Where went Cassius Calhoun?
Certainly not to his own sleeping-room. There was no sleep for a spirit suffering like his.
He went not there; but to the chamber of his cousin. Not hers—now untenanted, with its couch unoccupied, its coverlet undisturbed—but to that of her brother, young Henry Poindexter.
He went direct as crooked corridors would permit him—in haste, without waiting to avail himself of the assistance of a candle.
It was not needed. The moonbeams penetrating through the open bars of the reja, filled the chamber with light—sufficient for his purpose. They disclosed the outlines of the apartment, with its simple furniture—a washstand, a dressing-table, a couple of chairs, and a bed with “mosquito curtains.”
Under those last was the youth reclining; in that sweet silent slumber experienced only by the innocent. His finely formed head rested calmly upon the pillow, over which lay scattered a profusion of shining curls.
As Calhoun lifted the muslin “bar,” the moonbeams fell upon his face, displaying its outlines of the manliest aristocratic type.
What a contrast between those two sets of features, brought into such close proximity! Both physically handsome; but morally, as Hyperion to the Satyr.
“Awake, Harry! awake!” was the abrupt salutation extended to the sleeper, accompanied by a violent shaking of his shoulder.
“Oh! ah! you, cousin Cash? What is it? not the Indiana, I hope?”