He took a pair of pistols, and a long slender dagger, sheathed in silver, from the carpet-bag, and regarded them for a moment.
"No, no," he exclaimed, "these will not avail for a night like this."
Gathering his cloak about him, he extinguished the taper, and crossed the threshold of his bed-chamber. His steps were heard on the stairs, and soon the faint jar of the shut door was heard.
And as he left the house, the child in the cradle awoke from its slumber and stretched forth its little head, and in its baby voice called the name of the young mother.
Our story now turns to Randolph and Esther.
[CHAPTER VII.]
THE WHITE SLAVE AND HIS SISTER.
As the night set in—the night of December 23d, 1844—two persons were seated in the recess of a lofty window, which commanded a view of Broadway. It was the window of a drawing-room, on the second floor of a four storied edifice, built of brick, with doors and window-frames of marble.—By the dim light which prevailed, it might be seen that the drawing-room was spacious and elegantly furnished. Mirrors, pictures and statues broke softly through the twilight.
Seated amid the silken curtains of the window, these persons sat in silence—the man with his arms folded, and his head sunk upon his breast, the woman with her hands clasped over her bosom, and her eyes fixed upon the face of her companion. The woman was very beautiful; one of those who are called 'queenly' by persons who have never seen a live queen, and who are ignorant of the philosophical truth, that one beautiful woman is worth all the queens in the universe. The man was dark-haired, and of a complexion singularly pale and colorless; there was thought upon his forehead, and something of an unpleasant memory, written in his knit brows and compressed lips.