Longfellow.
wo months have passed away. It is a balmy, genial day in March. Never shone the sun brighter, never looked St. Mark's fairer; but within Sunset Hall all is silent and gloomy. The very servants step around on tiptoe, with hushed voices and noiseless footfalls. The squire is not in his usual seat, and the parlor is tenanted only by Gipsy and Celeste. The former is pacing up and down the room, with a face almost deadly pale, with sternly-compressed lips, and sad, gloomy eyes. Celeste is kneeling like one in prayer, her face buried in her hands; she, too, is pale with awe and horror. To-day, Dr. Wiseman dies on the scaffold. They needed no evidence to condemn him. Fear seemed to have paralyzed his cowardly soul, and he confessed all; and from the moment he heard his sentence, he settled down in a stupor of despair, from which nothing could arouse him.
The sound of carriage-wheels coming up the avenue roused them both, at last. Celeste sprang to her feet, and both stood breathless, when the door opened, and Squire Erliston entered.
"Well?" came from the eager lips of Gipsy.
"All is over," said the squire, gloomily, sinking into a seat. "I visited him in prison, but he did not know me—he only stared at me with a look of stupid imbecility. I could not arouse him for a long time, until, at last, I mentioned your name, Gipsy; then he held out his arms before him, as well as his chains would allow, and cried out, in a voice of agony I will never forget: 'Keep her off! keep her off! she will murder me!' Seeing I could do nothing for him, I came away; and in that state of stupid insensibility, he was launched into eternity."
Celeste, sick and faint with terror, sank into a seat and covered her face with her hands, and Gipsy shuddered slightly.
"And so he has perished—died in his sins," she said, at last. "Once, I vowed never to forgive him; but I retract that oath. May heaven forgive him, as I do! And now, I never want to hear his name again."
"But Minnette, where can she be? Who will tell her of this?" said Celeste, looking up.
"It is most strange what can have become of her," said the squire. "I have spared no pains to discover her, but, so far, all has been in vain. Heaven alone knows whether she is living or dead."