New York: Its Upper Ten and Lower Million

by George Lippard

CHAPTER I.

MARTIN FULMER APPEARS.

The time was very near. The cycle of twenty-one years was in its last hour. It was the last hour of December twenty-fourth, 1844. That hour passed, the twenty-one years would be complete.

Darkness and storm were upon the Empire City. The snow fell fast, and the wind, howling over the river and the roofs, made mournful music among the arches of unfinished Trinity Church. In the gloom, amid the falling snow, four persons stood around the family vault of the Van Huydens. Even had the storm and darkness failed to cover them from observation, they would have been defended from all prying eyes, by the crape masks which they wore. The marble slab bearing the name of "Van Huyden," was thrust aside, and from the gloom of the vault beneath, the coffin was slowly raised into view; the coffin which was inscribed with the name of Gulian Van Huyden, and with the all-significant dates, December 25th, 1823, and December 25th, 1844.

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Meanwhile, even as the blast howls along the deserted street, let us enter the mansion of Ezekiel Bogart, which, as you are aware, stands, with its old time exterior, alone and desolate, amid the huge structures devoted to traffic.

In the first of the seven vaults,—square in form, and lined with shelves from the ceiling to the floor,—Ezekiel Bogart sits alone. The hanging lamp diffuses its mild beams around the silent place. Ezekiel is seated in the arm-chair, by the table, his form enveloped in the wrapper or robe of dark cloth lined with scarlet. The dark skull-cap covers the crown of his head; his eyes are hidden by huge green glasses, and the large white cravat envelopes his throat and the lower part of his face. Leaning forward, his elbow on the table, and his cheek upon his hand, which, veined and sinewy, is white as the hand of a corpse, Ezekiel Bogart is absorbed in thought.

"I have not seen Gaspar Manuel since last night;" he utters his thoughts aloud. "This, indeed, is singular! The hour of the final settlement is near, and something definite must be known in regard to the lands in California, near the mission of San Luis. What can have prevented him from seeing me the second time? Can he have met with an accident?"

He rang the bell which lay near his hand; presently, in answer to the sound, the aged servant appeared; the same who admitted Gaspar Manuel last night, and whose spare form is clad in gray livery, faced with black.

"Michael, you remember the foreign gentleman, Gaspar Manuel, who was here last night?"

"That very pale man, with long hair, and such dark eyes? Yes, sir."

"You are sure that he has not called here to-day?"

"Sure, sir. I have not laid eyes upon him since last night."

"It is strange!" continued Ezekiel Bogart,—"You have attended to all my directions, Michael?"

"The banquet-room is prepared as you ordered it, and all your other commands have been carefully obeyed," answered Michael.

"This will be a busy night for you, Michael. From this hour until four in the morning, yes, until daybreak, you will wait in the reception room below, and admit into the house the persons whose names you will find on this card."

Michael advanced and took the card from the hand of his master.

"These persons,—these only,—mark me, Michael," continued Ezekiel, in a tone of significant emphasis. "And as they arrive, show them up-stairs, into the small apartment, next the banquet-room. Tell each one, as he arrives, that I will see him at four o'clock."

Michael bowed, and said, "Just as you direct, I will do."

"One of the persons, however, John Hoffman, otherwise called Ninety-One, I wish to see as soon as he arrives. Bring him to this room at once. You remember him, a stout, muscular man, with a scarred face?"

"I do. He was here with you a few hours since."

"There is another of the persons named on that card, whom you will bring to this room at once; Gaspar Manuel, who was here last night. Remember, Michael."

Michael bowed in token of assent, and was about to leave the room, when Ezekiel called him back,

"About midnight, four persons, having charge of a box, will come to the door and ask for me. Take charge of the box, Michael, and dismiss them. Have the box carried up into the banquet-room. You can now retire, Michael. I know that you will attend faithfully to all that I have given you to do."

"You may rely upon me, sir," said the tried servant, and retired from the room.

And, once more alone, Ezekiel rested his cheek on his hand, and again surrendered himself to thought.

"The child of Gulian must be found; Ninety-One cannot fail. If he is not found before four o'clock, all is lost—all is lost! Yes, if that child does not appear, this estate,—awful to contemplate in its enormous wealth,—will pass from his grasp, and the labor of twenty-one years will have been spent for nothing. The estate will pass into the hands of the seven, not one of whom will use his share for anything but the gratification of his appetites or the oppression of his kind."

The old man rose, the light shone over his tall figure, bent by age, as, placing his hands behind his back, he paced to and fro along the floor. He was deeply troubled. An anxiety, heavier than death, weighed down his soul.

"The seven,—look at them! Dermoyne is a poor shoemaker. This wealth will intoxicate and corrupt him. Barnhurst, a clerical voluptuary,—he will use his share to gratify his monomania. Yorke, a swindler, who grows rich upon fraud,—his share will enable him to plunge hundreds of the wealthiest into utter ruin, and convulse, to its center, the whole world of commerce and of industry. Barron,—a fashionable sensualist,—he will surround himself with a harem. Godlike, a Borgia,—an intellectual demon,—his share will create a world of crimes. Harry Royalton, a sensualist, though of a different stamp from the others, will expend his in the wine-cup and at the gambling-table. There are six of the seven,—truly a worthy company to share the largest private estate in the world! As for the seventh, he has gone to his account."

Thus meditating, Ezekiel Bogart, slowly paced the floor. He paused suddenly, for a thought full of consequences, the most vital, flashed over his soul.

"What if Martin Fulmer should refuse to divide the estate? Alas! alas! his oath,"—he pressed his hand against his forehead,—"his oath made to Gulian Van Huyden, in his last hour, will crush the very thought of such a refusal. The Will must be obeyed; yes, strictly, faithfully, to the letter, in its most minute details."

Once more resuming his walk, he continued,—

"But the child will be discovered,—the child will be here at the appointed hour."

He spoke these words in a tone of profound conviction.

"I trust in Providence; and Providence will not permit this immense wealth to pass into the hands of those who will abuse it, and make of it the colossal engine of human misery."

After a moment of silent thought, he continued,—

"No,—no,—this wealth cannot pass into the hands of the seven! When Gulian, in his last hour, intrusted it to Martin Fulmer, bequeathing it, after the lapse of twenty-one years, to seven persons, in different parts of the union, he doubtless thought that chance, to say nothing of Providence, would find among the number at least four with good hearts and large mental vision. He did not think,—he did not dream, that at least five out of the seven would prove totally unworthy of his hopes, altogether unfit to possess and wield such an incredible wealth. And, believing in Providence, I cannot think, for a moment, that He will permit this engine of such awful power to pass into hands that will use it to the ruin and the degradation of the human race. The child will appear, and God will bless that child."

A sound pealed clear and distinct throughout the mansion. It was the old clock in the hall, striking the hour. Ezekiel stood as if spell-bound, while the sounds rolled in sad echoes through the mansion.

It struck the hour of twelve. The cycle of twenty-one years was complete.

The old man sank on his knees, and burying his face in his hands, sent up his soul, in a voiceless prayer.

"Come what will, this matter must be left to the hands of Providence," he said, in a low voice, as he rose. "If the child does not appear at four o'clock, Martin Fulmer has no other course, than to divide this untold wealth among such of the seven as are present. Before morning light his trust expires. But,—but,—" and he pressed his clenched hands nervously together,—"the child will appear."

Taking up a silver candlestick, he lighted the wax candle which it held, and went, in silence, through the seven vaults, (described in a previous chapter) which contained the title-deeds, a portion of the specie, and the secret police records of the Van Huyden estate.

As he passed from silent vault to silent vault, not a word escaped his lips.

He was thinking of the incredible wealth, whose evidences were all around him,—of the awful power which that wealth would confer upon its possessors,—of Nameless, or Carl Raphael, the son of Gulian Van Huyden,—of the appointed hour, now close at hand.

"What if Martin Fulmer should burn every title-deed and record here,"—he held the light above his head, as he surveyed the vault,—"thus leaving the estate in the hands of the ten thousand tenants who now occupy its houses and lands? These parchments once destroyed, every tenant would be the virtual owner of the house or lot of land which he now occupies. This would create, in fact, ten thousand proprietors,—perhaps twenty thousand,—instead of seven heirs."

It was a great thought,—a thought which, carried into action, would have baptized ten thousand hearts with peace, and filled thrice ten thousand hearts with joy unspeakable. But——

"It cannot be. Martin Fulmer must keep his oath. The rest is for Providence."

He returned to the first room, or vault, and from a drawer of the table, drew forth a bundle of keys.

"I will visit those rooms," he said, "and in the meantime Ninety-One will arrive with Carl Raphael."

Light in hand, he left the room, and passed along a lofty corridor with panneled walls. As the light shone over his tall figure, bent with age, and enveloped in a dark robe lined with scarlet, you might have thought him the magician of some old time story, on his way to the cell of his most sacred vigils, had it not been for his skull-cap, huge green glasses, and enormous white cravat; these imparted something grotesque to his appearance, and effectually concealed his features, and the varying expressions of his countenance.

He placed a key in the lock of a door. It was the door of a chamber which no living being had entered for twenty-one years. Ezekiel seemed to hesitate ere he crossed the threshold. At length, turning the key in the lock,—it grated harshly,—he pushed open the door,—he crossed the threshold.

A sad and desolate place! Once elegant, luxurious; the very abode of voluptuous wealth, it was now sadder than a tomb. The atmosphere was heavy with the breath of years. The candle burned but dimly as it encountered that atmosphere, which, for twenty-one years, had not known a single ray of sunlight, a single breath of fresh air. A grand old place with lofty walls, concealed by tapestry,—three windows looking to the street (they had not been opened for twenty-one years) adorned with curtains of embroidered lace, a bureau surmounted by an oval mirror, chairs of dark mahogany, a carpet soft as down, and a couch enshrined in an alcove, with silken curtains and coverlet and pillow, yet bearing the impress of a human form. A grand old place, but there was dust everywhere; everywhere dust, the breath of years, the wear and tear of time. You could not see your face in the mirror; the cobwebs covered it like a vail. You left the print of your footsteps upon the downy carpet. The purple tapestry, was purple no longer; it was black with dust, and the moth had eaten it into rags. The once snow-white curtains of the windows, were changed to dingy gray, and the canopy of the couch, looked anything but pure and spotless, as the light fell over its folds.

Did Ezekiel Bogart hesitate and tremble as he approached that couch?

He held the light above his head,—and looked within the couch. Silken coverlet and downy pillow, covered with dust, and bearing still the impress of the form which had died there twenty-one years ago.

"Alice Van Huyden!" ejaculated Ezekiel Bogart, as though the dead one was present, listening to his every word,—"Here, twenty-one years ago, you gave birth to your son, and,—died. Yes, here you gave life to that son,—Carl Raphael Van Huyden I must call him,—who, once condemned to death,—then buried beside you in the family vault,—then for two years the tenant of a mad-house, will at four o'clock, appear and take possession of his own name, and of the estate of his father!"

Turning from the bed, Ezekiel approached the bureau. The mirror was thick with dust, and in front of it stood an alabaster candlestick—the image of a dancing nymph,—now alas! looking more like ebony than alabaster. It held a half-burned waxen candle.

"That candle, when lighted last, shone over the death agonies of Alice Van Huyden."

Up and down that place, whose very air breathed heart-rending memories, the old man walked, his head sinking low and lower on his breast at every step.

He paused at length before a portrait, covered with dust. Standing on a chair, Ezekiel with the purple tapestry, brushed the dust away from the canvas and the walnut frame. The portrait came out into light, so fresh, so vivid, so life-like, that Ezekiel stepped hastily from the chair as though the apparition of one long dead, had suddenly confronted him.

It was a portrait of a manly face, shaded by masses of brown hair. There was all the hope of young manhood, in the dark eyes, on the cheeks rounded with health, and upon the warm lips full of life and love. A fresh countenance; one that you would have taken at sight for the countenance of a man of true nobility of heart and soul. It was the portrait of Gulian Van Huyden at twenty-one.

For a long time Ezekiel Bogart lingered silently in front of the portrait.

At last he left the chamber, locked the door,—first pausing to look over his shoulder toward the bed upon which Alice Van Huyden died,—and then slowly ascended to the upper rooms of the old mansion.

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He came into a small chamber panneled with oak; an oaken pillar, crowned with carved flowers, and satyr faces in every corner; and a death's head grinning from the center of the oaken ceiling. Once the floor, the walls, the ceiling and the pillars, had shone like polished steel, but now they were black with dust.

Holding the light above his skull-cap, Ezekiel silently surveyed the scene.

Two tressels stood in the center of the floor. These were the only objects to break the monotony of the dust-covered floor and walls.

Upon these tressels, twenty-one years before, had been placed a coffin, inscribed with the name of Gulian Van Huyden, and the dates,—December 25th, 1823, and December, 25th, 1844.

Opposite these tressels, a panel had recently been removed, disclosing a cavity or recess in the wall. In the recess the iron chest had been buried twenty-one years before. It was vacant now,—the iron chest was gone.

As the light shone around this place, whose every detail was linked with the past, the breast of Ezekiel Bogart heaved with emotion, but no word passed his lips. He lingered there a long time.

Through the confined doorway, he passed into the garret nook, whose roof was formed by the slope of the heavy rafters, which now were hung with cobwebs, while a small window, with heavy frame and narrow panes, shook to the impulse of the winter wind. A mahogany desk and an old-fashioned arm-chair, stand between the door and the window.

"Here Gulian and Martin Fulmer held their last interview," soliloquized Ezekiel, as he stood alone in the dreary garret,—"there stood Gulian, there knelt Martin, as he took the oath. Fifteen minutes afterward, Gulian was a corpse, and Martin was loaded with the awful trust, which he has borne alone for twenty-one years."

He approached the window. All was dark without. Sleet and snow beat against the window-pane. The wind howled dismally over the roof; the storm was abroad over the city and the bay.

"From this window he saw Manhattan Bay, and the spire of old Trinity. Yes, from this window, he pointed out to Martin Fulmer, the windows of the Banquet-room, in the western wing of the mansion, as they shone with the glad light of the Christmas Festival. It is Christmas again,—once more the windows of the banquet-room are lighted,—yes, I can see the lights glimmering through the storm, but not for a festival. Ah me! what years have passed since those windows were lighted for a festival."

Sadly Ezekiel Bogart left the garret, and descending the narrow staircase, and passing a corridor, made the best of his way toward the lower rooms of the mansion. Impressed to his very soul, with the consciousness that he would soon behold the son of Gulian Van Huyden—Carl Raphael—he entered the first of the seven vaults, where the hanging lamp still shone upon the arm-chair, the shelved walls, and the huge table overspread with papers.

Seating himself in the arm-chair, he rang the bell. It was not long before the aged servant appeared.

"Has John Hoffman, otherwise called Ninety-One, arrived?"

"No, Sir."

"This, indeed, is strange, very strange!" ejaculated Ezekiel, much agitated, "and Gaspar Manuel—has he been here?"

"No, sir," answered Michael, "the four persons with the box have been here, and that is all. I had the box carried into the banquet-room."

At a sign from Ezekiel, the aged servant retired.

"Altogether strange! The seven were notified by letter, and by a carefully worded advertisement in the daily papers, of the place and hour of meeting. And not one arrived! What if they should not appear?"

The sound of the old clock disturbed his meditations. One,—two,—three! He had passed three hours in wandering through the old mansion. Only a single hour remained.

"Three hours gone!" Ezekiel started from his chair, "no word of Ninety-One, Gaspar Manuel, or the seven! It may be," and he felt a strange hope kindling in his heart, "that the night will pass and not one of the seven appear!"

The words had not passed his lips, when a heavy footstep was heard in the corridor, and the door was flung open. A stout muscular form came rapidly to the light. It was Ninety-One. His garments were covered with snow, and there were stains of blood upon his scarred face. From beneath his shaggy eyebrows, knit in a settled frown, his eyes shone with a ferocious glare.

"What news?" ejaculated Ezekiel.

Ninety-One struck his clenched hand upon the table, and gave utterance to a blasphemous oath.

"News? Hell's full of sich news! Only to think of it! It's enough to set a man to wishin' himself safe in jail again. 'Don't give it up so easy!' That's what I've said all along. An' I have not give it up easy, nayther. And now what's it come to?"

"The Boy,—the son of Gulian Van Huyden," cried Ezekiel, resting his hands upon the table.

Ninety-One sank into a chair and wiped the blood from his face.

"You know I tracked the boy all day until I found his quarters in the four story buildin', whar there was a dead man?—"

"Yes,—yes,—and you came and told me that you had found his home. The people in the room adjoining the one which he occupies, informed you that he had gone out with the young girl, but that he would shortly return. You came and told me, and then went back to his room to await his return, taking with you a letter from me—"

"I went back, and waited, and waited, havin' no company but the dead man, until dark. Then I sallied out, and went to the house, where we all was last night. I'd a hard time to get in, but git in I did,—and jist too late—"

"Too late?—"

"The boy and the gal had been thar, and they'd jist gone. One of the folks in livery show'd me which way,—'down the street toward the river, and only five minutes ago,' says he. Down the street I put, and by this time the snow was fallin' and the wind blowin' a harrycane. Down the street I put, and when I came near the river, I heer'd a woman cry out, 'help! murder!' Mind, I tell you, I lost no time, but made straight for the pier, an' thar I find the gal, wringin' her hands an' p'intin' to the river—"

"And the boy—the son of Gulian?—"

"Four fellers had come behind him, as he was about turnin' into the street in which he lived,—they had dragged him from her,—she follered them on to the pier, cryin', 'help! murder!' and they'd tied him, and put him into a boat and made out into the river. As she told me this story, I looked about me for a boat,—thar wasn't a boat to be seen,—so I detarmined to jump in and swim arter 'em anyhow, though the river was full of ice and the wind a-blowin' like Lucifer—"

"You leaped into the river?"

"No, I did not. For as the gal stood cryin', an' moanin', an' p'intin', out into the dark thick night, the boat came back, and the four gallus birds jumped on the wharf—"

"And the child,—O, my God! the son of Gulian?—"

"They'd hove him overboard!"

The old man uttered a heart-rending groan, and raised his hands to heaven.

"Fatality!" he cried.

"I made at 'em at once,—and we j'ined in, four to one, teeth an' toe nails. 'Don't give it up so easy!' I said, but what's the use o' talkin'? I broke a jaw for one of 'em an' caved the crust in for another; but I wa'n't a match for slung-shot behind the ear. They knocked me stoopid. An' when I opened my eyes again, I found myself in their hands, arrested on the charge o' havin' murdered young Somers, an' o' robbin' Isr'el Yorke. They tied me, took me to a room up town, whar they war j'ined by Blossom,—they tried to gouge money out o' me, but as I hadn't any, it wa'n't so easy. When they got tired o' that, I purtended to sleep, an' overheer'd their talk. The hansum Colonel, Tarleton, my pertikler friend, had hired the four to waylay the boy, and carry him out into the river. Blossom didn't know anythin' about it; he swore like a fiery furnace when they told him of it. Arter a while, as I found they were goin' to take me to the Tombs if they couldn't git any money out o' me, I broke for the door, and came away in a hurry, an' here I am."

"And the child of Gulian is gone! Fatality! Fatality!" groaned Ezekiel Bogart.

"In the river,—tied and gagged,—in the river," sullenly replied Ninety-One; and the next moment he uttered a wild cry and leaped to his feet.

Ezekiel Bogart had removed the skullcap, the green glasses and the huge cravat. In place of a countenance obscured by a grotesque disguise, appeared a noble face, a broad forehead, rendered venerable by masses of snow-white hair. His beard, also white as snow, left bare the outlines of his massive chin and descended upon his breast. And sunken deep beneath his white eyebrows, his large eyes shone with the light of a great intellect, a generous heart. It was indeed a noble head. True, his mouth was large, and the lips severely set, his large nose bent to one side, his cheek-bones high and prominent, but the calm steady light of his eyes, the bold outlines of his forehead,—stamped with thought, with genius,—gave character to his entire face, and made its very deviations from regularity of feature, all the more impressive and commanding.

"It is the Doctor!" cried Ninety-One. "Yer ha'r is white and thar's wrinkles about yer mouth an' eyes, but I know you, Doctor Martin Fulmer."

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[CHAPTER II.]

THE SEVEN ARE SUMMONED.

It was, in truth, that singular man, who in the course of our narrative, has appeared as the Judge of the Court of Ten Millions as the "man in the surtout, with manifold capes," as Ezekiel Bogart, the General Agent; and who, at length, appears in his own character,—Dr. Martin Fulmer, the trustee of the Van Huyden estate.

"Be silent, John,"—the Doctor rose and gently waved his hand,—his bent form for a moment became straight and erect,—his attitude was noble and impressive. "The child whom, twenty-one years ago, Gulian Van Huyden intrusted to your care, has, this night,—even as the misfortunes of long years were about to be succeeded by peace, security, the possession of unbounded wealth,—met his death at the instigation of Gulian's brother. Be silent, John, for the shadow of almighty fate is passing over us! It was to be, and it was! Who shall resist the decrees of Providence? Behold! the fabric which I have spent twenty-one years to build, is dust and ruins at my feet!"

There was the dignity of despair in his tone, his look, his every attitude.

He slowly moved toward the door.—"Remain here, John, until morning. I may want the aid of your arm. The worst has fallen upon me," he continued, as though speaking to himself, "and nothing now remains but to fulfill the last conditions of my trust, and—to die."

He left the room, and in the darkness, along corridor, and up stairway, pursued his way slowly to the banquet-room.

"To this estate I have offered up twenty-one years of my life,—of my soul. For it I have denied myself the companionship of a wife, the joy of hearing a child call me by the name of 'father!' I have traversed the globe in its behalf; made myself a dweller in all lands; have left the beautiful domain of that science which loses itself among the stars, to make myself a student in the science of human misery, in the dark philosophy of human despair. I have made myself the very slave of this estate. Believing that one day, its enormous wealth would be devoted to the amelioration of social misery, I have made myself familiar with the entire anatomy of the social world; have dwelt in the very heart of its most loathsome evils; have probed to the quick the ulcer of its moral leprosy. But at all times, and in every phase of my career, I did hope, that out of this son of Gulian's, cast like a waif upon the voyage of life, and made the subject of superhuman misfortune, Providence would at length mould a good, strong man, with heart and intellect, to wield the Van Huyden estate, for the social regeneration of his race. My hope is ashes."

With words like these in his soul, only half-uttered on his tongue, he opened a door and passed into the banquet-room.

It was brilliantly lighted by an antique chandelier which hung from the lofty ceiling. It was arranged for the last scene.

In this banquet-room, twenty-one years ago, there was the sound of merry voices, mingled with the clink of wine-glasses; there were hearts mad with joy, and faces dressed in smiles; and there was one face dressed in smiles, which masked a heart devoured by the tortures of the damned.

Now the scene was changed. The doors, windows, the pictures of the Van Huyden family which lined the lofty walls, were concealed by hangings of bright scarlet. A round table, covered with a white cloth, and surrounded by eight antique arm-chairs, alone broke the monotony of that vast and brilliantly lighted banquet-hall. The chandelier which shone upon the hangings, and lighted up every part of the room, shone down upon the white cloth of the table, and upon a single object which varied its surface,—a small portfolio, bound in black leather.

In that portfolio were comprised the mysteries of the Van Huyden estate.

Beneath the table, and shaded by it from the light, dimly appeared an iron chest, and a coffin covered with black cloth,—both were half-concealed beneath a pall of velvet, fringed with tarnished gold.

Martin Fulmer attentively surveyed this scene, and a sudden thought seemed to strike him. "It will not do," he said, "let the old place, in this hour, put on all its memories."

He rang the bell, and four servants, attired in gray liveries, appeared from beneath the hangings. Martin whispered his commands in a low voice, and they obeyed without a word. Moving to and fro, without uproar, in the course of a few minutes they had completely changed the appearance of the hall. Thus changed, the banquet-room has, indeed, put on its old memories; it wears the look, it breathes the air of the past.

The light of the chandelier, no longer dazzling, falls in subdued radiance around a lofty hall, whose ceiling is supported by eight pillars of cedar, grotesquely carved from base to capital, with the faces of monks and nuns,—all of the round and oily stamp,—with beasts, and birds, and fruits, and flowers. The glaring scarlet hangings cluster in festoons around the capitals of the pillars; and between the pillars appear, upon the panneled walls, portraits of the Van Huyden family, in frames of oak, and walnut, and gilt, for seven generations; beginning with the grim face of the ancestor, who landed on Manhattan Island in the year 1620, and ending with the youthful, artist-like face of Carl Raphael, painted in 1842. (This portrait of Nameless, Martin Fulmer procured from the study of Cornelius Berman.) The lofty windows on one side, were hidden by curtains of dark purple. At one end of the spacious hall, was a broad hearth, blazing with a cheerful wood-fire; at the other, on a dark platform, arose a marble image of "the master," as large as life, and thrown distinctly into view by the dark background.

There are two altars covered with black velvet, fringed with gold; one on each side of the table. The altar on the right supports the coffin; the one on the left, the iron chest; and around coffin and iron chest, as for a funeral, tall wax candles are dimly burning.

The dark panneled walls,—the huge pillars, quaintly carved,—the pictures, all save one, dim with age,—the hearth and its flame,—the white image of the Savior,—the central table, with its eight arm-chairs,—the dark altars, with wax candles burning around coffin and iron chest,—all combined to present an effect which, deepened by the dead stillness, is altogether impressive and ghost-like.

"The place looks like the old time," exclaims Martin Fulmer, slowly surveying its every detail,—"and,—"

The sound of the old clock again! How it rings through the mansion,—rings, and swells, and dies away! One,—two,—three,—four!

Martin Fulmer sinks into the arm-chair, at the head of the table, and from beneath his waistcoat draws forth a parchment,—the last will and testament of Gulian Van Huyden.

"There is no other way,—I must begin;" he casts his eyes toward a narrow doorway, across which is stretched a curtain. Behind that curtain wait the heirs of the Van Huyden estate. The old man, erect in his chair, at the head of the table, passes his right hand thoughtfully over his broad forehead, and through the masses of his hair, as white as snow.

And then directing his gaze toward the doorway, he begins to call the names of the Seven:

"Evelyn Somers!"

No answer,—the merchant prince now sleeps a corpse within his palace.

"Beverly Barron!"—the name of the man of fashion resounds through the still hall.

But Beverly will never fold in his arms again, the form of a tempted and yielding maiden; never place his lips again to the lips of a faithless wife, whom he has made false to her marriage vow,—never press a father's kiss upon the brow of his motherless child. Beverly also has gone to his account.

"Harry Royalton!" exclaimed Martin Fulmer, and again directed his eyes toward the door.

Is that his step, the man of the racecourse, the hero of the cock-pit and faro-bank? No. It was but a breath of air among the window-curtains. But where, in this hour, of all others, is Harry Royalton of Hill Royal? It cannot be told. He does not appear.

Martin Fulmer, with something of surprise upon his face, spoke the fourth name,—

"Herman Barnhurst!"

Herman, the voluptuous, and the fair-cheeked, and eagle-eyed,—the victim of beautiful Marion Merlin,—the husband of outraged Fanny Lansdale,—the seducer of poor Alice Burney,—Herman does not answer the summons.

A wild hope began to gleam in the deep eyes of Martin Fulmer,—"Four of the seven absent,—why not all?" And he called the fifth name; the name of one, whom, most of all others, he desired to be present:—

"Arthur Dermoyne!"

Loud and deep it swelled, but there was no reply. Enthusiast and mechanic, who, at your work-bench, have laid out plans of social regeneration,—who, amid the clatter of hammers, and hum of toil, have heard the words of the four gospels, and thought of wealth only as the means of putting those words into deeds,—where do you linger at this hour? Alas, Dermoyne is silent; he does not appear.

The light in Martin's eyes grew brighter, "Five of the Seven, why not all!"

"Gabriel Godlike!" he pronounced the name, and paused in suspense for the answer to the summons.

"Here!" cried a voice of thunder, and through the parted curtains, the imposing form of the statesman emerged into light. His broad chest was clad in a blue coat with bright metal buttons; a white cravat made his bronzed face look yet darker; he advanced with a heavy stride, his great forehead looming boldly in the light, his eyes deep sunken beneath the brows, glaring like living coals. His cheek was flushed,—with wine—or with the excitement of the hour?

Ponderous and gloomy and grand, as when he arose to scatter thunderbolts through the thronged senate,—attired in the same brown coat which he wore on state occasions,—he came to the table, assumed a seat opposite Dr. Martin Fulmer, and said in his deepest bass,—"I am here, and ready for the final settlement of the Van Huyden estate."

It is no shame to Dr. Fulmer to say, that he had rather confronted the entire Seven together, than to have to deal with this man alone. "The estate decreed into those hands, which know neither remorse or fear?"—he shuddered.

Then he called the seventh name,—

"Israel Yorke!"

No delay this time. With a hop and a spring,—spectacles on nose, and sharp gray eyes glancing all about him,—the little financier came through the curtain, and advancing to the table, seated himself beside Godlike, like Mammon on right of Lucifer.

"And I am here," he said, pulling his whiskers, and then running his hand over his bald head,—"Here and ready for the final settlement of the Van Huyden estate."

"And is this all?" ejaculated Martin Fulmer; and once more he called the names of the Seven. There was no response.

---

[CHAPTER III.]

"SAY, BETWEEN US THREE!"

Martin Fulmer uttered a deep sigh, and then gazing upon the representatives of Satan and of Mammon he said: "Gentlemen, you know the purpose for which you are here?"

"We do," they said, and each one laid his copy of the will on the table.

"The first thing in order, is the reading of the Will," said Martin Fulmer solemnly. And while a dead stillness pervaded, he read the will; and afterward briefly recounted the circumstances connected with the death of the testator.

When he had finished, the silence remained for some moments unbroken. The lights flashed upon the smart concealed visage of the financier,—the grand Satanic face of the statesman,—the calm face of Martin Fulmer, with the bold brow, and hair as white as snow; and as a breath of wind moved the lights, they flashed fitfully over the coffin, and the iron chest, the cedar pillars, and the marble image.

"There is no son in existence?" asked Israel nervously.

"None," answered Martin in a low voice.

"He did not die in a cause pre-eminent for its sanctity?" asked Gabriel in a deep voice.

"It cannot be said that he did," answered Martin, as though questioning his own conscience.

"The disposition of this estate, depends then entirely upon your integrity, and especially upon your fidelity to your oath?"—the statesman, as though he knew the chord most sensitive, in the strong honest nature of Martin Fulmer, watched him keenly, as he awaited his answer.

Martin bowed his head.

"Under those circumstances, it is clear to you, is it not, that the estate falls to those of the Seven Heirs, who are now present?"

"If I am faithful to my oath, such will be my disposition of the estate."

"Faithful to your oath?" echoed Godlike.

"That would be highly immoral," said Israel Yorke.

It was in a slow and measured tone, and with his venerable head, placed firmly on his shoulders, that Martin Fulmer said,—

"Sir, you know me," to Godlike,—"in the times of the Bank panic, I met you in the vestibule of the senate, and had some interesting conversation with you. You know that I would sooner die than break my word, much less my oath, and of all others, the oath which I took to Gulian Van Huyden. But may not circumstances arise in which the breaking of that oath may be a lighter crime, than strict obedience to it?"

Godlike started—Yorke half rose from his chair.

"Reflect for a moment. Circumstances have arisen, which the testator could not have ever dreamed of, when he loaded me with this trust, under the seal of that awful oath. It was doubtless his wish that his estates, swelled by the accumulation of twenty-one years, should descend into the hands of his son, who having been reared in poverty and hardship, would know how to use this wealth for the good of mankind,—or in the absence of his son, that it should be dispersed for the good of the race, by the hands of seven persons, selected from the descendants of the original Van Huyden, and scattered throughout the Union. Such was doubtless his idea. But behold how different the result. The son is dead. Only two of the Seven are here. Shall I, adhering to the letter of the law, to the oath in its strictest sense, divide this great estate between you two? Or, fearful of the awful evil which you may work to the world, with this untold wealth, shall I—in order to avoid this evil,—refuse to divide the estate, and take upon myself the moral penalty of the broken oath?"

"That is a question which you must settle with your own conscience," said Godlike slowly, as he fixed his gaze upon Martin Fulmer's face.

Was he aware of the one weak point in the strong, bold mind of Dr. Martin Fulmer? Did he know of Dr. Martin Fulmer's fear and horror of—the unpardonable sin?

Martin did not reply, but leaned his head upon his hand, and seemed buried in thought.

"In order to understand my position, reflect,—twenty-one years ago, the estate was but two millions; behold it now!" He unlocked the portfolio, and drew forth two half sheets of foolscap, covered with writing in a delicate but legible hand. "There is a brief statement of the estate as it stands."

Israel eagerly grasped one half sheet; Godlike took the other. Martin Fulmer intensely watched their faces as they read.

Rapidly Godlike's eagle eye, perused that index to the untold wealth of the Van Huyden estate.

"It would purchase the Presidency of the United States!" he muttered with a heaving chest,—"enthroned upon that pedestal, a man might call kings his menials, the world his plaything."

"One hundred millions! Astor multiplied by Girard!" ejaculated Israel Yorke,—"with such a capital, one might buy Rothschild, and keep him too!"

Glorious and eloquent half sheet of foolscap! Talk of Milton, Shakspeare, Homer,—your poetry is worth all theirs combined! What flight of theirs, in their loftiest moods, can match in sublimity, the simple and majestic march of this swelling line,—

"One hundred millions of dollars!"

"This is a dream," said Godlike,—and for once his voice was tremulous.

"Enough to set one raving!" cried Israel Yorke.

"And yet, adhering to the strict letter of my oath,—" the voice and look of Martin Fulmer was sad,—despairing,—"I am bound to divide this incredible wealth between you two."

"Say, between us three!" cried a new voice, and as Martin Fulmer raised his head, and the others started in their seats, the speaker came with a rapid stride from the curtained doorway to the table.

It was Randolph Royalton, the white slave. Folding his arms upon the breast of his frock coat,—made of dark blue cloth,—which was buttoned to his throat, he stood beside the table, his face lividly pale, and his dark hair floating wild and disheveled about his forehead.

"You!—a negro!"—and Godlike's lip curled in sardonic scorn.

Trembling as with an excitement continued for long hours, Randolph turned to Martin Fulmer, and said:

"I am the oldest child of John Augustine Royal ton, and his lawful heir. And I am here! There is the proof that my father was married to Herodia, my mother,—" he placed a paper in the hands of Martin Fulmer,—"I am here in the name of my father, to claim my portion of the Van Huyden estate."

Israel was very restless,—Godlike very gloomy and full of scorn, as Martin Fulmer attentively perused the document.

"You have a copy of the Will, addressed to your father?" asked the old man, raising his eyes to Randolph's colorless face.

Randolph drew a parchment from the breast of his coat,—"There is my father's copy, superscribed with his name."

"I recognize you as the elder son of John Augustine Royalton," said Dr. Fulmer, very calmly,—"These proofs are all sufficient. Be seated, sir."

Randolph uttered a wild cry, and pressed his forehead with both hands.

It was a moment before he recovered his composure. "You said negro! just now!" he turned to Godlike, his blue eves flashing with deadly hatred, "learn sir, that had yonder bit of paper failed to establish my right, that this at least establishes my descent from —— ——!"

Godlike repeated that great name, in a tone of mingled incredulity and contempt.

"Ay, he was the father of Herodia,—I am his grandson. There is my grandfather's handwriting," he placed the paper in the hands of Martin Fulmer, "Read it, sir, for the information of this statesman. Let him know that the few drops of negro blood which flow in my veins, are lost and drowned in the blood of a man whose name is history,—of —— ——!"

Martin Fulmer read the paper aloud, adding, "You perceive he speaks the truth. He is the grandson of —— ——."

"Pardon me,—I was hasty," said the statesman, extending his hand.

Randolph did not seem to notice the extended hand, but dropping into a chair, said, quietly,—"There are three of us now, I believe."

And he regarded the statesman with a look which was full of triumph and scorn.

Martin Fulmer looked into the faces of the three, and then bent his head in deep thought,—deep and harrowing thought, extending over every instant of twenty-one years.

From the portfolio he drew forth two half sheets of paper, covered with writing in his own hand. One bore the signature of Gabriel Godlike, the other that of Israel Yorke.

"These papers, embracing an absolute renunciation of all their claims upon the Van Huyden estate, they signed before the Court of Ten Millions,—signed, without knowing their contents. Shall I produce them?"

He hesitated.—"But no! no! I am not clear as to the right of any one to dispose of his share."

Martin Fulmer, before the bar of his own conscience, was fanatically just. He might use these papers, but before his own conscience he dared not.

"I am decided," he exclaimed, despair impressed upon his face,—"I must fulfill my oath. Gentlemen, I recognize you as the three heirs of the Van Huyden estate, you having appeared at the appointed hour."

The same electric throb of joy—joy intense to madness,—ran through the bosoms of the three, but manifested itself in different ways. The diminutive financier bounded from his chair; Godlike uttered an oath; Randolph muttered between his teeth, "The negro is, indeed, then, one of the three."

"I will presently give to each of you a certificate, over my own hand, stating that you appeared at the appointed hour, and pledging myself, within a week, to apportion this vast estate among you."

Without taking time to notice the expression of their faces, he continued,—

"But first, we must open this,"—he pointed to the iron chest,—"and this,"—to the coffin, around which, as around the iron chest, tall wax candles were dimly burning. "Whatever these may contain, they cannot affect nor change my decision. But they must be opened,—so the will directs."

---

[CHAPTER IV.]

THE LEGATE OF HIS HOLINESS.

As he rose from his seat and advanced toward the iron chest, the curtain of the doorway was thrust aside, and the light shone upon a slender form, clad in black, and upon a pallid face, framed in masses of jet-black hair.

"Gaspar Manuel! at last!" ejaculated Martin Fulmer.

"Pardon me for this intrusion," said Gaspar Manuel, in a tone of quiet dignity,—"I would have seen you ere this, but unexpected events prevented me. It is of the last importance that I should converse with you without delay."

The entrance of the man, whose slender form was clad in a frock-coat of black cloth, single-breasted, and reaching to the knees,—whose face, unnaturally pale, was in strong contrast with the blackness of his moustache and beard, and of the hair, which fell in wavy masses to his shoulders,—created a singular and marked impression.

With one impulse, Godlike, Yorke and Randolph rose to their feet. For the first time, they remarked that the stranger wore on his right breast a golden cross, and carried in his left hand a casket of dark wood,—perchance ebony.

"I wish to see you in regard to the lands in California, near the mission of San Luis," said Gaspar Manuel, his voice, touched with a foreign accent, yet singularly sweet and emphatic in its intonation.—"Lands claimed by yourself, on behalf of the Van Huyden estate, and also by the Order of Jesus. Many acres of these lands are rich in everything that can bless a climate soft as Italy, but there are one thousand barren acres which abound in fruit like this."

He placed the casket upon the table, unlocked it, and displayed its contents.

"Gold!" burst from every lip.

"Those thousand acres contain gold sufficient to change the destinies of the world," said Gaspar Manuel, calmly, as he fixed his dazzling eyes upon the face of Godlike.—"The contest for the possession of this untold wealth lies between the Order of Jesus and the Van Huyden estate."

"Have not the Mexican Government appointed a Commissioner to decide upon their respective claims?" As he asked the question, Dr. Martin Fulmer, (who, as Ezekiel Bogart, had seen Gaspar Manuel dressed as a man of the world) gazed in surprise upon that costume which indicated the Jesuit. There was suspicion as well as surprise in his gaze.

"That Commissioner is one of the rulers of the Jesuits,—an especial Legate of the Roman Pope," continued Martin, surveying Gaspar Manuel with a look of deepening suspicion. "His name is——"

"Never mind his name," interrupted Gaspar Manuel,—"Let it satisfy you that I am a Jesuit, perchance one of the rulers of that Order. And I am the Legate of whom you speak."

"You!" echoed Martin Fulmer, and his ejaculation was repeated by the others.

"I am that Commissioner," replied Gaspar Manuel, "and my decision has been made. Allow me a few moments for reflection, and I will make it known to you. While you converse with those gentlemen, I will warm myself at yonder fire, for the climate is hard to bear, after the bland atmosphere of Havana."

With a wave of the hand and a slight inclination of the head, he retired from the table and bent his steps toward the fire-place. Seating himself in an arm-chair, he now gazed into the flame with his flashing eyes, and now,—over his shoulder,—surveyed the banquet-hall. Then taking tablets and pencil from a side-pocket, he seemed absorbed in the mazes of a profound arithmetical calculation; but every now and then he raised his eyes, and with that dazzling glance, took in every detail of the banquet-hall.

Meanwhile, the group around the table had not yet recovered from the impression, produced by his presence.

"A singular man,—eh?" quoth Yorke.

"A man of rank. I think I have seen his face in Washington City," remarked Godlike.

"A dignitary of the Catholic Church," exclaimed Randolph.—"A man of no common order."

As for Martin Fulmer, glancing by turns at the box, filled with golden ore, and at the form of the Legate, who was seated quietly by the fire-place, he said, with a sigh,—"More gold, more wealth!" and thought of Carl Raphael, the son of Gulian Van Huyden.

"Let us open the iron chest," he said, and placed the key in the lock, while Randolph, Godlike and Yorke, gathered round, in mute suspense.

But ere the key turned in the lock, a new interruption took place. The aged servant, Michael, entered, and placed a slip of paper, on which a single line was written, in the hands of Martin Fulmer. The old man read it at a glance, and at once his face glowed, his eyes shone with new light.

"The person who wrote this, Michael,—where—where is he?" he said, in a tremulous voice.

"In the reception-room," answered Michael.

"Show him here,—at once,—at once,—quick, I say!" and he seized Michael by the arm, and pointed to the door, his face displaying every sign of irrepressible agitation. Michael hurried from the room.

"Let us all thank God, for He has not failed us!" cried Martin Fulmer, spreading forth his hands, as he walked wildly to and fro.—"The son of Gulian Van Huyden is not dead!"

A thunderbolt crushing through the ceiling, would not have created half the consternation caused by these words.

They dashed the hopes of Randolph, Godlike and Yorke to the dust.

"Not dead!" they echoed, in a breath.

"He is not dead. He is living, and in this house. In a moment he will be here,—here, to claim his father's estate."

And in the wildness of his joy, Martin Fulmer hurried to and fro, now wringing his hands, now spreading them forth in thankfulness to heaven.

"I knew," said the old man, standing erect, the light shining full upon his white hairs, "I knew that Providence would not desert me!"

---

[CHAPTER V.]

THE SON AT LAST.

The curtain moved again, and two persons came slowly into the room; a man whose wounded arm was carried in a sling and whose livid face was marked by recent wounds,—a boy, whose graceful form was enveloped in a closely fitting frock-coat, while his young face was shaded by locks of glossy hair.

"Martin Fulmer! behold the lost child of Gulian Van Huyden!" cried Colonel Tarleton, urging the boy forward.

At sight of Tarleton, Martin Fulmer felt his whole being contract with loathing, but rushing forward, he seized the boy by the arms, and looked earnestly into his face,—a face touching in its expression, with clear, deep eyes, that now seemed blue, now gray, and round outlines, and framed in locks of flowing hair, of the richest chestnut brown.

"This,—this, is not Carl Raphael!" ejaculated Martin Fulmer, turning fiercely upon Tarleton,—

A smile crossed the bloodless lips of Tarleton.

"Not Carl Raphael, but still the son of Gulian. A word will explain all. On the last night of her life, Alice Van Huyden gave birth to two children: they were born within a half hour of each other. One was taken from her bed, and borne away by her husband. The other I bore to my home, educated as my own, and now he stands before you, the lawful heir of his father's estate. Look at his face, and, if you can, say that he is not Gulian's son."

This revelation was listened to with the most intense interest by Randolph, Godlike, Yorke,—and Gaspar Manuel, attracted from the fire-place by the sound of voices, looked over their shoulders at the singular group,—the boy, with Tarleton on one hand, and Martin Fulmer on the other.

Long and intently Martin Fulmer perused that youthful countenance, which, with downcast eyes, seemed to avoid his gaze.

"Carl Raphael Van Huyden is lost," exclaimed Martin Fulmer, "but the face, the look of Gulian Van Huyden lives again in this boy. Gentlemen, behold the son of Gulian Van Huyden, the heir to his estate!"

He urged the shrinking boy toward the light.

"I will not," cried the boy, raising his head and surveying the group with flashing eyes,—"I will not submit to be made an accomplice in this imposture—"

"Child!" said Tarleton, sternly.

"Nay, you shall not force me to it. Hear me one and all," and he tore open his coat and vest, and laid bare his breast, "I am the child of Gulian Van Huyden, but not his son."

It was a woman's bosom which the open vest bared to the light.

A dead stillness followed this revelation.

And the center of the group stood the beautiful girl in her male attire, her bosom heaving in the light, while her eyes flashed through their tears.

"I will not submit to be made the accomplice of this man's schemes," she pointed to Tarleton,—"As the daughter of Gulian Van Huyden, I cannot inherit my father's estate."

At this point, Gaspar Manuel stepped forward,—"Yes you can, my child," he said, and drew the disguised girl to his breast, "it is your father himself who tells you so, daughter." And he kissed her on the forehead, while his dark hair hid her face.

Then as he held her in his arms, he raised his face, and with one hand, swept back the dark hair from his brow,—"Martin Fulmer, don't you remember me?" and then to Colonel Tarleton,—"and you, brother, you certainly don't forget me?"

That scene cannot be painted in words.

"Gulian!" was all that Tarleton or Charles Van Huyden could say, as he shrank back appalled and blasted before his brother's smile.

As for Martin Fulmer, after one eager and intense look, he felt his knees bend beneath him, and his head droop on his breast, as he uttered his soul in the words,—"It is Gulian come back to life again."

---

[CHAPTER VI.]

A LONG ACCOUNT SETTLED.

Back from his brother's gaze, step by step, shrank Tarleton or Charles Van Huyden, his eyes still chained to that face, which the grave seemed to have yielded up, to blast his schemes in the very moment of their triumph.

His own child dead,—the stain of Carl Raphael's blood upon his soul,—he felt like a man who stands amid the ruins of a falling house, when the last prop gives way.

With a cry that was scarcely human, in its awful anguish, he turned and fled. Fled from the banquet-room, and through the adjoining chamber, into the darkness of the corridor. His mind, strained to its utmost tension by the perpetual excitement of the last twenty-four hours, gave way all at once, like a bow that, drawn to its full power, suddenly snaps, even as a withered reed. All was dark around him as he rushed along the corridor, but that darkness was made luminous by his soul. It was peopled with faces, that seemed to be encircled by lurid light. The worst agony that can befall a mortal man fell upon him. Nerves disordered, brain unstrung, his very thoughts became living things, and chased him through the darkness. The face of Evelyn Somers was before him, gazing upon him with fixed eyeballs. And his steps were suddenly checked, by an agonized countenance, which was sinking in wintery waves, that seemed to roll about his very feet. He was touched on the shoulder,—his dead daughter ran beside him in her shroud, linking her arm in his, and bending forward her face, which looked up into his own, with lips that had no blood in them, and eyes that had no life. And if the darkness was full of faces, the air was full of voices; voices whispering, shouting, yelling, all through each other, and yet, every voice distinctly heard,—all the voices that he had heard in his lifetime were speaking to him now. Well might he have exclaimed in the words of Cain,—"My punishment is greater than I can bear."

If he could have only rid himself of Frank, who ran by his side, in her shroud! But no,—there she was,—her arm in his,—her face bent forward looking up into his own, with lips that had no blood, and eyes that had no life.

He talked to those phantoms,—he bade them back,—he rushed on, through the corridor, and ascended the dark stairs with horrid shrieks. And the face of Carl Raphael, struggling in the waves, went before him at every step.

He readied at length the narrow garret, in which years agone, Gulian Van Huyden bid Martin Fulmer, farewell. Here, as he heard the storm beat against the window panes, he for a moment recovered his shattered senses.

"I'm nervous," he cried, "if I had been drinking, I would think I had the mania. Let me recover myself. Where in the deuce am I?"

A heavy step was heard on the stairway, and a form plunged into the room, bearing Tarleton against the wall. It was no phantom, but the form of a stalwart man.

"Halloo! Who are you?" cried a hoarse voice,—it was the voice of Ninety-One, and as he spoke, shouts came up the narrow stairway from the passage below. "You set here to trap me,—speak?"

And the hand of Ninety-One, clutched the throat of Tarleton with an iron grip.

"This way,—this way," cried a voice, and a gleam of light shooting up the stairs, through the narrow doorway, fell upon the livid face of Tarleton.

"O, we have met at last? Do you hear them shouts? Blossom follered by the poleese are in the house, and on my track, for the murder of young Somers. In a second they'll be here. Now I've got you, and we'll settle that long account,—we will by G—d!"

"You are choking me,—A-h!" gasped Tarleton, as he was dragged toward the window. The shouts from below grew more distinct, and once more the light flashed up the stairs.

"Carl Raphael died by drownin' and that's very like chokin'," whispered Ninety-One, as he bent his face near to the struggling wretch. "I've no way of escape,—even old Fulmer can't save me. And so we'll settle that long account."

"You are choking me,—do not,—do not—"

"You know all the items, so there's no use o' dwellin' on 'em," the hoarse voice of Ninety-One was heard above the pelting of the storm, "but the murder of that 'ar boy makes the docket full. Here goes—"

Dragging Tarleton to the window, he struck the sash, with one hand, and then kicked against it with all his strength. It yielded with a crash, and the snow and sleet rushes through the aperture in a blast.

"Spare me! Mercy! O do not—"

Ninety-One crept through the narrow aperture, out upon the roof, and dragged Tarleton after him. Then there were two forms standing erect for a moment, in the gloom, and then the blast bore away the sound of voices, and a howl that was heard, far and long, through the night.

"This way! We've caught the old fox," said a well known voice, and the red face of Blossom, adorned with carbuncles, appeared in the doorway, while the lantern which he held, filled the garret with light.

"This way," he sprang through the doorway, and followed by half a dozen men in thick coats, and with maces in their hands, he ran toward the window, "he's out upon the roof."

He held the lantern over his head, and looked without, while the snow and sleet beat in his face. From the garret-window the roof fell with a sudden slope, for the space of two yards, and there it ended. By the lantern light, he saw some rude traces of footsteps in the snow, and the print of a hand. A glance was sufficient. When he turned to confront his comrades, his red face was white as a sheet—

"By G—d the old convic' has gone an' jumped from the roof,—four storys high—as I'm a sinner!"

---

[CHAPTER VII.]

IN THE BANQUET-ROOM ONCE MORE.

Meanwhile in the banquet-room, the Legate of the Pope, with the form of his daughter, in her male attire, nestling on his breast, raised his head, and surveyed the faces of the spectators, who had not yet recovered from their surprise. His face pale and worn, as with years of consuming thought, his eyes bright as with the fire of a soul never at rest, held every gaze enchained as he spoke,—

"Rise Martin Fulmer!" he extended his hand to the kneeling man, "rise, and let me look upon the face of—an honest man."

As though disturbed in the midst of a dream, Martin Fulmer rose, his head with his snow-white hair and protuberant brow, presenting a strong contrast to the pallid face, dark hair and beard of the Legate.

"Look upon me, Martin Fulmer, and steadily. Do you recognize me."

"Gulian Van Huyden!" ejaculated the old man.

The Legate surveyed Randolph, Godlike, Yorke, who formed a group behind the Doctor, while in the background, the lights burned faintly around the iron chest and coffin. Even as the Legate looked around, Randolph turned aside, and leaning against frame of yonder window, pushed the curtains aside, and looked forth upon the cold, dark night. Not so cold and dark as his own bitter fate! Well was it for him, that his face was turned from the light! That face, terribly distorted, now revealed the hell which was raging in his breast. His soul stained with crime, his last hope blotted out, whither should he turn? Grandson of —— —— it had been better for you, had you never been born!

After his silent survey, the Legate spoke:

"Another place and another hour, will be needed, to repeat the full details of my life, since twenty-one years ago, I left this house,—to die," in an attitude of calm dignity, and with a voice and look, that held every soul, the Legate spoke these words,—"I was rescued from the waves, by a boat that chanced to be passing from the shore to a ship in the bay. Upon that ship, I again unclosed my eyes to life, and watched through the cabin windows, the last glimpse of the American shore, growing faint and fainter over the waves. Thus called back to life,—my name in my native land, only known as the name of the Suicide, my estates in the hands of Martin Fulmer, left to the chances or the providence of twenty-one years,—I resolved to live. The ship (the captain and crew were foreigners,) bore me to an Italian port. I sold the jewels which were about my person when I plunged into the river, and found myself in possession of a competence. Then, in search of peace, anxious to drown the past, and still every emotion of other days, by a life of self-denial, I went to Rome, I entered the Propaganda. In the course of time I became a priest, and then,——well! twenty-one years passed in the service of the church have left me as I am. Your hand, brave Martin Fulmer! Think not that your course has been unknown to me! You have been watched,—your every step marked,—your very thoughts recorded,—and now it is the Legate of the Pope, who takes you by the hand, and calls you by a title, which it is beyond the power of Pope or King to create,—an honest man! Twenty times I have been near you in the course of twenty-one years,—once in Paris, when you were there on business of the estate,—once in Mexico,—once in China,—once on the Ocean,—once in Rome! How my heart yearned to disclose myself to you! But I left you go your way, and now at the end of twenty-one years, we stand face to face. And thou, my child,—" he gazed tenderly into the face of the girl, whose eyes were upraised to meet his own,—"my beautiful! my own! Think not that the garment of the priest, chills the heart of the father!"

"Father!" she whispered, putting her hands upon his shoulder,—"how my heart yearned to you, when I first met you, in the dark streets,—when friendless and homeless, I was flying to the river, as my only friend!"

It was a touching picture,—the priest, who for twenty-one years, had never permitted his heart to throb with one pulse that would remind him of the word "Home," and the daughter, who, educated to serve the dark purposes of Tarleton, had never before felt her heart bound at the sight of her Father's face.

Martin Fulmer's face grew sad,—

"Do you regret my return?" said the Legate with a smile.

"I was thinking," said Martin, and his soul was in his eyes as he spoke,—"I was thinking of—Rome!"

Godlike stepped forward, with a smile on his somber visage,—"Rome!" he echoed,—"of course, now that the dead has returned to life, the heirs need not think of dividing the estate. And you as priest of the Roman Church, as one of her lords, can think of but one disposition of your immense property It will go to the church,—to Rome!"

"To Rome!" echoed Israel Yorke. Randolph, with his face from the light, did not seem to hear a word that was spoken. And Martin Fulmer, with his finger on his lips, awaited in evident suspense, the answer of the Legate.

"To Rome!" echoed the Legate and disengaging himself from the arms of his daughter, he stood erect. His entire face changed. His nostrils quivered, his lips curled, there was a glow on his pale cheek, and an intenser fire in his eyes. He passed his hand over his forehead, and brushing back his dark hair, stood for a moment, motionless as a statue, his eyes fixed, as though he saw passing before his soul, a panorama of the future.

"Within that brutal Rome which plants its power upon human skulls, there is a higher, mightier Rome! Within that order which uses and profanes the name of Jesus, as the instrument of its frauds, there is a higher, mightier Order of Jesus! I see this mightier church,—I see this mightier Order moving onward, through the paths of the future, combating the false Rome, and trampling under foot the false Order of Jesus! Yes, in the future, I see armed for the last battle, those friends of humanity, who have sworn to use the Roman Church as the instrument of Human Progress, or to drive forward the movement over her ruins."

The effect of these words, coupled with the look and the attitude of the Legate, was electric. They were followed by a dead stillness. The spectators gazed into each other's faces, but no one ventured to break the silence.

The silence was interrupted, however, by a strange voice,—

"Lor bress you, massa, de nigga hab arribe!" It was Old Royal, who emerged from the curtains, with a broad grin on his black face,—"You know dis nigga war on de ribber in a boat, fetchin ober from Jarsey shore, a brack gemman who didn' like to trabel by de ferry boat—yah—whah! Well de nigga did it,—"

He advanced a step,—passed his hand through his white wool,—surveyed his giant-like form clad in sleek broadcloth,—showed his white teeth, and continued, with an accent and a gesticulation that words cannot describe—

"Well, as we come across,—lor-a-massy how de storm did storm, and de snow did snow! As we come across, dis nigga cotched by de har ob his head, a young white gemman, who war a-drownin'. An' dis same young white gemman, Massa Fulmer,—" he pointed over his shoulder, "am out dar!"

"What mean you, Royal?" cried Martin Fulmer, and he shook with the conflict of hope and suspense,—"whom did you rescue?"

"Dar's de white pusson," said Old Royal.

Leaning on the arm of Mary Berman, whose face was rosy with joy, whose bonnet had fallen on her neck, while her hair, glittering with snow-drops, strayed over her shoulders,—leaning on the arm of his wife, Nameless, or Carl Raphael, came through the doorway, and advanced toward the group.

He was clad in black, which threw his pale face, shaded by brown hair, boldly into view. His eyes were clear and brilliant; his lip firm. As he advanced, every eye remarked the resemblance between him and the Legate; and also between him, and the disguised girl, who stood by the Legate's side.

"Rescued from death by the hands of this good friend,—" his voice was clear and bold, "I returned home, and found the note which you,—" he looked at Martin Fulmer, "caused to be left there. And in obedience to the request contained in that note, I am here."

At first completely thunderstruck, the venerable man had not power to frame a word.

"Fatality!" he cried at last, "but a blessed fatality! I knew that Providence would not desert us! Come to my heart, my child! Carl,—" trembling with emotion, he took Nameless by the hand, "Carl, behold your father, who, after a lapse of twenty-one years, has appeared among us, like one risen from the grave! Behold your sister, born like you, in your mother's death-agony,—separated from you for twenty-one years,—she now rejoins you, in presence of your father!"

It was now the turn of Nameless to stand spell-bound and thunderstruck. He stood like one in a dream, until the voices of the Legate and the young girl broke on his ear, voices so like his own.

"My son!"

"Brother!"

He was gathered to the Legate's breast, who kissed him on the brow, and surveying every line of his face, felt his bosom swell with pride as he called him, "my son!" Then his sister's arms were upon his neck, and Nameless, as he saw her face, so touching, in its quiet loveliness, felt his heart swell with a rapture, never felt before, as he found himself encircled in that atmosphere which is most like heaven,—the atmosphere of a sister's love.

"Listen to me, my son," said the Legate, as he took Nameless by the hand, and his eyes lit up with a new fire, while in abrupt and broken sentences, he poured forth the story of his life. His tone was impassioned, his words electric. Carl Raphael listened, while the emotions of his soul, were written in his changing features.

"And now, my son," concluded the Legate, as he put his arm about the neck of Nameless, "twenty-one years are gone, and I appear again. The estate, from two millions, has swelled into one hundred millions. You will inherit it, and you and I, and this good man, will join together, in applying the awful power embodied in this wealth, to the best interests of the human race."

To the surprise of the Legate, Nameless unwound his arm from his neck, and stepped back from him. His face suddenly became cold and rigid as stone. Rising in every inch of his stature, he surveyed the entire scene at a rapid glance.

On his right, his father and sister. Near him the venerable old man, with Mary by his side. Somewhat apart, stood the somber Godlike, and the weazel-faced Yorke. In the background, the table, with the candles burning dimly round over chest and coffin. Around him that hall, thick on every panel with the memories of the past; and far in the shadows, the white image of the master.

And by yonder window, his form half concealed in the curtains, Randolph looks out upon the black night.

Dilating with an emotion which was incomprehensible to the spectators, Nameless said.

"No, father, I will not touch one dollar of this wealth. It is accursed. Look at the passion it has evoked; look at the calamities which it has wrought! It is accursed,—thrice accursed. It was this wealth which impelled your own brother to attempt to corrupt my mother. It was this wealth which made that brother follow me with remorseless hatred, and to-night, for the sake of this, he planned my death. It was this wealth which drove you from your native land, there to bury all feeling in a church, which makes marriage a sacrament, and, at the same time, prevents her priests from ever enjoying that sacrament, from ever being hailed by the all-holy names of 'husband!' 'father!' There you buried twenty-one years of your life, leaving your children to breast the storm of life alone. It was this wealth which cast me, in childhood, into the streets, without friend or home,—and do you know the life I've lived? While you were saying mass at Rome, I was committing murder, father,—I was being sentenced to death,—I was buried alive in your family vault,—I was passing two years in a madman's cell! Look at the work of your wealth! Let these gentlemen (who, I doubt not, have been heirs of this estate in anticipation,) let them speak, and tell what passions, like fiends evoked from nethermost hell, this wealth has summoned into life! Speak, Martin Fulmer, you, who for twenty-one years, have denied yourself the blessing of wife, home, children; while in sleepless anguish you watched over this wealth,—speak! What evil thought is there in earth or hell which it has not called into deeds? No,—father,—lifting this hand to heaven, I swear by that mother, whom you left to writhe alone upon her dying bed, that I will not touch one dollar of the Van Huyden estate!"

The Legate, that is to say, Gulian Van Huyden, was crushed by these words; they fell upon him like a sentence of death.

"My son! my son!" he gasped, "spare me!"

"'Son' and 'father,' are words easily spoken," continued Nameless. "Have you been a father to me? It would be very striking, and altogether like the fifth act of a melodrama, no doubt, for me to overlook your twenty-one years of silence, and with love and tears consent to be your heir. But you have not been my father. My father,—the father of my soul,—Cornelius Berman, lies a corpse to-night. I forgive you, father, but I cannot forget, for I am not the Savior; I am simply a man—"

"Have you no mercy?" faltered the Legate, who stood in the presence of his son like a criminal before his judge. "Do you not know your words are killing me?"

But Carl Raphael, as though all that was dark in his own life, all that was dark in his mother's death-hour, held possession of his soul, would not give his father one chance of justification.

"A man, father, who has known so much suffering, that he now only desires to forget the real world, in the ideal world created by his own pencil; who only desires to turn his back upon wealth and all its hatreds, and win his bread humbly, and away from the world, by the toil of his hand. Mary!—thou who wast true to me, when I slept in the coffin,—thou who wast true to me when I was the tenant of a madman's cell,—Mary! come, let us go."

While the spectators stood like statues,—all, save Randolph, who, with his face from the light, took no notice of the scene,—he took Mary by the hand, and moved toward the door.

With one voice, his father, his sister, Martin Fulmer, called him back.

"Carl! Carl! you must not go!"

"My son! my son!"

"Brother!"

He lingered on the threshold, holding his beautiful wife by the hand.

"Father! sister! brave Martin Fulmer! come and see me in my poor man's home, and I will bless you from my heart for your presence. Come! come,—but not to tempt me with the offer of wealth; that word spoken, and we are strangers forever. For my oath is sworn, by the name of my mother, never to touch one dollar of the Van Huyden estate, and that oath is written up yonder!"

With these words, Carl Raphael, son of Gulian Van Huyden, and heir of One Hundred Million Dollars, took Mary by the hand, and passed from the banquet-hall, and from the house in which, twenty-one years before, his mother died.

---

[EPILOGUE.]

ON THE OCEAN,—BY THE RIVER SHORE,—IN THE VATICAN,—ON THE PRAIRIE.

My task is almost done. This work was commenced in January, 1848,—it is now June, 1852. Four years that have been of awful moment to the great world, and that, to many of you my readers, have brought change, affliction—have stripped you of those whose life was a part of your life, and made your pathway rich only in graves. Four years! As I am about to lay aside the pen, and shut the pages of this book, those four years start up before me, in living shape; they wear familiar faces; they speak with voices that never shall be heard on earth again.

---

Before the curtain falls, let us take a glance at the characters of our history.

Harry Royalton. He did not die under his brother's hands, but returned to Hill Royal, where he drank, and gambled, and talked "secession," until a kindly bullet, from the pistol of an antagonist in a duel, relieved him of the woes of this life.

Randolph Royalton was never seen in New York, after the 25th of December, 1844. It is supposed that, aided by Martin Fulmer, he went abroad, accompanied by his sister, the beautiful Esther.

In January, 1845, Bernard Lynn, completely broken down in health and appearance, returned, with his daughter, to Europe. He died soon afterward in Florence. Eleanor, it has been rumored, committed the moral suicide of burying her life in a convent. But let us hope, that Eleanor, as well as Esther, will once more appear in active life.

Israel Yorke still flourishes; the devil is good to his children. Godlike, we believe, is yet upon the stage. And the apostolic Ishmael Ghoul, still conducts the Daily Blaze, waxing fat and strong, in total depravity. As for Sleevegammon, his competitor for public favor, he still see-saws on the tight rope, with Conservatism on one side, and Progress on the other. Blossom, the policeman, has retired from active life, and now does a great deal of nothing, for three dollars a day, in the Custom-House. Dr. Bulgin still thrives; he lately published a book of 345 pages, as big as his own head almost, against "Socialism." We have not been informed whether any monument of marble, with an obelisk and an epitaph, has been erected in memory of the martyred "Bloodhound."

Before we close our task, we will gaze upon four scenes; one of which took place on the ocean; another, by the shore of Hudson river; a third, in the Vatican, at Rome; the fourth and last, upon the boundless prairie.

---

It was in January, 1845.

One winter night, when the wind was bitter cold in New York, and the snow lay white upon the hills of the northern land, there was a brave ship resting motionless upon the ocean, not under a wintery sky, but under a summer sky, and in an atmosphere soft and bland as June. On her way from New York to the West Indies, she had been becalmed. She lay under the starlit sky, with her image mirrored in every detail, upon the motionless sea. All at once another light than the pale beams of the stars, flashed over the smooth expanse, and a pyramid of flame rose grandly into the sky. The ship was on fire; in less than two hours the flame died away, and in place of the brave ship, there was a blackened wreck upon the waters. All that escaped from the wreck were six souls; the captain, three of the crew, and two passengers. Upon a hastily constructed raft, with but a scanty supply of bread and water, behold them, as they float alone upon the trackless ocean. For three days, without a breath of air to fan the smooth expanse, they floated under a burning sun, in sight of the wreck, and on the evening of the third day, they shared the last crust of bread, and passed from lip to lip the last can of water. It was on the evening of the fourth day, that the captain, a brave old seaman, driven mad by the burning sun and intolerable thirst, leaped overboard, and died, without a single effort on the part of his companions to save him. His example was followed by a sailor, an old tar, who had followed him over half the globe. Thus, there remained upon the raft four persons; two passengers and two sailors.

It was the evening of the fifth day,—five days under the burning sun,—two days and nights without water!

The sun was setting. Like a globe of red hot metal, he hung on the verge of the horizon, shooting his fiery rays through a thin purple haze.

The wreck had gone down, and the raft was alone upon the motionless ocean.

The sailors were seated near each other, on the side of the raft most remote from the sun,—they were dressed in a coarse shirt and trowsers,—and with their hands resting on their knees, and their faces upon their hands, they seemed to have surrendered themselves to their fate,—that is, to despair and death, by starvation.

The passengers were on the other side of the raft; one of them was a man of slender form, dressed in dark broadcloth; his head was buried in his hands, and the setting sun shone on his hair, which, sleek and brown lay behind his ears. Beside him, in a reclining posture, was the other passenger, a woman; a woman who had escaped from the burning vessel in her night-clothes, and who now, with the cloak of the man spread beneath her, turns her dark eyes hopelessly to the setting sun. A few days ago, with her proud bosom, and rounded limbs, and dark eyes flashing from that face, whose clear, brown complexion indicated her Spanish descent, she was very beautiful. Look at her now. Livid circles beneath each eye, lips parched, cheeks hollow,—her bosom is bare,—shrunken from its once voluptuous outline, it trembles with a faint pulsation. Five days have made terrible havoc of your beauty, proud Godiva!

The man by her side raises his head from his hands,—in that sallow face, lack-luster eyes, and hollowed cheeks, can you recognize the smooth, fair visage of Herman Barnhurst? Alas! Herman, your prospect of a West Indian paradise, with Godiva for the queen of your houris, is rather dim just now.

And the sky was above them, the trackless sea all around, the last rays of the red sun in their faces; and not a sail in sight, Scan the horizon, Herman, and in vain.

"O! it is horrible to die thus," exclaimed Godiva, in a voice so faint as to be scarcely audible.

But Herman made no reply.

And as the sailors raised their eyes,—wild and fiery from thirst and hunger,—the sun went down, and night came at once upon the scene.

"How beautiful they are,—the stars up yonder, Herman!"

Still Herman did not reply.

Godiva, resting one arm upon his knee, fell into a brief slumber, which was broken by the most incongruous dreams. At length her dreams resolved themselves into a view of Niagara Falls, that world of waters, singing its awful hymn as it plunges into the abyss. She saw the cool water, her face was bathed in the spray, and,—she awoke devoured by maddening thirst.

Herman had moved from her side; he was on the opposite side of the raft, talking with the sailors in low tones. And the sailors looked over their shoulders, with their fiery eyes, as they conversed with Herman.

Again she fell into a doze,—she was with her father this time, and Eugene, her first love, by her side. Happy days!—innocent girlhood!

She awoke with a start,—Herman was still with the sailors, conversing in low tones.

And thus the short night at the tropics wore on. It was near sunrise, and yet very dark, when Godiva was dreaming—dreaming of the night when, yet a pure girl, she was joined in marriage to the brutal sensualist. There was the familiar parlor,—the white-haired father,—the clergyman,—her profligate husband. And the husband bore her again over the threshold, she struggling in his loathed embrace. In the struggle she awoke,—sunrise was warm and bright upon the waters,—and a fresh breeze fanned her burning cheek. Over her stood Herman, his right hand upraised,—the knife which it grasped glittering in the sun.

"The lot has fallen on me!" he cried.

"Herman!" she shrieked—and spread forth her hands. Too late! The knife was buried in her bosom.

"Woman you must die to save our lives!"

Godiva never saw anything in this world, after that blow, which was followed by a stream of blood.

"Come! Let us drink!" shouted Herman to the sailors, his eyes rolling all wild and mad.

Only one of the sailors came and joined him, in that loathsome draught. In the sunken features of the poor wretch, you but faintly recognize—Arthur Conroy.

The third sailor, rose trembling to his feet,—his cheeks hollowed and his eyes sunken like the others. He folded his arms, and surveyed the three,—the body of Godiva, with Herman and Conroy bending over her.

And then the third sailor, with his great eyes flashing in their sockets, burst into a maniac laugh, and cried,—"A sail! A sail!"

The third sailor was Arthur Dermoyne.

Loathsome as was the draught which they took, it assuaged their thirst, and for a time stilled the madness in their veins. It was, therefore, with a vision somewhat clear, that Herman and Conroy looked up, and beheld a white sail breaking the monotony of the waste.

They turned from the body of the dead woman with loathing. * * * The sail grew nearer, nearer! A signal! "They are lowering a boat," cried Herman, "we shall be saved!"

"This is the very time of all others that I wished to see," said Dermoyne, in that husky and unnatural voice,—"your hands are stained with the blood of your paramour,—your heart beats with joy at the sight of a sail,—now go!" And he pushed Herman from the raft, and struck him on the hands, with the hilt of the knife, as the miserable man clutched the timbers.

"Mercy!" cried Herman, again clutching the raft.

Again Dermoyne struck his hands with the hilt of the knife.

"Go! Alice waits for you!"

When the boat from the ship came up, the crew found two men stretched insensible upon the raft, beside the body of a dead woman. As for Herman, he had sunk from sight.

---

It was June, in the year 1848—

The flush of the summer evening, lay broad and warm upon the river, when an old man came from the cottage door, and passing through the garden gate, bent his steps toward the oak, which, standing by the shore, caught upon its rugged trunk and wide-branching limbs, the golden rays of the setting sun.

He stood there, with uncovered brow, the breeze tossing his snow-white hairs, and the evening flush warming over his venerable face. By his side, grasping his hand, was a boy of some three years, with a glad, happy face, and sunny hair.

Before the old man and child spread the river, warm with golden light, and white with sails. Yonder the palisades rose up into the evening sky; and behind them, was the cottage, leaning against the cliff, with boughs above its steep roof, vines about its pointed windows, and before its door a garden, from whose beds of flowers a cool fountain sent up its drops of spray, into the evening air. The cottage of Cornelius Berman, just as it was in other days.

Presently the father and the mother of the child came from the garden gate, and approached the oak. A man of twenty-five years, with head placed firmly on his shoulders, and a face whose clear gray eyes, and forehead shaded by brown hair, indicate the artist, the man of genius,—a woman who may be seventeen, who may be twenty, but whose rounded form and pure wifely face, link together the freshness of the maiden, the ripe maturity of the woman.

Beside the young wife, walks a young woman, whose form is not so full and rounded in its beauty, but whose pale face, tinted with bloom on the lips and cheek, is lighted by eyes that gleam with a sad, spiritual light. Altogether, a face that touches you with its melancholy beauty, and compares with the face of the wife, as a calm starlit night, with a rosy summer morn.

It is Carl Raphael, his wife, Mary, and his sister, now called Alice, who come to join old Martin Fulmer on the river bank. Declining to touch one dollar of the Van Huyden estate, and determined to earn his bread by the toil of his hand, Carl still had fortune thrust upon him,—for Mary was the only heir of the merchant prince, Evelyn Somers.

"Doctor, I have a letter from father, who is now in Rome," said Carl, as he stood by: the old man's side,—and he placed the letter from his father, the Legate, in Martin Fulmer's hand.

Martin seized the letter, and reading it eagerly, his eye brightening up with the light of the olden time—

"Ah, Carl, he will soon return, he will at last relieve me of the care of the Van Huyden estate! See how hopefully he speaks of the cause of humanity in Europe,—in February, the people of France cast off their chains,—now Italy is awake, and men with the soul of Rienzi and the sword of Washington, direct her destinies,—the Pope, soon to be stripped of his temporal power, will be no longer the tool of brutal tyrants, the prisoner of atheist cardinals, but simply the Head of a regenerated people, simply the first Priest of a redeemed church. Glorious news, Carl; glorious news for us, in this free land; for say what we will, Rome is a heart which never throbs, but that its pulsations are felt throughout the world."

"How can Rome directly affect us, Doctor?"

"If the absolutist party in that church,—the party who regard Christ but as their stepping-stone to unrestrained and brutal power,—obtain the mastery, then, Carl, the last battle between that party and humanity, will be fought not in Europe, but in this New World. Is there a hill in this land, but is trod by a soldier of Rome? But if the party of Progress in that church,—the party who believe in Christ, and hold the Gospels as the inspired text-book of Democratic truth,—obtain the ascendancy, then, instead of having to battle with the Catholic Church, in this New World, the friends of humanity will find in it, their strongest ally. Good news, Carl! The Pope, the Washington of Italy!"

To which Carl,—happy in that little world of his own, where he lived with his wife and child, afar from the great world,—said simply:—

"Martin, let us wait and see."

---

Some months after the conversation just recorded, a very brief scene, but full of interest took place in Rome.

Let us pass for a little while from the Empire City to the Eternal City.

In one of the chambers of the Vatican, late at night, a lamp was faintly burning, its rays struggling among the thick shadows which hung about the lofty walls. Through an open window came a dim, ominous murmur,—the voice of the arisen people of Rome.

A man of some fifty years, whose black hair was plentifully sprinkled with gray, paced up and down the marble floor, pausing every now and then before a door, in the center of the chamber, to which he directed his earnest gaze. Behind that door was the majesty of the Roman Church, 'the representative of God on earth'—the Pope of Rome.

And the solitary watcher, dressed in the plain garb of a simple ecclesiastic, was the Legate who had done the bidding of the Pontiff over half the globe,—the Legate, Gulian Van Huyden.

"Will he turn his back upon the people, and cast himself into the hands of the tyrants? Will he, after his hand has grasped the plow of Human Progress, falter and turn back, and give the power of the church into the hands of the Iscariots of the human race? Can there be any truth in the rumor?"

And again he paused before the door, behind which was the chamber which held the sovereign Pontiff.

That door opened,—the Pope appeared. Clad not in the gorgeous costume which he wears, when high upon his throne, he is carried by his guards, through thousands and tens of thousands of his kneeling worshipers; but clad in a loose robe or gown of dark silk, which, thrown open in front, discloses his bared neck and disordered attire. For with his mild countenance,—a countenance marked by irresolution,—displaying every sign of perturbation, this "representative of God on earth," wears very much the air of one who is about to fly from a falling house.

"There can be no truth in this rumor, which I hear," and the Legate steps forward almost fiercely, addressing the Pope without one word of "majesty," or "holiness,"—"this rumor of flight?"

It is in a soft and tremulous voice, (in Italian of course,) the Pope replies,—

"If I stay, poison threatens me from above, the dagger from below."

And then with a gesture, supplicating silence and secrecy on the part of the Legate, the Pope retires and closes the door.

"Significant words! Poison threatens him from above,—from the cardinals,—the dagger from below,—from the people. The danger from the cardinals is not imaginary—there was once a Pope named Ganganelli, who suppressed the Jesuits, and in less than three months died horribly of poison. But the people, Pius? O, Pope without nerve, without faith in God, without hope in man, know you not, that were you to fulfill your apostolate of Liberty, the very women and children of Rome would, in your defense, build around you a rampart of their dead bodies?"

He walked to the window, up to which from the sleepless city, came the voices of arisen Rome:

"God help the Roman people!" he exclaimed; "God confound the schemes of the tyrants, who now plot the murder of the Roman people! At last, after five hundred years of wrong, the Nightmare of Priesthood is lifted from the breast of Italy. Italy has heard at last, the voice of God, calling upon her sons to arise—to cast these priestly idlers from their thrones—to assert the Democracy of the Gospel in face of tyrants of all shapes, whether dressed in military gear, in solemn black, or in Borgian scarlet. Italy has risen!"

And turning from the window, he paced the floor again,—

"My work is done in Rome. The Pope and the church in the hands of crowned and mitred miscreants, who having crushed the last spark of liberty in the Old World, will not be long ere they open their trenches before her last altar in the New World! Away to the New World then; if the battle must come, let us, let the friends of humanity, strike the first blow!"

---

Away from the eternal city,—to the New World,—to the boundless horizon and ocean-like expanse of the prairies. The sun is setting over one of those vast prairies, which stretch between the Mississippi and the Rocky Mountains. The monotony of that vast expanse, covered with grass that rolls and swells, like the wave of old ocean, is broken by a gentle knoll, crowned by a single giant oak. The setting sun flings the shadow of that solitary tree, black and long, over the prairie. Far, far in the west, a white peak rises like an altar from the horizon, into the sky—it is a peak of the Rocky Mountains. And gazing to the east, you behold nothing save the prairie and the sky,—yes! a herd of buffalo are grazing yonder, and a long caravan of wagons, drawn by mules, and flanked by armed men who ride or go afoot, winds like an immense serpent, far over the plain.

Three hundred emigrants, mechanics, their wives and little ones, who have left the savage civilization of the Atlantic cities, for a free home beyond the Rocky Mountains—such is the band which now moves on in the light of the fading day.

The leader of the band, a man in the prime of young manhood, dressed in the garb of a hunter, with a rifle on his shoulder, stands beneath the solitary oak, gazing upon the caravan as it comes on. His face bears traces of much thought,—perchance of many a dark hour,—but now his eyes shine clear and strong, with the enthusiasm which springs from deep convictions:

"Thus far toward freedom! Here they come,—three hundred serfs of the Atlantic cities, rescued from poverty, from wages-slavery, from the war of competition, from the grip of the landlord! Thus far toward a soil which they can call their own; thus far toward a free home. And thou, O! Christ, who didst live and die, so that all men might be brothers, bless us, and be with us, and march by our side, in this our exodus."

The speaker was the Socialist,—Arthur Dermoyne.

And let us all, as we survey the masses of the human race, attempting their exodus from thraldom of all kinds,—of the body,—of the soul,—from the tyranny which crushes man by the iron hand of brute force, or slowly kills him by the lawful operation of capital, labor-saving machinery, or monied enterprise,—let us, too, send up our prayer, "O! Thou of Nazareth, go with the People in this their exodus, dwell with them in their tents, beacon with light, their hard way to the Promised Land!"

THE END.