corridor.

Then, as if the proud angry thoughts hitherto sustaining her had become suddenly relaxed, she sank into a chair; and, with both hands pressing upon her bosom, tried to still the dread throbbings that now, more than ever, distracted it.

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