"It means that the honor of your daughter was saved once in Italy, by Randolph Royalton,—she was grateful, and would have manifested her gratitude by giving him her hand in marriage, but she could not do that, for there was—negro blood in his veins. So, as she could not marry him, she showed her gratitude in the only way left her,—by the gift of her person without marriage."
As in a tone of Satanic triumph, Randolph pronounced these words, a silence like death fell upon the scene.
Bernard Lynn stood for a moment paralyzed; but Esther came forward with flashing eyes,—"O, you miserable coward!" she cried, and with her clenched hand struck her brother,—struck Randolph on the forehead.
And turning away from him in scorn, she raised Eleanor in her arms.
Ere he could recover from the surprise which this blow caused him, Bernard Lynn reached forward, his hands clenched, his dark face purple with rage.
"Wretch! for this you shall die,"—and crushed by the very violence of his rage, his agony, he sank insensible at Randolph's feet.
"Our marriage ceremony is postponed for the present,—good evening, sir!" said Randolph, turning to the preacher, who had witnessed this scene in speechless astonishment. "Mr. Hicks, take care of my friend, Lynn, here, and have him put to bed; and you, Esther, take care of Eleanor: and as for myself,"—he turned his back upon them all, and left the room,—"I think I will go and see my dear brother."
Up-stairs, with the tortures of the damned in his heart,—up-stairs, with the infernal light in his eyes,—a moment's pause at the door of his brother's room,—and then he flings it open and enters.
Harry Royalton, sitting up in bed, his back against the pillows, was reading, by a lamp, which stood on a small table, by the bedside. He was reading the parchment, addressed to his father, as one of the seven. The light shone on his face, now changed from its usual robust hue, to a sickly pallor, as with his large bulging eyes, fixed upon the parchment, he quietly smoked a cigar, and by turns passed his hands over his bushy whiskers and through his thick curling hair. Weak from pain and loss of blood, he still enjoyed his cigar. There was a pleasant complacency about his lips. To-morrow was the twenty-fifth of December, and to-day—he had foiled all the plans of his slave brother. Harry was satisfied with himself The smoke of the Havana floated round him and among the curtains of the bed. It was, take it all in all, a picture.
It was in this moment of quiet complacency, that Randolph appeared upon the scene. Harry looked up,—he caught the glare of his eyes,—and at once looked about him for a bowie-knife or pistol. But there were no weapons near. With a cry for help, Harry sprang from the bed, clad as he was, only in his shirt and drawers. He cried for help, but only once, for ere he could utter a second cry, there was a hand upon his throat.