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 "and as THKY stood THB CLKUGYJIKN 8L.O\Vi.Y CAME OUT OF TUli HOUSK. " — [si:E I'AGK J32.J 
 
THE 
 
 AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 ^ Noocl. 
 
 By JAMES DE MILLE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "TIllC DODGE CLUB," "THE CRYPTOGRAM," "CORD AND CREESE," S:c. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 '11 
 
 N E \N Y O R K : 
 HARPER & ]] R O T HERS, P U B L 1 S H E R S, 
 
 r K A N K L I N S Q U A R E. 
 1872. 
 
PS 
 
 
 By Prof. JAMES DE MILLE. 
 
 'J7//< DODGE CLUB ; or, Italy in 1859. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents : 
 Cloth, $1 25. 
 
 CORD AND CREESE. A Novel. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, 75 ceiils ; 
 Cloth, ,$i 25. 
 
 TlfK CRYPTOGRAM. A Novel. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper, $1 50; Cloth. 
 $2 00. 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. A Novel. Illustrated. 8vo, Paper. 
 
 PtiBLisHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 
 
 53p= .S>«/ />v mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, on receipt of the priee. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 187 1, by 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, 
 
 In the Office of the Eibrarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 
 ' P.VUllON, MKF.S." 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 T II K A V A L A N C II E. 
 
 Somewhat less than a hundred years ago 
 a party of travelers might have heen seen 
 crossing over the Sim])h)n lioad, en route for It- 
 aly. They had been detained at Brieg by re- 
 (lorts that the road was impassable ; and, as it 
 was the month of March, the prospect of snow 
 and storms and avalanches was sufficient to 
 make them hesitate. At length the road had 
 been reopened, and they were informed that 
 the journey might be made on sleds. 
 
 Unwilling to wait at Brieg, and equally un- 
 willing to make a detour so as to take the rail- 
 road, the party decided to go on. They were 
 informed that they could go on wheels as far 
 as the line of Snow, but that afterward their ac- 
 commodations would not be so comfortable as 
 tiiey might desire. The road had been cleared 
 for only a few feet ; the snow was deep ; the 
 sleds were rude; and progress. would be slow. 
 
 These statements, however, did not shake the 
 resolution of the i)arfy ; and the end of it was 
 that they determined to go on, and cross the 
 mountain if it were possible. 
 
 On leaving Brieg the road began to ascend 
 with a very slight incline, winding around in 
 an intricate sort of way, sometimes crossing 
 deep gullies, at other times piercing the hill- 
 side in long dark tunnels ; but amidst all these 
 windings ever ascending, so that ever}' step 
 took them higher and higher above the little 
 valley where Brieg lay. Tlie ])arty saw also 
 that every step brought them steadily nearer 
 to the line of snow ; and at leiigtii they found 
 the road covered with a thin white layer. Over 
 this they rolled, and though the snow became 
 deeper with every furlong of their j)rogress, yet 
 they encountered but little actual difficulty un- 
 til they approached the first station where the 
 horses were to be changed. Here they came 
 to a deep drift. Through this a pathway had 
 been cleared, so that there was no difficulty 
 about going through ; but the sight of this 
 served to show tliem what miglit be expect- 
 ed further on, and to fill tliem all with grave 
 doubts as to the practicability of a journey 
 which was thus interrupted so early. 
 
 On reaching the station these doubts were 
 confirmed. They were informed that the road 
 had been cleared for sleds on the preceding 
 day, but that on the ])revious night fresh snow 
 had fallen, and in such quantities that the road 
 would have to be cleared afresh. The worst 
 of it was that there was every probability <jf 
 new snow-storms, which would cover the road 
 still deeper, and once more obliterate the track. 
 This led to a fresh dei)ate about the journey ; 
 but the}' were all unwilling to turn back. Only 
 a few miles separated them from Domo d"Os- 
 sola, and they were assured that, if no fresli 
 snow should fall, they Avould be able to start 
 on the following morning. This last assur- 
 ance once more confirmed their wavering reso- 
 lution, and they concluded to wait at the sta- 
 tion. 
 
 For the remainder of that day they waited at 
 the little way-side inn, amusing themselves with 
 looking out upon their surroundings. They 
 were environed by a scene of universal white. 
 Above them towered vast Alpine summits, 
 where the wild wind blew, sweeping the snow- 
 wreaths into the air. In front was a deep ra- 
 
THE AMERICAN BAKOX. 
 
 vine, Jit the bottom of wliich there nm a tor- 
 rent that loanuHl and tossi'd over rocks inul 
 lioulders. It was not jiossible to take a walk 
 lo any distance. Tiieir hoots were made for 
 lighter jmriioses tlian jjhinKinf!; tliroiigli snow- 
 drifts ; and so tliey were forced to remain in- 
 doors, and |iass the time as best tlicy conld. 
 
 On tlie foilowini^ morning they found every 
 tiling in readiness fur a start. Jn front of tlie 
 inn tliey saw live sleds of that kind which is 
 universally used in the northern ))art of Amer- 
 ica. Each sled was of the rudest possible con- 
 struction, and was drawn by one horse ; straw 
 was spread over the sled, upon which fur 
 robes and blankets were flung. The jjarty 
 was distrihuteil among these sleds, so that 
 each one should have as light a load as possi- 
 ble, while (jne of the rude vehicles carried the 
 luggage. 
 
 Thus arranged, they all started off. And 
 now, since they are all fairly UTider way, I j)ro- 
 jiose to introduce them, iiulividually and col- 
 lectively, to my very good friend the reader. 
 
 First of nil I must mention the fact that the 
 liarty consisted chieHy of ladies and their at- 
 tendants. 
 
 Of these the most prominent was a slim, tall, 
 elderly lady, with large, dark, soft eyes, that 
 si)oke of a vanished youth and beauty from her 
 heavily wrinkled face. She was the Dowager 
 Lady Dalrymple, and acted toward the rest of 
 the party in the multifarious cajiacity of chape- 
 ron, general, courier, guide, philosopher, friend, 
 and Mentor. 
 
 Next came Mrs. Willoughby, a widow of 
 great beauty and fascination, a brunette, good- 
 natured, clever, and shrewd. I might here 
 jiause, and go into no end of raptures on the 
 various qualities of this lady's character ; but, 
 on the whole, I think I'd better not, as they 
 Mill be sufficiently apparent before the end of 
 this story is reached. 
 
 Then there was Miss Minnie Fay, sister to 
 Mrs. Willoughby, and utterly unlike her in ev- 
 ery respect. Minnie was a blonde, with blue 
 eyes, golden hair cut short and clustering about 
 her little head, little bit of a mouth, with very 
 red, plump lips, and very white teeth. Minnie 
 was very small, and very elegant in shape, in 
 gesture, in dress, in every attitude and every 
 movement. The most striking thing about 
 her, however, was the exi)ression of her eyes 
 and her face. There was about her brow the 
 glory of perfect innocence. Her eyes had a 
 glance of nnfathomable melancholy, mingled 
 with childlike trust in the particidar jierson 
 upon whom her gaze was fastened. Minnie 
 was considered by all her friends as a child — 
 was treated as a child — humored, ])etted, coax- 
 ed, indulged, and talked to as a child. Min- 
 nie, on her part, thought, sj)oke, lived, moved, 
 and acted as a child. She fretted, she teased, 
 she pouted, she cried, she did every thing as a 
 child does ; and thus carried uj) to the age of 
 eighteen the bloom and charm of eight. 
 
 The two sisters were nieces of the Dowager 
 
 Lady Dalrymple. Another niece also accom- 
 jianieil them, who was a cousin of the two sis- 
 ters. This was Miss Ethel Oiiie, a young lady 
 who had flourished through a London season, 
 aiul had refused any numl)er of brilliant oiler.-. 
 She was a brunette, with most wonderful dark 
 eyes, figure of perfect grace, and an expression 
 of grave sclf-p(jise that awed tiie butterllies of 
 fashicni, but offered an irresistible attraction to 
 ]ie(i|ile of sense, intellect, intelligence, esprit, 
 and all that sort of thing — like you and me, my 
 boy. 
 
 I am taking u]) too nmch time and nntici- 
 jiating somewhat, I fear, by these descrii)tions ; 
 so let us drop ISliss Ethel. 
 
 These ladies being thus all related formed a 
 family Jiarty, and bad made the journey thus 
 far on the best of tenns, without any other es- 
 cort than that which was afforded by their 
 chaperon, general, courier, guide, iihiloso])her, 
 friend, and Mentor — the Dowager Lady ]Jal- 
 lymjile. 
 
 The party was enlarged y the presence of 
 four maids and a foreign gc leman. This lust- 
 mentioned ])ersonage was small in stature, with 
 a very handsome face and very brilliant eyes. 
 His frame, though slight, was sinewy and well 
 knit, and he looked like an Italian. He had 
 come on alone, and had passed the night at 
 the station-house. 
 
 A track about six feet wide had been cut out 
 through the snow, and over this they i)assed. 
 The snow was soft, and the horses sank deej), 
 so that jirogress was slow. Nor was the jour- 
 ney without the excitement of apparent dan- 
 ger. At titnes before them and behind theni 
 tiiere woidd come a low, rumbling sound, and 
 tiiey would see a mass of snow and ice rushing 
 down some neighboring slo])e. Some of these 
 fell on the road, and more than once they had 
 to quit their sleds and wait for the drivers to 
 get them over the heaps that had been formed 
 across their path. Fortunately, however, none 
 of these came near them ; and Minnie Fay, who 
 at first had screamed at intervals of about five 
 minutes, gradually gained confidence, and at 
 length changed her mood so conqjletcly that she 
 laughed and cla])])ed her little hands whenever 
 site saw the rush of snow and ice. Tims slow- 
 ly, yet in safety, tliey pushed onward, and at 
 length reached the little village of Sinqilon. 
 Here they waited an hour to warm themselves, 
 lunch, and change horses. At the end of that 
 time they set out afresh, and once more they 
 were on their winding way. 
 
 They had now the gratification of finding that 
 they were descending the slope, and of knowing 
 that this descent took them every minute fur- 
 ther from the regions of snow, and nearer to 
 the suimy plains of Italy. Minnie in particular 
 gave utterance to her delight : and now, having 
 lost every particle of fear, she begged to be al- 
 lowed to drive in the foremost sled. Ethel had 
 been in it tints far, but she willingly changed 
 places with Miimie, and thus the descent was 
 nuide. 
 
 ^ ■ - •■- 
 
THE AMERICAN KAUON. 
 
 
 
 Tlio sicils and their occupants were now ar- 
 riiiij^ed in tiie following older : 
 
 First, Minnie Eay alone willi the driver. 
 
 Second, Mrs. Willoiigliliy and Kiliel. 
 
 Third, the Dowager and her maid. 
 
 J''ourtIi, the three other nniids. 
 
 Fifth, the luggage. 
 
 After these live sleds, containing our party, 
 came another with the foreign gentleman. 
 
 Each of these sleds had a driver to itself. 
 
 In this oriler the ])arty went, until at length 
 they came to the Gorge of (iondo. This is a 
 narrow valley, the sides of which rise up very 
 ahruptly, and in some jjlaees precipitously, to a 
 great height. At the 'jottom flows a furious 
 torrent, which boils and foams and roars as 
 it forces its im])etu()us way onward over fallen 
 unisscs of rock and trees and boulders, at one 
 time gathering into still ])()ols, at other times 
 roaring into cataracts. Their road Imd been 
 cat out on the side of the mountain, and the 
 path had been cleared away here many feet 
 above the buried road ; and as they wound 
 along the slope they could look uj) at the stu- 
 licndous heights above them, and down at the 
 abyss beneath them, whose white snow-cover- 
 ing was nnirked at the bottom by the black 
 line of the roaring torrent. The smooth sloi)e 
 of snow ran down as far as the eye could reach 
 at a steep angle, filling up all crevices, with 
 here and there a projecting rock or a dark 
 clumj) of trees to break its surfaee. 
 
 The road was far beneath them. The drivers 
 had informed them that it was forty feet deep 
 at the top of the pass, and that its dc])th here 
 Avas over thirty. Long poles which were in- 
 serted in the snow projected above its surface, 
 and served to nuirk where the road ran. 
 
 Here, then, they drove along, feeling wearied 
 with the length of the way, impatient at the 
 slowness of their progress, and eager to reach 
 their journey's end. But little was said. All 
 had talked till all were tired out. Even Min- 
 nie Fay, who at first had evinced great enthu- 
 siasm on finding herself leading the way, and 
 had kcj)t turning back constantly to address 
 remarks to her friends, had at length subsided, 
 and had rolled lierself up more closely in her 
 furs, and heaped tlio straw higher about her 
 little feet. 
 
 Suddenly, before them, and above them, and 
 behind them, and all around them, there arose 
 a deep, low, dull, rushing sound, which seemed 
 as if all the snow on the slope was moving. 
 Their ears had by this time become sufficiently 
 well acquainted with the ])eculiar sound of the 
 rushing snow-masses to know that this was the 
 noise that heralded their progress, and to feel 
 sure that this was an avalanche of no common 
 size. Yes, this was an avalanche, and every 
 one heard it : but no one could tell where it 
 was moving, or whether it was near or far, or 
 whether it was before or behind. They only 
 knew that it was somewhere along the slojje 
 which they were traversing. 
 
 A warning cry came fi oni the foremost driver. 
 
 Ho looked Iiack, and his face was as ])ak' a'* 
 death. He waved his hands alime him, and 
 tlicusluMiting for the others to follow, he whipped 
 up his horse furiously. The animal ]ilnngeil 
 into the snow, and tossed and floundered and 
 nnide a rush onward. 
 
 iJut the other drivers held back, and, instead 
 of following, shout<'d to the first driver to sto]), 
 and cried to the jjussengers to hold on. Not a 
 cry of fear escajied from any one of the ladies. 
 All did as they were directed, and grasped the 
 stakes of their sleds, looking u]) at the slojie 
 with white lips, and e.\])ectation of horror in 
 their eyes, watching for the avalanche. 
 
 And down it came, a vast mass of snow and 
 ice — down it came, irresistibly, tremendously, 
 with a force that nothing could withstand. All 
 eyes watched its jjrogress in the silcm;c of utter 
 ami heljiless terror. It came. It struck. All 
 the sleds in the rear esca])ed, but Mimiie'ssled 
 lay in the course of the falling mass. The 
 driver had madly rushed into the very midst 
 of the danger which he sought to avoid. A 
 scream from IMinnie and a cry of despair from 
 the driver burst ujion the ears of the horrified 
 listeners, and the sled that bore tiieiu, buried 
 in the snow, went over the edge of the slojie, 
 and downward to the abvss. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 TIIK I'lOllILOUS niiSCENT. 
 
 The shriek of ]\Iiimie and the driver's cry 
 of despair were both stopped abru;)tly by the 
 rush of snow, and were smothered in the heap 
 under wliich they were buried. Tlie whole 
 liarty stood ])aralyzed, gazing stu])idly down- 
 ward where the avalanche was hurrying on to 
 the abyss, bearing with it the ill-fated Minnie. 
 The descent was a slope of smooth snow, which 
 went down at an angle of forty-five degrees for 
 at least a thousand feet. At that ])oint there 
 seemed to be a ])recii)iee. As their aching 
 eyes watched the falling mass they saw it ap- 
 proach this jdace, and then as it came near the 
 whole avalanche seemed to divide as though it 
 had been severed by some projecting rock. It 
 divided thus, and went to ruin ; while in the 
 midst of the ruin they saw the sled, looking like 
 a helpless boat in the midst of foaming break- 
 ers. So, like such a helpless boat, it was dashed 
 forward, and shot out of sight over the preci- 
 pice. 
 
 Whither had it gone ? Into what abyss had 
 it fallen? What lay beneath that point over 
 which it had been thrown ? Was it the fierce 
 torrent that rolled there, or were there black 
 rocks and sharp crags lying at the foot of the 
 awful precijjice ? Such were the questions 
 which Hashed through every mind, and deep- 
 ened the universal horror into universal de- 
 spair. 
 
 In the midst of this general dismay Ethel 
 was the Mrst to speak and to act. She started 
 
 
10 
 
 THE AMKUICAN BARON. 
 
 to her feet, nnd looking back, culled in a loud 
 voice : 
 
 "Go down alter licr ! A thousand ])Oinids 
 to the man who saves her ! (iiiick !" 
 
 At this the drivers came forwavd. None of 
 them ( i)mI(1 understand iMiglish, and so jiiid not 
 comjireliended her otVer; hut tiiey saw hy iier 
 gestures what she wanted. They, iiowevcr, did 
 not seem inclined to act. They j)ointed down, 
 and pointed u]), and shook tiieir heads, and jalj- 
 hercil some strange, uniiitclligihle ])atois. 
 
 "Cowards!" cried Etiiel, "to leave a young 
 girl to die. I will go down myself. " 
 
 And then. Just as she was, she stcpjjed from 
 the sled, and paused for a moment, looking 
 ilown the slojie as tiioiigh selecting a jihice. 
 Lady Dali'ymple and Mrs. Wiihuigiiiiy scream- 
 ed to her to come hack, and the drivers sur- 
 rounded her with wild gesticulations. To nil 
 this she jiaid no attention whatever, and would 
 certainly have gone down in another moment 
 had tiot a hand been laid on her arm, and a 
 voice close by her said, with u strong foreign 
 accent, 
 
 ". Vices!" 
 
 She turned at once. 
 
 It was the foreign gentleman who had been 
 driving behind the ])arty. He had come u]) 
 and had just reached the place. He now stood 
 before her with his hat in one hand and the 
 otiier hand on his heart. 
 
 " I'ardon, mecs," he said, with a bow. " Eet 
 is too pcriloss. I sail go down cef you 'low me 
 to niak ze attem])." 
 
 "Oh, monsieur," cried Ethel, "save her if 
 you can !" 
 
 "Do not fear. Be calm. I sail go down. 
 Nevare mine."' 
 
 The stranger now turned to the drivers, and 
 spoke to them in their own language. They all 
 obeyed at once. lie was giving them explicit 
 directions in a way that showed a ])erfect com- 
 mand of the situation. It now ajipeared that 
 each sled had a coil of rope, which was evident- 
 ly supplied from an apprehension of some such 
 accident as this. Hastily yet dextrously the 
 foreign gentleman took one of these coils, and 
 then binding a blanket around his waist, he 
 passed the rope around this, so that it would 
 press against the blanket without cutting him. 
 Having secured this tightly, he gave some fur- 
 ther directions to the drivers, and then prepared 
 to go down. 
 
 Hitherto the drivers had acted in sullen sub- 
 mission rather than with ready acquiescence. 
 They were evidently afraid of another ava- 
 lanche ; and the frequent glances which they' 
 threw at the slojw above them plainly showed ! 
 that they expected this snow to follow the ex- | 
 ample of the other. In spite of themselves an j 
 expression of this fear escaped them, nnd came 
 to the ears of the foreign gentleman. He I 
 turned at once on the brink of the descent, and | 
 burst into a torrent of invective against them. 
 The ladies could not understand him, but they 
 could perceive that he was uttering threats, 
 
 nnd that the men qtmiled before him. He did 
 
 not waste any time, however. After reducing 
 the men to a state of sulky sidindssion, he 
 turned once more and began the descent. 
 
 As he went down the rojie was held by the 
 men, who allowed it to pass through their liamls 
 so as to steady his descent. The task bcftu'c 
 the adventurer was one of no common diiliculty. 
 The snow was soft, and ut every step he sank 
 in at least to his knees. Freiiiiently he came 
 to trcachei;uisi)laces, where lu'.v.iiik down above 
 bis waist, and was only able to scrandile out 
 w ith dilhculty. But the rojie sustained him ; 
 and as his progress was downward, ho succeed- 
 ed in moving with some rajiidity toward his 
 destimition. The ladies on the height above 
 sat in perfect silence, watching the progress of 
 the man wiio was thus desceniling with his life 
 in his hand to seek and to save their lost com- 
 ])anion, nnd in the intensity of their anxiety 
 forgot utterly about any danger to themselves, 
 tiiough from lime to time there arose the well- 
 known soiiml of sliding masses, not so far away 
 but that under other circumstances of less anx- 
 iety it might have filled them with alarm. But 
 now there was no alarm for themselves. 
 
 And now the stranger w as far down, and the 
 coil of rope was well-nigh exhausted. But this 
 had been [irepared for, and the drivers fastened 
 this rope to another coil, and after a time be- 
 gan to let out that one also. 
 
 Farther and farther down the descent went 
 on. Tliey saw the stranger i)ur;;uing his way 
 still with unfaltering resolution; and they sent 
 after him all tiieir hearts and all their i)rayers. 
 At last he jiliinged down almost out of sight, 
 but the next moment he emerged, and then, aft- 
 er a few leaps, they saw that he had gained the 
 jilacc where lay the ruins of the shattered ava- 
 lanche. Over this he walked, sometimes sink- 
 ing, at other times running and lea])ing, until 
 at length he came to the precii)ice over which 
 the sled had been flung. 
 
 And now the suspense of the ladies became 
 terrible. This was the critical moment. Al- 
 ready his eyes could look down upon the mys- 
 tery that lay beneath that iirecipice. And 
 what lay revealed there? iJid his eyes en- 
 counter a spectacle of horror? Did they gaze 
 down into the inaccessible depths of some hid- 
 eous abyss? Did they see those jagged rocks, 
 those sharp crags, those giant boulders, those 
 roaring billows, which, in their imaginations, 
 had drawn down their lost companion to de- 
 struction? Such conjectures were too terri- 
 ble. Their breath failed them, and their hearts 
 for a time almost ceased to beat as they sat 
 tiicre, overcome by such dread thoughts as 
 these. 
 
 (Suddenly a cry of delight escaped Ethel. 
 She was kneeling down beside Lady Ualrym- 
 ple and Mrs. Willoiighby, with her eyes staring 
 from her jiallid face, when she saw the stran- 
 ger turn and look up. He took off his hat, 
 and waved it two or three times. Then be 
 beckoned to the drivers. Then he sat down 
 
THE AMERICAN UAUON. 
 
 II 
 
 nnd prcparod to let hims'clf over tlio proripico. 
 Tliis incident insiiiriid liopo. It did mciri'. It 
 gave II moment's contidencc, and liie certainty 
 that all was not lost. They looked at each 
 otlier, and wept tears of joy. But soon that 
 momentary hope vanisiicd, and nnccrlaitity re- 
 turned. After ail, wliat ilid tiie stranj^er's f;e»- 
 ture mean ? He inigiit have seen her — hut iiow ? 
 He might reach her, hut wonlil she he safe 
 from luirm? Could such a thitiR he hojied 
 for? Would she not, ratlier. lie all nmrred and 
 mutilated? Dared they hope for any tiling 
 hetter? They dared not. And now they sat 
 once more, as sad ns heforc, nnd their short- 
 lived j;leam of hope faded away. 
 
 They saw tliu stranger go over the preci- 
 j)ice. 
 
 Tiien he disappeared. 
 
 The n)\)C was let out for n little distance, 
 and then stop]ied. Then more went out. Then 
 it stopped agiuu. 
 
 The rope now lay quite hxjse. There was 
 no tension. 
 
 What was the meaning of this ? Was he 
 clinging to the side of the iirecijiice ? Impossi- 
 hle. It looked rather as tliongii he had reached 
 some place where he was free to move, and 
 had no further need of descent. And it seemed 
 as though the jirccipice might not he so deep 
 or so fearful as they had sujijiosed. 
 
 In a short time their eyes were greeted hy 
 the a])pearance of the stranger above the jjreci- 
 pice. He waved his hat again. Tlien he made 
 some gestures, and detached the rope from his 
 person. The drivers undcrstotKl him as if this 
 had hecn preconcerted. Two of them instant- 
 ly unharnessed the horse from one of the sleds, 
 while the others ^)ullcd u]) the rojje which the 
 stranger had cast off. Then the latter disaj)- 
 pcared once more behind the iirecii)ice. The 
 ladies watched now in dee]) suspense ; inclin- 
 ing to hope, yet dreading the worst. They 
 saw the drivers fasten the rojie to the sled, and 
 let it down the slo]ie. It was light, and the 
 runners were wide. It did not sink much, but 
 slid down quite rapidly. Once or twice it 
 stuck, but by jerking it back it was dcinched, 
 and went on as before. At last it reached the 
 precipice at a jjoint not more than a hundred 
 feet from where the stranger had last ap- 
 peared. 
 
 And now ns they sat there, reduced once 
 more to the uttermost extremity of suspense, 
 they saw a sight wiiich sent a thrill of rapture 
 through their aching hearts. They saw the 
 stranger come slowly above the precipice, and 
 then stop, and stoo]), and look hack. Then 
 they saw — oh, Heavens! who was that ? Was 
 not that her red hood — and that figure who 
 thus slowly emerged from behind the edge of 
 the precipice whicli had so long concealed her 
 — that figure! Wa* it jiossible? Not dead — 
 not mangled, but living, moving, ami, yes — 
 wonder of wonders — scaling a precipice ! Could 
 it be! Oh joy! Oh bliss! Oh revulsion from 
 despair! The ladies trembled and shivered, 
 
 and laughed and sohhod convulsively, and we|ii 
 in one aiu)ther's arms by turns. 
 
 As far as they could sec; through the tears 
 that dimmed their eyes, Minnie could not he 
 nnich injurc'd. She moved (|iute lightly over 
 the snow, as the stranger leil her toward the 
 sled; only sinking once or twice, and tlu'U ex- 
 tricating herself even more readily than her 
 conqjanion. At last she reached the sled, and 
 the stranger, taking off the blanket that he had 
 worn under the rope, threw it over her shoid- 
 ders. 
 
 Then he signaled to the men above, nnd 
 they began to |>ull u]i the sled. The stranger 
 clindicd n|) after it through the dcej) snow, 
 walking behind it for some distance. At last 
 he Kuule a desjiairing gesture to the men, and 
 sank down. 
 
 The men looked bewildered, and stopped 
 pulling. 
 
 The stranger started up, and waved bis 
 hands im])aticntly, jpointing to Minnie. 
 
 The drivers began to jiull once more at the 
 sled, and the stranger once more sank exhaust- 
 ed in the snow. 
 
 At this Ethel started np. 
 
 "That noble soul!" she cried; "that gen- 
 erous heart! .See! he is saving Minnie, and 
 sitting down to die in the snow !" 
 
 She sjjrang toward the men, and endeavor- 
 ed to nuike them do something. ]5y her ges- 
 tures she tried to get two of the men to ]iull at, 
 the sled, and the third man to let the fourth 
 nnin down with a rojje to the stranger. The 
 men refused ; but at the offer of her purse, 
 which was well filled with gold, they consented. 
 Two of them then ])ulled at the sled, and num- 
 ber four bound the rojie about him, and went 
 down, while number three held the ro)ie. H(! 
 went down without difficulty, and reached the 
 stranger. I5y this time Minnie bad been drawn 
 to the top, nnd was clasped in the arms of her 
 friends. 
 
 But now the strength and the sense which 
 had hecn so wonderfully maintained gave way 
 utterly ; and no sooner did she find herself safe 
 than she fell down unconscious. 
 
 They drew her to a sled, and tenderly laid 
 her on the straw, and lovingly and gently they 
 tried to restore her, and call her back to con- 
 sciousness. But for a long time their efforts 
 were of no avail. 
 
 She lay there a jiictnre of perfect loveliness, 
 as beautiful as a dream — like some child-angel. 
 Her hair, frosted with snow dust, clustered in 
 golden curls over her fair Avhite brow; her lit- 
 tle hands were folded meekly over her breast ; 
 her sweet lips were parted, and disclosed the 
 jiearly teeth ; the gentle eyes no longer looked 
 forth with their piteous expression of mute 
 appeal ; and her hearing was deaf to the 
 words of love and pity that were lavished upon 
 her. 
 
12 
 
 THE AMKliirAN BAUOX. 
 
 f 
 
 CIlArTKll III. 
 
 TIIK CIIIMl-ANdll, AM) IIKll WOKS. 
 
 MitH Wii.Locciiiiv \\M in liur room nt tliu 
 liotL'l ill IMiliiii, wlicn till! door opt-ncd, iiiiil Miii- 
 iiiii caiiiu in. Slio looki'd aroiiiul the room, 
 ijrow II loiiK lirciitii, tlirii locked llic door, and 
 flin^in^ liursclf upon ii sofa, kIk; iTt'lincd there 
 in silencu tor some time, looking hard at tiie 
 eeiliiiK. Mrs. AVilloti(;hliy looked a little snr- 
 liriM'd at lirst ; but after waiting' a few moments 
 lor .Miiiiiie to say soniethinn, resumed lierrcud- 
 iiijt, which had Ihhmi iiiterriipted. 
 
 '•Kitty," said Minnie at last. 
 
 " What?" said her sister, looking tip. 
 
 " I think you're horrid." 
 
 "Why. what's the matter':'" 
 
 " Why, because when you see nnd know that 
 I'm dyinj^ to speak to you, you j^o on reading 
 that wretched book." 
 
 '• Wliy, Minnie darling,"said Mrs. Willoiij;li- 
 ity, ''how in tlic world was 1 to know that you 
 wanted to sjieak to nie?" 
 
 " Yon viiij/it have known," said Minnie, with 
 a pout — "you saw mc look all round, ami lock 
 the door; and yon saw how worricil I looked, 
 and I think it a shame, and I've u great mind 
 nut to tell you any thing about it." 
 
 "Aliout it — what itr" and Mrs. WillouKh- 
 by put down her book, and regarded her sister 
 witli some curiosity. 
 
 " I've a great mind not to tell you, but I 
 can't help it. Besides, I'm dying to ask your 
 advice. I don't know what to do; and 1 wish 
 I was dead — there!" 
 
 "My ])oor Minnie I what is the matter? 
 You're so incoherent. " 
 
 "Well, Kitty, it's all my accident." 
 
 "Your accident!" 
 
 " Y'es ; on the Alps, you know." 
 
 "What! You haven't received any serious 
 injury, have you?" asked Mrs. Willoughby, 
 with some alarm. 
 
 "Oh! I don't mean that; but I'll tell you 
 what I mean;" and here Minnie got uj) from 
 her reclining jiosition, and allowed her little feet 
 to touch the carpet, while she fastened her great, 
 fond, ])leading, piteous eyes iijion her sister. 
 
 '•It's the Count, you know," said she. 
 
 "The Count!" repeated Mrs. Willoughby, 
 somewhat dryly. " Well ?" 
 
 " Well — don't you know what I mean ? Oli, 
 how stupid you arc!" 
 
 "I really can not imagine." 
 
 "Well — he — he — he i)ro — proposed, you 
 know." 
 
 "Proposed!" cried the other, in a voice of 
 dismay. 
 
 "Now, Kitty, if you speak in that horrid 
 way I won't say another word. I'm worried 
 too much already, and I don't want you to 
 scold me. And I won't have it." 
 
 "JSIinnie darling, I wish you would tell me 
 something. I'm not scolding. I merely wish 
 to know what you mean. Do you really mean 
 that the Count has proposed to you?" 
 
 "Of course that's what I mean." 
 
 "What ]iu/./.leH me is, how be could Imvo 
 got the ciuince. It's more than a week sincu 
 he saved you, nnd wo all felt dectply grateful 
 to him. But saving a girl's life doesn't give a 
 man any claiin over licr; and we don't alto- 
 gether likt; liiiii ; and so we all havit tried, in a 
 (piiet way, williout hurling his feelings, you 
 know, to jircvent him from liuving uny ae- 
 (luuintnnce with you." 
 
 "Oh, J know, I know," said Minnie, brisk- 
 ly. " lit told nie all that. He understands 
 that; but he doesn't care, he says, if / only 
 consent. He will forgive ^f«/, lie says." 
 
 i\Iinnie's volubility was suddenly checked by 
 catching her sister's eye fixed on her in new 
 ama/.einent. 
 
 " Now you're beginning to be horrid," she 
 cried, "bon't, don't—" 
 
 "Will you have the kindness to tell me,'' 
 said Mrs. ^^ iiloiigid)y, very (piielly, "how in 
 the world the Count contrived to tell vou all 
 this'i"' 
 
 " Why — wl y — several times." 
 
 "Several times!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Tell me wlere?" 
 
 " Why, once at the anipliitheatre. Yon were 
 walking ahead, nnd 1 sat down to rest, nnd he 
 came and joined me. He left before vou came 
 back." 
 
 " He must have been following us, tin ii." 
 
 "Yes. And another time in the picture- 
 gallery; and yestciday in n shop; and this 
 morning at the tJathodral." 
 
 "The Cathedral!" 
 
 " Yes, Kitty. Y'ou know we nil went, nnd 
 Lady Dairy niple would not go nj). So Ediel 
 and 1 went up. And when we got up to the 
 top I walked about, and Ethel sat down to ad- 
 mire the view. And, you know, I found my- 
 self off at a little distance, when suddenly 1 saw 
 Count Girasole. And then, you know, he — he 
 — proposed." 
 
 JMrs. Willoughby sat silent for some time. 
 
 "And what did you say to him?" she asked 
 at length. 
 
 "Why, what else could I sny?" 
 
 "What else than iclial?" 
 
 "I don't see why you should net so like a 
 grand inquisitor, Kitty. You really make me 
 feel quite nervous," said Minnie, who put her 
 little rosy-tipped lingers to one of her eyes, and 
 attemjjted a sob, which turned out a failure. 
 
 "Oh, I only asked you what you told him, 
 you know." 
 
 " Well," said Minnie, gravely, " I told him, 
 you know, that I was a^vfully grateful to him, 
 and that I'd give any thing if 1 could to cx- 
 jiress my gratitude. And then, you know — oh, 
 lie speaks such darling broken English — he 
 called me his 'mees,' nnd tried to make a jji-et- 
 ty speech, which was so mixed with Italia.i that 
 I didn't understand one single word. By-the- 
 way, Kitty, isn't it odd how every body here 
 speaks Italian, even the children?" 
 
 %u 
 
TIIK AMKUIC'AN IIAUON. 
 
 l.'i 
 
 "YcM, very oiM ; l)iit, Miiinii! ilciir, I want 
 to kiiiiw wliiit vDii told liiin." 
 
 " Wiiy, I told liiiii llmt I (liiln't know, yon 
 know." 
 
 "And tlipn?" 
 
 "And ilu-n I:o took my hand. Now, Kitty, 
 voii'ro unkind. I ri'iiily >rin not udlyoii idl tiiis." 
 
 " Yes, liut I only ask si> as to advise you. I 
 want to know how tlio case stands." 
 
 " Wl'II, you know, he was so urgent — " 
 
 " Yes ?" ' 
 
 "And so Inindsomc — " 
 
 " Well ?•' 
 
 "And tlion, you know, lie saved my life — 
 didn't he, now? You must acknowledge that 
 uincli, mustn't you?" 
 
 "Oil ves." 
 
 " Wel'l— " 
 
 "Weirr 
 
 Minnie sighed. 
 
 "So winit could I say?" 
 
 Minnie jiaused. 
 
 Mrs. \Villou;,'liiiy looked trouhled. 
 
 " Kitty, I in's/i you wouldn't look at mo with 
 liiat droadfid expression. You really nuike me 
 t'eel quite friglitened.'' 
 
 " ]\Iinnie," said the other, in a serious voice, 
 " do you really /ure this man ?" 
 
 " Love this man I why no, not particularly ; 
 iiut I ULc iiim ; that is, 1 think I do, or rather 
 I thought I did ; hut really I'm so worried 
 ahout all my trouhles that I wish he had never 
 I'ome down after me. I don't see why he did, 
 either. I didn't ask him to. I remember, 
 now, I really lelt quite embarrassed when I saw 
 him. I kiiow there would be trouble about it. 
 And I wish you would take me back home. I 
 hate Italy. Do, Kilty darling. But then — " 
 
 Minnie ])aused again. 
 
 " ^Vell, iMinnie dear, we certainly must con- 
 trive some i)lan to shake him otl' without hurt- 
 ing his feelings. It can't be thought of. There 
 arc a hundred objections. If tiie worst comes 
 to the worst we can go back, as you say, to En- 
 gland." 
 
 "I know; but then," said Minnie, "that's 
 the very thing that I can't do — " 
 
 "Can't do what?" 
 
 "Go back to England. " 
 
 "Back to England: Why not? I don't 
 know what you mean." 
 
 " Well, you see, Kitty, that's the very thing I 
 came to see you about. Thib dreadful man — 
 the Count, you know — has srme wonderful way 
 of finding out where I go; and he keeps all the 
 time appearing and disappearing in the very 
 strangest manner; and when I saw him on the 
 roof of the Cathedral it really made me feel 
 quite giddy. He is so determined to win me 
 that I'm afraid to look round. He takes the 
 commonest civility as encouragement. And 
 then, you know — there it is — I really can't go 
 back to England." 
 
 "What do you mean by that?" 
 
 " Why there's — a — a dreadfid person there," 
 said Minnie, with an awful look in her eyes. 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "A — person," snid Minnie. 
 
 " A nnin?" 
 
 Minnie nodded. "Oh yes — of course. Heal- 
 ly when one thinks of one's troubles it's enough 
 to driven one distracted. This person is a man. 
 I (hm't know why it is that I should be .so wor- 
 ried and no distracted by men. I do not like 
 them, and I wish there were no such jiersons." 
 
 "Another maul" said Mrs. Willoughby, in 
 some surprise. "Well, Minnie, you certain- 
 ly-" 
 
 "Now don't, don't — not n word ; I know nil 
 you're going to say, and I won't stand it;" and 
 Minnie ran over to her sister and held her hand 
 over her mouth. 
 
 " I won't say a word,'' said Mrs. Willoughby, 
 nssoon as slie had removed .Minnie's hand ; " so 
 begin." 
 
 Minnie resumed her jplacc on the sofa, and 
 gave a huig sigh. 
 
 " Well, you know, Kitty darling, it hniiii"ned 
 at Brighton last Se])tend)er. You were in .Scot- 
 huid then, I was with old Lady .Shrewsbury, 
 who is as bliiul as a bat — and where's the use of 
 having a person to look after you when they're 
 blind ! You see, my horse ran away, and I think 
 ho must have gone ever so nmny miles, over 
 railroad bridges and hedges and stone walls. 
 I'm certain he jum]>ed over a small cottage. 
 Well, you know, when all seemed lost, sudden- 
 ly there was a strong hand laid on the reins. 
 an<l my horse was stopped. I tumbled into 
 some strange gentleman's arms, and was car- 
 ried into a house, where I was resuscitated. I 
 returned home in the gentleman's carriage. 
 
 " Now the worst of it is,"' said Minnie, with a 
 piteous look, " that the person who stopped the 
 horse called to iinpiirc after me the next day. 
 Lady ShrewsbiM'y, like an old goose, was awful- 
 ly civil to him ; and so there I was ! His name 
 is Cajitain Kirby, and I wish tliere were no cap- 
 tains in the world. The life he led me I He 
 used to call, and I had to go out riding with 
 him, and old Lady Shrewsbury utterly neglect- 
 ed me; and so, you know, Kitty darling, he at 
 last, you know, of course, proposed. That's 
 what they all do, yon know, when they save 
 your life. Always! It's awful!" 
 
 Minnie heaved a sigh, and sat apparently 
 meditating on the enormous baseness of the 
 man who saved a lady's life and then |)ro- 
 posed ; and it was not until Mrs. Willoughby 
 had spoken twice that she was recalled to her- 
 self. 
 
 "What did you tell him?" was her sister's 
 question. 
 
 " Whv, what could I tell him?" 
 
 "What!" cried Mrs". Willoughby; "yon 
 don't—" 
 
 " Now, Kitty, I think it's very unkind in you, 
 when I want all your sympathy, to be so horrid." 
 
 "Well, tell it your own way, Minnie dearest." 
 
 Minnie sat for a time regarding vacancy with 
 a soft, sad, and piteous expression in her large 
 blue eyes ; with her head also a little on one 
 
14 
 
 Til.. V.MEKICAN IJAKO.X. 
 
 ANOTlIKll MAN!" 
 
 side, and Jicr clelicate hands gently clasped in 
 tVont of her. 
 
 "You see, Kitty darling, he took me out 
 riding, and — he took n.e to the phu-e wlii-re 1 
 had met him, and tlien he projiused. Well, you 
 know, I didn't know what to say. lie was so 
 earnest, and .so despairing. And then, you know, 
 Kitty dearest, he hud saved my life, and so — " 
 
 "And so?" 
 
 " Well, I told him I didn't know, and was 
 shockingly confused, antl then we got up (piitc 
 a scene, lie swore that he would go to Mex- 
 ico, though why I can't imagine ; and I really 
 wish he had ; hut I was frightened at the tinu-, 
 and I cried; and then he got worse, and I told 
 him not to ; wiiereupon he went into raptures, 
 and began to call me no end of names — sjjooney 
 names, you know ; and I — oh, I did so want liini 
 to stop ! — I think I must have iirouiised him all 
 that ho wanted ; and wiien I got home 1 was 
 frightened out of my poor little wits, and cried 
 all night." 
 
 "Poor dear child!" exclaimed Mrs. Wil- 
 loughhv, with tender sympathy. " What a 
 wretch"!" 
 
 " No, he wasn't a wretch at all : he was aw- 
 fully haiulsomc, only, you know, he — was — so 
 — (««fully persevering, and kept so nt my heels ; 
 but I hurried home from Brighton, and thought 
 I had got rid of him." 
 
 " And hadn't you ?" 
 
 "Oh dear, no," said Minnie, mournfully. 
 "On the day after my arrival there came a 
 letter ; and, you know, I had to answer it ; and 
 then another; and so it went on — " 
 
 "Oh, Minnie! why didn't you tell me be 
 fore ?" 
 
 "How could I when you were oil" in tliat 
 horrid Scotland ? 1 a/irai/.s hated Scotland.' 
 
 " You might have told pa]ia." 
 
 "1 couldn't. J think jiajia's cruel too. He 
 doesn't care for me at all. Why didn't he hnd 
 out our corresi)ondenco and intercept it, the 
 way ])ai)as always do in novels ? If 1 were liiy 
 jjajia I'd not let hiiii bo so worried." 
 
 " Anil did he never call on you?" 
 
 " Yes ; he got leave of absence once, and 1 
 had a dreadful time with him. He was in a 
 des])erate state of mind. He was ordered off 
 to Ciibraltar. 15ut I managed to comi'ort him ; 
 ami, oh dear, Kitty dear, did you <rcr try to 
 comfort a man, and the man a total stranger?'" 
 
 At this innocent (piestion Mrs. Willoughby's 
 gravity gave way a little. 
 
 Minnie frowned, and then sighed. 
 
 "Well, you needn't be so unkind," said she : 
 and then her little hand tried to wi))e away a 
 tear, but failed. 
 
 " Did he go to Gibraltar?" asked Mrs. Wil- 
 loughi)y at length. 
 
 "Yes, he did," said Minnie, with a little as- 
 peritv. 
 
 "bid he write?" 
 
 "Of course he wrote," in the same tone. 
 
 " Well, how did it end ?" 
 
 "End! It didn't end at all. And it never 
 will end. It '11 go on getting worse and worse 
 every day. You see he wrote, and said a lot of 
 rubbish about his getting leave of absence and 
 coming to see me. And then I determined to 
 
 with 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 15 
 
 lie- 
 
 ruii away; and you know I bcKi^eil yon ti) take 
 mc to Italy, ami this is the first lime I've tolil 
 you the real reason." 
 
 "So that was tiie real reason?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, INIiiinie, my poor eliikl," said Mr.s. 
 VVillou>;liliy, after a i)ause, "you're sal'e from 
 your oilieer, at any rate : ami as to (.'oiint Ciira- 
 sole, we must save you from him. Dou't give 
 way." 
 
 " But you can't save ;:.". They'll come alter 
 me, I know. ('ai»taiii ivirliy, the moment he 
 liuds out that I am here, will I'ome flyinj? after 
 me ; and then, oh dear ! the other one will come, 
 and the Ameriean, too, of course." 
 
 " The what 'i* who 'i'" cried Mrs. WilloiiKliby, 
 starting up with r.cw excitement. "Who's 
 that';* What did you say, Minnie'/ The 
 American,:' What American':''' 
 
 Minnie threw a look of reproach at her sister, 
 and her eyes fell. 
 
 "You can't possilily mean that there are any 
 more — " 
 
 "There — is — one — more," said Minnie, in n 
 low, faint voice, stealinj; a glance at her sister, 
 antl lookiTif^ a little frightened. 
 
 "(Jne morel" repeated her sister, breathless. 
 
 "AVcll, I didn't come here to he scoldeil," 
 said .Minnie, rising, "and I'll go. But 1 hojied 
 that you'd helji me; and I think you're very 
 iiiUvind ; and I wouldn't treat you so." 
 
 "No, no, Minnie," said ^Irs. Willoughby, ris- 
 ing, and jiutting Iier arm round her sister, and 
 dr.iwing her hack. " 1 had no idea of scolding. 
 1 never scolded any one in my life, and wouldn't 
 >lieak ti cross word to you for the world. Sit 
 down now, Minnie darling, and tell mo all. 
 What about the American'!* T won't exjiress any 
 more astonishment, no matte r what I nuiy feel." 
 
 "But you mustn't /t'(/ any astonishment," 
 insisted Miinde. 
 
 " Well, darling, I won't," said her sister. 
 
 Minnie gave a sigh. 
 
 " It was last year, you know, in the spring. 
 J'ajia and J were going out to Montreal, to 
 bring you home. You remendier ':*" 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby nodded, wiiile a sad ex- 
 pression came over Iter face. 
 
 "Ami, you remend)cr, the steamer was 
 wrecked." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But I never told you how my life was saved." 
 
 "Why, yes, you did. Didn't \nx\m tell all 
 about the heroic sailor who swam ashore with 
 you';? how he was frantic aiiout you, having 
 heen swe])t away by a wave from yon ? ami how 
 lie fainted away with joy when you were brought 
 to him 'i* How can you suppose I would forget 
 that ? Ami then how papa tried to find the 
 noble sailor to reward him." 
 
 "Oh yes," said Miiniie, in a desjiondent 
 tone. "That's all very true; but he wasn't a 
 noble sailor at all." 
 
 "What!" 
 
 "You see, he wasn't going to have a scene 
 with papa, and so he kept out of his way. Oh 
 
 dear, ho^ I wisli he'd i)ecn as considerate with 
 me I But that's the way always ; yes, always." 
 
 "Well, who was he':'" 
 
 "Why, he was an American gentleman, re- 
 turning home from a lour in Eurojie. He 
 saved me, as you have heard. I really don't 
 remember miudi about it, only there was a ter- 
 rii)le rush of water, and a strong arm seized 
 nu', and I thought it was ])apa all the lime. 
 Antl I found myself carrieil, 1 dim'l know how, 
 through the waves, and then 1 fiunied ; ami I 
 really don't kiu)w any thing about it except 
 j)a]ia's story." 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby looked at ]Minnic in silence, 
 but said mxhing. 
 
 "And then, you km)w, he traveled with us, 
 and papa thought he was one of the passengers, 
 ami was civil ; ami so he used to talk to me, 
 and at lasl, at Montreal, he used to call on me." 
 
 " Where ':"' 
 
 " At your house, dearest." 
 
 "Wliy, how was that':*" 
 
 "You coidd not leave your room, darling, so 
 I usetl to go down," 
 
 "Oh, Minnie!" 
 
 "Ami he jirojiosed to me there." 
 
 "Where'? in my jjurlor'?" 
 
 "Yes; in yom- parlor, dearest.'' 
 
 " I suppose it's not necessary for me to ask 
 what you siiid." 
 
 "1 su])]iose not," said Minnie, in a sweet 
 voice. " He was so grand and so strong, and 
 he never made any allusions to the wreck ; and 
 it was — the — the — \cryjirst time that any body 
 ever — proj)Osed ; and so, you know, 1 didn't 
 know how to take it, ami 1 didn't want to hurt 
 his feelings, and I couldn't deny that he had 
 saved my life; and 1 don't know when I ever 
 was so confused. It's awfid, Kitty darling. 
 
 "And then, you know, ilarling," continued 
 Mimiie, "he went away, anil used to write reg- 
 ularly every month. He came to see me once, 
 and I was frightened to death almost. He is 
 going to marry me next year. He used an aw- 
 ful ex])rcssiiin, dearest. He told me he was a 
 struggling man. Isn't that horrid '? What is it, 
 Kitty ? Isn't it something very, very dreailfid'?" 
 
 " He writes still, I sui)pose ?" 
 
 "Oh dear, yes." 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby was silent for some tinu«. 
 
 "Oh, Minnie," said she at last, "what a 
 trouble all this is! How I wish you had been 
 with me all this time!" 
 
 " Well, what made you go and get married '? ' 
 said Minnie. 
 
 "Hush, "said Jlrs.Willoughby, sadly, "never 
 mind. I've made up my miml to one thing, 
 and that is, I will never leave you alone with a 
 gentleman, unless — " 
 
 "Well, I'm sure I don't want the horrid 
 creatures," said Minnie. "And you needn't 
 be so unkind. I'm sure I don't see v. by jjcople 
 will come always and save my life wherever I 
 go. I dou't want them to. I don't want to 
 have my life saved any more. I think it's 
 dreadful to have men chasing me all over the 
 
16 
 
 THE AMEllICAN BARON. 
 
 l i 
 
 
 
 "lir. ItENT IIIR IIEAT> DOWN, AKP RAN HIS HANI) TIIEOU(iII HIS IIUKIIY HAIR.'' 
 
 world. I'm afraid to stop in Italy, and I'm 
 afraid to go back to England. Then I'm al- 
 ways afraid of that dreadful American. I sup- 
 pose it's no use for me to go to the Holy Land, 
 or Egypt, or Australia; for then my life would 
 he saved by an Arab, or a New Zealander. 
 And oh, Kitty, wouldn't it be dreadful to have 
 some Arab proposing to me, or a Hindu ! Oh, 
 what am I to do ?" 
 
 "Trust to ine, darling. I'll get rid of Gifa- 
 sole. We will go to Naples. He has to stop 
 at Rome ; I know that. We will thus pass 
 (piietly away from him, without giving him any 
 ])aiu, and he'll soon forget all about it. As for 
 the others, I"ll stop this correspondence first, 
 and then deal with them as they come." 
 
 "You'll never do it, never!" cried Minnie; 
 " I knov/ you won't. You don't know them." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IN THK CRATER OF VESUVIUS. 
 
 Lord Harry Hawbury had been wandering 
 for three months on the Continent, and had 
 
 finally found himself 
 in Na])les. It was al- 
 ways a favorite jdace 
 of his, and he had es- 
 tablished himself in 
 comfortable quarters 
 on the iStrada Nuov.n. 
 from the windows of 
 which there was a 
 magnificent view of 
 the whole bay, with 
 Vesuvius, Capri, 
 Eaiie, and all the re- 
 gions round about. 
 Here an old friend 
 had unexpectedly 
 turned up in the per- 
 son of Scone Dacrcs. 
 Their friendship had 
 been formed some 
 live or six years be- 
 fore in South Ameri- 
 ca, where they had 
 made a hazardous 
 journey in company 
 across the continent, 
 and had thus ac- 
 quired a familiarity 
 with one another 
 which years of or- 
 din.ary association 
 would have failed to 
 give. Scone Dacrcs 
 was severalyears olil- 
 cr than Lord Haw- 
 bury. 
 
 One evening Lord 
 Hawbury had just 
 finished his dinner, 
 and was dawdling 
 about in a listless 
 way, when Dacrcs entered, quite unceremoni- 
 ously, and flung himself into a chair by one of 
 the windows. 
 
 "Any Bass, Haw])ury?" was his only greet- 
 ing, as he bent his head down, and ran his hand 
 througli his bushy hair. 
 
 •' Lachryma Christi ?" asked Hawbury, in an 
 interrogative tone. 
 
 " No, thanks. That wine is a humbug. I'm 
 beastly thirsty, and as dry as a cinder." 
 
 Hawbury ordered the Bass, and Dacres soon 
 was refreshing himself with cojjious draughts. 
 
 The two friends presented a singular con- 
 trast. Lord Hawbury was tall and slim, with 
 straight flaxen hnir and flaxen whiskers, whose 
 long, pendent points hung down to his shoul- 
 ders. His thin face, somewhat pale, had an 
 air of high refinement; and an ineradicable 
 habit of lounging, together with a drawling in- 
 tonation, gave him the appearance of being the 
 laziest mortal alive. Dacres, on the other hand, 
 was the very opposite of all this. He was ns tall 
 as Lord Hnwbury, b'.t was broad-shouldered and 
 massive. He h'ld a big liead, a big mustache, 
 and a thick bcaid His hair was dark, and 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON, 
 
 17 
 
 Iin 
 
 covered his lieiid in dense, biisliy curls. His 
 voice was loud, his manner abni|)t, and he al- 
 ways sat bolt ujiright. 
 
 "Any thing u]>, Seoney ?" asked Lord Haw- 
 bury, after a pause, during which he hud been 
 languidly gazing at his friend. 
 
 " Well, no, nothing, except that I've been 
 np Vesuvius." 
 
 Lord llawbury gave a long whistle. 
 
 "And how did you find the mountain?" he 
 asked; "lively?" 
 
 "Rather so. In fact, infernally so," added 
 Dacres, thoughtfully. "Look here, llawbury, 
 do you detect any smell of sidphur about me?' 
 
 "Sulphur! Whatinlhe name of— sulphur! 
 Why, now that you mention it, I do notice 
 something of a brimstone smell. Sulphur! 
 Why, man, you're as strong as a lighted nuitch. 
 What have you been doing with yourself? 
 Down inside, eh ?" 
 
 Dacres made no answer for some time, but 
 sat stroking his heard with his left hand, while 
 lii--' right held a cigar which he had just taken 
 out of a box at his elbow. His eyes were fixed 
 upon a point in the skj' exactly half-way be- 
 tween Capri and Baias, and about ten degrees 
 above the horizon. 
 
 "llawbury," said he, solemnly, after about 
 two minutes of portentous silence. 
 
 "Well, old man?" 
 
 "I've had an adventure." 
 
 "An adventure! Well, don't be oashful. 
 Breathe forth the tale in this confiding ear." 
 
 "You see," said Dacres, "I started off this 
 morning for a ride, and had no more intention 
 of going to Vesuvius than to Jericho." 
 
 "I should ho))o not. What l)usiness has a 
 fellow like you with Vesuvius — a fellow that has 
 scaled Cotopaxi, and all that sort of thing? Not 
 you." 
 
 Dacres put the cigar thoughtfully in hismouth, 
 struck a light, and tried to liglit it, but couldn't. 
 Then he bit the end off, which he had forgotten 
 to do before. Then he gave three long, solemn, 
 and portentous puffs. Tlion he took the cigar 
 between his first and second fingers, and stretch- 
 ed his hand out toward llawbury. 
 
 "llawbury, my boy," said he again. 
 
 "All right." 
 
 " You remember the time when I got that 
 bullet in Uruguay?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, I had a shot to-day." 
 
 "A shot! The deuce you had. Cool, too. 
 Any of those confounded bandits about? I 
 thought that was all rot." 
 
 "It wasn't a real shot; only figurative." 
 
 "Figurative!" 
 
 "Yes ; it was a — n girl." 
 
 " By Jove ! " cried llawbury, starting up from 
 an easy posture which he had secured for him- 
 self after fifteen minutes' shifting and changing. 
 "A girl! You, Dacres, spooney! A fellow 
 like you, and a girl ! By Jove !" 
 
 Hawl)ury fell back again, and appeared to 
 be vainly trying to graii))le with the thought. 
 B 
 
 Dacres put his cigar between his lips again, 
 and gave one or two jjuII's at it, but it had gone 
 out. He ])itched it out of the window, and 
 struck his hand heavily on the arm of his chair. 
 
 " Yes, llawbury, a girl ; and spooney, too 
 — as spooney as blazes ; but I'll swear there 
 isn't such another girl upon the whole face of 
 the earth ; and when you bear in mind the fact 
 that my observation, with extended view, has 
 surveyed mankind from China to Peru, you'll 
 be able to appreciate the value of my statement." 
 
 "All right, old man; and now for the ad- 
 venture." 
 
 "The adventure? Well, you see, I started 
 for a ride. Had a misty idea of going to Sor- 
 rento, and was jogging along among a million 
 ])igs or so at Portici, when I overtook a car- 
 riage that was going slowly along. There were 
 three ladies in it. The backs of two of thent 
 were turned toward me, and I afterward saw 
 that one was old — no doubt the chaperon — and 
 the other was young. But the third lady. Haw- 
 bury — Well, it's enough to say that I, who 
 have seen all women in all lands, have never 
 seen any thing like her. She was on the front 
 seat, with her face turned toward me. She 
 was small, a ])erfect blonde ; hair short and 
 curling; a round, girlish face; dimpled cheeks, 
 and little mouth. Her eyes were large and 
 blue ; and, as she looked at me, I saw such a, 
 bewitching innocence, such i)laintive entreaty, 
 such pathetic trust, such helpless, childlike — 
 I'll be hanged if I can find words to express 
 what I want to say. The English language 
 d'lesn't contain them." 
 
 "Do it in Latin, then, or else skip the whole 
 description. All the same. I know the whole 
 story by heart. Love's young dream, and all 
 that sort of thing, yon know." 
 
 "Well," continued Dacres, "there Mas 
 sometliing so confoundedly bewitching in the 
 little girl's face that I found myself keeping on 
 at a slow pace in the rear of the carriage, and 
 feasting on her looks. Of course I wasn't rude 
 about it or demonstrative." 
 
 " Oh, of course. No demonstration. It's 
 nothing to ride behind a carriage for several 
 hours, and 'feast' one's self on a pretty girl's 
 looks ! But go on, old man." 
 
 "Oh, I managed it without giving oll'cnso. 
 You see, there was such a beastly lot of pigs, 
 peasants, cows, dirty children, la/.aroiii, and all 
 that sort of thing, that it was simply impossible 
 to go any faster; so you see I was compelled 
 to ride behind. Sometimes, indeed, 1 fell a 
 good distance back." 
 
 "And then caught up again to resume the 
 'feast?'" 
 
 "Well— yes." 
 
 "But I don't see what this has to do with 
 your going to Vesuvius." 
 
 " It has every thing to do. You see, I start- 
 ed without any fixed purpose, and after I saw 
 this carriage, I kept on insensibly after it." 
 
 " Oh, I see— yes. By Jove!" 
 
 "And they drove up as far as they could." 
 
18 
 
 THE AMERICAN BAKON. 
 
 I 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "And I followed. You see, I had nothing 
 else to do — and that little girl ! Besides, it was 
 the most natural thing in the world for me to 
 be going up; and the fact that I was bent on 
 the same errand as themselves was sufficient to 
 account fjr my being near the carriage, and 
 would j)revent them from supjiosing that I was 
 following them. So, you see, I followed, and 
 at length they stopped at the Hermitage, I 
 left my horse 'here, and strolled forward, with- 
 out going very far away ; my only idea was to 
 keep the girl in sight. I had no idea that they 
 would go any further. To ascend the cone 
 seemed quite out of the question. I thought 
 they would rest at the Hermitage, drink some 
 Lachrynii: Christi, and go back. But to my 
 surprise, as I was walking about, I saw the two 
 young ladies come out and go toward the cone. 
 
 "I kejjt out of the way, as you may suppose, 
 and Avatched tliem, wondering what idea they 
 had. As they passed I heard the younger one 
 — the child-angel, you know, niji girl — teasing 
 the other to make the ascent of the cone, and 
 the other seemed to be quite ready to agree to 
 the proposal. 
 
 " Now, as far as the mere ascent is con- 
 cerned, of course you know that is not much. 
 The guides were there with straps and chairs, 
 and that sort of thing, all ready, so that there 
 was no dilHculty about that. The real dilli- 
 culty was in these girls going off unattended ; 
 and I could only account for it by sujiijosing 
 that the chaperon knew nothing wliatever about 
 their ])ro|)osal. No doubt the old lady was 
 tired, and the young ones went out, as she sup- 
 posed, for a stroll ; and now, as they proposed, 
 this stroll meant nothing less than an ascent of 
 the cone. After all, there is nothing surj)rising 
 in the fact that a couple of active and spirited 
 girls should attempt this. From the Hermitage 
 it does not seem to be at all difficult, and they 
 had no idea of the actual nature of tlie task. 
 
 " What made it worse, however, was the state 
 of the mountain at this particular time. I don't 
 know whether you have taken the trouble to 
 raise your eyes so high as the top of Vesuvius — " 
 
 Hawbury languidly shook his head. 
 
 " Well, I supposed not ; but if you had taken 
 the trouble, you would have noticed an ugly 
 cloud which is generally regarded here as omin- 
 ous. This morning, j-ou know, there was an 
 unusually large canopy of very dirty smoke over- 
 head. I knew by the look of things that it was 
 not a very pleasant place to go to. But of 
 course they could not be supposed to know any 
 thing of the kind, and their very ignorance made 
 them rash. 
 
 " W^ell, I walked along after them, not know- 
 ing what might turn up, but determined to keep 
 them in sight. Tiiose beggars with chairs were 
 not to be trusted, and the ladies had gold enough 
 about them to tempt violence. What a reck- 
 less old devil of a chaperon she was, to let those 
 young girls go ! So I walked on, cursing all 
 the tune the conventionalities of civilization 
 
 that prevented me from giving them warning. 
 They were rushing straight on into danger, and 
 I had to keep silent. 
 
 "On reaching the foot of the cone a lot of 
 fellows came uj) to them, with chairs and straps, 
 and that sort of thing. They employed some 
 of them, and, mounting the chairs, they were 
 carried up, while I walked up by myself at a 
 distance from which I could observe all that was 
 going on. The girls were (juite merry, aj)peared 
 to be enchanted with their ride up the cone, en- 
 joy cd the novelty of the sensation, and I heard 
 their lively chatter and their loud peals of ring- 
 ing laughter, and longed more than ever to be 
 able to speak to them. 
 
 "Now the little girl that I had first seen — 
 the child-angel, you know — seemed, to my 
 amazement, to be tnom adventurous than tlic 
 other. By her face you would suppose her to 
 be as timid as a dove, and yet on tnis occasion 
 she was the one who proposed the ascent, urged 
 on her companion, and an' wered all her objec- 
 tions. Of course she could not have really been 
 so plucky as she seemed. For my part, I be- 
 lieve the other one had more real jduck of the 
 two, but it was the child-angel's ignorance that 
 made her so bold. She went up the cone as 
 she would have gone up stairs, and looked at 
 the smoke as she would have looked at a roll- 
 ing cloud. 
 
 "At length the bearers stopped, and signi- 
 fied to the girls that they could not go any fur- 
 ther. The girls could not speak Italian, or any 
 other language apj)arently than English, and 
 therefore could not very well make out what the 
 bearers were trying to say, but by their gestures 
 they might have known that they were warn- 
 ing them against going any further. One might 
 have supposed that no warning would have been 
 needed, and that one look upward would have 
 been enough. The top of the cone rose for 
 upward of a hundred feet above them, its soil 
 composed of lava blocks and ashes intermingled 
 with sulphur. In this soil there were a million 
 cracks and crevices, from which sulphurous 
 smoke was issuing ; and the smoke, which was 
 but faint and thin near where they stood, grew 
 denser farther up, till it intermingled with the 
 larger volumes that rolled up from the crater. 
 
 "Now, as I stood there, I suddenly heard a 
 wild proposal from the child-angel. 
 
 " 'Oh, Ethel,' she said, 'I've a great mind 
 to go up — ' " 
 
 Here Hawbury interrupted his friend : 
 
 " What's that? Was that her friend's name ?" 
 he asked, with some animation. "Ethel? — 
 odd, too. Ethel ? H'm. Ethel ? Brunette, 
 was she?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Odd, too; infernally odd. But, pooh! 
 what rot! Just as though there weren't a 
 thousand Ethels!" 
 
 "What's that you're saying about Ethel?" 
 asked Dacres. 
 
 "Oh, nothing, old man. Excuse my inter- 
 rupting you. Go ahead. How did it end ?" 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 IS) 
 
 "Well, the diild-an- 
 gel said, ' Ethel, I've a 
 fjreiit mind to g" "]*•' 
 
 "This j)i-oi)osul Ethel 
 scouted in horror and 
 consternation. 
 
 " 'You must not — 
 you shall not!' she 
 cried. 
 
 " 'Oh, it's nothing, 
 it's nothing,' said the 
 child-angel. 'I'm dy- 
 ing to take a jicep into 
 the crater. It must 
 he awfully funny. Do 
 come ; do, do come, 
 Ethel darling. ' 
 
 ♦''Oh, Minnie,^ 
 don't,' cried the other, 
 in great alarm. And 
 I now learned that the 
 child-angel's name was 
 Minnie. 'Minnie,' she 
 cried, clinging to the 
 child-angel, 'you must 
 not go. I would not 
 have come up if I had 
 thought you would he 
 so unreasonable.' 
 
 " 'Ethel,' said the 
 other, ' yon are really 
 getting to be (juite a 
 scold. Ilow ridiculous 
 it is in you to set your- 
 self up in this i)lace as 
 a duenna! How can I 
 help going up? and only 
 one peep. And I never 
 ,taw a crater in my life, 
 and I'm dying to know 
 what it looks like. I 
 know it's awfully funny ; 
 to be so unkind about it 
 go. Won't you come ? 
 darling, do — do — do !' 
 
 "Ethel was firm, however, and tried to dis- 
 suade the other, but to no purpose ; for at length, 
 with a laugh, the child-angel burst away, and 
 skii)i)ed lightly up the slope toward the crater. 
 
 " 'Just one peep,' she said. ' Come, Ethel, 
 I must, I really must, you know.' 
 
 " She turned for an instant as she said this, 
 and I saw the glory of her child-face as it was 
 irradiated hy a smile of exquisite sweetness. 
 The play of feature, the light of her eyes, and 
 the expression of innocence and ignorance un- 
 conscious of danger, filled me with profound 
 sadness. And there was I, standing alone, see- 
 ing that sweet child flinging herself to ruin, 
 and yet unable to prevent her, simply because 
 I was bound hand and foot by the infernal re- 
 strictions of a miserable and a senseless con- 
 ventionality. Dash it, I say!" 
 
 As Dacres growled out this Hawbury eleva- 
 ted his eyebrows, and stroked his long, pend- 
 ent whiskers lazily with his left hand, while 
 
 .rtS:::: 
 
 ' I SAW UEK 
 
 TUKN ANTi WAYI5 HER HAND IN TBIDMPII.' 
 
 and it's horrid in you 
 And I really must 
 Do, do, dear — dearest 
 
 with his right he drummed on the table near 
 him. 
 
 "Well," resumed Dacres, "the child-angel 
 ran up for some distance, leaving Ethel behind. 
 Ethel called after her for some time, and then 
 began to follow her up. Meanwhile the guides, 
 who had thus far stood apart, suddenly caught 
 sight of the child-angel's figiu-e, and, with a 
 loud warning cry, they ran after her. They 
 seemed to me, however, to be a lazy lot, for 
 they scarce got up as far as the place where 
 Ethel was. Now, you know, all this time I 
 was doomed to inaction. But at this juncture 
 I strolled carelessly along, pretending not to 
 see any thing in particular ; and so, taking up 
 an easy attitude, I waited for the denouement. 
 It was a terrible position too. That child-an- 
 gel ! I would have laid down my life for her, 
 but I had to stand idle, and see her rush to 
 fling her life away. And all because I had not 
 happened to have the mere formality of an in- 
 troduction. 
 
 "Well, you know, I stood there waiting for 
 the denouement. Now it happened that, as 
 the child -angel went up, a brisk breeze had 
 
;: - 
 
 20 
 
 THE AMEKICAN BAUON. 
 
 started, which blew away nil the smoke, so that 
 she went along for some distance without any 
 a])i)arent inconvenience. I saw her reach the 
 top; I saw her turn and wave her hand in tri- 
 umph. Then I saw her rush forward ((uickly 
 and niniitly straight toward the crater. Siie 
 seemed to go down into it. And then tiic wind 
 changed or died away, or hoth, for there came 
 a vast cloud of rolling smoke, hlack, cruel, suf- 
 focating ; and the mountain ciest and the child- 
 angel were snatciied from my sight. 
 
 "I was roused hy a shriek from Ethel. I 
 saw her rusli up the slope, and struggle in a 
 vain endeavor to save her friend. But before 
 she hud taken a dozen steps down came the 
 rolling smoke, black, wrathful, and sid])hurous; 
 and I saw her crouch down and stagger back, 
 and finally emerge pale as death, and gasping 
 for breath. She saw me as I stood there; in 
 fact, I had moved a little nearer. 
 
 "'Oh, Sir,' she cried, 'save her! Oh, my 
 God, she's lost!' 
 
 "Tills was very informal, you know, and all 
 that sort of thing; but she had broken the ice, 
 and had accosted me ; so I waived all cere- 
 mony, and considered the introduction suffi- 
 cient, I took ort' my hat, and told her to calm 
 herself. 
 
 " But she only wrung her hands, and im- 
 plored me to save her friend. 
 
 " And now, my boy, lucky was it for me that 
 my experience at Cutopaxi and ropocate])etl 
 had been so thorough and so ])eculiar. My 
 knowledge came into play at this time. I took 
 my felt hat and put it over my month, and then 
 tied it around my neck so that the felt rim came 
 over m\' cheeks and throat. Thus I secured a 
 plentiful sup])ly of air, and the felt acted as a 
 kind of ventilator to prevent the access to my 
 lungs of too much of the sulphiu'ous vaj)or. Of 
 course such a contrivance would not be good 
 for more than five minutes; but then, you know, 
 live minutes were all that I wanted. 
 
 "So u]) I rushed, and, as the slojje was only 
 about a hundred feet, I soon reached the top. 
 Here I could see nothing whatever. The tre- 
 mendous smoke-clouds roiled all about on ev- 
 ery side, envclo])ing me in their dense folds, and 
 shutting every thing from view. I heard the 
 cry of the asses of guides, who were howling 
 where I left them below, and were crying to me 
 to come back — tlie infernal idiots ! The smoke 
 was impenetrable ; so I got down on my hands 
 and knees and groped about. I was on her 
 track, and knew she could not be far away. I 
 could not spend more than five minutes there, 
 for my felt hat would not assist me any longer. 
 About two minutes had already passed. An- 
 other minute was taken u]) in creeping about on 
 my hands and knees. A half minute more fol- 
 lowed. I was in despair. The child-angel I 
 saw must have run in much further tlian I had 
 supposed, and perhaps I could not find her at 
 all. A sickening fear came to me that she had 
 grown dizzy, or had slid down over the loose 
 sand into tjie terrific abyss of the crater itself. 
 
 So another half minute passed; and now only 
 one minute was left." 
 
 " I don't see how yon managed to be so con- 
 foundedly accurate in your reckoning. How- 
 was it? You didn't carry your watch in one 
 hand, and feel about with the other, 1 suj)- 
 posc?" 
 
 " No ; but I looked at my watch at intervals. 
 But never mind that. Four minutes, as I saiil, 
 were np, and oidy one minute rcnniined, ami 
 that was not enough to take me back. I was 
 at the last gasp alieady, and on the verge of 
 dosjjair, when suddenly, as I crawled on, there 
 lay the cliild-anget full before me, within my 
 reach. 
 
 "Yes," continued Dacres, after a pause, 
 "there she lay, just in my grasp, just at my 
 own last gasp. One second more and it must 
 have been all nj). She was senseless, of course. 
 I caught her u\> ; I rose and ran back as rpiick 
 as I could, bearing my precious burden. Slie 
 was as light as a featiier — no weight at all. I 
 carried her as tenderly as if she was a little 
 b;iby. As I emerged from tiie smoke Ethel 
 rushed uj) to me and set up a cry, but I told her 
 to keej) (juiet and it would be all right. Then 
 I directed the guides to carry her down, and I 
 myself then carried down the child-angel. 
 
 " You see I wasn't going to give her up. I 
 had had hard work enough getting her. Beside-, 
 the atmosphere up there was horrible. It was 
 necessary, first of all, to get her down to the 
 foot of the cone, where she could have pure air, 
 and then resuscitate her. Therefore I directed 
 the guides to take down Etliel in a chair, while 
 I carried down the child-angel. They had to 
 carry her down over the lava blocks, but I went 
 to a i)art of the cone where it was all loose 
 sand, and went down fiying. I was at the bot- 
 tom a full hnlf hour before the others. 
 
 "Then I laid her upon the loose sand; and 
 I swear to you, Hawbury, never in all my life 
 have I seen such a siglit. Slie lay there be- 
 fore my eyes a jjicture of loveliness beyond im- 
 agination — as beautiful as a dream — more like 
 a child-angel than ever. Her hair clustered in 
 golden curls over her white brow, her little 
 hands were folded meekly over her breast, her 
 lips were ])arted into a sweet smile, the gentle 
 eyes no longer looked at me with the jiiteous, 
 ])leading, trustful, innocent expression which I 
 liad noticed in them before, and her hearing 
 was deaf to the words of love and tenderness 
 that I lavished upon her." 
 
 "Good! "muttered Hawbury; "you talk like 
 a novel. Drive on, old man. I'm really begin- 
 ning to feel excited." 
 
 "The fact is," said Dacres, "I have a cer- 
 tain set of expressions about the child-angel 
 that will come whenever 1 begin to describe 
 her." 
 
 "It strikes me, thomigh, that you are getting 
 on pretty well. You were speaking of 'love 
 and tenderness.' Well?" 
 
 "Well, she lay there senseless, you know, 
 and I gently unclasped her hands and began to 
 
THE AMERICAN BAUON. 
 
 ai 
 
 
 ''■•<!^..---'" "^v ~ 
 
 
 [^\'Mmi. . 
 
 
 'i 
 
 
 
 " I IIKNT DOWN C1.0Mt»' 
 
 rub t-hem. I tliiiik the motion of carrying her, 
 and tlie fresh air, had both jjrodiiced a favora- 
 ble effect; for I had not rubbed her hands ten 
 minutes when she gave a low sigh. Then I 
 rubbed on, and her lijjs moved. I bent down 
 dose so as to listen, and I heard her say, in a 
 low voice, 
 
 " 'Am I at home?' 
 
 *' 'Yes,' said I, gently, for I thought it was 
 best to humor her delirious fancy. 
 
 "Then she spoke again : 
 
 " ' Is that you, piipa dear ?' 
 
 " ' Yes, darling, ' said I, in a low voice ; and I 
 kissed her in a kind of paternal way, so as to 
 reassure her, and comfort her, and soothe her, 
 and all that sort of thing, you know." 
 
 At this Ilawbury burst into a shout of laugh- 
 ter. 
 
 "What the mischief are you making t at 
 beastly row about?" growled Dacres. 
 
 " Excuse me, old boy. I couldn't help it. 
 It was at the idea of your doing the father so 
 gravely." 
 
 "Well, am I not old enough to be her father ? 
 What else could I do ? yho had such a plead- 
 
 ing, piteous Avay. By Jove ! Besides, how did 
 she know any thing about it ? It wasn't as if 
 she was in her senses. She really thought I 
 wus her father, you know. And I'm sure I al- 
 most felt as if I was, too." 
 
 "All light, old man, don't get huflV. Drive 
 on." 
 
 " Well, you know, she kept her eyes closed, 
 and didn't say another word till she heard the 
 voice of Ethel at a distance. Then she opened 
 her eyes, and got up on her feet. The?i there 
 was no end of a row — kissing, crying, congratu- 
 lating, reproaching, and all that sort of thing. 
 I withd w to a res])ectfid distance and waited. 
 After a time they both came to me, and the 
 cliild-angel gave me a look that made me long 
 to be a father to her again. She held out her 
 little hand, and I took it and pressed it, with 
 my heart beating awfully. I was horribly em- 
 barrassed. 
 
 " ' I'm awfully grateful to you,' she said ; ' I'm 
 sure I'd do any thing in the world to repay you. 
 I'm sure I don't know what would have become 
 of me if it hadn't been for you. And I hope 
 you'll excuse me for putting you to so much 
 
 •1 
 
 1 i 
 
99 
 
 THE AMERICAN IJARON. 
 
 i I 
 
 trouble. And, oh !' she conclmled, halt to her- 
 self, ' what will Kitty say now 't' " 
 
 "Kitty! Who's Kitty?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "All right. Never mind. Drive on, old 
 chap." 
 
 "Well, I mnmhlcd something or other, and 
 then offered to go and get their farrnige. But 
 they would not hear of it. The cliild-angel 
 said she could walk. This I strongly dissuaded 
 her from doing, and Ethel insisted that the men 
 should cirry her. This was done, and in a 
 short time we got hack to the Hermitage, where 
 the old lady was in no end of a worry In the 
 midst of the row I slipped away, and waited 
 till the carriage drove off. Then I followed at 
 a sufficient distance not to be observed, and 
 saw where their house was." 
 
 «-^ - 
 
 '.tlJ^JIlV ^ 
 
 THE MEETIXO. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF BLUNDERS. 
 
 Dacres paused now, and lighting a fresh ci- 
 gar, smoked away at it in silence, with long and 
 solemn and regular puffs. Hawbury watched 
 him for some time, with a look of dreamy cu- 
 riosity and lazy interest. Then he rose, and 
 dawdled about the room for a few minutes. 
 Then he lighted a cigar, and finally, resuming 
 his seat, he said : 
 
 'By Jove!" 
 acres puffed on. 
 
 •'I'm beginning to think," said Hawbury, 
 " that your first statement is correct. You are 
 shot, my boy — hit hard — and all that ; and now 
 I should like to ask you one question," 
 
 "Ask away." 
 
 " What are you going to do about it ? Do 
 you intend to pursue the acquaintance ?" 
 
 "Of course. Why not?" 
 
 "What do you intend to do next?" 
 
 "Next? Why, call on her, and inquire 
 after her health." 
 
 "Very good." 
 
 "Well, have you any thing to say against 
 that?" 
 
 "Certainly not. Only it surprises inc a 
 little." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because I never thought of Scone Daeres 
 as a marrying man, and can't altogether grap- 
 ple with the idea." 
 
 "I don't see why a fellow shouldn't marry 
 if he wants to," said Dacres. "What's the 
 matter with me that I shouldn't get married as 
 well as lots of fellows ?" 
 
 "No reason in the world, my dear boy. 
 Marry as many wives as you choose. My re- 
 mark referred merely to my own idea of you, 
 and not to any thing actually innate in your 
 character. So don't get huffy at a fellow." 
 
 Some further conversation followed, and Da- 
 cres finally took his departure, full of thoughts 
 about his new acquaintance, and racking his 
 brains to devise some way of securing access 
 to her. 
 
 On the following evening he made his ap- 
 pearance once more at Hawbury's rooms. 
 
 "Well, old man, what's up? Any thing 
 more about the child-angel ?" 
 
 " Well, a little. I've found out her name." 
 
 "Ah! What is it?" 
 
 "Fay. Her name is Minnie Fay." 
 
 " Jlinnie Fay. I never heard of the name 
 before. Who arc her people ?" 
 
 " She is traveling with Lady Dalrymple." 
 
 " The Dowager, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Wiio are the other ladies ?" 
 
 " Well, 1 don't exactly remember." 
 
 " Didn't you find out?" 
 
 " Yes ; I heard all their names, but I've for- 
 gotten. I know one of them is the child- 
 angel's sister, and the other is her cousin. The 
 one I saw with her was probably the sister." 
 
 "What, the one named Ethel?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Ethel— Ethel Fay. H'm,' said Hawbury, 
 in a tone of disappointment. "I knew it would 
 be so. There are so many Ethels about." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing. I once knew a girl nameri 
 Ethel, and — Well, I had a faint idea that it 
 would be odd if this should be the one. But 
 there's no such chance." 
 
 "Oh, the name Ethel is common enough." 
 
 " Well, and didn't you find out ai.y thing 
 about her people ?" 
 
 " Whose— Ethel's ?" 
 
 " Your child-angel's people." 
 
 "No. What do I care about her people? 
 They might be Jews or Patagonians 'for all I 
 care." 
 
 " Still I should think your interest in her 
 would make you ask." 
 
 '' Oh no ; my interest refers to herself, not 
 
 1 1- 'Uttr'ifiailfirMihifiiliTri 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 aa 
 
 to her relatives. Iler sister Etliel ia ccrtuinly 
 a deiiceil i)retty Riii, tlioiiKli." 
 
 "Sconev, my l)oy, I'm nfrnid you're getting 
 ilemoraiized. ^Vily, I rcmcmljcr the time when 
 you regarded the wliole female race with a lofty 
 scorn and a profound inditlerenco tliat was a 
 ])erpetual rcl)uke to more intiammablo natures. 
 IJiit now wluU a cliange ! Here you are, with 
 a finely developed eye for female beauty, nctu- 
 nliy revclitig in dreams of ehild-angels and 
 their sisters. By Jove !" 
 
 "Nonsense," said Dacres. 
 
 " Well, drive on, and tell all about it. You've 
 seen her, of course?" 
 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 " Did you call ?" 
 
 " Yes ; she was not at home. I went away 
 with a snubbed and subdued feeling, and rode 
 olong near the Villa Ileale, when suddenly I 
 met the carriage w ith Lady Dalrymplc and the 
 child-angel. She knew me at once, and gave 
 a little start. Then she looked awfully embar- 
 rassed. Then she turned to Lady Dalrymplc ; 
 and by the time I had got up the carriage had 
 stopped, and the ladies both looked at me and 
 bowed. I went up, and they both licld out 
 their hands. Lady Dalrymplc then made some 
 remarks expressive of gratitude, while the 
 child-angel sat and fastened her wonderful eyes 
 on me, and threw at me such a pleading, touch- 
 ing, entreating, piteous, grateful, beseeching 
 look, that I fairly collapsed. 
 
 " When Lady Dalrymjile stopped, she turned 
 to her and said : 
 
 " 'And oh, aunty darling, did you ci'erhear 
 of any thing like it ? It was so brave. Wasn't 
 it an awfully plucky thing to do, now ? And I 
 was really inside the crater ! I'm sure / never 
 could have done such a thing — no, not even for 
 my ou-n papa! Oh, how I do wish I could do 
 something to show how aw/iil/i/ grateful I am ! 
 And, aunty darling, I do wish you'd tell me 
 what to do.' 
 
 "All this quite turned my bead, and I 
 couldn't say any thing ; out sat on my saddle, 
 devouring the little thing with my eyes, and 
 drinking in the wonderful look which she threw 
 at me. At last the carriage started, and the 
 ladies, with a pleasant smile, drove on. I think 
 I stood still there for about five minutes, until 
 I was nearly run down by one of those beastly 
 Neapolitan caleches loaded with twenty or 
 thirty natives." 
 
 "See here, old man, what a confoundedly 
 good memory you have ! You remember no 
 end of a lot of things, and give all her speeches 
 verbatim. What a capital newspaper reporter 
 you'd make!" 
 
 "Ob, it's only //er words, you know. She 
 quickens my memory, and makes a different 
 man of me." 
 
 "By Jove!" 
 
 "Yes, old chap, a different man altogether." 
 
 " So I say, by Jove ! Head turned, eyes 
 distorted, heart generally npset, circulation 
 brought up to fever point, peace of mind gone, 
 
 and a general mania in the place of the old 
 self-reliance and content." 
 
 " Not content, old boy ; I never had much 
 of that." 
 
 " Well, wo won't argue, will we ? But as to 
 the child-angel — what next? You'll call again?" 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "To-morrow." 
 
 "Strike while the iron is hot, hey? Well, 
 old man, I'll stand by you. Still I wish you 
 could find out who her people are, j.ist to satis- 
 fy tt legitimate curiosity." 
 
 "Well, I don't know the Fays, but Lady 
 Dalrymplc is her aunt ; and I know, too, that 
 she is a niece of Sir Gilbert Biggs." 
 
 "What !" cried Ilawbury, starting. " Who ? 
 Sir what?" 
 
 " Sir Gilbert Biggs." 
 
 "Sir Gilbert Biggs?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Sir Gilbert Biggs! By Jove! Are you 
 sure you are right? Come, now. Isn't there 
 some mistake ?" 
 
 "Not a bit of a mistake; she's a niece of 
 Sir Gilbert. I remember that, because the 
 name is a familiar one." 
 
 "Familiar!" repeated Ilawbury; "I should 
 think so. By Jove!" 
 
 Ilawbury here relapsed into silence, and sat 
 with a frown on his face, and a puzzled expres- 
 sion. At times he would mutter such words 
 as, "Deuced odd!" "Confounded queer!" 
 "What a lot!" "By Jove!" while Dacres 
 looked at him in some surprise. 
 
 "Look here, old fellow!" said he at last. 
 " Will you have the kindness to inform me what 
 there is in the little fact I just mentioned to up- 
 set a man of your size, age, fighting weight, 
 and general coolness of blood ?" 
 
 "Well, there is a deuced odd coincidence 
 about it, that's all." 
 
 "Coincidence with what?" 
 
 " Well, I'll tell some other time. It's a sore 
 subject, old fellow. Another time, my boy. 
 I'll only mention now that it's the cause of my 
 present absence from England. There's a both- 
 er that I don't care to encounter, and Sir Gil- 
 bert Biggs's nieces are at the bottom of it." 
 
 "You don't mean this one, I hope?" cried 
 Dacres, in some alarm. 
 
 "Heaven forbid! By Jove! No. I hope not." 
 
 "No, I hope not, by Jove!" echoed the other. 
 
 "Well, old man," said Hawbury, after a fit 
 of silence, "I supi)ose you'll push matters on 
 now, hard and fast, and launch yourself into 
 matrimony?" 
 
 "Well — I — suppose — so," said Dacres, hes- 
 itatingly. 
 
 "You suppose so. Of course you will. 
 Don't I know you, old chap? Impetuous, 
 tenacious of purpose, iron will, one idea, and 
 all that sort of thing. Of course you will ; and 
 you'll be married in a month." 
 
 " Well," said Dacres, in the same hesitating 
 way, "not so soon as that, I'm afraid." 
 
 
f 
 
 24 
 
 THE AMERICAN BAUON. 
 
 ! ! 
 
 •'Why not?" 
 
 " Why, I httvc to get the liuly first." 
 
 "The huly ; oh, she HCfiiis to he willing 
 cnouj^li, judging from your ilcsL'rii)tic)n. Her 
 pleuiliiig look at you. Wliy, luiin, there was 
 love at tirst Hi^ht. Tlieii tunihliiiK (hnvii tlio 
 crater of a volcano, and Kettin^ fished out. 
 Why, man, what woman could resist a claim 
 like that, especially when it is enforced liy a 
 man like Scone ])acrcs? And, liy Jove ! Sco- 
 ncy, allow me to inform yon that I've always 
 considered you a most infernally handsome 
 man ; and what's more, my opinion is worth 
 something, l»y Jove!" 
 
 Ilcreujion Hawhnry stretched his head nnd 
 shoulders back, and jJuUed away with each 
 hand at his long yellow pendent whiskers. Then 
 he yawned. And then he slowly cjacidated, 
 
 "nyJove!" 
 
 "Well," said Dacres, thoughtfully, "there 
 is something in what you say ; nnd, to tell the 
 truth, I think there's not a had clinnce for me, 
 80 far as the lady herself is concerned ; hut the 
 difliculty is not in that (juarter." 
 
 "Not in that (puirter! Why, where the mis- 
 chief else could there be any Uifticulty, man?" 
 
 Dacres was silent. 
 
 " You're eager enough ?" 
 
 Dacres nodded his head sadly. 
 
 " Eager i why, eager isn't the word. You're 
 mad, man — mad as a March hare! So go in 
 nnd win." 
 
 Dacres said notliing. 
 
 "You're rich, not over old, handsome, well 
 born, well bred, and have saved the lady's life 
 by e.Ktricating her from the crater of a volcano. 
 She seems too young and childlike to have had 
 any other aftairs. She's jjrobably just out of 
 school ; not been into society ; not come out ; 
 just the girl. Confound these girls, I say, that 
 have gone through engagements with other fel- 
 lows !" 
 
 "Oh, as to that," said Dacres, "this little 
 thing is just like a child, and in her very sim- 
 plicity does not know what love is. Engage- 
 ment ! By Jove, I don't believe she knows the 
 meaning of the word ! She's jjcrfeclly fresh, 
 artless, sim]jle, and guileless. I don't believe 
 she ever heard a word of sentiment or tender- 
 ness from any man in her life." 
 
 "Very likely; so where's the difficulty?" 
 
 " Well, to tell the truth, tho difficulty is in 
 my own atJ'airs." 
 
 " Your affairs ! Odd, too. What's up? I 
 didn't know any thing had happened. That's 
 too infernal bad, too." 
 
 "Oh, it's nothing of that sort; money's all 
 right; no swindle. It's an afl'air of another 
 character altogether." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "And one, too, that makes me think that — " 
 
 He hesitated. 
 
 "That what?" 
 
 "That I'd better start for Australia." 
 
 "Australia!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What's tho moaning of that?" 
 
 "Why," said Dacres, gloomily, "it means 
 giving up tho chiUl-angel, and trying to forget 
 her — if I e\er can.'' 
 
 "Forget her! What's tho meaning of all 
 this? Why, man, five minutes ago you wcro 
 all on fire al)out her, and now you tidk quietly 
 about giving her up! I'm all adrift." 
 
 "Well, it's a mi.\ed up matter." 
 
 "What is?" 
 
 "My ullair." 
 
 "Your all'air; something that has haj-pen- 
 ed?" 
 
 "Yes. It's a sore matter, and I don't care 
 to sjieak about it just now." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " And it's the real cause why I don't go back 
 to England." 
 
 "The mischief it is! Why, Dacres, I'll hi- 
 hanged if you're not using the very words I 
 myself used a few minutes ago." 
 
 "Am I?" said Dacres, glooiuily. 
 
 "You certaiidy arc; and that makes mo 
 think that our aliairs are in a similar complica- 
 tion." 
 
 " Oh no ; mine i^' very pccidiar." 
 
 " Well, theri.'s one ihing I siioidd like to ask, 
 and voii needn't answer unless you like." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " ]3oesn't your difficulty arise from some con- 
 founded woman or other?" 
 
 "Well— yes." 
 
 "By Jove, I knew it ! And, old fellow, I'm 
 in the same situation." 
 
 "by JOVE, 1 KNEW it!" 
 
 " Oh ho ! So you're driven away from En- 
 gland by a woman?" 
 
 " Exactly." 
 
 Dacres sighed heavily. 
 
 "Yours can't be as bad as mine," said he, 
 with a dismal look. " Mine is the worst scrape 
 that ever yon heard of. And look at me now, 
 with the child-angel all ready to take me, and 
 me not able to be taken. Confound the abom- 
 inable complications of an accursed civilization, 
 I say!" 
 
 "And I say, Amen!" said Ilawbury. 
 
THE AMERICAN BAHOX. 
 
 95 
 
 4 
 
 CHAPTEU VI. 
 
 THE FIKUY TKIAL. 
 
 "Skk licre, old cliaii," siii<l Ilawbury, "I'm 
 goiiif^ to iimke u cluiiii brciist of it." 
 
 "Of what?" 
 
 "Of my nrtiiir." 
 
 '•That's rinlit," said Darros, ilolefiilly. "I 
 should like of all thiiiK^ to hear it." 
 
 '* You see I wouldn't tell you, only you your- 
 self turn out to bo in a sindlur situation, and 
 80 what I have to say may jirove of use to you. 
 At any rate, you may give lue some useful sug- 
 gestion. 
 
 " Very well, then," continued Ilawbury — " to 
 begin. You nuiy remember that I told you 
 when we met here wliere I had been i)assing 
 the tinu! since I saw you last." 
 
 Dacres nodded assent. 
 
 " Well, about two years ago I was in Cana- 
 da. I went there for sport, and plunged at 
 once into the wilderness. And let me tell 
 you it's a very pretty country for hunting. 
 Lots of game — fish, flesh, and fowl — from the 
 cariboo down to the smallest trout that you 
 would care to hook. Glorious country ; mag- 
 nificent forests waiting for the lumbennan; air 
 that acts on you like wine, or even better; riv- 
 ers and lakes in all directions ; no end of s]>ort 
 iind all that sort of thing, you know. Have you 
 ever been in Caiuula Y" 
 
 "Only traveled through." 
 
 " Weil, the next time you feel inclined for 
 high art spurt we'll go together, and have no 
 end of fun — that is, if you're not married and 
 (bjiic for, which, of course, you will be. No mat- 
 ter. I was saying that I was in a fine country. 
 I spent a couple of months there with two or 
 three Indians, and at length started for Ottawa 
 on my way home. The Indians put me on tlie 
 riglit path, after which I dismissed them, and 
 set out alone with my gun and fishing-rod. 
 
 "The first day was all very well, and I slept 
 well enough the first night; but on the morn- 
 ing of the second day I found the air full of 
 smoke. However, I did not give much thought 
 to that, for there had been a smoky look about 
 the sky for a week, and the woods are always 
 burning there, I believe, in one place or an- 
 other. I kept on, and shot enough for food, 
 and thus the second day passed. That evening 
 the air was quite suffocating, and it was us hot 
 as an oven. I struggled through the night, I 
 don't know how; and then on the third day 
 made another start. This third day was abom- 
 inable. The atmosphere was beastly hot ; the 
 sky was a dull yellow, and the birds seemed to 
 have all disappeared. As I went on it grew 
 worse, but I found it was not because the fires 
 were in front of me. On the contrary, they 
 were behind me, and were driving on so that 
 they were gradually approaching nearer. I 
 could do my thirty miles a day even in that 
 rough country, but the fires could do more. At 
 last I came into a track that was a little wider 
 than the first one. As I went on I met cattle 
 
 which afipcarcd stupefied. Showers of dust 
 were in the air; the atmospheie was worse 
 than ever, and I never had such dilhculty in 
 my life in walking along. I bud to throw 
 away my rifle and fishing-rod, and was just 
 thinking of j)itching my clothes after them, 
 when suddenly I turned a bend in the path, 
 and met a young girl full in the face. 
 
 " Hy Jove I I swear I never was so astound- 
 ed in my life. I hurried up to her, and just 
 began to ask where I was, when she interrupt- 
 ed me with a (piestion of the same kind.. IJy- 
 the-way, I forgot to say that she was on 
 horseback. The jxmr devil of a horse seemed 
 to have had a deuced hard tiuie of it too, for he 
 was trembling from head to foot, though wheth- 
 er that arose from fatigue or friglit I don't know. 
 I'erbajis it was both. 
 
 " Well, the girl was evidently very mtich 
 alarmed. She was awfully pale ; she was a 
 monstrous jiretty girl too — the j)rettiest by nil 
 odds I ever saw, and that's saying a good deal. 
 15y Jove ! Well, it turned out that she had been 
 st()p])ing in the l)ack country for a month, at a 
 house sonu'where uji the river, \^ith her father. 
 Her father had gone down to Ottawa a week bo- 
 fore, and was cxjiected back on this day. She 
 had come out to meet him, and had lost her 
 way. She had been out for hours, and was 
 com])letcly bewildered. She was also fright- 
 ened at the fires, which now seemed to bo all 
 around us. This she told me in a few words, 
 and asked if I knew where the river was. 
 
 "Of course I knew no more than slio did, 
 and it needed only a few words from me to show 
 her that I was as much in the dark as she was. 
 I began to question her, however, as to this riv- 
 er, for it struck me that in the present state of 
 affairs a river would not be a bad thing to have 
 near one. In answer to my question she said 
 that she had come ui)on this road from the 
 woods on the left, and therefore it was evi- 
 dent that the river lay in that direction. 
 
 "I assured her that I would do whatever lay 
 in my power ; and with that I walked on in the 
 direction in which I had been going, while sho 
 rode by my side. Some further questions as to 
 the situation of the house where she had been 
 staying showed me that it was on the banks of 
 the river about fifty miles above Ottawa. By 
 my own calculations I was about that distance 
 away. It seemed to me, then, that she had got 
 lost in the woods, and had wandered thus over 
 some trail to the path where she had met me. 
 Every thing served to show me that the river 
 lay to the left, and so I resolved to turn in at 
 the first path which I reached. 
 
 " At length, after about two miles, we came 
 to a path wliich went into the woods. My com- 
 panion was sure that this was the very one by 
 which she had come out, and this confirmed the 
 impression which the sight of it had given me. 
 I thought it certaiidy must lead toward the riv- 
 er. So we turned into this path. I went first, 
 and she followed, and so we went for about u 
 couple of miles further. 
 
16 
 
 TlIK AMKUICAN BARON, 
 
 " All thin time tho hont hnd been gottiiiR 
 worse and worse. Tlie iiir wmm more Kinoky 
 than ever; tny month wiih ))ar(')ie(l and dry. 1 
 hreullied uitli dinicidly, and conld Mcurcely ilraK 
 one IcK after another. Tim hidy was ahiiost as 
 much exliansted ns I was, and sntt'ercd acutely, 
 nH I could easily see, thon>{h she uttered not a 
 word (it'('on)|ilaint. Her horse also sutVered tcr- 
 rihly, and did not seem aiilc to hear her wei^iit 
 much longer. Tho jioor hrute treinlded and 
 HtafCK'Teil, and once or twice Htopjied, so that it 
 was diflicult to start him ajjain. Tho road liad 
 gone in a winding; way, hut was not so crooked 
 ns I ex|iected. I afterward found that she had 
 gone hy other jiaths until she iuid found herself 
 in thick woods, and tiu-n on trying to retrace 
 her way she had strayed into tiiis |iatii. If she 
 had turiu'd to the left on first reaching it, in- 
 stead of to tho right, the fate of each of ns would 
 have hecu dill'crent. Our meeting was no douht 
 the salvation of both. 
 
 " Thei'o wa.s a wooded endnencc in front, 
 which we had been steadily n])])roaching for 
 some time. At last we reached the tojt. and 
 here a scene burst upon us which was rather 
 startling. Tho hill was high enough to com- 
 mand an extensive view, and the first thing 
 that we saw was a vast extent of woods and 
 water and smoke. By-anil-i)y wc were able to 
 distinguish each. Tho water was the river, which 
 could be seen for miles. Up the river toward 
 the left the smoke arf)se in great volumes, cov- 
 ering every thing ; while in front of us, ami im- 
 mediately between us and the river, there was a 
 line of smoke which showed that the fires had 
 jicnetrated there and had intercepted ns. 
 
 " Wo stood still in bewilderment. I looked 
 all around. To go back was as bad as to go 
 forward, for there, also, a line of smoke arose 
 which showed the progress of the flames. To 
 tho right there was less smoke ; but in that 
 direction there was only a wilderness, through 
 which we could not hope to pass for any dis- 
 tance. Tiio only hope was the river. If we 
 could traverse the (lames in that direction, so 
 ns to reach the water, we would be safe. In n 
 few words I communicated my decision to my 
 companion. She said nothing, but bowed her 
 head in acquiescence. 
 
 " Without delaying any longer wc resumed 
 our walk. After about a mile wc found our- 
 selves compelled once more to half. The view 
 here was worse than ever. The path was now 
 as wide as an ordinary road, and grew wider 
 still ns it went on. It was evidently used to 
 haul logs down to the river, and ns it approach- 
 ed the bank it grew steadily wider ; hut be- 
 tween us and the river the woods were all burn- 
 ing. The first rush of the fire was over, and 
 now we looked forward and saw a vast array of 
 columns — the trunks of burned trees — some 
 blackened and charred, others glowing red. 
 The ground below was also glowing red, with 
 blackened spaces here and there. 
 
 " Still the burned tract was but a strip, and 
 there lay our hope. The fire, by some strange 
 
 means, had passed on a trnck not wider thnn ii 
 huiulred yards, and this was what had to bo 
 traversed by us. The (luestinn was, whether 
 wo could ))ass through that or not. The s^imu 
 ((uestion came to both of us, and neither of us 
 said a word. Hut before I couM ask the lady 
 about it, her horse be<'ame frighteneil at the 
 tiaincs. I advised her to dismount, for I knew 
 that the jioor brute coidd never Ix; forced 
 through those fires. She did so, and the horse, 
 with a horrible siuirt, turned aiul gall(i]ied wild- 
 ly away. 
 
 " I now lr)oked nround once more, nnd snw 
 that there was no escape except in front. Tho 
 fianics were encircling us, and a vast cloud of 
 snu)ke surrounded us every where, rising far up 
 nnd rolling overhead. Cinders fell in inunense 
 showers, and tlu^ liiu! ashes, with which the air 
 was filled, choked us and got into our eyes. 
 
 " ' There is only one chance,' said I ; ' nnd 
 that is to make a dash for tho river. Can you 
 do it ?' 
 
 " ' ni try,' she snid. 
 
 " ' We'll have to go through the fires.' 
 
 " She nodded. 
 
 " ' Well, then,' I said, * do ns I sny. Tnko 
 oft' your sac(iue and wrap it around your head 
 and shoidders.' 
 
 " She took oft" her sncque at this. It was a 
 loose robe of merino or aljiaca, or something 
 of that sort, nnd very well suited for whnt I 
 wanted. I wra])iied it round her so as to pro- 
 tect her face, head, and shoulders ; nnd taking 
 oft' my coat I did the same. 
 
 " 'Now,' said I, ' hold your breath ns well ns 
 you can. You may keep your eyes shut. Give 
 me your hand — I'll lead you.' 
 
 " Taking her hand I led her forward at a 
 rapid i)ace. Once she fell, but she quickly re- 
 covered herself, and soon we reached tho edge 
 of the ftames. 
 
 " I tell you whnt it is, my boy, the heat wns 
 terrific, nnd the sight wns more so. The river 
 wns not more than a bimdred yards away, but 
 between us and it there lay what seemed as bad 
 as the burning fiery furnace of Messrs. Shn- 
 drach, Meshach, and Abednego. If I were now 
 standing there, I don't think I coidd face it. 
 But then I wns with the girl ; I hnd to save her. 
 Fire was behind us, racing after us ; water lay 
 in front. Once there and we were safe. It 
 was not a time to dawdle or hesitate, I can as- 
 sure you. 
 
 " ' Now,' said I, ' run for your life !' 
 
 " Grnsping her hand more firmly, I started 
 off" with her nt the full run. The place was ter- 
 rible, nnd grew worse at every step. The rond 
 here wns nbout fifty feet wide. On ench side 
 was the burning forest, with a row of burned 
 trees like fiery columns, nnd the moss nnd 
 underbrush still glowing bencnth. To pass 
 through that wns a thing that it don't do to 
 look back upon. The air was intolerable. I 
 wrapped my coat tighter over my head ; my 
 arms were thus exposed, and I felt the hent on 
 my hands. But that was nothing to the tor- 
 
 - ■^- -■ 
 
TllK AMKUIC'AN HAllOM. 
 
 S7 
 
 
 TIIR riKRY TIIIAU 
 
 ments tlmt I endured from trying to lirciitho. 
 IJesides tliis, ilie ciiornioiis efi'orf of kcejiiiij; up 
 n run niiide breatliing nil tliu more ditHciilt. A 
 feeling of despair ciime over me. Already wc 
 had gone Imlf the distance, hut at ihiit moment 
 the spiico seemed lengtiiened out iiit(!rniinul)iy, 
 and I h)()ki'd in horror at the rest of tlie way, 
 with a feeling of the utter impossihility of trav- 
 ersing it. 
 
 " Suddenly the lady fell headlong. I stoj)pcd 
 and raised her up. My coat fell off; I felt the 
 fiery air all round my face and hoad. I called 
 and screamed to the lady as I tried to raise her 
 n)i ; but she said nothing. She was as lifeless 
 as a stone. 
 
 " Well, my boy, I thought it was all up with 
 me ; but I, at least, could stand, thougli I did 
 not think that I could take another breath. As 
 for the lady, there was no lielj) for it ; so I graspe ' 
 her with all my strength, still kee])ing her head 
 covered as well as I could, and slung her over 
 my shoulders. Then away I ran. 1 don't re- 
 member much after that. I must have lost my 
 senses then, and, what is more, I must have ac- 
 complished the rest of the journey in that semi- 
 unconscious state. 
 
 " What I do remember is this — n wild plunge 
 into the water ; and the delicious coolness that I 
 felt all around restored mc, and I at once com- 
 jirehended all. The lady was by my side ; the 
 shock and the cool water had restored her also. 
 She was standing up to her shoulders just where 
 she had fallen, and was panting and sobbing. I 
 spoke a few words of good cheer, and then look- 
 ed around for some place of refuge. Just where 
 we stood there was nothing but fire and deso- 
 lation, and it was necessary to go further away. 
 Well, some distance out, about half-way across 
 the river, I saw a little island, with rocky sides, 
 and trees on the top. It looked safe and cool 
 and inviting. I determined to try to get there. 
 Some deals were in the water by the bank, 
 which hatl probably floated down from some 
 saw-mill. I took half a dozen of these, flung 
 two or three more on top of them, and then told 
 the lady my plan. It was to float out to the 
 
 island by means of this raft. I offered to put 
 her on it and lot her flout ; but she refused, 
 lireferriiig to be in the water. 
 
 "The river was pretty wide here, and the 
 water was shallow, so that we were able to wade 
 for a long distance, pushing the raft before us. 
 At length it became dee|>, and then the lady 
 held on wlnlo I floated and tried to direct the 
 raft toward the islaiul. I had managed while 
 wading to guide the raft up the stream, so that 
 when we got into deep water the current car- 
 ried us toward the island. At length we 
 reached it without much diflii ulty, and thcti, 
 utterly worn out, I fell down on the grass, and 
 either fainted away or fell asleep. 
 
 "When I revived I had several very queer 
 sensations. The first thin/ that I noticed was 
 that I hadn't any whiskers." 
 
 "What! no whiskers?" 
 
 "No — all gone; and my eyeb- i-,vs and mus- 
 tache, and every wisp of hair from my head." 
 
 " See here, old fellow, do you mean to say 
 that you've only taken otie year to grow those 
 infernally long whiskers that you have now?" 
 
 " It's a fact, my boy !" 
 
 " I wouldn't have believed it ; but some fel- 
 lows can do such extraordinary things. But 
 drive on." 
 
 " Well, the next thing I noticed was that it 
 was as smoky as ever. Then I jumped up and 
 looked around. I felt quite dry, though it 
 seemed as if I had just come from the river. 
 As I jumped up and turned I saw my friend. 
 She looked much better than she had. Her 
 clothes also were qhite dry. She greeted me 
 with a mournful smile, and rose up from the 
 trunk of a tree where she had been sitting, and 
 made inquiries after my health with the most 
 earnest and tender sympathy. 
 
 " I told her I was all right, laughed about 
 my hair, and inquired very anxiously how she 
 was. She assured mc that she was as well as 
 ever. Some conversation followed ; and then, 
 to my amazement, I found that I had slept for 
 an immense time, or had been unconscious, 
 whichever it was, and that the adventure had 
 
28 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON, 
 
 "all gone; my eyeueows, and mustache, and every wisp op iiaib from my uead." 
 
 taken place on the preceding day. It was now 
 about the middle of the next day. You may 
 imagine how confounded I was at that. 
 
 " The air was still abominably close and 
 smoky ; so I looked about the island, and found 
 a huge crevice in the rocks, which was almost 
 a cave. It was close by the water, and was fi\r 
 cooler than outside. In fact, it was rather com- 
 fortable than otherwise. Here we took refuge, 
 and talked over our situation. As far as we 
 could see, the whole country was burned np. 
 A vast cloud of smoke hung over all. One 
 comfort was that the glow had ceased on the 
 river-bank, and only a blackened forest now 
 remained, with giant trees arising, all blasted. 
 We found that our stay would be a protracted 
 one. 
 
 " The first thing that I thought of was food. 
 Fortunately I had my hooks and lines ; so I cut 
 a pole, and fastening my line to it, I succeeded 
 in catching a few fish. 
 
 " We lived there for two days on fish in that 
 manner. The lady was sad and anxious. I 
 tried to cheer her up. Her chief troul)]e was 
 the fear that her father was lost. In the course 
 
 of our conversations I found out that her name 
 was Ethei Orne." 
 
 "Ethel Orne?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Don't think I ever heard the name be- 
 fore. Orne ? No, I'm sure I haven't. It isn't 
 Horn ?" 
 
 "No; Orne— ORNE. Oh, there's no trou- 
 ble about that. 
 
 "Well, I rather enjoyed this island life, but 
 she was awfully melancholy; so I hit upon a 
 plan for getting away. I went to the shore and 
 collected a lot of the deals that I mentioned, 
 and made a very decnnt sort of raft. I found 
 a pole to guide it with, cut a lot of brush for 
 Ethel, and then we started, and floated down 
 the river. We didn't have any accidents. The 
 only bother was that she was too confoundedly 
 anxious about me, and wouldn't let me work. 
 We went ashore every evening. We caught 
 fish enough to eat. We were afloat three days, 
 and, naturally enough, became very well ac- 
 quainted." 
 
 Hawbury stopped, and sighed. 
 
 "I tell you what it is, Dacres," said he, 
 
■^TV^*- 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 " there never lived a nobler, more generous, 
 and at the same time a braver boiil than Etiicl 
 Orne. She never said a word about gratitude 
 and all that, but there was a certain quiet look 
 of devotion about her that gives nic a deuced 
 (jueer feeling now when I think of it all." 
 
 "And I daro say — But no matter." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Well, I was only going to renunk that, un- 
 der the circumstances, there miglit have been a 
 good deal of quiet devotion about you." 
 
 Hawbury made no reply, but sat silent for a 
 time. 
 
 "Well, go on, man; don't keep me in sus- 
 pense." 
 
 "Let me see — where was I? Oh! floating on 
 the raft. Well, we floated that way, as I said, 
 for three days, and at the end of tliat time we 
 reached a settlement. Here we found a steam- 
 er, and went on further, and finally reached 
 Ottawa. Here she went to the house of a 
 fiiend. I called on her as soon as possible, 
 and found her in fearful anxieiy. She had 
 learned that her father had gone u]) with a Air. 
 Willougliby, and neither had been heard from. 
 
 "Startled at this intelligence, I instituted a 
 search myself. I could not find out any thing, 
 but only that there was good reason to believe 
 that both of the unhappy gentlemen had per- 
 ished. On returning to the house to call on 
 Ethel, about a week after, I found that she had 
 received full confirmation of this dreadful intel- 
 ligence, and had gone to Montreal. It seems 
 that Willoughby's wife was a relative of Ethels, 
 and she had gone to stay with her. I longed 
 to see her, but of course I conld not intrude 
 ujjon her in her grief; and so I wrote to her, 
 expressing all the condolence I could. I told 
 her that I was going to Euro])e, but would re- 
 turn in the following year. I couldn't say any 
 more than that, you know. It wasn't a time 
 for sentiment, of course." 
 
 " Well, I received a short note in reply. She 
 said she would look forward to seeing me again 
 with pleasure, and all that ; and that she could 
 never forget the days we had sjjent together. 
 
 "So oft' I went, and in the following year I 
 returned. But 0!i reaching Montreal, what was 
 my disgust, on calling at Mrs. Willoughby's, to 
 find that she had given up her house, sold lier 
 furniture, and left the city. No one knew any 
 thing about her, and they said that she had only 
 come to the city a few months before her be- 
 reavement, and after that had never made any 
 acquaintances. Some said she had gone to the 
 United States; others thought she had gone to 
 Quebec ; others to England ; but no one knew 
 any thing more." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A STARTLING REVELATION. 
 
 "It seems to me, Hawbury," said Dacres, 
 after a period of thoughtful silence — " it seems 
 to me that when you talk of people having their 
 
 heads turned, you yourself comprehend the full 
 meaning of that sensation ?" 
 
 "Somewhat." 
 
 " You knocked under at once, of course, to 
 your Ethel ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And feel the same way toward her yet ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Hit hard?" 
 
 " Yes ; and that's what I'm coming to. The 
 fact is, my whole business in life for the last year 
 has been to find her out." 
 
 "You haven't dawdled so much, then, as 
 people su])pose?" 
 
 " No ; that's all very well to throw people 
 oft' a fellow's scent; but you know me well 
 enough, Uacres; and we didn't dawdle much 
 in South America, did we ?" 
 
 " That's true, my boy ; but as to this lady, 
 what is it that makes it so hard for you to find 
 her ? In the first place, is she an American ?" 
 
 "Oh no." 
 
 " Why not ?" 
 
 "Oh, accent, manner, tone, idiom, and a 
 hundred other things. Why, of course, you 
 know as well as I that an J^mericau lady is as 
 dift'erent from an English as a French or a Ger- 
 man lady is. They may be all equally ladies, 
 but each nation has its own peculiarities." 
 
 " Is she Canadian ?" 
 
 "Possibly. It is not always easy to tell a 
 Canadian lady from an English. Tiiey imitate 
 us out there a good deal. I could tell in the 
 majority of cases, but there arc many who can 
 not be distinguished from us very easily. And 
 Ethel may be one." 
 
 " Why' mayn't she be English?" 
 
 ^' She may be. It's imjiossible to perceive 
 any diff'ercnce." 
 
 " Have you ever made any inquiries about 
 her in England ?" 
 
 " No ; I've not been in p]ngland much, and 
 from the way she talked to me I concluded that 
 her home was in Canada." 
 
 " Was her father an Englishman ?" 
 
 "I really don't know." 
 
 "Couldn't you find out?" 
 
 "No. You see he had but recently moved 
 to Montreal, like Willoughby ; and I could not 
 find any people who were acquainted with him."' 
 
 " He may have been English all the time." 
 
 "Yes." ' 
 
 "And she too." 
 
 "By Jove!" 
 
 "And she may be in England now." 
 
 Hawbury started to his feet, and stared in 
 silence at his friend for several minutes. 
 
 "By Jove!" he cried; "if I thought that, 1 
 swear I'd start for home this evening, and hunt 
 about every where for the representatives of 
 the Orne family. But nu — surely it can't be 
 possil)le." 
 
 "Were you in London last season?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Well, how do you know but that she was 
 there?" 
 
■•in^^^fKfr 
 
 30 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 : I 
 
 II ' 
 
 "By Jove!" 
 
 "And the belle of the season, too?" 
 
 " She would be if she were tiieie, by Jove !" 
 
 " Yes, if there wasn't another present that I 
 wot of." 
 
 " Well, we won't argue about that ; besides, 
 I haven't come to the point yet." 
 
 "The point?" 
 
 " Yes, the real reason why I'm here, when 
 I'm wanted home." 
 
 " The real reason ? Why, haven't you been 
 telling it to me all along ?" 
 
 "Well, no ; I haven't got to the point yet." 
 
 "Drive on, then, old man." 
 
 " Well, you know," continued Ilawbury, "aft- 
 er hunting all through Canada I gave up in de- 
 spair, and concluded that Ethel was lost to me, 
 at least for the present. That was only about 
 six or seven months ago. So I went home, and 
 spent a month in a shooting-box on the High- 
 lands ; then I went to Ireland to visit a friend ; 
 and then to London. While there I got a long 
 letter from my mother. The good soul was con- 
 vinced that I was wasting my life ; she urged 
 me to settle down, and finally informed me that 
 ■she had selected a wife for me. Now I want 
 you to understand, old boy, that I fully appre- 
 ciated my mother's motives. She was quite 
 right, I dare say, about my wasting my life ; 
 quite right, too, about the benefit of settling 
 down ; and she was also verj' kind to take all 
 the trouble of selecting a wife off my hands. 
 Under other circumstances I dare say I should 
 have thought the matter over, and perhaps I 
 should have been induced even to go so far as 
 to survey the lady from a distance, and argue 
 the point with my mother pro and con. But the 
 fact is, the thing was distasteful, and wouldn't 
 bear thinking about, much less arguing. I was 
 too lazy to go and explain the matter, and writ- 
 ing was not my forte. Besides, I didn't want 
 to thwart my mother in her plans, or hurt her 
 feelings ; and so the long and the short of it is, 
 I solved Mic difiiculty and cut the knot by cicss- 
 ing quietly over to Norway. I wrote a short 
 note to my motlier, making no allusion to her 
 project, and since then I've been gradually work- 
 ing my way down to the bottom of the map of 
 Europe, and here I am." 
 
 "You didn't see the lady, then?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Who was she?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 " Don't know the lady ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Odd, too ! Haven't you any idea ? Surely 
 her name was mentioned ?" 
 
 " No ; my mother wrote in a roundabout style, 
 so as to feel her way. She knew mo, and fear- 
 ed that 1 might''take a prejudice against the 
 lady. No doubt I should have done so. She 
 only alluded to her in a general way." 
 
 " A general way ?" 
 
 "Yes ; that is, you know, she mentioned the 
 fact that the lady was a niece of Sir Gilbert 
 Biggs." 
 
 " What!" cried Dacrea, with a start. 
 
 "A niece of Sir Gilbert Biggs," repeated 
 Ilawbury. 
 
 " A niece— of— Sir Gilbert Biggs ?" said Da- 
 cres, slowly. "Good Lord!" 
 
 "Yes; and what of that?" 
 
 "Very much. Don't you know that Minnie 
 Fay is a niece of Sir Gilbert Biggs ?" 
 
 "By Jovrfl So she is. I remember being 
 startled when you told me that, and for a mo- 
 ment an odd fancy came to me. I wondered 
 whether your child-nngcl might not be the 
 identical being about whom my poor dear mo- 
 ther went into such raptures. Good Lord ! 
 what a joke ! By Jove !" 
 
 " A joke !" growled D;icres. "I don't see any 
 joke in it. I remember when you said that 
 Biggs 's nieces were at the bottom of your trou- 
 bles, I asked whether it might be tiiis one." 
 
 " So you did, old chap ; and I re])lied that I 
 hoped not. So you need not shake your gory 
 locks at me, my boy. " 
 
 "But I don't like the looks of it." 
 
 "Neither do L" 
 
 "Yes, but you see it looks as though she had 
 been already set apart for you especially." 
 
 "And pray, old man, what difference can 
 that make, when I don't set myself apart for 
 any thing of the kind ?" 
 
 Dacres sat in silence with a gloomy frown 
 over his brow. 
 
 " Besides, arc you aware, my boy, of the sol- 
 emn fact that Biggs's nieces are legion ?" said 
 Hawbury. "Tiie man himself is an infernal 
 old bloke : and as to his nieces — heavens and 
 earth ! — old ! old as Methuselah ; and as to 
 this one, she must be a grandniece — a second 
 generation. She's not a true, full-blooded 
 niece. Now the lady I refer to was one of the 
 original Biggs's nieces. There's no mistake 
 whatever about that, for I have it in black and 
 white, under my mother's own hand." 
 
 "Oh, she Avould select the best of them for 
 you." 
 
 " No, she wouldn't. How do you know that ?" 
 
 "There's no doubt about that." 
 
 "It depends upon what you mean by the 
 best. The one you call the best might not 
 seem so to hei; and so on. Now I dare say 
 she's picked out for me a great, raw-boned, red- 
 headed niece, with a nose like a horse. And 
 she expects me to marry a woman like that ! 
 with a pace like a horse ! Good Lord !" 
 
 And Hawbury leaned back, lost in the im- 
 mensity of that one overwhelming idea. 
 
 "Besides," said he, standing up, "I don't 
 care if she was the angel Gabriel. I don't 
 want any of Biggs's nieces. I won't have them. 
 By Jove ! And am I to be entrajjped into a 
 plan like that? I want Ethel. And what's 
 more, I will have her, or go without. The 
 child-angel may be the very identical one that 
 my mother selected, and if you assert that she 
 is, I'll be hanged if I'll argue the point. I only 
 say this, that it doesn't alter my position in the 
 slightest degree. I don't want her. I wont 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 81 
 
 Imve her. I don't want to sec lier. I don't 
 care if the whole of Bijjgs's nieces, in solemn 
 conclave, with old Biggs at their head, had 
 formally discussed the whole matter, and final- 
 ly resolved unanimously that she should be 
 mine. Good Lord, man ! don't you understand 
 how it is? What the mischief do I care about 
 any body ? Do you think I went through that 
 fiery furnace for nothing? And what do you 
 suppose that life on the island meant? Is nil 
 that nothing? Did you ever live on an island 
 with the child-angel? Did you ever make a 
 raft for her and fly ? Did you ever float down 
 a river current between banks burned black by 
 raging fires, feeding her, soothing her, com- 
 forting her, and all the while feeling in a gen- 
 eral fever about heri You hauled her out of 
 a crater, did you? By Jove! And what of 
 that? Why, that furnace that I jjuUed Ethel 
 out of was worse than a hundred of your cra- 
 ters. And yet, after all that, you think that I 
 could be swayed by the miserable schemes of a 
 lot of Biggs's nieces ! And you scowl at a fel- 
 low, and get hufly and jealous. By Jove !" 
 
 After this speech, which was delivered with 
 unusual animation, Hawbury lighted a cigar, 
 which he puffed at most energetically. 
 
 " All right, old boy," said Dacres. "A fel- 
 low's ajit to judge others by himself, you know. 
 Don't make any more set speeches, though. I 
 begin to understand your position. Besides, 
 after all—" 
 
 Dacres paused, and the dark frown that was 
 on his brow grew still darker. 
 
 "After all what?" asked Hawbury, who now 
 hcgan to perceive that another feeling besides 
 jeitlousy was the cause of his friend's gloomy 
 melancholy. 
 
 "Well, after all, you know, old fellow, I fear 
 I'll have to give her up." 
 
 "Give her up?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Tiiat's what you said before, and vou men- 
 tioned Australia, and that rot." 
 
 "The more I think of it," said Dacres, dis- 
 mally, and regarding the opposite wall with a 
 steady yet mournful stare — " the more I think 
 of it, the more I see that there's no such happi- 
 ness in store for me." 
 
 "Pooh, man ! what is it all about? This is 
 the secret that you spoke about, I suppose ?" 
 
 "Yes; and it's enough to put a barrier be- 
 tween me and her. Was I jealous? Did I 
 seem huffy ? What an idiot I must have been ! 
 Whj', old man, I can't do any thing or say any 
 thing." 
 
 "The man's mad," said Hawbury, address- 
 ing himself to a carved tobacco-box on the table. 
 
 "Mad? Yes, I was mad enough in ever 
 htting myself be overpowered by this bright 
 dream. Here have I been giving myself up to 
 a phantom — an empty illusion — and now it's all 
 over. My eyes are open." 
 
 " You may as well open my eyes too ; for I'll 
 be hanged if I can see my way through this I" 
 
 "Strange! strange! strange!" continued Da- 
 
 cres, in a kind of soliloquy, not noticing Ilaw- 
 bury's words. " How a man will sometimes 
 forget realities, and give himself up to dreams ! 
 It was my dream of the child-angel that so 
 turned my brain. I must see her no more." 
 
 " Very well, old boy," said Hawbury. "Now 
 speak Chinese a little for variety. I'll under- 
 stand you quite as well. I will, by Jove !" 
 
 "And then, for a fellow that's luid an cx])e- 
 rience like mine — before and since," continued 
 Dacres, still sjieaking in the tone of one who 
 was meditating aloud — "to allow such an idea 
 even for a moment to take shape in his brain ! 
 What an utter, unmitigated, unmanageable, 
 and unimprovable idiot, ass, dolt, and block- 
 head ! Confound such a man ! I say ; confound 
 him!" 
 
 "OONFOUND 6UCU A MAN ! I BAY." 
 
 And as Dacres said this he brought his fist 
 down upon the table near him with such an 
 energetic crash that a wine-flask was sent spin- 
 ning on the floor, where its ruby contents 
 splashed out in a pool, intermingled with frag- 
 ments of glass. 
 
 Dacres was startled by the crash, and looked 
 at it for a while in silence. Then he raised his 
 head and looked at his friend. Hawbury en- 
 countered his glance without any expression. 
 He merely sat and smoked and ])assed his fin- 
 gers through his pendent whiskers. 
 
 " Excuse me," said Dacres, abruptly. 
 
 " Certainly, my dear boy, a thousand times ; 
 only I hope you will allow me to remark that 
 your style is altogether a new one, and during 
 the whole course of our acquaintance I do not 
 remember seeing it before. You have a mel- 
 odramatic way that is overpowering. Still I 
 don't see why you shoidd swear at yoiu-self in 
 a place like Naples, where there are so many 
 other things to swear at. It's a waste of hu- 
 man energy, and I don't understand it. Wc 
 usedn't to indulge in soliloquies in South Amer- 
 ica, used we ?" 
 
 " No, by Jove ! And look here, old chap. 
 
^IW»^W|i^" HI -'J^t" in 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 "lIAWIHIBY SANK UAOK IN UIB SEAT, OVEBWUEL.MF.D." 
 
 you'll overlook this little outburst, won't you ? 
 In South America I was always cool, and j'ou 
 (lid the hard swearing, my boy. I'll be cool 
 again ; and what's more, I'll get back to South 
 America again as soon as I can. Once on the 
 pampas, and I'll be a man again. I tell you 
 wiiat it is, I'll start to-morrow. What do you 
 say? Come." 
 
 "Oh no," said llawbury, coolly; "I can't 
 do that. I have business, you know." 
 
 "Business?" 
 
 " Oh yes, you know — Ethel, you know." 
 
 "By Jove! so you have. That alters the 
 matter." 
 
 " But in any case I wouldn't go, nor would 
 you. I still am quite unable to understand 
 you. Why you should grow desperate, and 
 swear at yourself, and then propose Smith 
 America, is quite beyond me. Above all, I 
 don't yet see any reason why you should give 
 up your child-angel. You were all rajjtures 
 but a short time since. Why are you so cold 
 now ?" 
 
 " I'll tell you," said Dacres. 
 
 " So you said ever so long ago." 
 
 "It's a sore subject, and difficult to speak 
 about." 
 
 " Well, old man, I'm sorry for you ; and 
 don't speak about it at all if it gives you pain." 
 
 " Oh, I'll make a clean breast of it. "You've 
 told your affair, and I'll tell mine. I dare say 
 I'll feel all the better for it." 
 
 " Drive on, then, old man." 
 
 Dacres rose, took a couj)le of glasses of beer in 
 quick succession, then resumed his seat, then 
 
 picked out a cigar from the box with unusual fiis- 
 tidimisness, then drew a match, then lighted the 
 cigar, then sent out a dozen heavy volumes of 
 smoke, which encircled him so completely that 
 he became quite concealed from Hawbury's 
 view. But oven this cloud did not seem suffi- 
 cient to correspond with the gloom of his soul. 
 Other clouds rolled forth, and still others, until 
 all their congregated folds encircled him, and 
 in the midst there was a dim vision of a big 
 head, whose still, Iiigh, curling, crisp hair, and 
 massive brow, and dense beard, seemed like 
 some living manifestation of cloud-compelling 
 Jove. 
 
 For some time there was silence, and Haw- 
 bury said nothing, but waited for his friend to 
 speak. 
 
 At last a voice was heard — deep, solemn, 
 awful, portentous, ominous, sorrow -laden, 
 weird, mysterious, projibetic, obscure, gloomy, 
 doleful, dismal, and ajiocalyptic. 
 
 " TIawhury J" 
 
 "Well, old man?" 
 
 "IlAWnURYl" 
 
 "All right." 
 
 " Are you listening ?*' 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 " Wrll—rm— married r 
 
 Hawbury sprang to his feet as though he had 
 been shot. 
 
 "What!" he cried. 
 
 'Tin married r 
 
 "You're what? Married? You! married! 
 Scone Dacres! not you — not married^' 
 
 "I'm married!" 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 33 
 
 ^;m 
 
 "Good Lord!" 
 
 " Vm married!" 
 
 Ilawbury sunk back in his seat, overwhelmed 
 hy the force of this sudden and tremendous rev- 
 elation. For some time there was a deep si- 
 lence. Boili were smoking. The clouds roll- 
 ed forth from the lips of each, and curled over 
 tiieir heads, and twined in voluminous folds, 
 and gathered over them in dark, iinpenetruhle 
 masses. Even so rested the clouds of doubt, 
 of darkness, and of gloom over the soul of 
 each, and those which were visible to the eye 
 seemed to typify, symbolize, characterize, and 
 body forth tlie darker clouds that overshadow- 
 ed the mind. 
 
 "/'hi married!" repeated Dacres, who now 
 seemed to have become like Poe's raven, and 
 ail his words one melancholy burden bore. 
 
 " You were not married when I was last with 
 you?" said Ilawbury at last, in the tone of one 
 who was recovering from a fainting lit. 
 
 "Yes, I was." 
 
 "Not in South America?" 
 
 " Yes, in South America." 
 
 "Married?" 
 
 "Yes, married." 
 
 "By Jove!" 
 
 " Yes ; and what's more, I've been married 
 for ten years." 
 
 "Ten years! Good Lord!" 
 
 " It's true." 
 
 " Why, how old could you have been when 
 you got married ?" 
 
 "A miserable, ignorant, inexperienced dolt, 
 idiot, and brat of a boy." 
 
 "By Jove!" 
 
 "Well, the secret's out; and now, if you 
 care to hear, I will tell you all about it." 
 
 "I'm dying to hear, dear boy; so go on." 
 
 And at this Scone Dacres began his story. 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 A MAI) WIFE. 
 
 "I'll tell you all about it," said Scone Da- 
 cres ; " but don't laugh, for matters like these 
 are not to be trifled with, and I may take of- 
 fense. " 
 
 " Oh, bother, as if I ever laugh at any thing 
 serious ! By Jove ! no. You don't know me, 
 old chap." 
 
 "All right, then. Well, to begin. This 
 wife that I speak of happened to me very sud- 
 denly. I was only a boy, just out of Oxford, 
 aid just into my fortune. I was on my way to 
 Paris — my first visit — and was full of no end of 
 projects for enjoyment. I went from Dover, 
 iind in the steamer there was the most infer- 
 nally pretty girl. Black, mischievous eyes, with 
 the devil's light in them ; hair curly, crispy, 
 frisky, luxuriant, all tossing over her head and 
 shoulders, and an awfully enticing manner. A 
 portly old bloke was with her — her father, I 
 afterward learned. Somehow my \-.oX blew off. 
 ^he laughed. I laughed. Our eyes met. I 
 C 
 
 made a merry remark. She laughed again ; 
 and there wo were, introduced. She gave me 
 a little felt hat of her own. I fastened it on 
 in triumph with a bit of string, and wore it all 
 the rest of the way. 
 
 " Well, you understand it all. Of course, 
 by the time we got to Calais, I was head over 
 heels in love, and so was she, for that matter. 
 The old man was a jolly old John Bull of a 
 man. I don't believe he had the slightest ap- 
 proach to any designs on me. He didn't know 
 any thing about me, so how could he? He 
 was jolly, and when we got to Calais he was 
 convivial. I attached myself to the two, and 
 had a glorious time. Before three days I had 
 exchanged vows of eternal fidelity with the 
 lady, and all that, and had gained her eoneent 
 to marry me on reaching England. As to the 
 old man there was no trouble at all. He made 
 no inquiries about my means, but wrung my 
 hand heartily, and said God bless me. Besides, 
 there were no friends of my own to consider. 
 My parents were dead, and I had no rclfttions 
 nearer than cousins, for whom I didn't cara a 
 pin. 
 
 "My wife lived at Exeter, and belonged to 
 rather common people; but, of course, I didn't 
 care for that. Her own manners and style 
 were refined enough. She had been sent by 
 her father to a very fashionable boarding-school, 
 where she had been run through tiie same 
 mould as that in which her superiors had been 
 formed, and so she niight have passed muster 
 any where. Her father was awfully fond of 
 her, and proud of her. She tyrannized over 
 him completely. I soon found out that she had 
 been utterly spoiled by his excessive indulgence, 
 and that she was the most whimsical, nonsens- 
 ical, headstrong, little spoiled beauty that ever 
 lived. But, of course, all that, instead of de- 
 terring me, only increased the fascination which 
 she exercised, and made me more madly in love 
 than ever. 
 
 " Iler name was not a particularly attractive 
 one; but what are names! It was Arethusa 
 Wiggins. Now the old man always called her 
 " Arry," which sounded like the vulgar pronun- 
 ciation of " Harry." Of course I couldn't call 
 her that, and Arethusa was too infernally long, 
 for a fellow doesn't want to be all day in pro- 
 noimcing his wife's name. Besides, it isn't a 
 bad name in itself, of course ; it's jjoetic, clas- 
 sic, and does to name a ship of war, but isn't 
 quite the thing for one's home and hearth. 
 
 " After our marriage we spent the honey- 
 moon in Switzerland, and then came home. I 
 had a very nice estate, and have it yet. You've 
 never heard of Dacres Grange, perhaps — well, 
 there's where we began life, and a devil of a 
 life slic began to lead me. It was all very well 
 at first. During the honey-moon there were 
 only a few outbursts, and after we came to the 
 Grange she repressed herself for about a fort- 
 night ; but finally she broke out in the most fu- 
 rious fashion ; and I began to find that she had 
 a devil of a temper, and in her fits she was 
 
34 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 but a small remove from n mud woman. Yon 
 see she had hecn Imniored and indulged and 
 petted and coddled bv her old tool of a father, 
 until at last she had grown to be the most 
 whimsical, conceited, tetchy, Husjjicious, im))e- 
 rious, domineeriiiK, selfish, cruel, hard-hearted, 
 and mulJKnant young vixen that ever lived ; 
 yet this evil natine dwelt in a form as beautiful 
 as ever lived. She was a beautiful demon, and 
 I soon found it out. 
 
 " It began out of nothing at all. I hud 
 been her adoring slave for three weeks, until I 
 began to be conscious of the most abominable 
 tyranny on her part. I began to resist this, 
 and we were on the verge of an outbreak when 
 we arrived at the Grange. The sight of the 
 old hall a])peascd her for a time, but finally the 
 novelty wore off, and her evil passions burst 
 out. Naturally enough, my first blind adora- 
 tion passed away, and I began to take my i)roper 
 position toward her ; that is to say, I undertook 
 to give her some advice, which she very sorely 
 needed. This was the signal for a most furious 
 outbreak. What was worse, her outbreak took 
 jilace before the servants. Of course I could 
 do nothing under such circumstances, so I left 
 the room. When I saw her again she was sul- 
 len and vicious. I attempted a reconciliation, 
 and kneeling down I jjussed my arms caressing- 
 ly around her. ' Look here,' said I, ' my own 
 poor little darling, if I've done wrong, I'm sorry, 
 and — ' 
 
 " Well, what do you think my lady did ?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 *' She kicked vie. ! that's all ; she kicked me, 
 just as I was apologizing to her — just as I was 
 trying to make it up. She kicked me ! when 
 I had done nothing, and she alone had been to 
 blame. What's more, her boots were rather 
 heavy, and that kick made itself felt unmis- 
 takably. 
 
 " I at once arose, and left her without a 
 word. I did not speak to her then for some 
 time. I used to pass her in the house without 
 looking at her. This galled her terribly. She 
 made the house too hot for the servants, and I 
 used to hear her all day long scolding them in 
 a loud shrill voice, till the sound of that voice 
 became horrible to me. 
 
 " You must not suppose, however, that I be- 
 came alienated all at once. That was impossi- 
 ble. I loved her very dearly. After she had 
 kicked me away my love still lasted. It was a 
 galling thought to a man like me that she, a 
 common girl, the daughter of a small trades- 
 man, should have kicked me ; me, the descend- 
 ant of Crusaders, by Jove ! and of the best blood 
 in England ; but after a while pride gave way 
 to love, and I tried to open the way for a recon- 
 ciliation once or twice. I attempted to address 
 her in her calmer moods, but it was without any 
 success. She would not answer me at all. If 
 servants were in the room she woidd at once 
 proceed to give orders to them, just as though I 
 had not s])oken. She showed a horrilde malig- 
 nancy in trying to dismiss the older servants, 
 
 whom she knew to be favorites of mine. Of 
 course I would not let her do it. 
 
 "Well, one day I found that this sort of life 
 was intolerable, and I nuide an effort to put an 
 eiul to it all. My love was not all gone yet, and 
 I began to think that I had been to blame. She 
 hud always been indidged, and I ought to have 
 kejit up the system a little longer, and let her 
 down more gradually. I thought of her as I 
 first saw her in the glory of her youthful beauty 
 on the Calais boat, and softened my heart till I 
 began to long for a reconciliation. Really I 
 could not see where I had done any thing out of 
 the way. I was awfully fond of her at first, and 
 would have remained so if she had let me ; but, 
 you [)erceive, her style was not exactly the kind 
 which is best adapted to keep a man at a wo- 
 man's feet. If she had shown the slightest 
 particle of tenderness, I would have gladly for- 
 given her all — yes, even the kick, by Jove ! 
 
 "We had been married about six months or 
 so, and had not spoken for over four months ; 
 so on the day I refer to I went to her room. She 
 received me with a sulky expression, and a hard 
 stare full of insult. 
 
 " ' My dear,' said I, ' I have come to talk 
 seriously with you.' 
 
 " ' Kate,' said she, ' show this gentleman ont.' 
 
 " It was her maid to whom she s])okc. The 
 maid colored. I turned to her and pointed to 
 the door, and she went out herself. My wife 
 stood trembling witli rage — a beautiful fury. 
 
 "'I have determined,' said I, quietly, 'to 
 make one last effort f(jr reconciliation, and I 
 want to be heard. Hear me now, dear, dear 
 wife. I want your love again ; I can not live 
 this way. Can nothing be done ? Must I, must 
 you, always live this way ? Have I done any 
 wrong ? If I have, I repent. But come, let us 
 forget our quarrel ; let us remember the first 
 days of our acquaintance. We loved one an- 
 other, darling. And how beautiful you were! 
 You are still as beautiful ; won't you be as lov- 
 ing ? Don't be hard on a fellow, dear. If I've 
 done any wrong, tell me, and I'll make it right. 
 See, we are joined together for life. Can't wc 
 make life sweeter for one another than it is now? 
 (^ome, my wife, be mine again.' 
 
 "I went on in this strain for some time, and 
 my own words actually softened me more as I 
 spoke. I felt sorry, too, for rny wife, she seem- 
 ed so wretched. Besides, it was a last chance, 
 and I determined to humble myself. Any thing 
 was better than perpetual hate and misery. So 
 at last I got so affected by my own eloquence 
 that I became quite spooney. Her back was 
 turned to me; I could not see her t^co. I 
 thought by her silence that she was affected, and, 
 in a gush of tenderness, I put my arm around 
 her. 
 
 "In an instant she flung it off, and stepped 
 back, confronting me with a face as hard and an 
 eye as malevolent as a demon. 
 
 "She reached out her hand toward the bell. 
 
 " ' What are you going to do ?' I asked. 
 
 " 'Ring for my maid,' said she. 
 
 Mi^^^k^ 
 
THE AMERICAN BAIiON. 
 
 80 
 
 •"Don't," said I, 
 getting lietween licr 
 amltlicl)dl. 'Tliink; 
 sio]), [ implore yoii. 
 Thisisourlnst cliiinco 
 for a reconciliiition,' 
 
 "Shesteppcd back 
 with a cruel smile. 
 Slie had a small pen- 
 knife in her hand. 
 Her eyes glittered 
 venomously. 
 
 "' Jtcconciliation,' 
 sliosnid, with a sneer. 
 ' / don't want it ; / 
 don't want yoH. You 
 came and forced your- 
 self here. King ibr 
 ray maid, and I will 
 let her show you the 
 door.' 
 
 " ' You can't mean 
 it ?' I said. 
 
 "'I do mean it,' 
 she rejilied. ' King 
 the bell,' she added, 
 imperiously. 
 
 "I stood looking 
 at her. 
 
 "'Leave the room, 
 then,' she said. 
 
 "'I must have a 
 satisfactory answer,' 
 said I. 
 
 '" Very well,' said 
 she. * Here it is.' 
 
 "And saying this 
 she took the jjcnknife 
 by the blade, between 
 her thumb and finger, 
 and slung it at mc. 
 
 It struck me on the arm, and buried itself deep 
 in the Hesh till it touched the bone. I drew it 
 out, and without another word left the room. 
 As I went out I heard her summoning the maid 
 in a loud, stern voice. 
 
 "Well, after that I went to the Continent, 
 and spent about six months. Then I returned. 
 
 " On my return I found every thing changed. 
 She had sent off all the servants, and brought 
 there a lot of ruifians whom she was unable to 
 manage, and who threw every thing into confu- 
 sion. All the gentry talked of her, and avoided 
 the ])lace. My friends greeted me with strange, 
 pitying looks. She had cut down most of the 
 woods, and sold the timber ; she had sent off 
 a number jf valuable pictures and sold them. 
 This was to got money, for I afterward found 
 out that avarice was one of her strongest 
 vices. 
 
 "The sight of all this filled me with indig- 
 nation, and I at once turned out the whole lot 
 of servants, leaving only two or three maids. I 
 obtained some of the old servants, and rein- 
 stated them. All this made my wife quite wild. 
 She came up to mc once and began to storm. 
 
 VEKY WBLI„ UKBE IT 18.' 
 
 but I said something to her which shut her up 
 at once. 
 
 "One day I came home and found her on 
 the portico, in her riding-habit. She was whip- 
 ping one of the maids with the butt end of her 
 riding-whip. I rushed up and released the jioor 
 creature, whose cries were really heart-rending, 
 when my wife turned on me, like a fury, and 
 struck two blows over my head. One of the 
 scars is on my forehead still. See." 
 
 And Dacres put aside his hair on the top of 
 his head, just over his right eye, and showed a 
 long red mark, which seemed like the scar of a 
 dangerous wound. 
 
 "It was an ugly blow," he continued. "I 
 at once tore the whip from her, and, grnsjiing 
 her hand, led her into the drawing-room. Tlierc 
 I confronted her, holding her tight. I dare say 
 I was rather a queer sight, for the hlood was 
 rushing down over my face, and dripping from 
 my beard. 
 
 "'Look here, now,' I said; 'do you know 
 any reason why I shoiddn't lay this whi]) over 
 your shoulders ? The English law allows it. 
 Don't you feel that you deserve it ?' 
 
36 
 
 THE AMERICAN BAUON. 
 
 " She shrank down, palo and trenihling. She i 
 wan a coward, evidently, and accessible to pli^s- 1 
 ical terror. 
 
 "'If I belonged to your ciaHS,' tmid I, 'I| 
 would do it. But I am of a different order. I | 
 luii a gentleman. Go. After all, I'm not sorry 
 that you gave me this blow.' 
 
 " I stalked out of the room, had a doctor, who 
 hound up the wound, and then meditated over 
 my situation. I made up my mind at once to 
 a separation. Thus fur she had done nothing 
 to warrant a divorce, and separation was the 
 only thing. I was laid up and feverish for 
 about a month, but at the end of that time I 
 had an interview with my wife. I proposed a 
 separation, and suggested that she should gu 
 home to her father. This she refused. She 
 declared herself (juite willing to have a separa- 
 tion, but insisted on livinjf at Dacres Grange. 
 
 " 'And what am I to do ?' I asked. 
 
 " ' Whatever you please,' she replied, calmly. 
 
 " 'Do you really ])ropose,' said I, 'to drive 
 me out of the home of my ancestors, and live 
 hero yourself? Do you think I will allow this 
 place to be under your control after the fright- 
 ful havoc that you have made?' 
 
 " '1 shall remain here,' said she, firmly. 
 
 " I said nothing more. I saw that she was 
 immovable. At the same time I could not 
 consent. I could not live with her, and I could 
 not go away leaving her there. I could not 
 give up the ancestral home to her, to mar and 
 mangle and destroy. Well, I waited for about 
 two months, and then — " 
 
 "Well?" asked llawbury, as Dacres hesitated. 
 
 "Dacres Grange was burned down," said 
 the otiier, in a low voice. 
 
 "Burned down!" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Good Lord!" 
 
 "It caught fire in the daytime. There were 
 hut few servants. No fire-engines were near, 
 for the Grange was in a remote place, and so 
 the fire soon gained headway and swept over 
 all. My wife was frantic. She came to me as 
 I stood looking at the spectacle, and charged 
 me with setting fire to it. I smiled at her, but 
 made no reply. 
 
 " So you see she was burned out, and that 
 question was settled. It was a terrible thing, 
 but desperate diseases require desperate reme- 
 dies ; and I felt it more tolerable to have the 
 house in ruins than to have her living there 
 while I had to be a wanderer. 
 
 "She was now at my mercy. We went to 
 Exeter. She went to her father, and I finiilly 
 succeeded in eltecting an arrangement which 
 was satisfactory on all sides. 
 
 " Eirst of all, the separation should be abso- 
 lute, and neither of us should ever hold com- 
 munication with the other in any shape or way. 
 
 "Secondly, she should take another name, 
 so as to conceal the fact that she was my wife, 
 and not do any further dishonor to the name. 
 
 "In return for this I was to give her out- 
 right twenty thousand pounds as her own ab- 
 
 solutely, to invest or spend just as she chose. 
 She insisted on this, so that she need not be de- 
 pendent on any annual allowance. In consid- 
 eration of this she forfeited every other claim, 
 all dower right in the event of my death, and 
 every thing else. This was all drawn up in a 
 formal document, and worded as carefully as 
 possible. I don't believe that the document 
 would be of much use in a court of law in case 
 she wished to claim any of her rights, but it 
 served to satisfy her, and she thought it was 
 legally sound and actually inviolable. 
 
 " Here we separated. I left England, and 
 have never been there since." 
 
 Dacres stopped, and sat silent for n long time. 
 
 "Could she have been mad?" asked Ilawbmy. 
 
 "I used to think so, but I believe not. Slie 
 showed too much sense in every thing relating 
 to herself. She sold ])icturcs and timber, and 
 kept every penny. She was acute enough in 
 grasping all she could. During our last inter- 
 views while making these arrangements she 
 was perfectly cool and lady-like. 
 
 "Have you ever heard about her since ?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 " Is she alive vet ?" 
 
 "That's the bother." 
 
 "What! don't you know?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Haven't you ever tried to find out ?" 
 
 " Yes. Two years ago I went and had in- 
 quiries made at Exeter. Nothing could be 
 found out. She and her father had left the 
 place immediately after my departure, and 
 nothing was known about them." 
 
 "I wonder that you didn't go yourself?" 
 
 "What for? I didn't care about seeing her 
 or finding her." 
 
 " Do you think she's alive yet?" 
 
 "I'm afraid she is. You see she always had 
 excellent health, and there's no reason why she 
 should not live to be an octogenarian." 
 
 " Yet she may be dead." 
 
 " J/(/// be ! And what sort of comfort is that 
 to me in my present position, I should like to 
 know? May be? Is that a sufficient foun- 
 dation for me to build on ? No. In a moment 
 of thoughtlessness I have allowed myself to for- 
 get the horrible position in which I am. But 
 now I recall it. I'll crush down my feelings, 
 and be a man again. I'll see the child-angel 
 once more ; once more feast my soul over her 
 sweet and exquisite loveliness ; once more get 
 a glance from her tender, innocent, and guile- 
 less eyes, and then away to South America." 
 
 " You said your wife took another name." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " What was it ? Do you know it ?" 
 
 "Oh yes ; it was Willoughhy." 
 
 " Willouyhhy !" cried llawbury, with a start ; 
 "why, that's the name of my Ethel's friend, 
 at Montreal. Could it have been the same ?" 
 
 " Pooh, man ! How is that possible ? Wil- 
 loughby is not an uncommon name. It's net 
 more likely that your Willoughby and mine are 
 the same than it is that your Ethel is the one I 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 8T 
 
 met at Vesuvius. It's only a coinridcnce, and 
 not a very wonderful one, cither." 
 
 " It seems con-foundcdly odd, too," said 
 Ilnwluiry, thoughtfully. "Willoiighhy? Ethel? 
 (lood Lord ! But jxioh ! Wliiit rot? Asthonjrli 
 I hey could be the same, rrejjosterous ! By 
 Jove!" 
 
 And Ilnwbury stroked away the preposterous 
 idea through his long, pendent whiskers. 
 
 "she OAUOIIT MINNIE IN HEO ABMS." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 NEW EMnARRARSMKN'TS. 
 
 Mrs. WiLi.oijGiiBY had been spending n 
 few days with a friend whom she had found in 
 Naples, and on her return was greatly shock- 
 ed to hear of Minnie's adventure on Vesu- 
 vius. Lady Dalrymple and Ethel had a story 
 to tell which needed no exaggerations and am- 
 jilifications to agitate her strongly. Minnie 
 was not present during the recital ; so, after 
 hearing it, Mrs. Willoughby went to her room. 
 
 Here she caught Minnie in her arms, and 
 kissed her in a very effusive manner. 
 
 "Oh, Minnie, my poor darling, what is all 
 this about Vesuvius? Is it true? It is ter- 
 rible. And now I will never dare to leave you 
 again. How could I think that you would 
 be in any danger with Lady Dalrymple and 
 Ethel? As to Ethel, I am astonished. She is 
 always so grave and so sad that she is the very 
 last person I would have supposed capable of 
 leading you into danger." 
 
 "Now, Kitty dearest, that's not true," said 
 Minnie; "she didn't lead me at all. I led 
 her. And how did I know there was any dan- 
 ger? I remember now that dear, darling Etiiel 
 said tiieie was, and I didn't believe her. But 
 it's always the way." And Minnie threw her 
 little head on one side, and gave a resigned sigh. 
 
 "And did you really get into the crater?" 
 asked Mrs. Willoughby, with a shudder. 
 
 "Oh, I suppose so. Tiicy all said so," said 
 Minnie, folding her little hands in front of her. 
 
 " I only remember some smoke, and then jolting 
 about dreadfully on the shoulder of some great 
 — big — awful — man." 
 
 "Oil dear!" sighed Mrs. Willoughby. 
 
 " Wiial's tiic matter, Kitty dearest?" 
 
 " Another man I" groaned her sister. 
 
 "Weil, and how could I help it?" said Min- 
 nie. "I'm sure I <!.dn't want him. I'm »ure 
 I think he might have let me alone. I don't 
 see tcliy they all act so, I wish they wouldn't 
 be all tiie time coining and saving my life. If 
 pcojjle will go and save my life, I can't help it. 
 I think it's very, very horrid of them." 
 
 "Oh dear! oh dear!" sighed her sister again. 
 
 "Now, Kitty, stop." 
 
 "Another man!" sighed Mrs. Willoughby. 
 
 "Now, Kitty, if you are so imkind, I'll cry. 
 You're always teasing me. You never do any 
 thing to comfort me. You know I want com- 
 fort, and I'm not strong, and people all come 
 and save my life and worry me ; and I really 
 sometimes tiiink I'd rather not live at all if my 
 life has to be saved so often. I'm sure /don't 
 know why they go and do it. I'm sure / never 
 heard of any person who is always going and 
 getting her life saved, and bothered, and pro- 
 posed to, and written to, and chased, and fright- 
 ened to death. And I've a f/reat mind to go 
 and get married, just to stop it all. And I'd 
 just as soon marry this last man as not, and 
 make him drive all the others away from me. 
 He's big enough." 
 
 Minnie ended all this with a little sob ; and 
 her sister, as usual, did her best to soothe and 
 quiet her. 
 
 " Well, but, darling, how did it all happen ?' 
 
 "Oh, don't, don't." 
 
 " But you might tell me." 
 
 "Oh, I can't bear to think of it. It's too 
 horrible." 
 
 "Poor darling — the crater?" 
 
 "No, the great, big man. I didn't see any 
 crater." 
 
 " Weren't you in the crater ?" 
 
 "No, I wasn't." 
 
 "They said you were." 
 
 "I wasn't. I was on the back of a big, 
 horrid man, who gave great jumps down the 
 j side of an awful mountain, all sand and things, 
 and threw me down at the bottom of it, and — 
 and — disarranged all my hair. And I was so 
 frightened that I couldn't even cur — cur — cry." 
 j Here Minnie sobbed afresh, and Mrs. Wil- 
 i loughby petted her again. 
 I "And you shouldn't tease me so; and it's 
 very unkind in you ; and you know I'm not 
 well ; and I can't bear to think about it all ; and 
 I know you're going to scold me ; and you're 
 always scolding me ; and you never do what I 
 want you to. And then people are always com- 
 ing and saving my life, and I can't bear it any 
 more." 
 
 " No-o-o-o-o-o, n-n-no-o-o-o, darling!" said 
 Mrs. Willoughby, soothingly, in the tone of a 
 nurse appeasing a fretful child. " You sha'n't 
 ! bear it any more." 
 
in 
 
 ^w" 
 
 .38 
 
 THE AMERrCAN RATION. 
 
 " I don't want tliem to suvo mo any more. ' I would eiit nic up. And the moment I mw him 
 
 "Well, they nha'n't do it, tiien," Hiiid Mrs. ! I wiis frightened out of my jioor little wits, for 
 Wili<>u){hl)y,utfectionately, ill 11 somewhat muuii- ' I knew he was eoniiiif; to save my life." 
 till tone. " You ]ioor little pusM ! what ])ut such an 
 
 "And the next time I lose my life, I don't idea as that into your ridieuhnis little head?" 
 want to bo saved. I want them to let me alone, "Uh, I knew it— second-sifjht, you know, 
 and I'll eome home myself." We've got Scotch blood, Kitty darling, you 
 
 " And so you shall, darling ; yon shall do i know. So, you know, I sat, and I saw that he 
 just as you |>lease. So, now, cheer up; don't i was |>rcten(liiig not to see me, aiul not to bo 
 cry;" and Mrs. Willoughby tried to wipe Alin- , following us; but all the time he was taking 
 iiie's eyes. good care to keep behind us, when he could 
 
 "Hut you're treating me just like a baby, easily have jjassed us, and all to get a good 
 
 and I don't want to be talked to so," said Min 
 nic, fretfully. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby retreated with a look of 
 des|)tiir. 
 
 "Well, then, dear, I'll do just whatever you 
 want me to do." 
 
 look at poor me, you know. 
 
 "Well," continued Minnie, drawing a long 
 breath, "you know I was awfully frightened; 
 and so I sat looking at him, and I whis|)ered 
 all the time to myself: 'Oh, jilease don't! — 
 ple-e-e-c-e-ease don't! Don't come and save 
 
 "Well, then, I want you to tell mo what 1 1 my life! rie-e-e-e-e-ense let me alone! I 
 
 am to do." 
 
 " About what ?" 
 
 "Why, about this great, big, horrid man." 
 
 "I thought you didn't want me to talk about 
 this any more." 
 
 " But I tlo want you to talk about it. You're 
 
 don't want to be saved at all.' I said this, you 
 know, all to myself, and the more I said it tho 
 more he seemed to fix his eyes on me." 
 
 "It was very, very rude in him, /think," 
 said Mrs. Willoughby, with some indignation. 
 
 "No, it wasn't," said Minnie, sharply. " lie 
 
 the only person that I've got to talk to about it ; | wasn't rude at all. He tried not to look at me. 
 nobody else knows how jieculiarly I'm sitiuited; lie jiretended to be looking at the sea, and at 
 audi didn't think that you'd give me up because \ the i)igs, and all that sort of thing, you know ; 
 I had fresh trouliles." but all the time, you know, I knew very well 
 
 "Give you uj), darling!" echoed her sister, , that he saw me out of the corner of his eye — 
 in surprise. this way." 
 
 "You said you wouldn't talk about it any And Minnie half turned her head, and threw 
 more." u])on her sister, out of the corner of her eyes, u 
 
 "But I thought you didn't want me to talk glance so languishing that the other lauglied. 
 
 about it." 
 
 "But I do want you to." 
 
 " Very well, then ; and now I want you first 
 of all, darling, to tell me how you happened to 
 get into such danger." 
 
 "Well, you know," began Minnie, who now 
 seemed calmer — "you know we all went out 
 for a drive. And we drove along for miles. 
 Such a drive ! There were lazaroni, and donk- 
 eys, and caleches with as many as twenty in 
 each, all pulled by one poor liorse, and it's a 
 great shame ; and pigs — oh, sitc/t pigs ! Not 
 a particle of hair on them, you know, and look- 
 ing like young elephants, you know; and we 
 saw great droves of oxen, and long lines of 
 booths, no end ; and people selling macaroni, 
 and other people eating it right in the open 
 street, you know — such fun ! — and fishermen 
 and fish-wives. Oh, how they were screaming, 
 and oh, such a hubbub as there was ! and we 
 couldn't go on fast, and Dowdy seemed really 
 frightened." 
 
 " Dowdy?" repeated Mrs. Willoughby, in an 
 interrogative tone. 
 
 "Oh, that's a name I've just invented for 
 Lady Dalrymple. It's better than Ilymple. 
 She said so. It's Dowager shortened. She's 
 n dowager, you know. And so, you know, I 
 was on the front seat all the time, when all at 
 once I saw a gentleman on horseback. He 
 was a great big man — oh, so handsome! — and 
 
 " He didn't look at yon that way, I hope?" 
 
 " There was nothing to laugh at in it at all," 
 said Minnie. " He had an awfully solemn look 
 — it was so earnest, so sad, and so dreadful, 
 that I really began to feel quite frightened. 
 And so would ijou ; wouldn't //o«, now, Kitty 
 darling; now luouldn't yow"} I'lease say so." 
 
 "Oh yes!" 
 
 "Of course you would. Well, this person 
 followed us. I could see him very easily, 
 though he tried to avoid notice ; and so at last 
 we got to the Hermitage, and he came too. 
 Well, you know, I think I was very much ex- 
 cited, and I asked Dowdy to let us go and see 
 the cone ; so she let us go. She gave no end 
 of warnings, and we promised to do all that 
 she said. So Ethel and I went out, and there 
 was the stranger. Well, I felt more excited 
 than ever, and a little bit frightened — just a 
 very, very, tiny, little bit, you know, and I 
 teased Ethel to go to the cone. Well, the 
 stranger kej)! in sight all the time, you know, 
 and I felt his eyes on me — I really felt them. 
 So, you know, when we got at the foot of the 
 cone, I was so excited that I was really quite 
 beside myself, and I teased and teased, till at 
 last Ethel consented to go up. So the men 
 took us up on chairs, and all the time the stran- 
 ger was in sight. He walked up by himself 
 with great, big, long, strong strides. So wc 
 went on till we got at the top, and then I was 
 
 he was looking at poor little me as though he , wilder than ever. I didn't know that there 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 89 
 
 wfts a pnrtiflo of (Inngor. T wns living witli 
 curiosity to look ilown, niul nco wlicro the 
 .miioku ciiiiie rroin. Tlie HtraiiKur was standiiiK 
 tliere too, iind tliut's wliiit iiuule inu ho exi'ited. 
 I wanted to show him — I don't know what. I 
 think my idea was to xhow liim tiiat I conid 
 tiiko care of inyself. So then I teased and 
 tCrtHcd, and Kthel liejfged ami prayed, and ^he 
 cried, and I laughed ; and there stood the 
 Htranger, sccinK it all, until at last I 8turiud 
 off, and ran iij) to tiie top, yon know." 
 
 Mrs. Willonghhy slmddereil, and took her 
 sister's hand. 
 
 "Tliere was no end of smoke, you know, 
 and it was awfully unpleasant, and I got to the 
 topi don't know how, when suddenly I fainted." 
 
 Minnie paused for a moment, and looked at 
 her sister with a rueful face. 
 
 " Well, now, dear, darling, the very — next — 
 thing — that I rcmend)er is this, and it's hor- 
 rid : I felt awful jolts, ami found myself in the 
 arms of a great, l)ig, horrid nuin, wiio was run- 
 ning down the side of the mountain with dread- 
 fully long juni])s, and I felt as though he was 
 some horrid ogre carrying poor me away to his 
 den to cat me u)). Hut I didn't say one word. 
 I wasn't much frightened. I felt provoked. 1 
 knew it was that horrid man. And then I 
 wondered what you'd say ; and I thought, oh, 
 how you would scold ! And then I knew that 
 this horrid imui would ciuise me away fnjin 
 Italy ; and then I would iuivc to go to Turkey, 
 and have my life saved hy a Mohummedan. 
 And that was horrid. 
 
 " Well, at last he stojjped and laid me down. 
 IIo was very gentle, though he was so big. I 
 kept my eyes shut, and hiy as still as a im)use, 
 ho])ing that Ethel would come. lint Etiiel 
 didn't. She was coming down with the chair, 
 yon know, and her men couldn't run like mine. 
 And oh, Kitty darling, you have no ulfu what 
 I suffered. This horrid man was rubhing and 
 ))0unding at my hands, and sighing and groan- 
 ing. I stole a little bit of a look at him — ^just 
 a little bit of a bit — and saw tears in his eyes, 
 and a wild look of fear in his face. Then I 
 knew that he was going to propose to me on 
 the spot, and kept my eyes shut tighter than 
 ever. 
 
 "Well, at last he hurt my hands so that I 
 thouglit I'd try to make him stop. So I spoke 
 as low as I could, and asked if I was home, and 
 he said yes." 
 
 Minnie paused. 
 
 " Well ?" asked her sister. 
 
 "Well," said Minnie, in a doleful tone, "I 
 then asked, ' Is that you, papa dear V " 
 
 Minnie stopped again. 
 
 " Well ?" asked Mrs. Willoughby once more. 
 
 "Well—" 
 
 " Well, go on." 
 
 " Well, he said — he said, Yes, darling' — 
 and—" 
 
 "And what?" 
 
 " And he kissed me," said Minnie, in a dole- 
 ful voice. 
 
 "Kissed you!" cxchiiincd her sister, with 
 tiashing eyes. 
 
 " V»'-ycs," siummered .Minnie, with a sob; 
 "and 1 think it's ii Nhiime ; and none of them 
 ever did so before ; and I don't want you ever 
 to go away again, Kitty darling." 
 
 "The miseralile wretch!" cried Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby, indignanily. 
 
 " No, he isn't — he isn't that," said Minnie. 
 " He isn't u miserable wretch at all." 
 
 " How could any one be so base who pre- 
 tends to the name of gentleman!" cried Mrs. 
 Willoughby, 
 
 "He wasn't base — and it's very wicked of 
 you, Kittv. IIo only pretended, you know." 
 
 "rretended!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Tretended what?" 
 
 "Why, that he was mv — mv father, vou 
 know." 
 
 "Does Ethel know this?" asked Mrs. Wil- 
 longhiiy, after a curious look at Minnie. 
 
 "No, of course iu)t, noi' Dowdy either; and 
 you mustn't go and make any distmbance." 
 
 "Disturbance? no; but if I ever see him, 
 I'll let him know what I think of him," said 
 Mrs. Willoughby, severely. 
 
 " IJut he saved my life, and so you know you 
 can't be very harsh with him. I'lease don't — 
 jde-e-e-easc now, Kitty darling." 
 
 "Oh, yon little goose, what whimsical idea 
 have you got now ?" 
 
 "I'lease don't, ple-e-e-ease don't," repeated 
 Minnie. 
 
 " Oh, never mind ; go on now, darling, and 
 tell me about the rest of it." 
 
 " Well, there isn't any more. I lay still, you 
 know, and at last Etiiel came ; and then we 
 went back to Dowdy, and then we came home, 
 you know." 
 
 " Well, I hope you've lost him." 
 
 "Lost him? Oh no; I never do. They al- 
 wavs trUlvmne. Besides, this one will, 1 know." 
 
 ■" Why ?" 
 
 "Because he said so." 
 
 "Said so? when?" 
 
 " Ycsterdav." 
 
 "Yesterday?" 
 
 "Yes; we met liim." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " Dowdy and I. We were out driving. Wo 
 sto])])ed and spoke to him. He was dreadfully 
 earnest and awfully embarrassed ; and I knew 
 he was going to i)ropose ; so I kejit whis])ering to 
 myself all the time, 'Oh, please don't — please 
 don't;' but I know he will; and he'll be here 
 soon too." 
 
 "He sha'n't. I won't let him. I'll never 
 give him the chance." 
 
 "I think you needn't be so cruel." 
 
 "Cruel!"' 
 
 " Yes ; to the poor man." 
 
 " Why, you don't want another man, I hope?" 
 
 "N-no; but then I don't want to hurt his 
 feelings. It was awfully good of him, you 
 know, and aitfuUy plucky." 
 
 i 
 
40 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 ii II 
 
 'Mr I KVKR BKE IlIM, I'l.l. I.KT HIM KNOW WHAT I THINK OF IIIM," 
 
 
 "Well, 1 should think that yon would pre- 
 fer nvoidiiiK him, in yonr jjeculiar situation." 
 
 "Yes, hut he may feel hurt." 
 
 " Oh, lie niav see you once or twice with 
 me." 
 
 "But he may want to see me alone, and 
 what can I do?" 
 
 "Really now, Minnie, you must remember 
 that you are in a serious position. There is 
 that wretched Captain Kirhy." 
 
 " I know," said Minnie, with a siph. 
 
 "And that dreadful American. By-the-wny, 
 darling, you have never told me his name. It 
 isn't of any consequence, but I should like to 
 know the American's name." 
 
 "It's— Rufus K. Gnnn." 
 
 " Rufus K. Gunu ; wiiat a funnv name I and 
 what in the world is ' K' for ?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing. He says it is the fashion in 
 his country to have some letter of the alj)habet 
 between one's names, and he chose 'K,' be- 
 cause it was so awfully uncommon. Isn't it 
 funny, Kitty darling?" 
 
 "Oh dear!" sighed her sister; "and then 
 there is that pertinacious Count Girasole. Think 
 what trouble we had in getting quietly rid of 
 him. I'm afraid all the time that he will not 
 stay at Florence, as he said, for he seems to 
 have no fixed abode. First he was going to 
 Rome, and then Venice, and at last he com- 
 mitted himself to a statement that he had to 
 remain at Florence, and so enabled us to get 
 rid of him. But I know he'll come upon us 
 again somewhere, and then we'll have all the 
 trouble over again. Oh dear! Well, Jlinnie 
 
 darling, do you know the name of this last 
 one?" 
 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " It's a funny name," said Minnie ; " a very 
 funnv name." 
 
 " Tell it to me." 
 
 " It's Scone Dacres ; and isn't that a funny 
 name?" 
 
 Mrs. Willonghby started at the mention of 
 that name. Tiien she turned away her head, 
 and did not say a word for a long time. 
 
 "Kilty!" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " Kitty darling, what's the matter?" 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby turned her head once more. 
 Her face was quite calm, and her voice had its 
 usual tone, as she asked, 
 
 " Say that name again." 
 
 "Scone Dacres," said Minnie. 
 
 "Scone Dacres !" repeated Mrs. Willongh- 
 by ; " and what sort of a mnnis he ?" 
 
 "Big — very big — awfully big!" said Min- 
 nie. "Great, big head and broad shoulders. 
 Great, big arms, that carried me as if I were a 
 feather; big beard too; and it tickled me so 
 when he — he pretended that he was my father ; 
 and very sad. And, oh ! I know I should be .so 
 oM'fiilly fond of him. And, oh ! Kitty darling, 
 what do you think ?" 
 
 "What, dearest?" 
 
 "Why, I'm — I'm afraid — I'm really begin- 
 ning to — to — like him — ^jtist a little tiny bit, 
 you know." 
 
 "Scone Dacres!" repeated Mrs. Willough- 
 
 . 
 
THE AMEKICAN BARON. 
 
 4t 
 
 by, who didn't nrcm to hnvc lionrd lliin luHt I'f- 
 fiiHion. " Hcone Diirrm ! Wt-ll, dulling, don't 
 trouble yoiirielf ; he oha'n't tronhle you." 
 
 " Hut I wiint him to," Niiid Minnie. 
 
 "Oil, iionscnBc, child!" 
 
 "UALLO, OLD MAN, WIIAT'S UP MOW 7 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A FEARFOI. DISCOVKIIY. 
 
 A FEW days after this Hawbury was in his 
 room, when Dacres entered. 
 
 " Hallo, old man, what's »ip now ? How poes 
 the war?" siiid Hawbury. " But what the mis- 
 chief's the matter? You look eut up. Your 
 brow is sad ; your eyes beneath flash like a fal- 
 chion from its sheath. What's happened? You 
 look half snubbed, and half desperate." 
 
 Dacres said not a word, but flung himself 
 into a chair with a look that suited Hawbury's 
 description of him quite accurately. His brows 
 lowered into a heavy frown, his lij)s were com- 
 pressed, and his breath came quick and hard 
 through his inflated nostrils. He sat thus for 
 some time without taking any notice whatever 
 of his friend, and at length lighted a cigar, 
 which he smoked, as he often did when ex- 
 cited, in great voluminous puffs. Hawbury 
 said nothing, but after one or two quick glances 
 at liis friend, rang a bell and ordered some 
 "Bass." 
 
 " Here, old fellow," said he, drawing tlie at- 
 tt*i|ion of Dacres to the refresliing draught. 
 "Ta.;e some — 'Quaff, oh, quaff this kind ne- 
 penthe, and forget thy lost Lenore.' " 
 
 Dacres at this gave a heavy sigh that sound- 
 ed like a groan, and swallowed several tumblers 
 in quick succession. 
 
 "Hawbury!" Raid he at length, in a half- 
 stifled voice, 
 
 "Well, old man?" 
 
 " I've had a blow to-day full on the brcui't 
 that fairly staggered me." 
 
 " Uy Jovo !" 
 
 " Fact. I've just come from a mad rido 
 along the shore. I've been mad, I think, for 
 two or three hours. Of all tlie monstrous, 
 abominable, infernal, aiul unheard-of catastro- 
 phes this is the worst." 
 
 Ho slopped, and puffed away desjieratcly at 
 his cigar. 
 
 " Don't keep a fellow in suspense this way," 
 said Hawbury at last. "What's up? Out 
 with it, man." 
 
 " Well, you know, yesterday I called there." 
 
 Hawbury nodded. 
 
 "She was not at home." 
 
 "So you said." 
 
 " You know she really wasn't, for I told yon 
 that I met their carriage. Tiie whole party 
 were in it, and on the front seat beside Minnie 
 there was another lady. This is the one that 
 I had not seen before. She makes the fourth 
 in that party. She and Minnie had their backs 
 turned as they came up. The other ladies 
 bowed as they j)assed, and as I held off my hat 
 1 half turned to catch Minnie's eyes, when I 
 caught sight of the face of the lady. It startled 
 me so much that I was thundcr-stnu-k, and 
 stood there with my hat off alter tiiey hud 
 ]mssed me for some time." 
 
 " You said nothing about that, old chap. 
 Who the deuce could she have been ?" 
 
 " No, I said nothing about it. As I cantered 
 off I began to think that it was only a fancy of 
 mine, and finally I was sure of it, and laughed 
 it off. For, you must know, the lady's face 
 looked astonishingly like a certain face that I 
 don't particularly care to see — certainly not in 
 such close connection with Minnie. But, you 
 see, I thought it might have been my fancy, so 
 that I finally shook off the feeling, and said no- 
 thing to you about it." 
 
 Dacres paused here, rubbed his hand violent- 
 ly over his hair at the jdacc where tlie scar was, 
 and th- n, frowning heavily, resumed : 
 
 "Will, this afternoon I called again. They 
 were at home. On entering I found three la- 
 dies there. One was Lady Dalrymple, and the 
 others were Minnie and her friend Ethel — either 
 her friend or her sister. I think she's her sis- 
 ter. Well, I sat for about five minutes, and 
 was just beginning to feel the full sense of my 
 happiness, when the door opened and another 
 lady entered. Hawbury" — and Dacres's tones 
 deepened into an awful .solemnity — " Hawbury, 
 it was the lady that I saw in the carriage yes- 
 terday. One look at her was enough. I was 
 assured then that my impressions yesterday 
 were not dreams, but the damnable and abhor- 
 rent truth !" 
 
 " Wliat impressions — you haven't told me yet, 
 you know?" 
 
 '• Wait a minute. I rose as she entered, and 
 
 r..^.. ^1.^ .,. .^■■■f .■;^.^ 
 
■^■ipinniiuj 
 
 42 
 
 THE AMEllICAN liAUON. 
 
 
 "l STOOD TBANBFIXEI)." 
 
 confronted her. She looked at me calmly, and 
 tiien stood as though expecting to be intro- 
 duced. There was no emotion visible what- 
 ever. She was prepared for it : I was not : 
 and so slie was as cool as when I saw her last, 
 and, what is more, just as young and beautiful." 
 
 "The devil!" cried Hawbury. 
 
 Dacres poured out another glass of ale and 
 drank it. His hand trembled slightly as he put 
 down the glass, and he sat for some time in 
 thought before he went on. 
 
 ♦' Well, Lady Dalryniple introduced us. It 
 was Mrs. Willoughby !" 
 
 "By Jove!" cried Hawbuiy. "I saw you 
 were coming to that." 
 
 " Well, you know, the whole thing was so 
 sudden, so unexpected, and so perfectly over- 
 whelming, that I stood transfixed. I said no- 
 thing. I believe I bowed, and then somehow 
 or other, I really don't know how, I got away, 
 and, mounting my horse, rode off like a mad- 
 man. Then I came home, and here you see 
 me." 
 
 There was a silence now for some time. 
 
 "Are you sure that it was your wife?" 
 
 "Of course I am. How could I be mis- 
 taken ?" 
 
 "Arc you sure the name was Willoughby?"' 
 "Perfectly sure." 
 
 "And that is the name your wife took ?" 
 " Yes ; I told you so before, didn't I ?" 
 " Yes. But think now. JMightn't there be 
 some mistake?" 
 
 "Pooh ! how could there be any mistake?" 
 "Didn't you sec any change in her?" 
 " No, only that she looked much more quiet 
 than she used to. Not so active, you know. 
 In her best days she was always excitable, and 
 a little demonstrative ; but now she seems to 
 have sobered down, and is as quiet and well- 
 bred as any of the others." 
 
 "Was there not any change in her at all?" 
 "Not so much as I would have siijiposed ; 
 certainly not so much as there is in mc. But 
 then I've been knocking about all over the 
 world, and she's been living a life of j)eace and 
 calm, with the sweet consciousness of having 
 triumphed over a hated husband, and possess- 
 ing a handsome competency. Now she min- 
 gles in the best society. She associates with 
 
 in 
 latii 
 whii 
 angd 
 
 Anc 
 
 0)n 
 
 IIov 
 
 siie'; 
 
 She 
 
 gem 
 
 trei: 
 
 cool 
 
 aiul 
 
 ghii 
 
 and 
 
 that 
 
 eiio 
 
 will 
 
 biii^ 
 
 her> 
 
I I 
 
 THE AMEIUCAN BAKON. 
 
 43 
 
 lords find Indies. She enjoys life in Enjiliind, 
 wiiile I am an exile. No dcjiibt siie i)u>.ses tor 
 a fine young widow. No doubt, too, siic iius 
 lots if admirers. They as])ire to her hand. 
 They write poetry to her. They make love to 
 her. Confound her!" 
 
 Datres's voice grew more and more agitated 
 and excited as he spoke, and at length his ti- 
 I'nde against his wife ended in something that 
 was almost a roar. 
 
 llawhury said nothing, hut listened, with his 
 face full of sympathy. At last his j)ent-up 
 feeling found expression in his favorite exchi- 
 nnition, "By Jove!" 
 
 " Wouldn't I be justified in wringing her 
 neck ?" asked Dacres, after a jiause. '' And 
 what's worse," he continued, without waiting 
 for an answer to his question — " what's worse, 
 her presence here in this unexpected way has 
 given me, me, mind you, n sense of guilt, while 
 she is, of course, immaculate. /, mind you — 
 /, the injured husband, vith the scar on my 
 head from a wound made by her hand, and 
 all the ghosts of my ancestors howling curses 
 over me at night for my desolated and ruined 
 home — / am to be conscience-stricken in her 
 presence, as if I were a felon, wliile she, the re- 
 ally guilty one — the blight and bitter destruction 
 of my life — she is to ajjpear before me now as 
 injured, and must make her appearance here, 
 stanrling by the side of that sweet child-angel, 
 and warning me away. Confound it all, man ! 
 Do you mean to say that such a thing is to be 
 borne ?" 
 
 Dacres was now quite frantic ; so Ilawbnry, 
 with a sigh of perplexity, lighted a fresh cigar, 
 and thus took refuge from the hel|)lessness of 
 his position. It was clearly a state of things 
 in which advice was utterly useless, and conso- 
 lation impossible. What coidd he advise, or 
 what consolation could he otter? The child- 
 angel was now out of his friend's reach, and the 
 worst fears of the lover were more than real- 
 ized. 
 
 " I told you I was afraid of this," continued 
 Dacres. " I had a suspicion that she was alive, 
 and I firmly believe she'll outlive me forty 
 years ; but I must say I never expected to see 
 her in this wny, under such circumstances. 
 And then to find her so infernally beautiful I 
 Confound her ! she don't look over twenty-five. 
 IIow the mischief does she manage it? Oh, 
 she's a deep one! But perhaps she's changed. 
 She seems so calm, and came into the room so 
 gently, and looked at me so steadily. Not a 
 tremor, not a shake, as I live. Calm, Sir ; 
 cool as steel, and hard too. She looked away, 
 and then looked back. They were searching 
 glances, too, as though they read me through 
 and through. Well, there was no occasion for 
 that. She ought to know Scone Diicres well 
 enough, I swear. Cool! And there stood I, 
 with the blood flashing to my head, and throb- 
 bing fire underneath the scar of her wound — 
 hers — her own j)roperty, for she made it ! 
 That was the woman that kicked me, that 
 
 struck at me, that caused tlie destruction of my 
 ancestral house, that drove me to exile, and 
 that now drives me i)ack from my love. But, 
 by Ileavon ! it '11 take more than her to do it ; 
 and I'll show her again, as I showed her once 
 before, that Scone Dacres is her nuister. And, 
 by Jove! she'll find that it '11 take more than 
 herself to kce]> nie away from Minnie Fay." 
 
 "See here, old boy," said Ilawbury, "you 
 may as well throw u]t the sponge." 
 
 "1 won't," said l)acres, grutlly. 
 
 " You see it isn't your wife that you have to 
 consider, but the girl; and do you think the 
 gii'l or her friends would have a nuirried num 
 paying his attentions in that quarter? Would 
 you have the face to do it under your own wife's 
 eye ? By Jove !'' 
 
 The undeniable truth of this assertion was 
 felt by Dacres even in his rage. But the very 
 fact that it was unanswerable, and that he was 
 helj)less, only served to deepen and intensify 
 his rage. Yet he said nothing ; it was only in 
 his face and manner that his rage was mani- 
 fested, lie a])])eared almost to suffocate un- 
 der the rush of fierce, contending passions ; big 
 distended veins swelled out in his forehead, 
 which was also drawn far down in a gloomy 
 frown ; his lireath came thick and fast, and his 
 hands were denclied tiglit together. Ilawbury 
 watched him in silence as before, feeling all 
 the time the imiiossibilitj' of saying any thing 
 that could be of any use whatever. 
 
 " Well, old fellow," said Dacres at last, giv- 
 ing a long breath, in which he seemed to throw 
 ort" some of his excitement, "you"ro right, of 
 course, and I am helpless. There's no chance 
 for me. I'aying attentions is out of the ques- 
 tion, and the oidy thing forme to do is to give 
 up the whole thing. But that isn't to be done 
 at once. It's been long since I've seen any 
 one for whom I felt any tenderness, and this 
 little thing, I know, is fond of me. I can't 
 quit her at once. I must stay on for a time, 
 at least, and have occasional glimpses at her. 
 It gives me a fresh sense of almost heavenly 
 sweetness to look at her fair young face. Be- 
 sides, I feel that I am far more to her than any 
 other man. No other man has stood to her in 
 the relation in which I have stood. Recollect 
 how I saved her from death. That is no light 
 thing. She must feel toward me as she has 
 never felt to any other. She is not one who 
 can forget how I snatched her from a fearful 
 death, ami brought her back to life. Every 
 time she looks at me she seems to convey all 
 that to me in her glance." 
 
 "Oh, well, my dear fellow, really now," said 
 Ilawbury, "just think. You can't do any 
 thing." 
 
 "But I don't want to do any thing." 
 
 " It never can end in any thing, you know." 
 
 " But I don't want it to end in any thing." 
 
 " You'll only bother her by entangling her 
 affections." 
 
 " But I don't want to entangle her affec- 
 tions." 
 
44 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 'Hi 
 iiilj; 
 
 " Then what the mischief do you want to 
 <lo?" 
 
 " Wiiy, very little. I'll start off soon for the 
 uttermost ends of the earth, but I wish to stay 
 Ji little longer and see lier sweet face. It's not 
 much, is it? It won't compromise her, will 
 it? She need not run any risk, need she? 
 And I'm a man of honor, am I not ? You 
 don't sujipose me to be capable of any base- 
 ness, do you ?" 
 
 "My dear fellow, how absurd! Of course 
 not. Only I was afraid by giving way to this 
 you mignt drift on into a worse state of mind. 
 She's all safe, I fancy, surrounded as she is by 
 so many guardians. It is you that I'm anxious 
 about." 
 
 " Don't be alarmed, old chnp, about me. 
 I feel calmer already. I can face my situation 
 firmly, and jirepare for the worst. Wiiile I 
 have been sitting here I have tliought out the 
 I'utnre. I will stay here four or five weeks. I 
 will only seek solace for myself by riding about 
 where I may meet her. I do not intend to go 
 to the Iiouse at all. My demon of a wife may 
 juive the whole house to herself. I won't even 
 give her the pleasure of sup))osing that she has 
 tiiwarted me. She shall never even suspect 
 the state of my heart. That would be bliss 
 indeed to one like her, for tlien she would find 
 herself able to \n\t me on the rack. No, my 
 boy; I've thought it all over. Scone Dacres 
 is himself again. No more nonsense now. Do 
 you understand now what I mean?" 
 
 "Yes," said Ilawbury, slowly, and in his 
 worst drawl; "Imt ah, really, don't you think 
 it's all nonsense?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Wliy, this ducking and diving about to get 
 a glimpse of lier face." 
 
 " 1 don't intend to duck and dive about. I 
 merely intend to ride like any otiier gentle- 
 man. Wliat put that into your head, man ?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know; I gathered it from 
 the way you expressed yourself." 
 
 "Well, I don't intend any thing of the kind. 
 I simj)!}' wish to have occasional looks at her 
 — to get a bow and a smile of recognition 
 when I meet her, ami have a few addition- 
 al recollections to turn over in my thoughts 
 after I have left her forever. Perhajis this 
 seems odd." 
 
 " Oil no, it doesn't. I quite understand it. 
 A passing smile or a parting sigh is sometimes 
 more precious than any other memory. I know 
 all about it, you know — looks, glances, smiles, 
 sighs, and all that sort of tiling, you know." 
 
 " Well, now, old chap, there's one thing I 
 want vou to do for me." 
 
 "Well, what is it?" 
 
 " It isn't much, old fellow. It isn't much. 
 I simply wish you to visit there." 
 
 " i1/c .'' — visit ihere f What ! tne— and visit ? 
 Why, my dear fellow, don't you know how I 
 hate such bother ?" 
 
 "I know all about that: but, old boy, it's 
 only for a few weeks I ask it, and for my 
 
 sake, as a particular favor. I put it in that 
 light." 
 
 " Oh, well, really, dear boy, if you put it in 
 that light, you know, of coinse, that I'll do any 
 thing, even if it conies to letting myself be 
 bored to death." 
 
 "Just a visit a day or so." 
 
 " A visit a day !" Ilawbury looked aghast. 
 
 " It isn't much to ask, you know," continued 
 Dacres. " You see my reason is this: I can't 
 go there myself, as you see, but I hunger to 
 hear about her. I should like to hear how she 
 looks, and what she says, and whether she 
 thinks of me." 
 
 " Oh, come now ! look here, my dear fel- 
 low, you're putting it a little too strong. You 
 don't expect me to go there and talk to her 
 about you, you know. Why, man alive, that's 
 quite out of my way. I'm not much of a talk- 
 er at any time ; and besides, you know, there's 
 something distasteful in acting as — as — By 
 Jove ! I don't know what to call it." 
 
 " My dear boy, you don't understand me. 
 Do you think I'm a sneak? Do you sti])pose 
 I'd ask you to act as a go-between ? Nonsense ! 
 I merely ask you to go as a cursory visitor. I 
 don't want you to breathe my name, or even 
 think of me while you are there." 
 
 "But suppose I make myself too agreeable 
 to the young lady. By Jove! she might think 
 I was paying her attentions, you know." 
 
 " Oh no, no ! believe me, you don't know 
 her. She's too earnest ; she has too much soul 
 to shift and change. Oh no ! I feel that she 
 is mine, and that (he image of my own misera- 
 ble self is indelibly impressed ujjon her heart. 
 Oh no ! you don't know her. If you had heard 
 her thrilling expressions of gratitude, if you had 
 seen the beseeching and pleading looks which 
 she gave me, you would know that she is one 
 of those natures who love once, and once only." 
 
 " Oh, by Jove, now ! Come ! If that's the 
 state of the case, why, I'll go." 
 
 "Thanks, old boy." 
 
 " As a simple visitor." 
 
 "Yes— that's all." 
 
 "To talk about the weather, and that rot." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And no more.' 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Not n word about you." 
 
 "Not a word." 
 
 "No leading questions, and that sort of 
 thing." 
 
 "Nothing of the kind." 
 
 " No hints, no watching, but just as if I went 
 there of my own accord." 
 
 " That's exactly the thing." 
 
 " Very well ; and now, pray, what good is all 
 this going to do to you, my boy ?" 
 
 " Well, just this ; I can talk to you about her 
 every evening, and you can tell me how she 
 looks, and what she says, and all that sort of 
 thing, vou know." 
 
 "By Jove!" 
 
 " And you'll cheer my heart, old fellow." 
 
 I 
 
 ■JUIL 
 
THE AMEllICAN BARON. 
 
 45 
 
 " Heavens and earth ! old boy, you don't 
 seem to think that this is going to be no end of 
 a bore." 
 
 " I know it, old man ; but then, you know, 
 I'm desperate just now." 
 
 "By Jove!" 
 
 And Hawbury, uttering this exclamation, re- 
 lapsed into silence, and wondered over his 
 iViend's infatuation. 
 
 On the following day when IJacres came in 
 he found that Hawbury had kept his word. 
 
 " Great bore, old fellow," said he ; " but I 
 did it. The old lady is an old acquaintance, 
 you know. I'm going there to-morrow again. 
 Didn't see any thing to-day of the child-angel. 
 But it's no end of a bore, you know." 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 FALSE AND FOKGKTFUL. 
 
 Thk day when Lord Hawbury called on 
 Lady Dalrymple was a very eventful one in his 
 life, and had it not been for a slight peculiarity 
 of his, the immediate result of that visit would 
 have been of a highly important character. This 
 slight peculiarity consisted in the fact that he 
 was short-sighted, and, therefore, on a very crit- 
 ical occasion turned away from that which would 
 have been his greatest joy, although it was full 
 before his gaze. 
 
 It happened in this wise : 
 
 On the day when Hawbury called, Ethel hap- 
 pened to be sitting by the window, and saw 
 
 him as he rode up. Now the last time that 
 she had seen him he had a very ditforeut u])- 
 pearance — all his hair being burned oil', from 
 head and cheeks and chin ; and the whiskers 
 which he had when she first met him had been 
 of a different cut from the jiresent ai>pendages. 
 In s))ite of this she recognized him almost in 
 a moment ; and her heart beat fast, and her 
 color came and went, and her hands clutched 
 the window ledge convulsively. 
 
 "It's he!" she murmured. 
 
 Of course there was only one idea in her 
 mind, and that was that he had heard of her 
 presence in Naples, and had come to call on 
 her. 
 
 She sat there without motion, with her head 
 eagerly bent forward, and her eyes fixed upon 
 him. He looked up carelessly as he camo 
 along, and with his chin in the air, in a fashion 
 peculiar to him, which, by-the-way, gave a quite 
 unintentional superciliousness to his expression. 
 For an instant his eyes rested u])ou her, then 
 they moved away, without the slightest recog- 
 nition, and wandered elsewhere. 
 
 Ethel's heart seemed turned to stone. Ho 
 had seen her. He had not noticed her. He 
 had fixed his eyes on her and then looked away. 
 Bitter, indeed, was all this to her. To think 
 that after so long a period of waiting — after 
 such hope and watching as hers had been — 
 that this should be tlie end. She turned away 
 from the window, with a choking sensation in 
 her throat. No one was in the room. She 
 was alone with her thoughts and her tears. 
 
 Suddenly her mood changed. A thou^Jit 
 came to her which dispelled her gloom. Tiio 
 glance that he had given was too hasty ; per- 
 haps he really had not fairly looked at her. 
 No doubt he had come for her, and she would 
 shortly be summoned down. 
 
 And now this prospect brought new hope. 
 Light returned to her eyes, and joy to her 
 heart. Yes, she would be summoned. Sho 
 must prepare herself to encounter his eager 
 gaze. Quickly she stepped to the mirror, hast- 
 ily she arranged those little details in whicli 
 consists the charm of a lady's dress, and se- 
 verely she scrutinized the face and figure re- 
 flected there. The scrutiny was a satisfactory 
 one. Face and figure were perfect ; nor was 
 there in the world any thing more gracL'ful and 
 more lovely than the image there, though the 
 one who looked upon it was far too self-dis- 
 trustful to entertain any such idea as that. 
 
 Then she seated herself and waited. The 
 time moved slowly, indeed, as she waited there. 
 After a few minutes she found it impossible to 
 sit any longer. She walked to the door, held 
 it open, and listened. She heard his voice be- 
 low quite plainly. They had two suits of 
 rooms in the house — tlie bedrooms up stairs 
 and reception-rooms below. Here Lord Haw- 
 bury was, now, within hearing of Ethel. Well 
 she knew that voice. She listened and frowned. 
 The tone was too flippant. He talked like a 
 man without a care — like a butterfly of society 
 
 , 
 
 ..^uii^ 
 
46 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 h 
 
 »: 
 
 — nnd that was a class which she scorned. 
 Here he was, kce))ing her waiting. Here he 
 was, kcc))iiig uj) a hateful clatter of small-talk, 
 wliilc her heart was aching with suspense. 
 
 Etiiel flood there listening. Minute succeed- 
 ed to minute. There was no request for her. 
 How strong was tiie contrast between the cool 
 indifference of the man below, and the fever- 
 ish impatience of that listener above I A wild 
 impulse came to her to go down, under the i)re- 
 tense of looking for something; then another 
 to go down and out for a walk, so that he might 
 see her. But in either case pride held her back. 
 How could she ? Had he not already seen her ? 
 Must he not know perfectly well that siie was 
 there ? No ; if he did not call for her she could 
 not go. She could not make advances. 
 
 Minute succeeded to minute, and Etiiel stood 
 burning with impatience, racked witli suspense, 
 a i)rey to the bitterest feelings. Still no mes- 
 sage. Why did he delay ? Her heart ached 
 now worse than ever, the choking feeling in 
 her throat returned, and her eyes grew moist. 
 She steadied herself by holding to tlie door. 
 Her fingers grew white at the tightness of her 
 grasp ; eyes and ears were strained in their in- 
 tent watchfulness over the room below. 
 
 Of course the caller below was in a perfect 
 state of ignorance about all this. He had not 
 the remotest idea of that one who now stood 
 so near. He came as a martyr. He came to 
 make a call. It was a thing be detested. It 
 bored him. To a man like him the one tiling 
 to be avoided on earth was a bore. To be 
 bored was to his mind the uttermost dejitli of 
 misfortune. This he had voluntarily accepted. 
 He was being bored, and bored to deatli. 
 
 Certainly no man ever accented a calamity 
 more gracefully than Hawbury. He was charm- 
 ing, affable, easy, chatty. Of course he was 
 known to Lady Dalrymjjle. Tlie Dowager could 
 make herself as agreeal)le as any lady living, ex- 
 cept young and beautiful ones. The conversa- 
 tion, therefore, was easy and flowing. Haw- 
 bury excelled in this. 
 
 Now there are sever.il variations in the great 
 art of expression, nnd each of these is a minor 
 art by itself. Among these may be enumerated : 
 First, of course, the art of novel-writing. 
 Second, the art of writing editorials. 
 Tliird, the art of writing paragraphs. 
 After these come all the arts of oratory, let- 
 ter-writing, essay-writing, and all that sort of 
 thing, among which there is one to which I wish 
 particularly to call attention, and this is : 
 The art "of small-talk. 
 
 Now this art Hawbury had to an extraor- 
 dinary degree of perfection. He knew how to 
 beat out the faintest shred of an idea into an 
 illimitable surface of small -talk. He never 
 took refuge in the weather. He left that to 
 bunglers and beginners. His resources were of 
 a different character, and were so skillfully man- 
 aged that he never failed to leave a very agree- 
 able impression. Small-talk ! Why, I've been 
 in situations sometimes where I would have giv- 
 
 en the power of writing like Dickens (if I had 
 it) for perfection in this last art. 
 
 But this careless, easy, limi)id, smooth, nat- 
 ural, pleasant, and agreeable flow of chat was 
 nothing but gall and wormwood to the listener 
 above. She ought to be tliere. Why was she 
 so slighted ? Could it be possible that he would 
 go away without seeing her ? 
 
 She was soon to know. 
 
 She heard him rise. She heard him saunter 
 to the door. 
 
 "Thanks, yes. Ha, h", you're too kind — 
 really — yes — very happy, you kno'.v. To-mor- 
 row, is it? Good-morning." ' 
 
 And with these words he went out. 
 
 With pale face and staring eyes Etlrel darted 
 back to the window. He did not see her. His 
 back was turned. He mounted his horse and 
 gayly cantered away. For full five minutes 
 Etiiel stood, crouched in the shadow of the 
 window, staring after him, with her dark eyes 
 burning and glowing in the intensity of their 
 gaze. Then she turned away with a bewildered 
 look. Then she locked tlie door. Then she 
 flung herself upon the sofa, buried her head in 
 her hands, and burst into a convulsive passion 
 of tears. Jtiserable, indeed, were the thoughts 
 that came now to that poor stricken girl as she 
 lay there prostrate. Slie had waited long, and 
 hojjed fondly, and all her waiting and all her 
 ho])e had been for this. It was for this that she 
 had been ])raying — for this that she had so fond- 
 ly cherished liis memory. He had come at last, 
 and he had gone ; but for her he had certainly 
 shown nothing save an indifference as profound 
 as it was inexplicable. 
 
 Ethel's excuse for not appearing at the dinner- 
 table was a severe headache. Her friends in- 
 sisted on seeing her and ministering to her suf- 
 ferings. Among other things, they tried to cheer 
 her by telling her of Hawbury. Lady Dalrym- 
 ple was full of him. She told all about his fam- 
 ily, his income, his habits, and his mode of life. 
 She mentioned, with much satisfaction, that he 
 had made inquiries after Minnie, and that she 
 had promised to introduce him to her the next 
 time he called, Uj)on which he had laughing- 
 ly insisted on calling the next day. All of 
 wliich led Lady Dalrymple to conclude that he 
 had seen Minnie somewhere, and had fallen in 
 love with her. 
 
 This w.as the pleasing strain of conversation 
 into which the ladies were led off by Lady Dal- 
 rymple. When I say the ladies, I mean Lady 
 Dalrymple and Minnie. Mrs. Willoughby said 
 nothing, except once or twice when she en- 
 deavored to give a turn to the conversation, in 
 which she was signally unsuccessful. Lady Dal- 
 rymple and Minnie engaged in an animated ar- 
 gument over the interesting subject of Haw- 
 bury's intentions, Minnie taking her stand on 
 the ground of his inditterence, the other main- 
 taining the ])osition that he was in love. Minnie 
 declared that she liatl never seen him. Lndy Dal- 
 rymple asserted her belief that he had seen her. 
 The latter also asserted that Hawburv would no 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 47 
 
 (loiil)t l>o a constant 
 visitor, and j^ave Min- 
 nie very sound advice 
 as to the licst mode of 
 treating liini. 
 
 On tlie following 
 day llawhiiry called, 
 and was introduced to 
 Minnie. He chatted 
 ■with iier in his usual 
 style, and Lady Dal- 
 ryin])lc was more than 
 ever confirmed in her 
 first helief. He sug- 
 gested a ride, and the 
 suggestion was taken 
 np. 
 
 If any thing had 
 been needed to com- 
 plete Ethel's despair 
 it was this second visit 
 and the project of a 
 ride. Jlrs. Willough- 
 by was introduced to 
 him ; but he took lit- 
 tle notice of her, treat- 
 ing her with a kind of 
 reserve that was a lit- 
 tle unusual with him. 
 The reason of this was 
 his strong synii)athy 
 with his friend, and 
 his detestation of Mrs. 
 Willoughby's former 
 history. Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby, however, 
 had to ride with 
 them when tliey went 
 out, and thus she was 
 thrown a little more 
 into Hawbiny's way. 
 
 Ethel never made her appearance. The 
 headaches which she avouched were not pre- 
 tended. They were real, and accompanied 
 with heartaches that were far more painful. 
 Hawbury never saw her, nor did he ever hear 
 her mentioned. In general he himself kept the 
 conversation in motion ; and as he never asked 
 questions, they, of course, had no opportunity 
 to answer. On the other hand, there was no 
 occasion to volunteer any remarks about the 
 number or the character of their party. When 
 he talked it was usnally with Lady Dalrymple 
 and Minnie ; and with these the conversation 
 turued always ajjon glittering generalities, and 
 the airy notliings of pleasant gossip. All this, 
 then, will very easily account for the fact that 
 Hawbury, though visiting there constantly, nev- 
 er once saw Ethel, never heard her name men- 
 tioned, and had not the faintest idea that she 
 was so near. She, on the other hand, feeling 
 now sure that he was utterly false and comjjlete- 
 ly forgetful, proudly and calmly held aloof, and 
 kept out of his way with the most jealous care, 
 until at last she staid indoors altogether, for fear, 
 if she went out, that she might meet him sonie- 
 
 "TUEN bug FI.UNO llEBSELF Ul'ON THE BOl'A." 
 
 where. For such a meeting she did not feel suf- 
 ficiently strong. 
 
 Often she thought of quitting Naples and re- 
 tnrning to England. Yet, after all, she found 
 a strange comfort in being there. She was near 
 him. She heard his voice every day, and gaw 
 his face. That was something. And it was 
 better than absence. 
 
 Minnie used always to come to lier and ]ionr 
 forth long accounts of Lord Hawbury — how he 
 looked, what he said, what he did, and what he 
 l)roposed to do. Certainly there was not the 
 faintest ap])roach to love-making, or even sen- 
 timent, in Hawbury's attitude toward Minnie. 
 His words were of the world of small-talk — a 
 world where sentiment and love-making have 
 but little ])lace. Still there was the evident fact 
 of his attentions, which were too frequent to be 
 overlooked. 
 
 Hawbury rapidly became the most prominent 
 subject of Minnie's conversation. SIio used to 
 prattle away for hours about him. She alluded 
 admiringly to his long whiskers. She thought 
 them " lovely." She said that he was " awfully 
 nice." She told Mrs. Willoughby that "he 
 
 
48 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 ! 
 
 wiis nicer than uny of them ; and then, Kitty 
 darling," she added, "it's so awfully good of 
 him not to be coming and saving my life, and 
 carrying mc on his back down a mountain, like 
 an ogre, and then pretending that he's my fa- 
 ther, you know. 
 
 " For you know, Kitty pet, I've always longed 
 so awfully to see some really nice person, you 
 know, who wouldn't go and save my life and 
 bother me. Now he doesn't seem a bit like 
 j)roposing. I do hojie he won't. Don't you, 
 Kitty dearest? It's so much nicer not to pro- 
 l)oso. It's so Aomtf when they go and propose. 
 And then, you know, I've had so much of that 
 sort of thing. So, Kitty, I think he's really the 
 nicest person that I ever saw, and I really think 
 I'm beginning to like him." 
 
 Far different from these were the conversa- 
 tions which Mrs. Willoughby had with Ethel. 
 She was perfectly familiar with Ethel's story. 
 It had been confided to her long ago. She 
 alone knew why it was that Ethel had walked 
 untouched through crowds of admirers. The 
 terrible story of her rescue was memorable to 
 her for other reasons ; and the one who had 
 taken the prominent part in that rescue could 
 not be without interest for her. 
 
 " There is no use, Kitty — no use in talking 
 about it any more," said Ethel one day, after 
 Mrs. Willoughby had been urging her to show 
 herself. "I can not. I will not. He has 
 forgotten me utterly." 
 
 " Perhaps he has no idea that you are here. 
 He has never seen you." 
 
 " Has he not been in Naples as long as we 
 have? lie must have seen me in the streets. 
 He saw Minnie." 
 
 "Do you think it likely that he would come 
 to this house and slight you? If he had for- 
 gotten you he would not come here." 
 
 "Oh yes, he would. He comes to see Min- 
 nie. He knows I am here, of course. He 
 doesn't care one atom whether I make my ap- 
 pearance or not. He doesn't even give me a 
 thougiit. It's so long since that time that he 
 has forgotten even my existence. He has been 
 all over the world since then, and has ha<l a 
 hundred adventures. I have been living quiet- 
 ly, cherishing the remembrance of that one 
 thing." 
 
 "Ethel, is it not worth trying? Go down 
 and try him." 
 
 " 1 can not bear it. I can not look at him. 
 I lose all self-command when he is near. I 
 should make a fool of myself. He would look 
 at me with a smile of pity. Could I endure 
 that? No, Kitty; my weakness must never be 
 known to him." 
 
 "Oh, Ethel, how I wish you could try it !" 
 
 "Kitty, just think how utterly I am' forgot- 
 ten. Mark this now. He knows I was at your 
 house. He must remember your name. He 
 wrote to me there, and I answered him from 
 there. He sees you now, and your name must 
 be associated with mine in his memory of me, 
 if he has any. Tell me now, Kitty, has he ever 
 
 mentioned me? has he ever asked you about 
 me? has he ever made the remotest allusion to 
 me?" 
 
 Ethel spoke rapidly and impetuously, and as 
 she sjtoke she raised herself from the sofa where 
 she was reclining, and turned her large, earnest 
 eyes full upon her friend with an.\ious and ea- 
 ger watchfulness. Mrs. Willoughby looked back 
 at her witli a face full of sadness, and mourn- 
 fully shook her head. 
 
 "You see," said Ethel, as she sank down 
 again — " you see how true my impression is." 
 
 "I must say," said Mrs. Willoughby, "that 
 I thought of this before. I fully exjjected that 
 he would make some inquiry after you. I was 
 so confident in the noble character of the man, 
 both from your story and the description of oth- 
 ers, that I could not believe you were right. 
 But you are right, my poor Ethel. I wish I 
 could comfort you, but I can not. Indeed, my 
 dear, not only lias he not questioned me about 
 you, but he evidently avoids me. It is not that 
 he is engrossed with Minnie, for he is not so ; 
 but he certainly has some reason of his own for 
 avoiding me. Whenever he speaks to me there 
 is an evident eflfbrt on his ])art, and though per- 
 fectly courteous, his manner leaves a certain 
 disagreeable impression. Yes, he certainly has 
 some reason for avoiding me." 
 
 "The reason is plain enough," murmured 
 Ethel. " He wishes to prevent you from sj)eak- 
 ing about a painful subject, or at least a dis- 
 tasteful one. He keeps you off at a distance by 
 an excess of formality. He will give you no 
 ojjportunity whatever to introduce any mention 
 of me. And now let me also ask you this — 
 does he ever take any notice of any allusion 
 that may be made to me ?" 
 
 "I really don't remember hearing any allu- 
 sion to you." 
 
 " Oh, that's scarcely possible ! You and Min- 
 nie must sometimes have alluded to ' Ethel.' " 
 
 "Well, now that you put it in that light, I 
 do remember hearing Minnie allude to you on 
 several occasions. Once she wondered why 
 ' Etliel' did not ride. Again she remarked how 
 ' Ethel' would enjoy a particular view." 
 
 "And he heard it?" 
 
 "Oh, of course." 
 
 " Then there is not a shadow of a doubt left. 
 He knows I atn here. He has forgotten me so 
 totally, and is so completely indifferent, that ho 
 comes here and pays attention to another wlio 
 is in the very same house with me. It is hard. 
 Oh, Kitty, is it not? Is it not bitter? How 
 could I have thought this o{ himf" 
 
 A high-hearted girl was Ethel, and a proud 
 one ; but at this final confirmation of her worst 
 fears there burst from her a sharp cry, and she 
 buried her face in her hands, and tnoaned and 
 wept. 
 
i^l"' 
 
 !1 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 49 
 
 CHAPTER XH. 
 
 O I H A 8 O L E AGAIN. 
 
 Onk (Ifiy Mrs. Willough1)y and Minnie were 
 out ilriving. Hnwbury was riding by the car- 
 riage on the side next Minnie, when Hudden- 
 ly their attention was arrested hy a gentleman 
 on horseback who was approaching thein at an 
 easy pace, and staring hard at tliein. Min- 
 nie's hand suddenly gras])ed her sister's arm 
 very tigiitly, while her color camo and went 
 rapidly. 
 
 "Oh dear!" siglied Mrs. Willoughby. 
 
 "Oil, what shall I do?" said Minnie, in a 
 hasty whisper. "Can't we pretend not to see 
 him?" 
 
 "Nonsense, you little goose," was the reply. 
 "How can you think of such rudeness?" 
 
 By this time the gentleman had reached 
 them, and Mrs. Willoughby stopped the car- 
 riage, and sjioke to him in a tone of gracious 
 suavity, in which there was a sufficient recog- 
 nition of his claims upon her attention, mingled 
 with a slight hauteur that was intended to act 
 as a check upon his Italian demonstrativeness. 
 
 For it was no other than the Count Girasole, 
 and his eyes glowed with excitement and delight, 
 and his hat was oft" and as far away from his head 
 as possible, and a thousand emotions contend- 
 ed together for expression upon his swarthy and 
 handsome countenance. As soon as he coidd 
 speak he j)0ured fortli a torrent of exclamations 
 with amazing volubility, in the midst of which 
 his keen black eyes scrutinized very closely the 
 faces of tlie ladies, and finally turned an inter- 
 rogative glance uj)on Hawbury, who sat on his 
 liorse regarding the new-comer with a certain 
 mild surj)rise not unmingled with supercilious- 
 ness. Hawbury's chin was in the air, his eyes 
 rested languidly upon the stranger, and his left 
 hand toyed with his left whisker. lie really 
 meant no oft'ense whatever. He knew abso- 
 lutely nothing about the stranger, and had not 
 the slightest intention of giving offense. It 
 was sim])ly a way he had. It was merely the 
 normal attitude of the English swell before he 
 is introduced. As it was, that first glance which 
 Girasole threw at the English lord inspired him 
 with the bitterest hate, which was destined to 
 produce important results afterward. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby was too good-natured and 
 too wise to slight the Count in any way. Aft- 
 er introducing the two gentlemen she spoke a 
 few more civil words, and then bowed him away. 
 But Girasole did not at all take the hint. On 
 the contrary, as the carriage started, he turned 
 his horse and rode along with it on the side 
 next Mrs. Willoughby. Hawbury elevated his 
 eyebrows, and stared for an instant, and then 
 went on talking with Minnie. And now Min- 
 nie showed much more animation than usual. 
 She was much agitated and excited by this 
 sudden appearance of one whom she hoped to 
 have got rid of, and talked rapidly, and laughed 
 nervously, and was so terrified at the idea that 
 Girasole was near that she was afraid to look 
 D 
 
 at him, but directed all her attention to Haw- 
 bury. It was a slight, and Girasole showed that 
 he felt it ; but Minnie could not help it. After 
 a time Girasole mastered his feelings, and l)e- 
 gan an animated conversation with Rlrs. Wil- 
 loughby in very broken English, Girasole's 
 excitement at Minnie's slight made him sinne- 
 what incoherent, his idioms were Italian rather 
 than English, and his pronunciation was very 
 bad ; he also had a fashion of using an Italian 
 word when he did not know the right English 
 one, and so the conse(pience was that Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby understood mjt much more than one- 
 quarter of his remarks. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby did not altogether enjoy this 
 state of things, and so she determined to put 
 an end to it by shortening her drive. She 
 therefore watched for an opportunity to do this 
 so as not to nuike it seem too marked, and 
 finally reached a ])lace which was suitable. 
 Here the carriage was turned, when, just as it 
 was half-way round, they noticed a horseman 
 ajjproachiug. It was Scone Dacres, who had 
 been following them all the time, and who had 
 not expected tlmt the carriage would turn. 
 He was therefore taken comjdotely by surprise, 
 and was close to them before b could collect 
 his thoughts so as to do any thing. To evade 
 them was impossible, and so he rode on. As 
 he approached, the ladies saw liis face. It was 
 a face that one woidd remember afterward. 
 There was on it a profound sadness and dejec- 
 tion, while at the same time the prevailing ex- 
 pression was one of sternness. The ladies both 
 bowed. Scone Dacres raised his hat, and dis- 
 closed his broad, massive brow. He did not 
 look at Minnie. His gaze was fixed on Mrs. 
 Willoughby. Her veil was down, and he seem- 
 ed trying to read her face behind it. As he 
 jiassed he threw a quick, vivid glance at Gira- 
 sole. It was not a pleasant glance by any 
 means, and was full of quick, fierce, and in- 
 solent scrutiny — a " Who-the-devil-are-you ?" 
 glance. It was for but an instant, however, 
 and then he glanced at Mrs. Willoughby again, 
 and then he had passed. 
 
 The ladies soon reached their home, and at 
 once retired to Mrs. Willoughby's room. There 
 Minnie flung herself upon the sofa, and Mrs. 
 Willoughby sat down, with a per])lexed face. 
 
 "What in the world are we to do?" said 
 she. 
 
 " I'm sure /don't know," said Minnie. " I 
 knew it was going to be so. I said that he 
 would find me again." 
 
 " He is so annoying." 
 
 "Yes, but, Kitty dear, we can't be rude to 
 him, you know, for he saved my life. But 
 it's horrid, and I really begin to feel quite des- 
 perate." 
 
 "I certainly will not let him see you. I 
 have made up my mind to that." 
 
 "And oh! how he icillhc coming and call- 
 ing, and tease, tease, teasing. Oh dear ! I do 
 wonder what Lord Hawbury thought. He 
 looked so amazed. And then — oh, Kitty dear, 
 
 irtlirlTiiii^IlM''-"-'-'- •■^'i II ifiriart'i 
 
•^r-wi' 
 
 50 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 IS . 
 
 it was 80 awfully funny ! — did you notice that 
 other man?" 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby nodded her head. 
 
 "Did you notice how awfully black he look- 
 ed? He wouldn't look at me at all. /know 
 why." 
 
 Mrs. Willougiiby said nothing. 
 
 " lie's awfully jealous. Oh, I know it. I 
 .saw it in his face. He was as black as a thun- 
 der-cloud. Oh dear ! And it's all about me. 
 Oil, Kitty darling, what shall 1 do ? There will 
 be something dreadful, I know. And how 
 shocking to have it about me. And then the 
 newsjiapers. They'll all have it. And the re- 
 porters. Oh dear! Kitty, why don't you say 
 something?" 
 
 "Why, Minnie dearest, I really don't know 
 what to say." 
 
 " But, darling, you must say something. And 
 then that Scone Dacres. I'm more afraid of 
 him than any body. Oh, I know he's going to 
 kilt some one. He is so big. Oh, if ijou had 
 only been on his back, Kitty darling, and had 
 him run down a steep mountain-side, you'd be 
 as awfully afraid of him as I am. Oh, how I 
 wish Lord Ilawbury would drive them off, or 
 somebody do something to save me. " 
 
 ' ' Would you rather that Lord Ilawbury would 
 stay, or would you like him to go too ?" 
 
 "Oh dear! I don't care. If he would only 
 go quietly and nicely, I should like to have him 
 go too, and never, never see a man again ex- 
 cept dear papa. And I think it's a shame. 
 And I don't see why 1 should be so persecuted. 
 And I'm tired of staying here. And I don't 
 want to stay here any more. And, Kitty dar- 
 ling, why shouldn't we all go to Home ?" 
 
 "To Rome?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Would you prefer Rome?" asked Mrs. 
 Willoughby, thoughtfully. 
 
 "Well, yes — for several reasons. In the 
 first place, I must go somewhere, and I'd rather 
 go there than any where else. Then, you know, 
 that dear, delightful holy-week will soon be 
 here, and I'm dying to be in Rome." 
 
 " I think it would be better for all of us," 
 said Mrs. Willoughby, thoughtfully — "for all 
 of us, if we were in Rome." 
 
 "Of course it would, Kitty sweetest, and es- 
 pecially me. Now if I am in Rome, I can pop 
 into a convent whenever I choose." 
 
 "A convent!" exclaimed Mrs. Willoughby, 
 in surprise. 
 
 "Oh yes — it's going to come to that. They're 
 all so horrid, you know. Besides, it's getting 
 worse. I got a letter yesterday from Captain 
 Kirby, written to me in England. He didn't 
 know I was here. He has just arrived at Lon- 
 don, and was leaving for our place on what he 
 called the wings of the wind. I expect him 
 here at almost any time. Isn't it dreadful, 
 Kitty dearest, to have so many? As fast as 
 one goes another comes, and then they all come 
 together ; and do you know, darling, it really 
 makes one feel quite dizzy. I'm sure / don't 
 
 know what to do. And that's why I'm think- 
 ing of a convent, you know, " 
 
 " But you're not a Catholic," 
 
 " Oh yes, I am, you know. Paj)a'8 an Anglo- 
 Catholic, and I don't sec the ditl'erence. Be- 
 sides, they're all tlie time going over to Rome ; 
 and why shouldn't I? I'll be a novice — that 
 is, you know, I'll on'y ko for a time, and not 
 take the vows. The more I think of it, the 
 more I see that it's the only thing there is for 
 me to do." 
 
 "Well, Minnie, I really think so too, and 
 not only for you, but for all of us. There's 
 Ethel, too; poor dear girl, her health is very 
 miserable, you know, I think a change would 
 do her good," 
 
 "Of course it would; I've been talking to 
 her about it. But she won't hear of leaving 
 Naples, I wish she wouldn't be so awfully sad," 
 
 "Oh yes; it will certainly be the best thing 
 for dear Ethel, and for you and me and all 
 of us. Then we must be in Rome in holy- 
 week. I wouldn't miss that for any thing." 
 
 "And then, too, you know, Kitty darling, 
 there's another thing," said Minnie, very con- 
 fidentially, " and it's very important. In Rome, 
 you know, all the gentlemen are clergymen — 
 only, you know, the clergymen of the Roman 
 Church can't marry ; and so, you know, of 
 course, they can never propose, no nuvtter if 
 they were to save one's life over and over again. 
 And oh ! what a relief that would be to find 
 one's self among those dear, darling, delightful 
 j)riests, and no chance of having one's life saved 
 and having an instant proposal following! It 
 would be so charming." 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby smiled. 
 
 "Well, Minnie dearest," said she, "I really 
 think that we had better decide to go to Rome, 
 and I don't see any difficulty in the way." 
 
 "The only difficulty that I can see," said 
 Minnie, " is that I shouldn't like to hurt their 
 feelings, you know." 
 
 "Their feeHngs!" repented her sister, in a 
 doleful voice, 
 
 "Yes ; but then, you see, some one's feelings 
 7iMst be hurt eventually, so that lessens one's 
 responsibility, you know ; doesn't it, Kitty dar- 
 ling?" 
 
 While saying this Minnie had risen and gone 
 to the window, with the intention of taking her 
 seat by it. No sooner had she reached the 
 place, however, than she started back, with a 
 low exclamation, and, standing on one side, 
 looked cautiously forth, 
 
 "Come here," she said, in a whisper, 
 
 Mrs, Willoughby went over, and Minnie di- 
 rected her attention to some one outside. It 
 was a gentleman on horseback, who was pass- 
 ing at a slow pace. His head was bent on his 
 breast. Suddenly, as he passed, he raised his 
 head and threw over the house a quick, search- 
 ing glance. They could see without being seen. 
 They marked the profound sadness that was 
 over his face, and saw the deep disappointment 
 with which his head fell. 
 
THE AMEUICAN IlAllON. 
 
 $1 
 
 "Scone Diicrcs!" snid Minnie, as he passod 
 on. " How MM'f'ully sad he is !" 
 
 Mrs. Willoiigiiby said notliing. 
 
 " Hut, after all, I don't believe it's me." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " IJeeause he didn't look at me a bit when he 
 passed to-day. Ho looked at you, tliough." 
 
 "Nonsense !" 
 
 " Yes, and liis face had an awfully hungry 
 look. I know what makes him sad," 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " He's in love with you." 
 
 Mrs. Willougiiby stared at Minnie for a mo- 
 ment. Tlien a short laugh burst from her. 
 
 " Child !" she exclaimed, "you have no idea 
 of any thing in the world but falling in love. 
 You will find out some day that there are other 
 feelings than that." 
 
 "But, Kitty dear," said Minnie, "didn't you 
 notice something very peculiar about him?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I noticed it. I had a good look at him. 
 I saw that he fixed his eyes on you with — oh ! 
 such a queer look. And he was awfully sad 
 too. He looked as if he would like to seize 
 you and lift you on his horse and carry you off, 
 just like young Lochiiivar." 
 
 "Me !" said Mrs. Willoughby, with a strange 
 intonation. 
 
 "Yes, you — oh yes; really now." 
 
 "Oil, you little goose, you always think of 
 people rushing after one and carrying one off." 
 
 "Well, I'm sure I've had reason to. So 
 many peojjlc have always been running after 
 me, and snatching me up as if I were a jiarcel, 
 and carrying me every where in all sorts of 
 places. And I think it's too bad, and I really 
 wish they'd stop it. But, Kitty dear- 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " About this Scone Dacres. Don't you really 
 think there's something very peculiarly sad, 
 and very delightfully interesting and pathetic, 
 and all that sort of thing, in his poor dear old 
 face?" 
 
 " I think Scone Dacres has suffered a great 
 deal," said Mrs. Willoughby, in a thoughtful 
 tone. "But come now. Let us go to Ethel. 
 She's lonely." 
 
 Soon after they joined the other ladies, and 
 talked over the project of going to Home. Lady 
 Dairy mple ofl'ered no objection ; indeed, so far 
 as she had any choice, she preferred it. She 
 was quite willing at all times to do whatever 
 the rest proposed, and also was not without 
 some curiosity as to the proceedings during 
 holy-week. Ethel offered no objections either. 
 She had fallen into a state of profound melan- 
 choly, from which nothing now could rouse her, 
 and so she listened listlessly to the discussion 
 about the subject. Mrs. Willoughby and Min- 
 nie had the most to say on this point, and of- 
 fered the chief reasons for going; and thus it 
 was finally decided to take their departure, and 
 to start as soon as possiiile. 
 
 Meanwhile Girasole had his own thoughts and 
 experiences. He had already, some time before. 
 
 been conscious that his attentions were not want- 
 ed, but it was only on the i)art of the other la- 
 dies that he noticed any reinignance to himself. 
 On Minnie's part he had not seen any. In spite 
 of their graciousness and their desire not to 
 ' hurt his feelings, they had not been able to avoid 
 showing that, while they felt grateful for his 
 heroism in the rescue of Minnie, they could not 
 think of giving her to him. Tlicy had manoeu- 
 vred well enough to get rid of him, but Girasole 
 had also manceuvred on his part to find them 
 again. He had fallen off from them at first 
 when he saw that they were determined on ef- 
 fecting this ; but after allowing a sufficient time 
 to elai)se, he had no difficulty in tracking them, 
 and finding them at Naples, as we have seen. 
 
 But here he made one or two discoveries. 
 
 One was that Minnie already had an accept- 
 ed lover in the person of Lord Hawbury. The 
 lofty superciliousness of the British nobleman 
 seemed to Girasole to be the natural result of 
 his position, and it seemed the attitude of the 
 successful lover toward the rejected suitor. 
 
 The other discovery was that Minnie herself 
 was more pleased with the attentions of the En- 
 glish lord than with his own. This was now 
 evident, and he could not help perceiving that 
 his difficulties were far more formidable from 
 the presence of such a rival. 
 
 But Girasole was not easily daunted. In the 
 first place, he had unbounded confidence in his 
 own fascinations; in the second place, he be- 
 lieved that he had a claim on Minnie that no 
 other could equal, in the fact that he had saved 
 her life ; in the third place, apart from the ques- 
 tion of love, he believed her to be a prize of no 
 common value, whose English gold would be 
 welcome indeed to his Italian need and greed ; 
 while, finallj', the bitter hate with which Lord 
 Hawbury had inspired him gave an additional 
 zest to the pursuit, and made him follow after 
 Minnie with fresh ardor. 
 
 Once or twice after this he called upon them. 
 On the first occasion only Lady Dalrymple was 
 visible. On the second, none of the ladies were 
 at home. He was baffled, but not discouraged. 
 Returning from his call, he met Minnie and Mrs, 
 Willoughby. Hawbury was with them, riding 
 beside Minnie. The ladies bowed, and Gira- 
 sole, as before, coolly turned his horse and rode 
 by the carriage, talking with Mrs. Willoughby, 
 and trying to throw at Minnie what he intend- 
 ed to be impassioned glances. But Minnie 
 would not look at him. Of course she was 
 frightened as usual, and grew excited, and, as 
 before, talked with unusual animation to Haw- 
 bury. Thus she overdid it altogether, and more 
 than ever confirmed Girasole in the opinion that 
 she and Hawbury were affianced. 
 
 Two days after this Girasole called again, 
 
 A bitter disappointment was in store for 
 him. 
 
 They were not there — they had gone. 
 
 Eagerly he inquired where. 
 
 "To Rome," was the reply. 
 
 "To Rome!" he muttered, between his set 
 
 lii 
 
C2 
 
 THE AMERICAN IIAIION. 
 
 I 
 
 ! 
 
 I 
 
 If 
 
 "'to uo.meI' he muttkkf.i), uetween iiib set teeth," 
 
 teetli ; and mounting his horse hurriedly, he 
 rode nway. 
 
 lie was not one to be daunted. lie had set 
 a certain tasi< before iiimself, and could not easi- 
 ly be turned aside. He tliougiit bitterly of tiie 
 ingratitude with which he had been treated. 
 He brought before his mind the " stony British 
 stare," the supercilious smile, and the im))erti- 
 nent and insulting expression of Ilawbury'sface 
 as he sat on his saddle, with his chin up, strok- 
 ing his whiskers, and surveyed him for the first 
 time. All these things combined to stimulate 
 the hate as well as the love of Girasole. He 
 felt that he himself was not one who could be 
 lightly dismissed, and determined that they 
 should learn this. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 VAIN KEMON8TRANCE8. 
 
 Haavbtjry had immolated himself for as 
 much as half a dozen times to gratify Dacres. 
 Ho had sacrificed himself over and over upon 
 the altar of friendship, and had allowed him- 
 self to be bored to death because Dacres so 
 wished it. The whole number of his calls was 
 in reality only about five or six ; but that num- 
 ber, to one of his taste and temperament, seemed 
 positively enormous, and represented an im- 
 mense amount of human suflfering. 
 
 One day, upon reaching his quarters, after 
 one of these calls, he found Dacres there, mak- 
 ing himself, as usual, very much at home. 
 
 "Well, my dear fellow," said Hawbury, 
 
 cheerfully, ''how wnveH the flag now? Are 
 you hiiuliiig it down, or are you standing to 
 your guuH? Toss over the cigars, and give un 
 account of yourself." 
 
 "Do you know any tiling about law, Ilaw- 
 burv ?" was Dacres's au.swer. 
 
 '' Law V" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "No, not much. But what in the world 
 makes you ask such a i|ucstiou as that ? Law ! 
 No — not I." 
 
 " Well, there's a point that I should like to 
 ask soineiiody aiiout." 
 
 "Why not get a lawyer?" 
 
 "An Italian lawyer's no use." 
 
 "Well, English lawyers are to be foinid. I 
 dare say then, arc twenty within five minutes' 
 distance of this j)laee." 
 
 "Oh, I don't want to bother. I only want- 
 ed to ask some one's oiiinion in a general way," 
 
 " Well, what's the point?"' 
 
 "Why this," said Dacres, after a little hesi- 
 tation. "You've heard of outlawry?" 
 
 "Should think I had — liobin Hood and his 
 merry men, Lincoln green, Sherwood Forest, 
 and all that sort of thing, you know. Hut 
 what the mischief sets you thinking about Robin 
 Hood?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't mean that rot. I mean real 
 outlawrv — when a fellow's in debt, you know." 
 
 "WJll?" 
 
 "Well; if he goes out of the country, and 
 stays away a certain iniinber of years, the debt's 
 outlawed, you know." 
 
 " The deuce it is ! Is it, tn lugh ? I've been 
 in debt, but I always managed to ]iull thn)ugh 
 without getting so I'ar. But that's convenient 
 for some fellows too." 
 
 " I'm a little muddy about it, but I've heard 
 something to this efl'ect. I think the time is 
 seven years. If the debt is not acknowledged 
 during the interval, it's outlawed. And now, 
 'pon my life, my dear fellow, I really don't know 
 but that I've jund)led up some fragments of 
 English law with American. I felt that I was 
 muddy, and so I thought I'd ask you." 
 
 "Don't know any more about it than about 
 the antediluvians." 
 
 "It's an iini)ortant point, and I should like 
 to h.ivo it looked up." 
 
 "Well, got a lawyer here; half London is 
 on the Continent. But still, my dear fellow, I 
 don't see what you're driving at. You're not 
 in debt?" 
 
 " No — this isn't debt ; but it stnick me that 
 this might possibly apply to other kinds of con- 
 tracts." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " How — such as what, for instance?" 
 
 "Well, you see, I thought, you know, that 
 all contracts might be included under it ; and so 
 I thought that if seven years or so annulled 
 all contracts, it might have some effect, you 
 know, upon — the — the — the marriage contract, 
 you know." 
 
 ■whi 
 
 she' 
 her 
 tun 
 now 
 atio 
 
 Wif( 
 
 ove; 
 goii 
 like 
 
TT 
 
 THE AMERICAN nARON. 
 
 08 
 
 At this Iliiwltiiry started up, Ktiiri-il at Du- 
 crcH, KHvc n loiul wliistlu, and then cxcluiiiiud, 
 
 "Hy Jove! " 
 
 " I may lie mistaken, "said DacreH, modestly. 
 
 " Mistaiteii ? Why, old cliap, you're mud. 
 Marriage? (iood J^ord ! iloii't you know no- 
 thing eaii alirogate that? Of course, in ease 
 of eriine, one ean get a divorce ; hut there is no 
 other \vi\y. Seven years? llyJove! A good 
 idea that. Why, man, if that were so, the king- 
 dom would he depopulated. Iliisliaiuls run- 
 ning oil' from wives, and wives from hushands, 
 to pass the required seven years ahroad. Hy 
 Jove! "\'on see, too, there's another thing, my 
 hoy. Marriage is a sacrament, and you've not 
 «)idy got to untie the civil knot, hut the clerical 
 one, my hoy. No, no ; there's lu) helj) for it. 
 You gave your word, old chap, ' till death do 
 us jiart,' Hnd you're in for it." 
 
 At this Dacres said nothing; it appeared to 
 dispel his project from his mind. He relapsed 
 into a sullen sort of gloom, and renuiinud so 
 for some time. At last he s]ioke : 
 
 "Ilawhuryl" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Have you found ont who that fellow is?" 
 
 "What fellow'/" 
 
 "Why that yellow Italian that goes prowl- 
 ing nround after my wife." 
 
 "t)h ves; 1 heard something or other to- 
 dnv." 
 
 "" What was it ?" 
 
 "Well, it seems that he saved Jicr life, or 
 Bomething of that sort." 
 
 "Saveil her life!" Dacres started. "How? 
 vhcre? Cool, too!" 
 
 "Oh, on the Alps somewhere." 
 
 "On the Aljis ! saved her life I Come now, 
 I like that," said Dacres, with bitter intona- 
 tion. Aha! don't I know her? I warrant 
 you she contrived all that. Oh, she's deep! 
 Hut how did it hapjien? Did you hear?" 
 
 " Well, I didn't hear any thing very definite. 
 It was something about a i)reeii)icc. It was 
 Lady Dalrymjilc that told me. It seems she 
 was knocked over a precipice by an avalanche." 
 
 "Was what? Knocked where? Over a prec- 
 ipice? By a what — an avalanche? Good Lord! 
 I don't believe it. I swear I don't. She in- 
 vented it all. It's some of her infernal hum- 
 bug. She slid off over the snow, so as to get 
 him to go after her. Oh, don't I know her 
 and her ways!" 
 
 "Well, come now, old man, yon shouldn't 
 be too hard on her. You never said that flirt- 
 ation was one of her faults." 
 
 " Well, neither it was ; but, as she is a demon, 
 she's capable of any thing ; and now she has so- 
 bered down, and all her vices have taken this 
 turn. Oh yes. I know her. No more storms 
 now — no rage, no fury — all (piiet and sly. Flirt- 
 ation! Ha, ha! That's the word. And my 
 wife! And going about the country-, tumbling 
 over precipices, with devilish handsome Italians 
 going down to save her life! Ha, ha, ha! I 
 like that!" 
 
 "See hero, old hoy, I swear you're too sus- 
 picious. Come now. You're going too fur. 
 If she chooHes, she may trump up the same 
 charge against you and the child-angel at Ve- 
 suvius. Como now, old hoy, bo just. You can 
 afford to. Your wife nniy be u fiend in hu- 
 num form ; and if you insist upon it, I've nothing 
 to say. liut this last tuition of yours is nothing 
 hut the most wretched absurdity. It's worse. 
 It's lunacy." 
 
 "Well, well," said Dacres, in a milder tone : 
 " perhaps she didn't contrive it. Hut then, you 
 know," ho added, "it's just as good for her. 
 She gets the Italian. Ha, ha, ha!" 
 
 His laugh was forced, feverish, and unnat- 
 ural. Huwbury didn't like it, and tried to 
 change the subject. 
 
 "Oh, by-the-way," said he, "you needn't 
 have any further (rouble nbont any of them. 
 You don't seem inclined to take any definito 
 action, so the action will be taken for you." 
 
 " What do you mean?" 
 
 " I mean that they uro all going to leave Na- 
 ples." 
 
 "To leave Najilcs!" 
 
 Dacres uttered this in a voice of grief and 
 surjjrise which astonished Haw bury and touch- 
 ed him. 
 
 " Yes," he said. "You know they've been 
 hero hjug enough. They want to see Home. 
 Iloly-wcek, you knowi No end of excitement. 
 Illumination of St. Toter's, and all that sort of 
 thing, you know." 
 
 Dacres relapsed into sombre silence. For 
 more than half an hour he did not say a word. 
 Hawbury respected his mood, and watched him 
 with something ajiproaching to anxiety. 
 
 " Hawburv," said he at last. 
 
 " Well, old man ?" 
 
 "I'm going to Home.'* 
 
 "You— to Uomc!" 
 
 "Yes, me, to Rome." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! See here, old boy. You'd 
 really better not, you know. Break it up. You 
 can't do any thing." 
 
 " I'm going to Home," repeated Dacres, stol- 
 idly. " I've made up my mind." 
 
 "But, really," remonstrated Hawbury. "Sec 
 here now, my dear fellow : look here, you know. 
 By Jove! you don't consider, really." 
 
 " Oh yes, I do. I know every thing ; I con- 
 sider every thing." 
 
 "But what good will it do?" 
 
 "It won't do any good; but it may prevent 
 some evil." 
 
 "Nothing but evil can ever come of it." 
 
 "Oh, no evil need necessarily come of it." 
 
 " By Jove !" exclaimed Hawbury, who began 
 to be excited. "Really, my dear fellow, jou 
 don't think. You see you can't gain any thing. 
 She's surrounded by friends, you know. She 
 never can be yours, yon know. There's a great 
 gulf between you, and all that sort of thing, yoa 
 know." 
 
 "Yes," repeated Dacres, catching his last 
 words — " yes, a great gulf, as deep as the bot- 
 
 i-i ■ 
 
TIIF, AMKUrCAN BARON. 
 
 tomlcss ttbjHH, never to do trttverscd, where mho 
 8taii(is on one .xi(l(% and I on tliu otiicr, and Ix;- 
 twi'cn HH liute, deep and i)itilen(t luUe, nndyinK, 
 eternal!" 
 
 "Then, hy iFove ! my ilear fellow, wliat'H the 
 nno of trying to tight aj?iiinNt it? You can't ilo 
 liny thing. If this were Indiana, now, or even 
 New York, I wouldn't say any thing, yon know ; 
 hut you know an Indiaiui divorce wouldn't do 
 you any good. Her friends wouldn't take you 
 on those terms — and she wouldn't. Not she, 
 by Jove!" 
 
 "I muni go, I must follow her," continued 
 Daores. " Tlic sight of her has roused a devil 
 within mo that I thought was laid. I'm a 
 changed num, Ilawhury." 
 
 " I should think so, hy Jove!" 
 " Ach.ingcd man," continued Dacros, "Oh, 
 Heavens, what power there is in a face ! What 
 torritie iullucnce it has over a num ! Here am 
 I ; tt few days ago I was a free imvn ; now I am 
 a slave. But, by Heaven ! I'll follow her to 
 tho world's end. Siie shall not shake mo off. 
 She thinks to he happy without me. She shall 
 not, I will silently follow as an avenging fate. 
 I can not have her, and no one else shall. Tho 
 same cursed fato that severs her from me shall 
 keep her away from others. If I am lonely 
 and an exile, she shall not bo as happy as she 
 expects. I shall not be the only one to suf- 
 fer," 
 
 "Seehere, by Jove! "cried Hawbnry. "Real- 
 ly. You're going too far, my ilcur boy, you know. 
 You are, really. Come now. This is just like 
 a Surrey theatre, you know. You're really rav- 
 ing. Why, my poor old boy, you must give her 
 up. You can't do any thing. You daren't call 
 on her. You're tied hand and foot. Yon may 
 worship her here, and rave about your child- 
 angel till you're black in the face, but you nev- 
 er can see her ; and as to all this about stopping 
 her from marrying any other person, that's all 
 rot and bosh. What do you suppose any other 
 man would care for your nonsensical ravings ? 
 Lonely and an exile ! Why, man, she'll be 
 married and done for in three months." 
 
 "You don't understand me," said Dacres, 
 dryly. 
 
 "I'm glad that I don't; but it's no wonder, 
 old man, for really you were quite incoher- 
 ent." 
 
 "And so they're going to Rome," said Da- 
 cres. "Well, they'll find that I'm not to bo 
 shaken off so easily." 
 
 " Come now, old man, you inust give up 
 that." 
 
 " And I suppose," continued Dacres, with a 
 sneer, "our handsome, dark-eyed little Italian 
 cavalier is going with us. Ha, ha, ha ! He's 
 at the house all tho time, no doubt." 
 "Well, yes; he was there once." 
 "Ah 1 of course — quite devoted," 
 " Oh yes ; but don't be afraid. It was not 
 to the child-angel. She appears to avoid him. 
 That's really quite evident. It's nn apparent 
 aversion on her part." 
 
 Dacres drew a long breath. 
 "Oh," said he; "ami so I snjipose it's not 
 h<r that /if goes after. I did not Hup)iose that 
 it was. Oh no. There's another one — more 
 l)i(puint, you know — ha, ha I — a devoted lover 
 — saved lier life — (luito devoted — and she sits 
 and accepts his attcniions. Yet she's seen nie, 
 and knows that I'm watching her. Don't she 
 know vicf Does sho want any further ]iroof 
 of what I am ready to do"? The ruins of 
 Dacres (Irango should serve her for life. She 
 tempts fate when she carries on her gallantries 
 and her Italian cicisbeism under the eyes of 
 Scone Dacres, It '11 end bad, Hy Heaven, it 
 will!" 
 
 Scono Dacres breathed hard, and, raising his 
 head, turned ujion Hawbnry a pair of eyes 
 whose glow seemed of fire. 
 
 " Had !" he repeated, crashing his fist on the 
 table. "Bad, by Heaven!" 
 
 Hawbury looked at him earnestly. 
 " My dear boy," said he, "you're getting too 
 excited. Be cool. Really, I don't believe you 
 know what you're saying. I don't undcrsiand 
 what you mean. Haven't the faintest idea what 
 you're driving at. You're making ferocious 
 threats against some people, but, for my life, 
 I don't know who they are. Hadn't you (let- 
 ter try to speak so that a fellow can under- 
 stand the general drift, at least, of what you 
 say ?" 
 
 "Well, then, you understand this much — 
 I'm going to Uomo." 
 
 "I'm sorry f(jr it, old boy." 
 "And see here, Hawbury, I want you to 
 come with me." 
 
 "Me? What for?" 
 
 " Well, I want you, I may have need of 
 you," 
 
 As Dacres said this his face assumed so dark 
 and gloomy an expression that Hawbury began 
 to think that there was something serious in all 
 this menace. 
 
 "Ton my life," said he, "my dear boy, I 
 really don't think you're in a fit state to be al- 
 lowed to go by yourself. You look quite des- 
 perate. I wish I could make you give up this 
 infernal Roman notion." 
 
 " I'm going to Rome !" repeated Dacres, res- 
 olutely. 
 
 Hawbnry looked at him. 
 " You'll come, Hawbury, won't you?" 
 " Why, confound it all, of course. I'm afraid 
 you'll do something rash, old man, and you'll 
 have to have me to stand between you and 
 harm." 
 
 "Oh, don't bo concerned about me," said 
 Dacres. " I only want to watch her, and see 
 what her little game is. I want to look at her 
 in the midst of her hapjiiness. She's most in- 
 fernally beautiful, too ; hasn't added a year or 
 a day to her face ; more lovely than ever ; more 
 beautiful than she was even when I first saw 
 her. And there's a softness about her that she 
 never had before. Where the deuce did she get 
 that ? Good idea of hers, too, to cultivate the 
 
T 
 
 THE AMEUICAN HAUON. 
 
 S5 
 
 soft Htvlo. And thcro'a MdMM in her face, tuo. 
 Ciiii it l)u --uiil? liv Ileaventl if 1 timuKlit it 
 could Iju reiki I'd — )iut ])()oli ! nliat iiiHuiiily ! 
 It'll liur iirt. Tliurc never viuh hiicIi ciinninK. 
 Slio ctdtiviitcM tlio Hoft, sad tttylu ho um to iit- 
 triict lovtirs — lovers — who adore her — who nave 
 her life — who become her olicdicnt hhiven! Oh 
 yen ; und I — what am I 'i* Wiiy thi^y nut to- 
 Kuthur and laugh ut uiu ; they K>KKiu i tl)^7 
 snicker — " 
 
 "Confound it aii, man, what are you Koing 
 on lit tiiat rate for?" iiitcrrii|)ted Ilawlmry. 
 "Are you taking leave of your senses altogeth- 
 er ? liy Jove, old man, you'd better give up 
 tliiH Roman journey." 
 
 "No, rilkecijat it." 
 
 " What for ? CJoufound it ! I don't sco your 
 object." 
 
 "My ohjcet? Why, I mean to follow hor. 
 I cuii't give her up. I won't give her uj). I'll 
 follow her. Wiio shall see mo every where. I'll 
 follow her. She sha'ii't go any where without 
 seeing me on licr track. She shall sec that she | 
 ii mine. She shall know that she's got a mas- 
 ter. She shall find herself eut olf from that biit- 
 torrty life which she hopes to enter. I'll l»e her 
 fate, and she shall know it." 
 
 "By Jove!" cried Iluwbury. "What the 
 douco is all this about ? Arc you mad, or what ? 
 Look here, old boy, you're utterly beyond mc, 
 you know. What the mischief do you mean 'i* 
 Whom are you going to follow? Whose fate arc 
 you going to bo ? Whose track are you talking 
 "about ?" 
 
 " Who ?" cried Dacres. " Why, my wife !" 
 
 As he said this he struck his fist violently on 
 the table. 
 
 "The deuce !" exclaimed Ilawbury, staring 
 at him ; after which ho added, thoughtfully, 
 "by Jove!" 
 
 Not much more was said. Dacres sat in si- 
 lence for a long time, breathing hard, and puff- 
 ing violently at his cigar. Ilawbury said no- 
 thing to interrupt his meditation. After an 
 hour or so Dacres tramjjed off in silence, and 
 Ilawbury was left to meditate over the situa- 
 tion. 
 
 And this was the rostdt of his meditations. 
 
 lie saw that Dacres was greatly excited, and 
 had changed completely from his old self. His 
 stateof mind seemed actually dangerous. There 
 was an evil gleam in his eyes that looked like 
 madness. What made it more perplexing still 
 was the new revulsion of feeling that now was 
 manifest. It was not so much love for the child- 
 angel as bitter and venomous hate for his wife. 
 The gentler feeling had given place to the stern- 
 er one. It might have been possible to attempt 
 an argument against the indulgence of the for- 
 mer; but what could words avail against re- 
 venge ? And now there was rising in the soul 
 of Dacres an evident thirst for vengeance, the re- 
 sult of those injuries which had been carried in 
 his heart and brooded over for years. The sight 
 of his wife had evidently kindled all this. If 
 she had not come across his path he might have 
 
 forgotten all ; but hIio lind come, nnd all was 
 revivetl. She had conu', loo, in a nhape which 
 was adapted in the higliest degree to stimulate 
 all the pas-<i()u of Dacres's houI — young, beau- 
 tiful, fascinaling, elegant, refined, rich, honored, 
 courtcci, and happy. Upon ituch a being as thiit 
 the honifUiss wanderer, the outcast, looked, ami 
 his Houl seemed turned to tiro ait ho gazed. 
 Was it any wonder? 
 
 All this Hiiwbury thought, and with full sym- 
 pathy for his injured friend. He saw also that 
 Dacres could not be trusted by himself. Some 
 catastro])he would be sure to occur. He do- 
 termined, therefore, to accompany his friend, 
 go as to do what lie could to avert the calamity 
 which he dreaded. 
 
 And this was the reason why ho wont with 
 Dacres to Rome. 
 
 As for Dacres, ho secmod to bo animated by 
 but one motive, which he expressed over and 
 over again : 
 
 "She stood between mo and my child-an- 
 gcl, and so will I stand between her and her 
 Italian!" 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 TIIK ZOUAVK OFFICER. 
 
 WirATKVKii trouble Ethel had experienced at 
 Naples from her conviction that Ilawbury was 
 false was ini-reased and, if possible, intensified 
 by the discovery that he had followed them to 
 liome. His true motives for this could not jios- 
 sibly be known to her, so she, of course, conclud- 
 ed that it was his infatuaticm for Minnie, and 
 his determination to win her for himself. She 
 felt confident that he knew that she belonged to 
 the party, but was so utterly indiflferent to her 
 that he completely ignored her, and had not 
 suflicient interest in her to ask the commonest 
 (juestion about her. All this, of course, only con- 
 firmed her])revious opinion, and it also deepened 
 her melancholy. One additional effect it also 
 had, and that was to deprive her of any pleas- 
 ure that might be had from drives about liome. 
 She felt a morbid dread of meeting him some- 
 where ; she did not yet feel able to encounter 
 him; she could not trust herself; she felt sure 
 that if she saw him she would lose all self- 
 control, and make an exhibition of humiliating 
 weakness. The dread of this was sufHcient to 
 detain her at home ; and so she remained in- 
 doors, a prisoner, refusing her liberty, brooding 
 over her troubles, and striving to acquire that 
 indift'erence to him which she believed he had 
 toward her. Now going about was the very 
 thing which would have alleviated her woes, but 
 this was the very thing that she was unwilling to 
 do ; nor could any ])ersuasion shake her resolve. 
 
 One day Mrs. Willoughby and Minnie were 
 out driving, and in passing through a street they 
 encountered a crowd in front of one of tho 
 churches. Another crowd was inside, and, as 
 something was going on, they stopped the car- 
 rioge and sat looking. The Swiss Guards were 
 
 v', 
 
 I 
 
so 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 there in their picturescjue co8tunie, and the 
 cardinals in their scarlet robes and scarlet 
 coaches, and military otlicers of high rank, and 
 carriages of the Roman aristocracy filled with 
 beautiful ladies. Something of importance was 
 going on, the nature of which they did not know. 
 A little knot of Englishmen stood near; and from 
 their remarks the ladies gathered that this was 
 the Church of the Jesuits, and that the Tope in 
 person was going to perform high-mass, and 
 afterward hold a reception. 
 
 Soon there arose a murmur and a bustle 
 among the crowd, which was succeeded by a 
 deep stillness. The Swiss Guards drove the 
 throng to either side, and a passage-way was 
 thus formed through the jjcople to the church. 
 A carriage drove up in great state. In this was 
 seated an elderly gentleman in rich pontifical 
 robes. He had a mild and gentle face, upon 
 which was a sweet and winning smile. No face 
 is more attractive than that of Pio Nono. 
 
 " Oh, look !" cried Minnie ; " that must be 
 the Pope. Oh, what a darling !" 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby, however, was looking else- 
 where. 
 
 *' Minnie," said she. 
 
 " What, Kitty dear ?" 
 
 "Are you acquainted with any Zouave of- 
 ficer ?" 
 
 " Zouave officer ! Why, no ; what put such 
 a thing as that into your head, you old silly ?" 
 
 " Because there's a Zouave othcer over there 
 in the crowd who has been staring fixedly at 
 us ever since we came up, and trying to make 
 signals, and it's my opinion he's signaling to 
 you. Look at him ; he's over there on the top 
 of the steps." 
 
 "I won't look, "said Minnie, pettishly. "How- 
 do I know who he is ? I declare I'm afraid to 
 look at any body. He'll be coming and saving 
 my life." 
 
 "I'm sure this man is an old acquaintance." 
 
 " Nonsense ! how can he be ?" 
 
 "It may bo Captain Kirby." 
 
 " How silly ! Why, Captain Kirby is in the 
 Rifles." 
 
 "Perhaps he is dressed this way just for 
 amusement. Look at him." 
 
 "Now, Kitty, I think you're unkind. You 
 know I don't want to look at him ; I don't want 
 to see him. I don't care who he is — the great, 
 big, ugly, old horrid ! And if you say any thing 
 more, I'll go home." 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby was about to say something, 
 but her attention and Minnie's, and that of every 
 one else, was suddenly diverted to another quar- 
 ter. 
 
 Among the crowd they had noticed a tall man, 
 very thin, with a lean, cadaverous face, and long, 
 lanky, rusty black hair. He wore a white neck- 
 tie, and a suit of rusty black clothes. He also 
 held a large umbrella in his hand, which he kept 
 carefully tip out of the way of the crowd. This 
 figure was a conspicuous one, even in that crowd, 
 and the ladies had noticed it at the very first. 
 - As the Pope drove up they saw this long, 
 
 slim, thin, cadaverous man, in his suit of rusty 
 black, edging his way througii the crowd, so as 
 to get nearer, until at lengtii he stood immedi- 
 ately behind the line of Swiss Guards, who were 
 keeping the crowd back, and forming a passage- 
 way for the Pope. Meanwhile his Holiness was 
 advancing through the crowd. He reached out 
 his hand, and smiled and bowed and murmnr- 
 ed a blessing over them. At last his carriage 
 stoi)i)ed. The door was opened, and several at- 
 tendants prepared to receive the Pope and as- 
 sist him out. 
 
 At tlnit instant the tall, slim stranger pushed 
 forward his sallow head, with its long, lanky, 
 and rusty black hair, between two Swiss Guards, 
 and tried to squeeze between them. The Swiss 
 at first stood motionless, and the stranger had 
 actually succeeded in getting about half-way 
 through. He was immediately in front of his 
 Holiness, and staring at him with all his might. 
 His Holiness saw this very peculiar face, and 
 was so surprised that he uttered an involuntary 
 exclamation, and stopped short in his descent. 
 
 The stranger sto])ped short too, and quite in- 
 voluntarily also. For the Swiss Guards, irritated 
 by his pertinacity, and seeing the Pope's ges- 
 ture, turned suddenly, and two of them grasped 
 the stranger by his coat collar. 
 
 It was, of course, an extremely undignified 
 attitude for the Swiss Guards, whose position is 
 simply an ornamental one. Nothing but the 
 most unparalleled outrage to their dignity could 
 have moved them to this. So unusual a dis- 
 play of energy, however, did not last long. A 
 few persons in citizens' clothes darted forward 
 from among the crowd, and secured the stranger; 
 while the Swiss, seeing who they were, resumed 
 their erect, rigid, and ornamental attitude. The 
 Pope found no longer any obstacle, and resumed 
 his descent. For a moment the stranger had cre- 
 ated a wide-spread consternation in the breasts 
 of all the different and very numerous classes 
 of men who composed that crowd. The arrest 
 was the signal for a murmur of voices, among 
 which the ladies heard those of the knot of En- 
 glishmen who stood near. 
 
 "It's some Garibaldian," said they. 
 
 And this was the general sentiment. 
 
 Several hours after this they were at home, 
 and a caller was announced. It was the Baron 
 Atramonte. 
 
 " Atramonte ! " said Lady Dalrymple. "Who 
 is that ? We're not at home, of course, Atra- 
 monte ! Some of these Italian nobles. Real- 
 ly, I think we have seen enough of them. Who 
 is he, Kitty ?" 
 
 "I'm sure I haven't fbd faintest idea. I 
 never heard of him in my life." 
 
 " We're not at home, of course. It's a sin- 
 gular way, and surely can not be Roman fash- 
 ion. It's not civilized fashion. But the Con- 
 tinental nobility are so odd." 
 
 In a few minutes the servant, who had been 
 dispatched to say, "Not at home," returned with 
 the statement that the Baron wished particular- 
 ly to see Miss Fay on urgent business. 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 57 
 
 'TWO OF THEM (IBASI'ED THE STKANOEB IIY 1118 COAT OOLIAB." 
 
 At this extraordinary message Lady Dal- 
 rymple and Mrs. Willougliby looked first at one 
 another, and then at Minnie, in amazement. 
 
 " I'm sure /don't know any tliingaboii*; him," 
 said Minnie. " They always tease me so. Oh, 
 do go and see who he is, and send him away — 
 please! Oh, do, please, Dowdy dear!" 
 
 "Well, I snppose I had better see the per- 
 son," said Lady Dalrymple, good-naturedly. 
 "There must be some mistake. How is he 
 dressed?" she asked tlie servant. "Is he a 
 military gentleman? Most of them seem to 
 belong to the army." 
 
 "Yes, my lady. Zouave dress, my lady." 
 
 At this Mrs. Willoughby and Minnie looked 
 at one another. Lady Dalrymple went away ; 
 and as no other was present, Ethel being, as 
 usual, in her room, Mrs. Willoughby sighed and 
 said, 
 
 "I thought that man must know you." 
 
 "Well, I'm sure I don't know liim," said 
 Minnie. "I never knew a Zouave officer in 
 my life." 
 
 " It may be Captain Kirby, under an assumed 
 name and a disguise." 
 
 "Oh no, it isn't. I don't believe Ym would 
 be such a perfect — monster. Oh dtuir! It's 
 somebody, though. It must. be. And he wants 
 me. Oh, what shall I do ?" 
 
 ' ' Nonsense ! Yon need not go. Aunty will 
 see him, and send him off." 
 
 "Oh, I do so hope he'll go; but I'm afraid 
 he won't." 
 
 After a short time Lady Dalrymjjle returned. 
 
 "Really," said she, "this is a most extraor- 
 dinary person. He speaks English, but not at all 
 like an Englishman. I don't know who he is. 
 He calls himself a Baron, but he doesn't seem 
 to be a foreigner. I'm puzzled." 
 
 "I hope he's gone," said Mrs. Willoughby. 
 
 "No — that's the worst of it. He won't go. 
 He says he must see Minnie, and he won't tell 
 his errand. I told him that he could not sec 
 you, but that I would tell you what he wanted, 
 and that you were not at home. And what do 
 you think he said ?" 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know, Dowdy dear." 
 
 " Why, he' said he had nothing to do, and 
 would wait till you came back. And he took 
 his seat in a way that showed that he meant to 
 wait. Really, I'm quite at a loss what to do. 
 You'll have to see him, Kitty dear." 
 
 "What a strange person!" said Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby. " It's so rude. And don't you know 
 what he is? How do you know he isn't an 
 Italian ?" 
 
 " Oh, his English, you know. He speaks it 
 perfectly, but not like an Englishman, you know, 
 nor like a Scotchman either, or an Irishman. 
 I wonder whether he may not be an American?" 
 
 At this Minnie started. 
 
 "Oh dear!" she said. 
 
 "What's the matter, darling?" 
 
 "An American! Oh dear! what will he- 
 come of me!" 
 
 "Why," said Lady Dalrymple, "do you 
 know him, then, after all ?" 
 
 "Oh, I'm so afraid that I know him !" 
 
 i 
 
I 
 
 
 68 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 11. 
 
 "Who is it, dear?" 
 
 "Oh, Dowdy! Oh, Kitty!" 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 "It iniLSt be that man. Oh, was there ever 
 sucli a trouble — " 
 
 "Ilcally, Minnie dearest, you are allowing 
 yourself to get too agitated. Who is this per- 
 son?" 
 
 '* He — he's — an — American." 
 
 "An American? Why, I jnst said that I 
 thought he might be one. J didn't know that 
 you were acquainted with any." 
 
 "Oh yes ; I did get acquainted with some in 
 — in Canada." 
 
 " Oh ; and is this man a Canadian ?'' 
 
 "No, Dowdy darling; only an American." 
 
 "Well, if he's a friend of yours, I suppose 
 you know something about him. But how sin- 
 gular it is that you have so completely forgot- 
 ten his name. Atramonte? Why, I'm sure 
 it's a very singular name for an American gen- 
 tleman — at least it seems so to me — but I don't 
 know much about them, you know. Tell me, 
 darling, who is he ?" 
 
 " He — he saved my life." 
 
 "What! saved your life? Why, my precious 
 child, what are you talking about ? It was the 
 Italian that saved your life, you know, not 
 this one." 
 
 "Oh, but he did too," said Minnie, despair- 
 ingly. " I couldn't help it. He would do it. 
 Papa was washed away. I wish they all wouldn't 
 be so horrid." 
 
 Lady Dalrymple looked in an equally despair- 
 ing manner at Mrs. Willoughby. 
 
 "What is it, Kitty dear? Is the child in- 
 sane, or what does she mean ? How could this 
 person have saved her life ?" 
 
 " That's just what distracts me," said Min- 
 nie. "They all do it. Every single person 
 comes and saves my life. And now I suppose 
 I must go down and see this person." 
 
 "Well, really, since you say he saved your 
 life, perhaps it would be as well not to be un- 
 civil,'" said Lady Dalrymple ; ' ' but, at the same 
 time, he seems to me to act in a very extraor- 
 dinary manner. And he calls himself a Baron. 
 Do they have nobles in America?" 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know. Dowdy dear. I 
 never knew that he was a Baron. He may 
 have been the son of some American Baron ; 
 and — and — I'm sure I don't know." 
 
 "Nonsense, Minnie dear," said Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby. "This man's title is a foreign one. 
 He probably obtained it in Italy or Spain, or 
 perhaps Mexico. I think they have titles in 
 Mexico, though I really don't know." 
 
 " Why, of course, one isn't expected to know 
 any thing about America," said Lady Dalrym- 
 ple. "I can mention quite a number of En- 
 glish statesmen, members of the cabinet, and 
 others, who don't know any more about Ameri- 
 ca than I do." 
 
 "Do you really intend to go down yourself 
 and see him, Minnie dear?" asked Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby. 
 
 " How can I help it ? What am I to do ? I 
 must go, Kitty darling. He is so very jjositive, 
 and — and he insists so. I don't want to hurt 
 his feelings, you know ; and I really think there 
 is nothing for me to do but to go. What do 
 you think about it. Dowdy dear?" and she ap- 
 pealed to her aunt. 
 
 "Well, Minnie, my child, I think it would 
 be best not to be unkind or uncivil, since he 
 saved your life." 
 
 Upon this Minnie accompanied her sister to 
 see the visitor. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby entered the room first, and 
 Minnie was close behind her, as though she 
 sought protection from some unknown peril. 
 On entering the room they saw a man dressed 
 in Zouave uniform. His hair was crop]ied 
 short ; he wore a mustache and no beard ; his 
 features were regular and handsome ; while a 
 ])air of fine dark eyes were looking earnestly 
 at the door, and the face and the eyes had the 
 expression of one who is triumi)hantly await- 
 ing the result of some agreeable surprise. Mrs. 
 Willoughby at once recognized the stranger as 
 the Zouave officer who had stared at them near 
 the Churcli of the Jesuits. She advanced with 
 lady-like grace toward him, when siuUlonly he 
 stepped hastily past her, without taking an)' 
 notice of her, and catching Minnie in his arms, 
 he kissed her several times. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby started hack in horror. 
 
 Minnie did not resist, nor did she scream, or 
 faint, or do any thing. She only looked a little 
 confused, and managed to extricate herself, aft- 
 er which she took a seat as far away as she 
 could, putting her sister between her and the 
 Zouave. But the Zouave's joy was fidl, and 
 he didn't appear to notice it. lie settled him- 
 self in a chair, and laughed loud in his happi- 
 ness. 
 
 "Only to think of it," said he. "Why, I 
 had no more idea of your being here, Minnie, 
 than Victor//. Well, here you see me. Only 
 been here a couple of months or so. You got my 
 last favor, of course? And ain't you regular 
 knocked np to see me a Baron ? Yes, a Baron 
 — a real, live Baron ! I'll tell you all about it. 
 You see I was here two or three years ago— the 
 time of Montana — and fought on the Tope's side. 
 Odd thing, too, wasn't it, for an American ? But 
 so it was. Well, they promoted me, and want- 
 ed me to stay. But I couldn't fix it. I had 
 business off home, and was on my way there 
 the time of the shipwreck. Well, I've been 
 dodgin' all round every wdiero since then, but 
 never forgettin' little Min, mind you, and at 
 .'ast I found myself here, all right. I'd been 
 speculatin' in wines and raisins, and just dropped 
 in here to take pot-luck with some old Zouave 
 friends, when, darn me ! if they didn't make 
 me stay. It seems there's squally times ahead. 
 They wanted a live man. They knew I was 
 that live man. They otfered me any thing I 
 wanted. They offered me the title of Baron 
 Atramonte. That knocked me, I tell you. 
 Siiys I, I'm your man. So now you see me 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 59 
 
 OATOIIINU MINNIE IN IIIB AUMS, UK KISSED UEH 8EVEBAI. TIMES. 
 
 Baron Atiamonte, captain in the Papal Zou- 
 aves, ready to go wliere glory waits me — but 
 fonder than ever of little Miii. Oh, I tell you 
 what, I ain't a bit of a brag, but I'm some here. 
 The men think I'm a little the tallest lot in 
 the shape of a commander they ever did see. 
 When I'm in Rome I do as the Romans do, 
 and so I let fly at them a speecii every now 
 and then. Why, I've gone through nearly the 
 whole 'National Si)eaker' by this time. I've 
 given them Murcellus's speech to the mob, Bru- 
 tus's to the Romans, and Antony's over Ca;sar's 
 dead body. I tried a bit of Cicero against 
 Catiline, but I couldn't remember it very well. 
 You know it, of course, (luousque tandem, you 
 know. 
 
 "Well, Min, how goes it?" ho continued. 
 "This (s Jolly ; and, what's more, it's real good 
 in you — darn me if it ain't ! I knew you'd be 
 regularly struck up all of a heap when yoti heard 
 of me as a Baron, but I really didn't think you'd 
 come all the way here to see me. And you do 
 look stunning ! You do beat all ! And this 
 lady? You haven't introduced me, you know." 
 
 The Baron rose, and looked exjiectantly at 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby, and then at Minnie. The 
 latter faltered forth some words, among which 
 the Baron caught the names Mrs. Willoughby 
 and Rufus K. Gunn, the latter name pronounced, 
 with the middle initial and all, in a queer, prim 
 way. 
 
 " Mrs. Willoughby — ah ! — Min's sister, I pre- 
 sume. Well, I'm j)leased to see yon, ma'am. 
 Do you know, ma'am, I have reason to re- 
 member your name ? It's associated with the 
 brightest hours of my life. It was in your par- 
 lor, ma'am, that I first obtained Min's promise 
 of her hand. Your hand, madam." 
 
 And, stooping down, he grasped Mrs. Wil- 
 lougliby's hand, which was not extended, and 
 wrung it so hard that she actually gave a little 
 shriek. 
 
 "For my part, ma'am," he continued, "I'm 
 not ashamed of my name — not u mite. It's a 
 good, honest name; but being as the Holy 
 Father's gone and made me a noble, I prefer 
 being addressed by my title. All Americans 
 are above titles. They despise them. But be- 
 ing in Rome, you see, we must do as the Ro- 
 mans do ; and so vou needn't know me as Riifus 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 K. Gunn, but as the Baron Atramonte. As for 
 you, Min — you and I won't stand on ceremony 
 — you may call me 'Roof,' or any other name 
 you fancy. I would suggest some pet name — 
 something a little loving, yon know." 
 
 In the midst of all this, which was poured 
 forth with extreme volubility, the servant came 
 and handed a card. 
 
 "Count Girasole." 
 
 "UAWUUBY, A8 I'm A LIVIMO BlNNiiK!'' 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 At any other time Mrs. Willoughby would 
 perhaps have manoeuvred Minnie out of the 
 room ; but on the present occasion the ad- 
 vent of the Italian was an inexpressible relief. 
 Mrs. Willoughby was not prepared for a scene 
 like this. The manners, the language, and the 
 acts of Rufus K. Gunn had filled her with sim- 
 ple horror. She was actually bewildered, and 
 her presence of mind was utterly gone. As for 
 Minnie, she was quite helpless, and sat, looking 
 frightened. The Baron Atramonte might have 
 been one of the excellent of the earth — he might 
 have been brave and loyal and just and true and 
 tender, but his manner was one to which they 
 were unaccustomed, and consequently Mrs. 
 Willoughby was quite overcome. 
 
 The arrival of Girasole, therefore, was greet- 
 ed by her with joy. She at once rose to meet 
 him, and could not help infusing into her greet- 
 ing ft warmth which she had never shown him 
 before. Girasole's handsome eyes sparkled 
 with delight, and when Mrs. Willoughby point- 
 edly made way for him to seat himself next to 
 Minnie his cup of joy was full. Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby's only idea at that moment was to 
 
 throw some obstacle between Minnie and that 
 " dreadful person" who claimed her as his own, 
 and had taken such shocking liberties. She 
 did not know that Girasole was in Rome, and 
 now accepted his arrival at that opportune mo- 
 ment as something little less than providential. 
 
 And now, actuated still by the idea of throw- 
 ing further obstacles between Minnie and the 
 Baron, she herself went over to the latter, 
 and began a series of polite remarks about the 
 weather and about Rome ; while Girasole, eager 
 to avail himself of his unexpected privilege, 
 conversed with Minnie in a low voice in his 
 broken English. 
 
 This arrangement was certainly not very 
 agreeable to the Baron. His flow of spirits 
 seemed to be checked at once, and his volu- 
 bility ceased. He made only monosyllabic an- 
 swers to Mrs. Willoughby's remarks, and his 
 eyes kept wandering over beyond her to ]\Iin- 
 nie, and scrutinizing the Italian who was thus 
 monojiolizing her at the very moment when he 
 was beginning to have a "realizing sense" of her 
 presence. He looked puzzled. He could not 
 understand it at all. He felt that some wrong 
 was done by somebody. He fell into an un- 
 gracious mood. He hated the Italian who had 
 thus come between him and his happiness, and 
 who chatted with Minnie, in his abominable 
 broken English, just like an old acquaintance. 
 He couldn't understand it. He felt an unpleas- 
 ant restraint thrown over him, and began to 
 meditate a departure, and a call at some more 
 favorable time later in the evening. But he 
 wanted to have a few more words with "Min," 
 and so he tried to " sit out" the Italian. 
 
 But the Italian was as determined as the 
 American. It was the first chance that he had 
 had to get a word with Minnie since he was in 
 Milan, and he was eager to avail himself of it. 
 Mrs. Willoughby, on her part, having thus dis- 
 comfited the Baron, was not unmindful of the 
 other danger ; so she moved her seat to a posi- 
 tion near enough to overlook and check Gira- 
 sole, and then resumed those formal, chilling, 
 heartless, but perfectly polite remarks which 
 she had been administering to the Baron since 
 Girasole's arrival. 
 
 At length Mrs. Willoughby began to be dread- 
 fully bored, and groaned in spirit over the sit- 
 uation in which Minnie had placed herself, and 
 racked her brains to find some way of retreat 
 from these two determined lovers, who thus set 
 at naught the usages of society for their own 
 convenience. She grew indignant. She won- 
 dered if they would ever go. She wondered if 
 it were not possible to engage the Count and 
 the Baron in a conversation by themselves, and, 
 under cover of it, withdraw. Finally she began 
 to think whether she would not be justified in 
 being rude to them, since they were so incon- 
 siderate. She thought over this, and was rap- 
 idly coming to the decision that some act of 
 rudeness was her only hope, when, to her im- 
 mense relief, the senant entered and announced 
 Lord Hawbury. 
 
«• -I' 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 61 
 
 The entrance of the welcome guest into the 
 room wlierc the unwelcome ones were seated 
 was to Mrs. Willoiigliby like liglit in a dark 
 place. To Minnie also it brouglit immense re- 
 lief in her difficult position. Tiie ladies rose, 
 and were about to greet tlie new-comer, when, 
 to their amazement, the Baron sprang furwai-d, 
 caught Lord llawbury's hand, and wrung it 
 over and over again with the most astonisliing 
 vehemence. 
 
 "Hawbury, as I'm a living sinner! Thun- 
 deration ! Where did you come from ? Good 
 again ! Darn it all, Hawbury, tliis is real good I 
 And how well you look ! How are you ? All 
 right, and right side u])? Who'd have thought 
 it? It ain't you, really, now, is it ? Darn me 
 if I ever was so astonished in my life ! You're 
 the last man I'd have expected. Yes, Sir. 
 You may bet high on that." 
 
 "Ah, really," said Hawbury, "my dear fel- 
 low ! Flattered, I'm sure. And how goes it 
 with you ? Deuced odd i)laco to find you, old 
 boy. And I'm deuced glad to see you, you 
 know, and all tliat sort of tiling." 
 
 And he wrung the Baron's hand quite as 
 heartily as the other wrung his; and tlie ex- 
 l)ression on his face was of as much cordiality 
 and pleasure as that upon tlic face of the other. 
 Then Hawbury greeted tlic ladies, and apolo- 
 gized liy stating that the Baron was a very old 
 and tried friend, whom ho had not seen for 
 years ; which intelligence surprised Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby greatly, and brought a faint ray of 
 sonietliing like peace to poor Minnie. 
 
 Tlie ladies were not imprisoned much lon- 
 ger. Girasole threw a black look at Lord 
 Hawbury, and retreated. After a few moments' 
 chat Hawbury also retired, and made the Baron 
 go witli him. And the Baron went witliout 
 any urging. He insisted, liowever, on shaking 
 hands heartily with both of tlie ladies, especial- 
 ly Minnie, whose poor little hand he nearly 
 crushed into a pulp ; and to the latter he wliis- 
 percd the consoling assurance that he would 
 come to see her on the following day. After 
 which he followed liis friend out. 
 
 Then lie took Hawbury over to his own quar- 
 ters, and Hawbury made himself very much at 
 home in a rocking-cliair, whicli the Baron re- 
 garded as the pride and joy and glory of his 
 room. 
 
 "By Jove!" cried Hawbury. "This is 
 deuced odd, do you know, old chap ; and I can't 
 imagine how the mischief you got here !" 
 
 This led to long explanations, and a long 
 conversation, which was protracted far into the 
 night, to the immense enjoyment of botli of the 
 friends. 
 
 The Baron was, as Lord Hawbury had said, 
 an old friend. He had become acquainted with 
 him many years before upon the prairies of 
 America, near the Rocky Mountains. The 
 Baron had rescued him from Indians, by whom 
 he had been entrapped, and the two friends had 
 wandered far over those regions, enduring per- 
 ils, fighting enemies, and roughing it in general. 
 
 This rough life had madq each one's better na- 
 ture visible to the otiier, and had led to the 
 formation of a friendsliip full of mutual apjire- 
 ciation of the other's best qualities. Now it is 
 just possible that if they had not known one 
 another, Hawbury might iiave tliouglit the Bar- 
 on a boor, and the Baron miglit have called 
 Hawbury a "thundering snob;" but as it was, 
 tlie possible boor and tlie possible snob each 
 thought the other one of the finest fellows in 
 the world. 
 
 "But you're not a Roman Catholic," said 
 Hawbury, as tlie Baron explained his position 
 among tiie Zouaves. 
 
 " Wiiat's the odds ? All's fish that comes to 
 their net. To get an oflSce in the Church may 
 require a profession of faith, but we're not so 
 particular in tlie army. I take the oath, and 
 they let me go. Besides, I have Roman Cath- 
 olic leanings." 
 
 "Roman Catholic leanings?" 
 
 " Yes ; I like the Pope. He's a fine man. 
 Sir — a fine man. I regard that man more like 
 a father tlian any thing else. There isn't one 
 of us but would lay down our lives for that old 
 gentleman." 
 
 " But you never go to confession, and you're 
 not a member of the Ciiurch." 
 
 "No; but then I'm a member of tlie army, 
 and I have long chats witli some of the En- 
 glisli-speaking priests. There are some first- 
 rate fellows among them, too. Yes, Sir." 
 
 "I don't see much of a leaning in all that." 
 
 "Leaning? Why, it's all leaning. Why, 
 look here. I remember the time when I was 
 a grim, true-blue Puritan. Well, I ain't that 
 now, I used to think the Pope was tlie Beast 
 of the 'Pocalypse. Well, now I think he's the 
 finest old gentleman I ever saw. I didn't use 
 to go to Catholic chapel. Well, now I'm there 
 often, and I rather kind o' like it. Besides, I'm 
 ready to argue with them all day and all night, 
 and what more can they expect from a fighting 
 man? 
 
 ' ' You see, after our war I got my hand in, and 
 couldn't stop fighting. The Indians wouldn't 
 do — too much throat -cutting and savagery. 
 So I come over here, took a fancy to the Poi)e, 
 enlisted, was at Montana, fit there, got promot- 
 ed, went home, couldn't stand it, and here I 
 am, back again ; though how long I'm going to 
 be here is more'n I can tell. The fact is, I feel 
 kind of onsettled." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " Oh, it's an aggravating place, at the best." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "There's such an everlasting waste of re- 
 sources — such tarnation bad management. 
 Fact is, I've noted that it's always the case 
 wherever you trust ministers to do business. 
 They're sure to make a mess of it. I've known 
 lots of cases. Why, that's always the way with 
 us. Look at our stock-companies of any kind, 
 our religious societies, and our publishing houses 
 — wherever they get a ministerial committee, 
 the whole concern goes to blazes. I know that. 
 
THE AMEllICAN BARON. 
 
 Yes, Sir. Now that's the cnsc here. Here's a 
 fine country. Why, round this here city there's 
 IV country, Sir, ihat, if ]irojierly manugcd, might 
 heat any of our imiiries — and look at it. 
 
 "Then, again, they coini)hun of poverty. 
 Wliy, I can tell you, from my own observation, 
 that they've got enougli cajiital locked up, lying 
 useless, in this hero city, to regenerate it all, 
 and ])ut it on its feet. This cajjitul wants to be 
 utilized. It's been lying too long without pay- 
 ing interest. It's time that it sto])ped. Why, 
 I tell you what it is, if they were to sell out 
 what they have here lying idle, and realize, 
 they'd get enough money to form an endow- 
 ment fund for the Tope and his court so big 
 that his Holiness and every ofticial in the place 
 might get salaries all round out of the interest 
 that would enable them to live like — well, I was 
 going to say like princes, but there's a lot of 
 l)riuccs in Koine that live so shabby that the 
 comparison ain't worth nothing. 
 
 " Why, see here, now," continued the Baron, 
 warming with his theme, which seemed to be a 
 congenial one ; "just look here ; see the posi- 
 tion of this lioman court. They can actually 
 levy taxes on the whole world. Voluntary con- 
 tributions, Sir, arc a wonderful power. Think 
 of our missionary societies — our Sabbath-school 
 organizations in the States. Think of the wealth, 
 the activity, and the action of all our great char- 
 itable, i)hilanthropic, and religioifs bodies. What 
 supports them all? Voluntary contributions. 
 Now what I mean to say is this — I mean to say 
 that if a proper organization was arranged here, 
 they could get annual receipts from the wliole 
 round globe that would make the Vo])e the 
 richest man on it. Wiiy, in that case Koths- 
 cliild wouldn't be a circumstance. The I'opc 
 might go into banking himself, and control the 
 markets of the world. But no. There's a lot 
 of ministers here, and they haven't any head 
 for it. I wish they'd give me a chance. I'd 
 make things spin. 
 
 " Then, again, they've got other things here 
 that's ruining them. There's too much repres- 
 sion, and that don't do for the immortal mind. 
 My idea is that every man was created free and 
 equal, and has a riglit to do just as he darn 
 pleases ; but you can't beat that into the heads 
 of the governing class here. No, Sir. The 
 fact is, what Rome wants is a republic. It '11 
 come, too, some day. The great mistake of 
 his Holiness's life is that he didn't put himself 
 at the head of the movement in '48. lie had 
 the chance, but he got frightened, and backed 
 down. Whereas if he had been a real, live 
 Yankee, now — if he had been like some of our 
 Western parsons — he'd have put himself on the 
 tiptop of the highest wave, and gone in. Why, 
 he could have had all Italy at his right hand by 
 this time, instead of having it all against him. 
 There's where lie made his little mistake. If 
 I were I'ojjc I'd fight the enemy with their own 
 weapons. I'd accept the situation. I'd go in 
 head over heels for a republic. I'd have Uomc 
 the capital, mj'self president. Garibaldi com- 
 
 mander-in-chief, Mazzini secretary of state — 
 a man. Sir, that can lick even Bill Seward him- 
 self in a regular, old-fashioned, tonguey, sub- 
 tile, dii)loniatic note. And in that case, with 
 a few live men at the head of attairs, where 
 would Victor Emanuel be ? Emi)hatically, no- 
 where ! 
 
 "Why, iSir," continued the Baron, "I'd en- 
 gage to take this city as it is, and the oflice of 
 l'o])e, and nm the whole Konian ('atholic 
 Church, till it knocked out all opposition by 
 the simple and natural j)rocess of absorbing all 
 o])])oneuts. We want a rei)ublic here in Rome. 
 We want freedom. Sir. Where is the Church 
 making its greatest triumj)hs to-day? In the 
 States, Sir. If the Catholic Church made it- 
 self free and liberal and go-ahend ; if it kept 
 II]) with the times; if it was imbued with the 
 spirit of progress, and pitched aside all old- 
 fashioned traditions — why, I tell you. Sir, it 
 would be a little the tallest organization on this 
 green globe of ours. Yes, Sir!" 
 
 While Hawbury and the Baron were thns 
 engaged in high discourse, Mrs. Willougliby and 
 Miiuiie were engaged in discourses of a less 
 elevated but more engrossing character. 
 
 After the ladies had escaped they went up 
 stairs. Lady Dalrymjile had retired some time 
 before to her own room, and they had the 
 apartment to themselves. Minnie ilung herself 
 into a chair and looked bewildered ; Mrs. Wil- 
 lougliby took another chair opposite, and said 
 notliing for a long time. 
 
 "Well," said Jlinnie at last, "you needn't 
 be so cross, Kitty ; I didn't bring him here." 
 
 " Cross !" said her sister ; "I'm not cross." 
 
 " Well, you're showing temjjcr, at any rate ; 
 and you know you are, and I think it very 
 unkind in you, when 1 have so much to trouble 
 me." 
 
 " Why, reallj', Minnie darling, I don't know 
 what to say." 
 
 " Well, why don't you tell me what you 
 think of him, and all that sort of thing? You 
 mi(jht, you know." 
 
 " Think of him !" repeated Mrs.Willoughby, 
 elevating her eyebrows. 
 
 "Yes, think of him; and you needn't go 
 and make faces about him, at any rate." 
 
 " Did I make faces ? Well, dear," said Mrs. 
 Willougljby, patiently, "I'll tell you what I 
 think of liim. I'm afraid of him." 
 
 "Well, then," said Minnie, in a tone of 
 trium])h, " now you know how I feel. Sup- 
 pose he saved your life, and then came in his 
 awfully boisterous way to see you ; and got 
 you alone, and began that way, and really 
 quite overwhelmed you, you know ; and then, 
 when you were really almost stunned, supjiose 
 he went and proposed to you? Now, then!" 
 
 And Minnie ended this question with the air 
 of one who could not be answered, and knew it. 
 
 "lie's awful — perfectly awful!" said Mrs. 
 Willougliby. "And the way he treated you! 
 It was .so shocking." 
 
 " I know ; and that's just the horrid way he 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 LOOK AT THE MAN ! ' 
 
 alirni/s does," said Minnie, in a plaintive tone. 
 "I"ai sure / don't know what to do with him. 
 And then he's Lord Ilawbiiry's friend. So 
 what are we to do ?" 
 
 " I don't know, unless we leave Rome at 
 once." 
 
 " But T don't want to leave Rome," said Min- 
 nie. "I hate being chased away from i)laces 
 by people — and they'd be sure to follow me, 
 you know — and I don't know what to do. And 
 oh, Kitty darling, I've just thouglit of some- 
 thing. It would be so nice. What do you 
 think of it?" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " Whv, this. You know the Pope ?" 
 
 "No,'l don't." 
 
 "Oh, well, you've seen him, you know." 
 
 " Ves ; but what has he got to do with it?'' 
 
 " Why, I'll get yon to take me, and I'll go 
 to him, and toll him all about it, and aiiout all 
 these horrid men ; and I'll ask him if he can't 
 do something or other to help me. They have 
 dispensations and things, you know, that the 
 Pope gives ; and I want him to let me dispense 
 witii these awful people." 
 
 "Nonsense !" said 
 Mrs. Willoughby. 
 
 " I don't sec any 
 nonsense in it at all. 
 I'm in earnest," said 
 Minnie; "and I think 
 it'H a great shame." 
 
 "Nonsense I" said 
 her sister again; "the 
 oidy thing is for you to 
 stay in your room." 
 
 "But I don't want 
 to stay in my room, 
 and I can't." 
 
 "Oh dear! what 
 can I do with this 
 child ?" exclaimed 
 Mrs. Will()Ughl)y, 
 whose ])aticnce was 
 giving way. 
 
 Ujjon this Minnie 
 went over and kissed 
 her, and begged to be 
 forgiven ; and offered 
 to do any tiling that 
 darling Kitty wanted 
 her to do. 
 
 Afterthis they talk- 
 ed a good deal over 
 their diflicidty, but 
 without being able to 
 sec their way out of it 
 more clearly. 
 
 That evening tliey 
 were walking up and 
 down the balcony of 
 the house. It was a 
 quadrangular edifice, 
 and they had a suit 
 of rooms on the sec- 
 ond and third stories. 
 They were on the balcony of the third story, 
 which looked down into the court-yard below. 
 A fountain was in the middle of this, and the 
 moon was shining briglitly. 
 
 The ladies were standing looking down, when 
 Minnie gently touched her sister's arm, and 
 whispered, 
 
 "Look at the man!" 
 "Where?" 
 "By the fountain." 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby looked, and saw the face 
 of a man who was standing on the other side 
 of the fountain. His head rose above it, and 
 his face was turned toward them. He evidently 
 did not know that lie was seen, but was watch- 
 ing the ladies, thinking that he himself was un- 
 observed. The moment that Mrs. Willoughby 
 looked at the face she recognized it. 
 
 " Come in," said she to Minnie. And draw- 
 ing her sister after her, she went into the house. 
 "I knew the face ; didn't you, Kitty dear?" 
 said Minnie. " It's so easy to tell it. It was 
 Scone Dacres. But what in the world does 
 he want? Oh dear! I hope lie won't bother 
 me." 
 
64 
 
 THE AMERICAN BAUON. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE INTHDDKU. 
 
 JuDOiNO from the IJiiron's own words, it vnU 
 be iicrceiveil tlmt his coin])reheiision of tlie sit- 
 uation wus a little ditt'erent from the netmil fact. 
 His idea was that his last letter hud been re- 
 ceived by Minnie in England, whereupon she 
 had bftMi seized with such an nngovernable 
 longing to see him that she at once set out for 
 Rome. She had not sent him any message, for 
 she wished to suri)rise him. She had done so 
 ettectiially. lie was not merely siirjirised ; he 
 was overwhelmed, overjoyed, intoxicated with 
 joy. This was indeed kind, he thought — the 
 true part of a fond girl, who thus cast aside all 
 silly scrujjles, and followed the dictates of her 
 own noble and loving heart. 
 
 Now the fact that ho had made n partial fail- 
 ure of his first visit to his cliarmer did not in 
 the slightest degree disconcert him. He was 
 naturally joyous, hilarious, and sanguine. His 
 courage never faltered, nor eonld the brightness 
 of his soul be easily dimmed. A disappoint- 
 ment on one day gave him but little trouble. 
 It was quickly thrown oft", and then his buoyant 
 spirit looked forward for better fortune on the 
 next day. The little disappointment which he 
 bad did not, therefore, prevent him from letting 
 bis reason feast and his soul flow with Lord 
 Hawbury ; nor, when that festive season was 
 over, did it prevent him from indulging in the 
 briglitest anticipations for the following daj*. 
 
 On the afternoon of that day, then, the Baron 
 directed his steps toward the hotel where his 
 charmer resided, his heart beating high, and the 
 generous blood mantling his cheek, and all that 
 sort of thing. But the Baron was not alone. 
 He had a companion, and this companion was 
 an acquaintance whom he had made that morn- 
 ing. This companion was very tall, very thin, 
 very sallow, with long, straggling locks of rusty 
 black hair, white neck-tie, and a suit of rather 
 seedy black clothes. In fact, it was the very 
 stranger who had been arrested almost under 
 his eyes as a Garibaldian. His case bad come 
 under the notice of the Baron, who had visit- 
 ed him, and found him not to be a Garibaldian 
 at all, but a fellow-countryman in distress — in 
 short, no less a person than the Reverend Saul 
 Tozer, an esteemed clergyman, who had been 
 traveling through Europe for the benefit of his 
 health and the enlargement of his knowledge. 
 This fellow-countryman in distress had at once 
 been released by the Baron's influence ; and, 
 not content with giving him his liberty, be de- 
 termined to take him under his protection, and 
 offered to introduce him to society ; all of which 
 generous oflices were fully appreciated by the 
 grateful clergyman. 
 
 The Baron's steps were first directed toward 
 the place above mentioned, and tjie Reverend 
 Saul accompanied him. On reaching it he 
 knocked, and asked for Miss Fay. 
 
 "Not at home," was the reply. 
 
 "Oh, well," said he, "I'll go in and wait till 
 
 she comes home. Come along, jjurson, and 
 nnike yourself quite at home. Oil, never mind, 
 young nuiii,' he continued to the servant; "I 
 know the way. (^ome along, jiarson." And 
 with these words lie led the way into the re- 
 ception-iooni, in which he had been before. 
 
 An elderly lady was seated there whom the 
 Baron recognized as having seen before. It was 
 Lady Dalrymple, whose name was, of course, 
 unknown to him, since he had only exchanged 
 a few words on his former visit. But as lie was 
 naturally chivalrous, and as he was bent on mak- 
 ing fViends with ail in the house, and as he was 
 also in a glorious state of good-will to the en- 
 tire human race, he at once advanced to the 
 lady and made a low bow. 
 
 "How ilo you do, ma'am?" 
 
 Lady Dnlryuqile liowed good-naturedly, for 
 she was good-natured to a fault. 
 
 " I su])poso you rememl)er me, ma'am," said 
 the Baron, in rather a loud voice ; for, as the 
 lady was elderly, he had a vague idea that she 
 was deaf — which impression, 1 nuiy mention, 
 was altogether unfounded — "I sui)pose you re- 
 member me, ma'am ? But I haven't had the 
 l)leasure of a regular introduction to you ; so 
 we'll waive ceremony, if you choose, and I'll in- 
 troduce myself. I'm the Baron Atramonte, and 
 this is my very particular friend, the Reverend 
 Saul To/.er." 
 
 "I'm hajjpy to make your acquaintance," 
 said Lady Dalrymjde, with a smile, and not 
 taking the Baron's ottered hand — not, however, 
 from j)ride, but simply from laziness — for she 
 liated the bother, and didn't consider it good 
 taste. 
 
 "I called here, ma'am," said the Baron, with- 
 out noticing tliat Lady Dalryini)le had not in- 
 troduced herself— '■'■ \ called here, ma'am, to see 
 my young friend. Miss Minnie Fay. I'm very 
 sorry that she ain't at home ; but since I am 
 here, I rather think I'll just set down and wait 
 for her. I s'pose you couldn't tell me, ma'am, 
 about how long it '11 be before she comes in?" 
 
 Lady Dalrymjile hadn't any idea. 
 
 "All right," said the Baron; "thq longer 
 she keeps me waiting, the more welcome she'll 
 be when slic docs come. That's all I've got to 
 say." 
 
 So the Baron handed a chair to the Rever- 
 end Saul, and then selecting another for him- 
 self in a convenient position, he ensconced him- 
 self in it as snugly as possible, and sat in silence 
 for a few minutes. Lady Dalrymple took no 
 notice of him whatever, but appeared to be en- 
 grossed with some trifle of needle-work. 
 
 After about five minutes the Baron resumed 
 the task of making himself agreeable. 
 
 He cleared his throat. 
 
 " Long in these jiarts, ma'am ?" he asked. 
 
 " Not very long," said Lady Dalrymple, with 
 her usual bland good-nature. 
 
 "A nice place this," continued the Baron. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And do you keep your health, ma'am?" in- 
 quired the Baron, with some anxiety. 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 85 
 
 "Thanks," said Lady Dalrymple ; wliicli ob- 
 servation set the liaron'H mind wondering what 
 she meant by tiiat. 
 
 "Pray, ma'am," said he, after a panso, "might 
 you be any relation to a yonng hidy friend of 
 mine that's staying here named Minnie Fay?" 
 
 "A little," said Lady Dalrymple ; whicii re- 
 mark set the Baron agaiti wondering. And he 
 was about to return to the charge with another 
 and more direct (juestion, when his attention 
 was arrested by the sound of footsteps on the 
 stairs ; so ho sat bolt upright, and stared hard 
 at the door. There was the rustle of a dress. 
 The Baron rose. So did the Reverend Saul 
 Tozer. The lady appeared. It was not Minnie. 
 It was Mrs. Willoughby. 
 
 Now during the Baron's visit there had been 
 some excitement up stairs. The ladies had told 
 the servants that they were not at home to any 
 callers that day. They had found with con- 
 sternation how carelessly the Baron had brushed 
 aside their little cobweb regulation, and had 
 heard his voice as he strove to keej) up an easy 
 conversation with their aunt. Whereujion an 
 earnest debate arose. They felt that it was not 
 fair to leave tlieir aunt alone with the Baron, 
 and that one of them should go to the rescue. 
 To Mrs. Willoughby's amazement, Miimie was 
 anxious to go. To this she utterly objected. 
 Minnie insisted, and Mrs. Willoughby was in 
 despair. In vain she reproached that most 
 whimsical of young ladies. In vain she remind- 
 ed her of the Baron's rudeness on a former oc- 
 casion. Minnie simply reminded her that the 
 Baron had saved her life. At last Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby actually had to resort to entreaties, 
 and thus she persuaded Minnie not to go down. 
 So she went down herself, but in fear and trem- 
 bling, for she did not know at what moment 
 her voluble and utterly unreliable sister might 
 take it into her head to follow her. 
 
 The Baron, who had risen, full of expecta- 
 tion, stood looking at her, full of disaj)point- 
 ment, which was very strongly marked on his 
 face. Then he recollected that Minnie was 
 "not at home," and that he must wait till she 
 did get home. This tliought, and the hope 
 that he would not now have long to wait, 
 brought back his friendly glow, and his calm 
 and his peace and his good-will toward the 
 whole human race, including the ladies in the 
 room. IIo therefore bowed very low, and, ad- 
 vancing, he made an effort to shake hands ; 
 but Mrs. Willoughby had already known the 
 dread pressure which the Baron gave, and 
 evaded him by a polite bow. Thereupon the 
 Baron introduced the Reverend Saul Tozer. 
 
 The Baron took out his watch, looked at 
 it, frowned, coughed, put it back, and then 
 drummed with his fingers on the arm of the 
 chair. 
 
 "Will it be long, ma'am, "asked the Baron, 
 "before Minnie gets back?" 
 
 " She is not out," said Mrs. Willoughby. 
 
 " Not out ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 E 
 
 " Why, the thundering fool of a servant went 
 and told me tha^ she was not at home !" 
 
 "She is at home," said Mrs. Willoughby, 
 sweetly. 
 
 " What ! at home !" cried the Baron. " And 
 does she know I'm here ?" 
 
 " She does." 
 
 " Then why in thunder don't she come 
 down 'i*" cried the Baron, wondciingly. 
 
 "Because she is indis]josed." 
 
 "Indisposed?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 This was the information which Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby had decided to give to the Baron. Min- 
 nie had stipulated that his feelings shotdd not 
 be hurt; and this seemed to her to be the easi- 
 est mode of dealing with him. 
 
 " Indisposed!" cried the Baron. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Oh dear ! Oh, I hojie, ma'am — I do hope, 
 ma'am, that she ain't very bad. Is it any thing 
 serious — or what ?" 
 
 " Not very serious; she has to keep her room, 
 though." 
 
 " She ain't sick abed, I hope ?" 
 
 "Oh no — not so bad as that!" 
 
 "Oil dear! it's all vie, I know. I'm to 
 blame. She made this journey — the jjoor lit- 
 tle i)et! — ^just to see me; and the fatigue and 
 the excitement have all been too much. Oh, I 
 might have known it ! Oh, I remember now 
 how ])ale she looked yesterday! Oh dear! 
 wiiat '11 I do if any thing hajipens to her ? Oh, 
 do tell me — is she better ? — did she pass a good 
 night ? — does she suffer any pain ? — can I do 
 any tiling for her? — will you take a little mes- 
 sage from me to her ?" 
 
 " She is quite easy now, thanks," said Mrs. 
 Willoughby ; " but we have to keep her per- 
 fectly quiet; the slightest excitement may be 
 dangerous. " 
 
 Meanwhile the Reverend Saul had become 
 wearied with sitting dumb, and began to look 
 around for some suitable means of taking part 
 in the conversation. As the Baron had intro- 
 duced him to society, he felt that it was his 
 duty to take some part so as to assert himself 
 both as a man, a scholar, and a clergyman. 
 So, as he found the Baron was monopolizing 
 Mrs. Willoughby, he gradually edged over till 
 he came witiiin ear-shot of Lady Dalrymple, 
 and then began to work his way toward a con- 
 versation. 
 
 "This, ma'am," he began, "is truly an in- 
 teresting spot." 
 
 Lady Dalrymple bowed. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am. I've been for the past few 
 days surveying the ruins of antiquity. It is 
 truly a soul-stirring si)ectacle." 
 
 "So I have heard," remarked Lady Dalrym- 
 ple, cheerfully. 
 
 "Every thing around us, ma'am," continued 
 the Reverend Saul, in a disnuil voice, " is sub- 
 ject to dissolution, or is actually dissolving. 
 IIow forcible air the words of the Tsalmist: 
 ' Our days air as the grass, or like the morn- 
 
 
 
 I !i 
 
 J£L 
 
CG 
 
 THK AMERICAN HAUON. 
 
 ing flower ; when blasting winds Rwcep o'er the 
 vale, they witiier in un hour.' Yes, inii'nin, I 
 have this week stood in the Uunmn Forum. 
 The Coliseum, iilso, mu'iim, is u wonderful 
 place. It WHS l)uilt by the Flavian em|)crors, 
 and when comiileteil could hold eighty tiiousaml 
 spectators seated, with iit)out twenty thousand 
 standing. In hot weatiier these spectators 
 were i)rotcctcd from the rays of the sun by 
 means of awnings. It is a mighty fabric, 
 ma'am !" 
 
 " I should think so," said Lady Duirymjdc. 
 
 "The arch of Titus, ma'am, is a line ruin. 
 It was originally built by the emperor of that 
 name to commemorate the concpiest of Jerusa- 
 lem. Tiie arch of Sci)timius Sevcrus was built 
 by the Fmpcror of tiuit name, and tiie arch of 
 Constantino was built by the emjjeror of that 
 name. They arc all very remarkable struc- 
 tures. " 
 
 " I'm charmed to hear you say so." 
 
 " It's true, ma'am ; but let mo add, ma'nm, 
 that the ruins of this ancient city do not offer 
 to my eyes a spectacle half so melancholy as 
 the great moral ruin which is presented by the 
 modern city. For, ma'am, when I look around, 
 what do I see ? I behold the Babylon of the 
 A))ocalypse ! Tray, ma'am, have you ever re- 
 flected much on that '?" 
 
 "Not to any great extent," saiil Lady Dal- 
 rymi)le, who now began to feel bored, and 
 so arose to her feet. The lleverend Saul To/.er 
 was just getting on a full head of conversational 
 steam, and was just fairly under way, when this 
 sad and chilling occurrence took jjlace. She 
 rose and bowed to the gentlemen, and began to 
 retreat. 
 
 All this time the Baron had been pouring 
 forth to Mrs. Willoughby his excited interroga- 
 tories about Minnie's health, and had asked her 
 to take a message. This Mrs. Willoughby re- 
 fused at first. 
 
 "Oh no !" said she; "it will really disturb 
 her too much. What she wants most is per- 
 fect quiet. Her health is really very delicate, 
 and I am excessively anxious about her." 
 
 "But does she — does she — is she — can she 
 walk about her own room'i'" stammered the 
 Baron. 
 
 "A little," said Mrs. Willoughby. "Oh, I 
 hope in a few weeks she may be able to come 
 down. But the \ try greatest care and quiet arc 
 needed, for she is in such a very delicate state 
 that wc watch her night and day." 
 
 "A few weeks!" echoed the Baron, in dis- 
 may. "Watch her night and day!" 
 
 " Oh, you know, it is the only chance for her 
 recovery. She is so delicate." 
 
 The Baron looked at Mrs. Willoughby with 
 a pale face, upon which there was real suffer- 
 ing and real misery. 
 
 " Can't I do something?" he gasped. "Won't 
 you take a message to her? It ought to do her 
 good. Perhaps she thinks I'm neglecting her. 
 Perhaps she thinks I ain't here enough. Tell 
 her I'm ready to give up my oflBce, and even 
 
 my title of nobility, and come and live here, if 
 it 'II be any comfort to her." 
 
 " < )h, really, Sir, you qniti' mistake her," said 
 Mrs. Willougiiby. " It lias no reference to you 
 whatever. It's a nervous affection, accompa- 
 nied with general debility and neuralgia." 
 
 "Oh no, you don't know her," said the Bar- 
 on, incrednlo4isly. "I^7Jowher. I know what 
 it is. Hut she walks, don't she?" 
 
 "Yes, a little — ^jnst across the room; still, 
 even that is too much. She is very, very weak, 
 ami must be (i>nte kept free from excitement. 
 Even the excitement of your visits is bad for 
 her. Her pulse is — is — always — accelerated — 
 and — she — I — Oh, dear mu !" 
 
 While Mrs. Willoughby had been nmking up 
 this last sentence she was startled by a rustling 
 on the stairs. It was the rustle of a fonuile's 
 dress. An awful thought occurred to her, which 
 distracted her, and confused her in the middle 
 of her sentence, and made her scarce able to 
 articulate her words. And as she spoke them 
 the rustic drew nearer, and she heard the sound 
 of feet descending the stairs, until at last the 
 footste])s a]ii)roached the door, and Mrs. Wil- 
 loughl)y, to her ntter horror, saw Minnie herself. 
 
 Now ns to the Baron, in the course of his 
 animated conversation with Mrs. Willoughby, 
 and in his excited entreaties to her to carry a 
 message up to the invalid, he had turned round 
 with his back to tiie door. It was about the 
 time tiiat Lady Diilrymple had begun to beat a 
 retreat. As she advanced the Baron saw her, 
 and, with his usual i)oliteness, moved ever so 
 far to one side, bowing low as he did so. Lady 
 Dalrymple passed, the Baron raised himself, 
 and as Mrs. Willoughby was yet s])eaking, and 
 had just reached the exclamation whicii con- 
 cluded her last remark, he Avas astounded by 
 the sudden appearance of Minnie herself at the 
 door. 
 
 The effect of this sudden appearance was 
 overwhelming. Mrs. Willoughby stood thun- 
 der-struck, and the Baron utterly bewildered. 
 The latter recovered his faculties first. It was 
 just as Lady Dalrymple was passing out. With 
 a boinid he sprang toward Minnie, and caught 
 her in his arms, uttering a series of inarticulate 
 cries. 
 
 " Oh, Min ! and you did come down, did 
 you ? And you couldn't stay up there, could 
 you ? I wanted to send a message to you. 
 Poor little Min! you're so weak. Is it any 
 thing serious? Oh, my darling little Min! 
 But sit down on this here seat. Don't stand ; 
 you're too weak. Why didn't yon send, and 
 I'd have carried you down? But tell me now, 
 honest, wasn't it me that brought this on? 
 Never mind, I'll never leave you again." 
 
 This is the style which the gallant Baron 
 adopted to express his sentiments concerning 
 Minnie ; and the result was that he succeeded 
 in giving utterance to words that were quite as 
 incoherent as any that Minnie herself, in her 
 most rambling moods, had ever uttered. 
 
 The Baron now gave himself up to joy. He 
 
THE AMKUICAN BAIION. 
 
 87 
 
 took no notiro of nny body. lie sat by Min- ' nnd their uttittulo townril him, ami thnt for tho 
 Die's Nido on u Hofii, iiiid o|)L>nly hold her hiiiid. fiitiiru he would be received in the flame fashion. 
 Tiio Ueverciiil Suul Tozer hioked on witii an lie iiad determined, therefore, to make tho most 
 approving smile, and surveyed tlie scene like a ^ of this favorable change, and so he at once re- 
 father. Mrs. \Vill()nKhl)y's soul was on tiro pented his call. This time, however, his hopes 
 with iiidifiiuition at Minnie's folly and the Har- I were crushed. What made it worse, he had 
 on's impudence. She was also indi^^iuiiit that seen the entrance of the Maron and the Reverend 
 her little conventional falsehoods had been sud- i ShiiI, and knew by this that instead of bein^ a 
 deidy ilisproved by the act of Miimie herself. 1 favored mortal in the eyes of these ladies, he 
 Yet she did not know what to say, and so she [ was really, in their estimation, placed below 
 went to a chair, and (lung herself into it in ; these comjiarative strangers. Mv the language 
 fierce anger. I of Lord llawbury on his ]uevions call, he knew 
 
 As for Miimie herself, she ha<l come down that the accpiainlance of the iJaron with Mrs. 
 to the Baron, and appeared rather to enjoy the ; Willoughby was but recent, 
 sitiuition. She talked about Rome and Naples, ! The di!ia])iiointment of the Count filled him 
 and asked him all about himself, and the JSaron I with rage, and revived all his old feelings and 
 explained his whole situation down to the mi- i plans and projects. The Count was not one 
 
 nutcst detail. She was utterly indiliercnt to 
 her sister. Once or twice tho Baron made a 
 move to go, but ilid not succeed. He (imdiy 
 settled himself down apparently for the rest of 
 the day; but Mrs. Willoughby at last interposed. 
 She walked forward. She took Miimie's hand, 
 and spoke to her in a tone which she but seldom 
 used. 
 
 "Yon shall not stay here nny longer!" she 
 cried. "Come." 
 
 And Minnie obeyed at once. 
 
 The Baron insisted on a tender adieu. Mrs. 
 Willoughby stood by, with flashing eyes and 
 heaving breast. 
 
 Minnie followed her up stairs in silence. 
 
 "You silly child!" she cried. "Are you 
 mad? What made you come down? Yon 
 broke your jiromise !" 
 
 " Well — well — I couldn't help it, nnd he is so 
 deliciously rude; nnd do you know, Kitty dear- 
 est, I really begin to feel quite fond of him." 
 
 "Now listen, child. You shall never see 
 him again." 
 
 "I don't see why not," whimpered Minnie. 
 
 "And I'm going to telegrai)h to jiajia. I 
 wouldn't have the responsibility of you another 
 week for the world." 
 
 "Now, Kitty, you're horrid." 
 
 He 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE IURON's assaults. 
 
 On the eventful afternoon when the Baron 
 had effected an entrance into the heart of the 
 enemy's country, another caller had come there 
 — one ecpnilly intent and equally determined, 
 but not quite so aggressive. This was the 
 Count Girasole. The same answer was given 
 to him which had been given to the Baron, but 
 with far different effect. The Baron had care- 
 lessly brushed the slight obstacle aside. To the 
 Count it was an impenetrable barrier. It was 
 a bitter disappointment, too ; for he had been 
 filled with the brightest hopes and expectations 
 by the reception with which he had met on his 
 last visit. That reception had made him be- 
 lieve that they had changed their sentiments J horrid." 
 
 who could suffer in silence. He was a crafty, 
 wily, subtle, schenung Italian, whose fertile 
 brain was full of jdans to achieve his desires, 
 and who ])referred to accomplish his aims by a 
 tortuous i)atb, rather than by a straight one. 
 This rei)ulsc revived old piojccts, and he took 
 his dejiarture with several little uchemes in his 
 mind, some of which, at least, were destined to 
 bear fruit afterward. 
 
 On the fVdIowing day the Baron called once 
 more. The ladies in the mean time had talked 
 over the situation, but were unalde to see what 
 they were to do with a nuin who insisted on 
 forcing his way into their house. Their treat- 
 ment would have been easy enough if it had 
 not been for Minnie. She insisted that they 
 should not be unkind to him. He had saved 
 her life, she said, and she could not treat hiiu 
 with riulcness. Lady Dalrymple was in despair, 
 and Mrs. Willoughby at her wit's end, while 
 Ethel, to whom the circumstance was nmde 
 known, was roused by it from her sadness, and 
 tried to remonstrate with Minnie. All her ef- 
 forts, however, were as vain as those of her 
 friends. Minnie coidd not be induced to take 
 any decided stand. She insisted on seeing him 
 whenever he called, on the ground that it would 
 be unkind not to. 
 
 "And will yon insist on seeing Girasole also?" 
 asked Mrs. Willoughby. 
 
 " I don't know. I'm awfully sorry for him," 
 said Minnie. 
 
 "Well, then, Captain Kirby will be here 
 next. Of course yon w ill see him ?" 
 
 "I supjiosc so," said jMiuuie, resignedly. 
 
 "And how long do you think this sort of 
 thing can go on? They'll meet, and blood 
 will he shed." 
 
 "Oh dear! I'm afraid so." 
 
 "Then I'm not going to allow it. I've tele- 
 graphed to pa))a. He'll see whether you are 
 going to have your own way or not." 
 
 "I'm sure I don't see what dear papa can 
 do." 
 
 "He won't let you see those horrid men." 
 
 " He won't be cruel enough to lock me up in 
 the house. I do wish he would come and take 
 mc away. I don't want them. They're all 
 
68 
 
 TIIK AMEIUCAN BAUON. 
 
 ;«''?, 
 
 " Mi.N, iTH Mi;; ' 
 
 "Tliis Inst one — this Gimn — is the most ter- 
 rible man I ever sinv." 
 
 "Oh, Kitty dearest! IIow can you say so? 
 Wliy, his rudeness and violence are perfectly 
 irresistihie. He's charming. lie bullies one 
 so delicioiisly." 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby at this turned away in de- 
 spair. 
 
 Minnie's very peculiar situation was certainly 
 one which required a speedy change. The 
 forced entrance of the Baron hud thrown con- 
 sternation into the family. Ethel herself had 
 been roused, and took a part in the debate. 
 She began to see Minnie in a new light, and 
 Hawbury's attention to her began to assume 
 the njipearance of a very mournful Joke. To 
 her mind Minnie was now the subject of despe- 
 rate attention from five men. 
 
 Thus : 
 
 1. Lord Ilawbury. 
 
 2. Count Girasole. 
 
 3. Scone Dacres. 
 
 4. Biiron Atramontc. 
 
 5. ("iii)tain Kirby, ofwhom Mrs. Willoughby 
 hud just told her. 
 
 And of (iicHc, four 
 had saved licr life, 
 and coiis('(|uenlly had 
 the strongest jiossible 
 cluiins on her. 
 
 And the only sat- 
 isfaction which Ktlicl 
 could gain out of this 
 was the thought (hut 
 Ilawbury, at least, 
 had rot saved Min- 
 nie's life. 
 
 And now to pro- 
 ceed. 
 
 The Baron called, 
 us has liecn said, on 
 the following day. 
 This time he did not 
 bring the Kevercnd 
 Saul with him. He 
 wished to see Minnie 
 alone, and felt the 
 l)rcscncc of third |)er- 
 sons to be rather iin- 
 jilcasunt. 
 
 On reaching the 
 l)hice he was told, as 
 iiefore, that the ladies 
 were not at home. 
 
 Now the Baron rc- 
 mcinbeied that on the 
 lireceding day the 
 servant hud said the 
 same, while all the 
 time the ladies were 
 home. He was chur- 
 itubly inclined to sii])- 
 pose that it was a mis- 
 take, and not a delib- 
 erate lie ; and, as ho 
 was in a frnme of 
 good-will to mankind, he adopted this first 
 theory. 
 
 " All right, young man," said he ; " but as 
 you lied yesterday — under a mistake — 1 prefer 
 seeing for myself to-day." 
 
 So the Baron brushi^l by the servant, and 
 went in. lie entered the room. No one was 
 there. lie waited a little while, nnd thought. 
 He was too impatient to wait long. He could 
 not trust these lying servants. So he determ- 
 ined to try for himself. Her room was up 
 stairs, somewhere in the story above. 
 
 So he went out of the room, and up the stairs, 
 until his head was on a level with the lloor of 
 the story above. Then he culled : 
 "J//«.'" 
 No answer. 
 
 " MiN !" in a louder voice. 
 No answer. 
 
 "MIN! it's ME!" still louder. 
 No answer. 
 
 "iM/Nr a perfect yell. 
 At this last shout there was a response. One 
 of the <loors ojiened, and a lady made her ap- 
 pearance, while at two other doors appcjired 
 
THE AMKKICAN HAIlUN. 
 
 C'J 
 
 two niaidH. Tliu lad)- wnit yoiin(( and iKMiuti- 
 fiil, and In^r t'luu was Htcrn, and her dark e}'uit 
 liiokiMl indignantly toward tlu> liuron. 
 
 " Who are joii ?" hIio ankcd, abruixly ; " and 
 what do you want ?" 
 
 *'M»!? I'm the Uaron Atrainonte; and I 
 watit Min, Don't yoii know whuru xhu ia't" 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Min." 
 
 "Min?" naked the other, in amazement. 
 
 " Yes. My Min — Minnie, you know. Min- 
 liie Fay." 
 
 At tiiis the lady looked nt the liaron with 
 utter horror. 
 
 "I want iicr." 
 
 "She's not at home," said the lady. 
 
 "Well, really, it's too had. I must sec her. 
 Is she out ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 ' ' Keally ? Honor bright now ?" 
 
 The laily retired and shut the door. 
 
 " Well, darn it all, you needn't bo so pop- 
 ])ery," muttered the Uaron. "I didn't say any 
 thing. I otdy asked a civil question. Out, hey':' 
 Well, she must bo this time. If she'd boen in, 
 she'd have made her ap])earance. Well, I'd best 
 go out and hunt her uji. They don't seem to 
 inc altogether so cordial as I'd like to have 
 them. They're just a 'uetle too 'ristocratic." 
 
 With these observations to himself, the Uar- 
 on descended the stairs, and made his way to 
 tiie door. Here he threw an engaging smile 
 upon the servant, and made a remark which set 
 the other on the broad grin for the renuiiuder 
 of the day. After this the Baron took his de- 
 parture. 
 
 The Baron this time went to some stables, 
 nnd reap])eared in a short time mounted upon 
 n gallant steed, and careering down the Corso. 
 In due time he reached the I'iazza del I'opolo, 
 and then he ascended the IMncian Ilill. Here 
 he rode about for some time, and (inully his 
 j)erseverttnce was rewarded. He was looking 
 down from the summit of the hill upon the I'i- 
 nzza below, when he caught sight of a barouche, 
 ill which were three ladies. One of these sat on 
 the frofit seat, and her white face and short gold- 
 en hair seemed to indicate to him the one he 
 sought. 
 
 In an instant ho put spurs to his horse, and 
 rode down the hill as quick as possible, to the 
 great alarm of the crowds who were going up 
 and down. In a short time he had caught up 
 with the carriage. lie was right. It was the 
 right one, and Minnie was there, together with 
 Lady Dalrymple and Mrs. Willoughby. The 
 ladies, on learning of his approach, exhibited no 
 emotion. They were prepared for this, and re- 
 signed. They had determined that Minnie 
 should have no more interviews with him in- 
 doors; and since they could not imjjrison her 
 altogether, they would have to submit for the 
 jiresent to his advances. But they were rapidly 
 becoming desperate. 
 
 Lord Hawbury was riding by the carriage as 
 the Baron came u]). 
 
 "Hallo!" laid ho to the former. "How do? 
 and /loir are you all? Why, I'vd been bunting 
 all over creation. W(dl, Miniiio, how goes it V 
 Keel lively? That's right. Keep out in ilic 
 open air. 'I'ake idl the exorciso you can, and 
 cat as hard as you can. You live too (puut us 
 a general thing, ami want to knock around 
 more. But we'll fix all that, won't we, Min, 
 befiiro a month of Sundays?" 
 
 The advent of the Baron in this nmnner, and 
 his familiar address to Minnie, filled Hawbury 
 with ama/.ement. lie bad been surprised at 
 liuiling him with the ladies on the previous day, 
 but there was nothing in his demeanor which 
 was at all remarkable. Now, however, he no- 
 ticed the very great familiarity of his tone and 
 maniusr towanl Miiniie, and was naturally 
 anui/ed. The Baron had not conlided to him 
 his secret, and he could iu)t understand the 
 cause of such intinnicy between the rcjiresentu- 
 tives of such ditfereut classes. He therefore list- 
 ened with inexi)ressibleastonishment tothe Bar- 
 on's language, and to Minnie's artless replies. 
 
 Minnie was sitting on the front seat of tho 
 baroiu'he, and was alouu in that seat. As the 
 gentlemen roilc on each side of the carriage 
 her face was turiuMl toward them. Hawbury 
 rode back, so that he was beside Lady Dalrym- 
 ple; but tho Baron rode forward, on the (tther 
 side, so as to bring himself as near to Minnie 
 as possible. The Baron was exceedingly haji- 
 jiy. His hapi)iness showed itself in the flush 
 of his face, in the glow of his eyes, and in the 
 general exuberance and all-embracing swell of 
 his nmnner. His voice was loud, his gestures 
 demonstrative, and his renuirks were addressed 
 by turns to each one in the conqiany. 'Ilie 
 others soon gave up the attempt to talk, and 
 left it all to the Baron. Lady Dabynqde antl 
 Mrs. Willoughby exchanged glances of despair. 
 Hawbury still looked on in surjjrise, while Min- 
 nie remained jierfectly calm, jjcrfectly self-pos- 
 sessed, nnd conversed with her usinil simplicity. 
 
 As the party thus rode on they met a horse- 
 man, who threw a rajjid glance over all of them. 
 It was Girasole. The ladies bowed, and Mrs. 
 Willoughby wished that he had come a little 
 before, so that he could have taken the place 
 beside the carriage where the Baron now was. 
 But the ])lace was now a])proj)riatcd, and there 
 was no chance for the Coimt. Girasole threw a 
 dark look over them, which rested more j)artic- 
 idarly on Hawbury. Hawbury nodded lightly 
 at the Count, and didn't appear to take any 
 farther notice of him. All this took up but a 
 t'cw moments, and the Count ])assed on. 
 
 Shortly after they met another horseman. 
 He sat erect, pale, sad, with a solemn, earnest 
 glow in his melancholy eyes. Minnie's back 
 was turned toward him, so that she could not 
 see his face, but his eyes were fixed upon Mrs. 
 Willoughby. Sho looked back at him and 
 bowed, as did also Lady Dalrymple. He took 
 ott' his hat, and the carriage rolled past. Then 
 he turned and looked after it, bareheaded, and 
 Minnie caught sight of him, and smiled and 
 
70 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 bowed. And then in a few moments more the 
 crowd swallowed up Scone Dacres. 
 
 The Baron thus enjoyed himself in a large, 
 exuberant fashion, and monopolized the con- 
 versation in a large, exuberant way. He out- 
 did himself. He confided to the ladies his 
 plans for the regeneration of the Roman Church 
 and the Roman State. Jle told stories of his 
 adventures in the Rocky Mountains. He men- 
 tioned the state of his finances, and his pros- 
 j)ects for the future. He was as open, as free, 
 and as communicative as if he had been at home, 
 with fond sisters and admiring brothers around 
 him. The ladies were disgusted at it all ; and 
 by the ladies I mean only Mrs. Willoughby and 
 Lady Dalrymple. For Minnie was not — she 
 actually listened in delight. It was not con- 
 ventional. Very well. Neither was the Bar- 
 on. And for that matter, neither was she. 
 He was a child of nature. So was she. His 
 rudeness, his aggressiveness, his noise, his talk- 
 ativeness, his egotism, his confidences about 
 himself^all these did not make him so very 
 disagreeable to her as to her sister and aunt. 
 
 So Minnie treated the Baron with the utmost 
 complaisance, and Hawbury was surprised, and 
 Mrs. Willoughby'and Lady Dalrymple were dis- 
 gusted ; but the Baron was delighted, and his 
 soul was filled with perfect joy. Too soon for 
 him was this drive over. But the end came, and 
 they reached the hotel. Hawbury left them, but 
 the Baron lingered. The spot was too sweet, the 
 charm too dear — he could not tear himself away. 
 
 In fact, he actually followed the ladies into 
 the house. 
 
 " I think I'll just make myself comfortable 
 in here, Min, till you come down," said the 
 Baron. And with these words he walked into 
 the reception-room, where he selected a place 
 on a sofa, and composed himself to wait pa- 
 tiently for Minnie to come down. 
 
 So he waited, and waited, and waited — but 
 Minnie did not come. At last lie grew impa- 
 tient. He walked out, and up the stairs, and 
 listened. 
 
 He heard ladies' voices. 
 
 He spoke. 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "Min!" louder. 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "MIN! HALLO-O-O-O!" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 ^'MIN!" a perfect shout. 
 
 At this a door was opened violently, and 
 Mrs. Willoughby walked out. Her ciieeks 
 were flushed, and lier eyes glanced fire. 
 
 "Sir," she said, "this is intolerable! You 
 must be intoxicated. Go away at once, or I 
 shall certainly have you turned out of the house." 
 
 And saying this she went back, shut the 
 door, and locked it. 
 
 The Baron was thunder-struck. He had 
 never been treated so in his life. He was 
 cut to the heart. His feelings were deeply 
 wounded. 
 
 "Darn it!" he muttered. "What's all this 
 for? I ain't been doing any thing." 
 
 He walked out very thoughtfully. He couldn't 
 understand it at all. He was troubled for some 
 time. But at last his buoyant spirit rose su- 
 perior to tiiis tem])orary depression. To-mor- 
 row would cx])lain all, he thought. Yes, to- 
 morrow would make it all right. To-morrow 
 he would sec Min, and get her to tell him what 
 in thunder the row was. She'd have to tell, 
 for he could never find out. So he made up 
 his mind to keej) his soul in patience. 
 
 That evening Hawbury was over at the Bar- 
 on's quarters, by special invitation, and the 
 Baron decided to ask his advice. So in the 
 course of the evening, while in the full, easy, 
 and confidential mood that arises out of social 
 intercourse, he told Hawbury his whole story — 
 beginning with the account of his first meeting 
 with Minnie, and his rescue of her, and her ac- 
 ce])tance of him, down to this very day, when 
 he had been so terribly snubbed by Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby. To all this Hawbury listened in amaze- 
 ment. It was completely new to him. He won- 
 dered particularly to find another man who had 
 saved the life of this quiet, timid little girl. 
 
 The Baron asked his advice, but Hawbury 
 declined giving any. He said he couldn't ad- 
 vise any man in a love-aft'air. Every man must 
 trust to himself. No one's advice could be of 
 any avail. Hawbury, in fact, was puzzled, but 
 he said the best he could. Tlie Baron himself 
 was fully of Hawbury's opinion. He swore that 
 it was truth, and declared the man that followed 
 another's advice in a love-aftair was a " darned 
 fool that didn't deserve to win his gal." 
 
 There followed a general conversation on 
 things of a different kind. The Baron again 
 discoursed on church and state. He then ex- 
 hibited some curiosities. Among other things 
 a skull. He used it to hold his tobacco. He 
 declared 'hat it was the skull of an ancient 
 Roman. On the inside was a paper pasted 
 there, on which he had written the following: 
 
 "Oh, I'm the skull of a Koiiinn bold 
 That flt in the ancient war ; 
 From East to West I bore the flag 
 Of 8. P. (2. and R. 
 
 " In East and West, and North and South, 
 We made the nations fear us — 
 Both Nebuclmduezzar and Hannibal, 
 And Pharaoh too, and Pyrrhus. 
 
 "We took their Btatutes from the Greeks, 
 And lots of manuscripts too; 
 We net adrift on his world-wide tramp 
 The oriijinal wandering Jew. 
 
 "But at last the beggarly Dutchman came, 
 With his lager and sauerkraut; 
 And wherever that beggarly Dutchraau went 
 He made a terrible rout. 
 
 " Wo ist der Deutscher's Vaterland 7 
 Is It near the ocean wild? 
 Is It where the feathery i)ahn-trec8 grow? 
 Not thore, not there, my child. 
 
 "But it's somewhere down around the Rhine; 
 And now that Bismarck's come, 
 Down goes Napoleon to the ground, 
 And away goes the Pope from Rome!" 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 71 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 'HE SAVED MY LIFE. 
 
 "I can't bear this any longer!" exclaimed 
 Mrs. Willoiighby. "Here you are getting 
 into all sorts of difficulties, each one worse 
 than the other. I'm sure I don't see why you 
 should. You're very quiet, Minnie dearest, 
 but you have more unpleasant adventures than 
 any person I ever heard of. You're run away 
 with on horseback, you're shipwrecked, you're 
 swept down a precipice by an avalanche, and 
 you fall into the crater of a burning volcano. 
 Every time there is some horrid man who saves 
 you, and then proposes. As for you, you ac- 
 cept them all with equal readiness, one after 
 another, and what is worse, you won't give any 
 of them up. I've asked you explicitly which 
 of t!iem you'll give up, and you actually refuse 
 to bay. My dear child, what are you thinking 
 of? You can't have them all. You can't have 
 any of them. None of them are agreeable to 
 your family. They're horrid. What are you 
 going to do? Oh, how I wish you had dear 
 mamma to take care of you ! But she is in a 
 better world. And here is poor dear papa who 
 can't come. How shocked he would be if he 
 knew all. What is worst, here is that dread- 
 ful American savage, who is gradually killing 
 me. He certainly will be my death. What 
 am 1 to do, dear? Can't you possibly show a 
 little sense yourpelf — only a little, dear — and 
 have some consideration for your poor sister? 
 Even Ethel worries about you, though she has 
 troubles of her own, poor darling ; and aunty is 
 really quite ill with anxiety. What are we go- 
 ing to do? I know one thing. /'»« not going 
 to put up with it. My mind is made up. I'll 
 leave Rome at once, and go home and tell 
 papa." 
 
 " Well, you needn't scold so," said Minnie. 
 "It's my trouble. I can't help it. They would 
 come. I'm sure /don't know what to do." 
 
 "Well, you needn't be so awfully kind to 
 them all. That's what encourages them so. 
 It's no use for me to try to keep them away if 
 you make them all so welcome. Now there's 
 that dreadful Italian. I'm positive he's going 
 to get up some unpleasant plot. These Italians 
 are so very revengeful. And he thinks you're 
 so fond of him, and I'm so opposed. And he's 
 right, too. You always act as if you're fond 
 of him, and all the rest. As to that terrible 
 American savage, I'm afraid to think of him ; 
 I positively am." 
 
 " Well, you needn't be so awfully unkind to 
 him. He saved my life." 
 
 " That's no reason why he should deprive me 
 of mine, which he will do if he goes on so much 
 longer." 
 
 "You were very, very rude to him, Kitty," 
 said Minnie, severely, "and very, very un- 
 hind— " 
 
 "I intended to be so." 
 
 "I really felt like crying, and running out 
 and explaining things." 
 
 " I know you did, and ran back and locked the 
 door. Oh, you wretched little silly goose, what 
 am I ever to do with such a child as you are ! 
 You're really not a bit better than a baby." 
 
 This conversation took place on the day fol- 
 lowing the Baron's last eventful call. Poor 
 Mrs. Willoughby was driven to desperation, and 
 lay awake all night, trying to think of some 
 plan to baffle the enemy, but was unsuccessful ; 
 and so she tried once more to have some influ- 
 ence over Minnie by a remonstrance as sharp 
 as she could give. 
 
 " He's an American savage. I believe he's 
 an Indian." 
 
 "I'm sure I don't see any thing savage in 
 him. He's as gentle and as kind as he can be. 
 And he's so awfully fond of me." 
 
 "Tiiink how he burst in here, forcing his 
 way in, and taking possession of the house. 
 And then jjoor dear aunty ! Oh, how she was 
 shocked and horrified !" 
 
 " It's because he is so aicfully fond of me, and 
 was so perfectly crazy to see me." 
 
 "And then, just as I was beginning to per- 
 suade him to go away quietly, to think of you 
 coming down !" 
 
 "Well, 1 couldn't bear to have him so sad, 
 when he saved my life, and so I just thought 
 I'd show myself, so as to put him at case. " 
 
 "A pretty way to show yourself — to let a 
 great, horrid man treat you so." 
 
 " Well, that's what they all do," said Minnie, 
 plaintively. " I'm sure / can't help it." 
 
 "Oh dear! was there ever such a child! 
 Why, Minnie darling, you must know that such 
 things are very, very ill-bred, and very, very 
 indelicate and unrefined. And then, think how 
 he came forcing himself upon us when we were 
 driving. Couldn't he see that he wasn't want- 
 ed? No, he's a savage. And then, how he 
 kept giving us all a history of his life. Every 
 body could hear him, and people stared so that 
 it was really quite shocking." 
 
 "Oh, that's because he is so very, very frank. 
 He has none of the deceit of society, you know, 
 Kitty darling." 
 
 "Deceit of society! I should think not. 
 Only think how he acted yesterday — forcing 
 his way in and rushing up stairs. Why, it's 
 actually quite frightful. He's like a madman. 
 We will have to keep all the doors locked, and 
 send for the police. Why, do you know, Ethel 
 snys that he was here before, running about 
 and shouting in the same way : 'Mini' ' Min ! ' 
 ' Min !' — that's what tiie horrid wretch calls you 
 —'Min! it's me.' 'Come,Min!"' 
 
 At this Minnie burst into a peal of merry, 
 musical laughter, and laughed on till the tears 
 came to her eyes. Her sister looked more dis- 
 gusted than ever. 
 
 " He's such a boj'," said Minnie ; " he's just 
 like a boy. He's so owfully funny. If I'm a 
 child, he's a big boy, and the awfullest, funniest 
 boy I ever saw. And then he's so fond of me. 
 Why, he worships me. Oh, it's awfully nice." 
 
 ' ' A boy ! A beast, you mean — a horrid sav- 
 
72 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 age. What can I do ? I must send for a po- 
 liceman. Ill certainly have the doors all locked. 
 And then we'll all be ])risoners.'' 
 
 "Well, then, it '11 all be your own fault, for 
 /don't want to have any doors locked." 
 
 "Oh dear!" sighed her sister. 
 
 "Well, I don't. And I think you're very 
 unkind." 
 
 "Why, you silly child, he'd come here some 
 day, carry you otf, and make you marry him." 
 
 "Well, I do wish he would," said Minnie, 
 gravely. " I wish somebody would, for then it 
 would put a stop to all this worry, and I really 
 don't know what else ever will. Do you, now, 
 Kitty darling?" 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby turned away with a gesture 
 of despair. 
 
 An hour or two after some letters were brought 
 in, one of which was addressed to 
 
 Miss Fay, 
 
 Poste liestante, 
 
 Roma. 
 
 Minnie opened this, and looked over it with 
 a troubled air. Then she spoke to her sister, 
 and they both went oft' to Minnie's room. 
 
 "Who do you think this is from ?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know! Of course it's some 
 more trouble." 
 
 " It's from Captain Kirby." 
 
 "Oh, of course! And of course he's here 
 in Rome ?" 
 
 "No, he isn't." 
 
 "What! Not yet?" 
 
 " No ; but he wrote this from London. He 
 has been to the house, and learned that we had 
 gone to Italy. He says he has sent oft' letters 
 to me, directed to every city in Italy, so that I 
 may be sure to get it. Isn't that good of him ?" 
 
 "Well?" asked Mrs. Willoughby, repressing 
 an exclamation of vexation. 
 
 " Well, he says that in three days he will 
 leave, and go first to Rome, as he thinks we 
 will be most likely to be there this season. 
 And so, you see, he's coming on ; and he will 
 be here in three days, you know." 
 
 "Minnie," said her sister, after some mo- 
 ments' solemn thought. 
 
 "Well, Kitty darling?" 
 
 "Do you ever think?" 
 
 "I don't know." - 
 
 ' ' Would you like one of these gentlemen of 
 yours to blow onn of the others' brains out, or 
 stab him, or any thing of that sort ?" 
 
 "How shocking you are, Kitty dear! What 
 a dreadful question !" 
 
 " Well, understand me now. One of them 
 will do that. There will be trouble, and your 
 name will be associated with it." 
 
 " Well," said Minnie, "I know who won't be 
 shot." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " Why, Rufus K. Gunn," said she, in the fun- 
 ny, prim way in which she always pronounced 
 that name. " If he finds it out, he'll drive all 
 the others away." 
 
 " And would you like that ?" 
 
 "Well, you know, he's awfully fond of me, 
 and he's so like a boy: and if I'm such a child, 
 I could do better with a man, you know, that's 
 like a boy, you know, than — than — " 
 
 " Nonsense ! lie's a madman, and "ou're a 
 simpleton, you little goose." 
 
 "Well, then, we must je w U suiteu : me 
 another," said Minnie. 
 
 "Now, child, listen," said Mi ;. WilloHoiiby, 
 firmly. "I intend to put a stop to iliis. I 
 have made up my mind posiri^-ely to leave 
 Rome, and take you homo to papa. I'll tell 
 him all about it, put you under his care, and 
 have no more responsibility with you. I think 
 he'd better send you back to school. I've been 
 too gentle. You need a firm hand. I'll be 
 firm for a few days, till you can go to pajm. 
 You need not begin to cry. It's for your own 
 good. If you're indulged anymore, you'll sim- 
 ply go to ruin." 
 
 Mrs. Willotighby's tone was diffierent from 
 usual, and Minnie was imjjressed by it. She 
 saw that her sister was resolved. So she stole 
 up to her and twined her arms about her and 
 kissed her. 
 
 "Tiiere, there," said her sister, kissing her 
 again, "don't look so sad, Minnie darling. It's 
 for your own good. We must go away, or else 
 you'll have another of those dreadful peojjle. 
 You must trust to me now, dearest, and not in- 
 terfere with me in anyway." 
 
 "Well, well, you mustn't be unkind to poor 
 Rufus K. Gunn," said Minnie. 
 
 "Unkind ? Wiiy, we won't be any thing to 
 him at all." 
 
 "And am I never to — to — see him again?" 
 
 "No!" said her sister, firndy. 
 
 Minnie started, and looked at Mrs. Willough- 
 by, and saw in her face a fixed resolution. 
 
 "No, never!" repeated Mrs. Willoughby. 
 " I am going to take you back to England. I'm 
 afraid to take any railroad or steamboat. I'll 
 hire a carriage, and we'll all go in a quiet ^vay 
 to Florence. Then we can take the railroad 
 to Leghorn, and go home by the way of Mar- 
 seilles. No one will know that we've gone 
 away. They'll think we have gone on an ex- 
 cursion. Now we'll go out driving this morn- 
 ing, and this afternoon we must keep the outer 
 door locked, and not let any one in. I suppose 
 there is no danger of meeting him in the morn- 
 ing. He must be on duty then." 
 
 " But mavn't I sec him at all before we go ?" 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "Just once — only once?" 
 
 "No, not once. You've seen that horrid 
 man for the last time." 
 
 Minnie again looked at her sister, and again 
 read her resolution in her face. She turned 
 away, her head dropped, a sob escaped from 
 her, and then she burst into tears. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby left the room. 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 73 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 JKALOCSY. 
 
 LoKD IIawhury had come to Rome for the 
 sole jiurpose of wiitching over his tVicnd Hcone 
 Dacres. But he had not found it so easy to 
 do so. His friend kept by himself more than 
 ho used to, and for several days llawbury had 
 seen nothing of him. Once while with the la- 
 dies he had met him, and noticed the sadness 
 and the gloom of his brow. Ho saw by this 
 that he was still a prey to those feelings the 
 exhibition of which had alarmed him at Naples, 
 and made him resolve to accompany him here. 
 
 A few days afterward, while IIawhury was 
 in his room, his friend entered. Hawbury arose 
 and greeted him with unfeigned joy. 
 
 "Well, old man," he said, "you've kept 
 yourself close, too. What have you been do- 
 ing with yourself? I've only had one glimpse 
 of you for an age. Doing Rome, hey ? An- 
 tiquities, arts, churches, palaces, and all that sort 
 of thing, I suppose. Come now, old boy, sit 
 down and give an account of yourself. Have a 
 weed ? Here's Bass in prime order. Light up, 
 my dear fellow, and let me look at you as you 
 compose your manly form for a friendly smoke. 
 And don't speak till you feel inclined." 
 
 Daeres took his seat with a melancholy smile, 
 and selecting a cigar, lighted it, and smoked in 
 silence for some time. 
 
 "Who was that Zouave fellow?" he asked 
 at length : " the fellow that I saw riding by 
 the carriage the other day ?" 
 
 "That — oh, an old friend of mine. He's an 
 American named Gunn. He's joined the Papal 
 Zouaves from some whim, aiul a deuced good 
 thing it is for them to get hold of such a man. 
 I hapi)ened to call one day, and found him with 
 the ladies." 
 
 " Tlie ladies — ah!" and Dacres's eyes lighted 
 up with a bad, hard light. "I suppose he's 
 another of those precious cavaliers — the scum 
 of all lands — that dance attendance on my 
 charming wife." 
 
 " Oh, see hero now, my dear fellow, really 
 now," said Hawbury, " none of that, you know. 
 This fellow is a friend of mine, and one of the 
 best fellows I ever saw. You'd like him, old 
 chap. He'd suit you." 
 
 " Yes, and suit my wife better," said Daeres, 
 bitterly. 
 
 "Oh, come now, really, my dear boy, you're 
 completely out. He don't know your wife at 
 all. It's the other one, you know. Don't be 
 jealous, now, if I tell you." 
 
 "Jealous!" 
 
 " Yes. I know your weakness, you know ; 
 but this is an old att'air. I don't want to vio- 
 late confidence, but — " 
 
 Daeres looked hard at his friend and breathed 
 heavily. He was evidently much excited. 
 
 " But what ?" he said, hoarsely. 
 
 " Well, you know, it's an old att'air. It's the 
 young one, you know — ISIiss Fay. He rather 
 aft'ects her, you know. That's about it." 
 
 "Miss Fay?" 
 
 " Yes ; your child-nngel, you know. But it's 
 an older aft'iiir than yours; it is, really; so don't 
 be giving way, man. Besides, his claims on her 
 are as great as yours; yes, greater too. By 
 Jove!" 
 
 " Miss Fay ! Oh, is that all ?" said Daeres, 
 who, with a sigh of infinite relief, shook off all 
 his late excitement, and became cool once 
 more. 
 
 llawbury noted this very thoughtfully. 
 
 "You see," said Daeres, "that terrible wife 
 of mine is so cursedly beautiful and fascinating, 
 and so infernally fond of admiration, that she 
 keeps no end of fellows tagging at her heels. 
 And so I didn't know but that this was some 
 new admirer. Oh, she's a deep one ! Her new 
 style, which she has been cultivating for ten 
 years, has made her look like an angel of light. 
 Why, there's the very light of heaven in her 
 eyes, and in her face there is nothing, I swear, 
 but gentleness and purity and peace. Oh, had 
 she but been what she now seems ! Oh, if even 
 now I could but believe this, I would even now 
 fling my memories to the winds, and I'd lie 
 down in the dust and let her trample on me, if 
 she would only give me that tender and gentle 
 love that now lurks in her face. Good Heav- 
 ens ! can such a change be possible ? No ; it's 
 impossible! It can't be! Don't I know her? 
 Can't I remember her? Is my memory all a 
 dream? No, it's real; and it's marked deep 
 by this scar that I wear. Never till that scar 
 is obliterated can that woman change." 
 
 Daeres had been speaking, as he often did 
 now, half to himself; and as he ended he rubbed 
 his hand over the place where the scar lay, as 
 though to soothe the inflammation that arose 
 from the rush of angry blood to his head, 
 
 " Well, dear boy, I can only say I wish from 
 my heart that her nature was like her fiice. 
 She's no favorite of mine, for your story has 
 made me look on her with your eyes, and I 
 never have spoken to her except in th',' most 
 distant w.ay; but I must say I think he face 
 has in it a good deal of that gentleness which 
 you mention. Miss F.iy treats her quite like 
 an elder sister, and is deuced fond of her, too. 
 I can see that. So she can't be very fiendish 
 to her. Like loves like, you know, and the one 
 that the child-angel loves ought to be a little 
 of an angel herself, oughtn't she ?" 
 
 Daeres was silent for a long time. 
 
 "There's that confounded Italian," said he, 
 "dangling forever at her heels — the devil that 
 saved her life. He must be her accepted lover, 
 you know. He goes out riding beside the car- 
 riage." 
 
 "Well, really, my dear fellow, she doesn't 
 seem overjoyed by his attentions." 
 
 "Oh, tliat's her art. She's so infernally 
 deep. Do you think she'd let the world sec 
 her feelings ? Never. Slimy, Sir, and cold 
 and subtle and venomous and treacherous — a 
 beautiful serpent. Aha ! isn't that the way to 
 hit her oft"? Yes, ti beautiful, malignant, vcn- 
 
74 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 omous serpent, with fiisciniition in her eyes, and 
 death and anguisii in her hite. But she shall 
 find otit yet that others are not without power. 
 Confound her!" 
 
 " Well, now, by Jove ! old boy, I think the 
 very best thing you can do is to go away some- 
 where, and get rid of these troubles." 
 
 " Go away ! Can 1 go away from my own 
 thoughts? Ilawbury, the trouble is in my own 
 heart. I must keep near her. Tlicre's that 
 Italian devil. He shall not have her. I'll 
 watch them, as I have watched them, till I find 
 a chance for revenge," 
 
 "You have watched them, then?" asked 
 Hawbury, in great surprise. 
 
 "Yes, both of them. I've seen the Ital- 
 ian prowling about where she lives. I've seen 
 her on her balcony, evidently watching for 
 him." 
 
 " But have you seen any thing more ? This 
 is only your fancy." 
 
 "Eancy! Didn't I see her herself stand- 
 ing on the balcony looking down. I was con- 
 cealed by the shadow of a fountain, and she 
 couldn't see me. She turned her face, and I 
 saw it in that soft, sweet, gentle beauty which 
 she has cultivated so wonderfully. I swear it 
 seemed like the face of an angel, and I could 
 have worshiped it. If she could have seen 
 my face in .that thick shadow she would have 
 thought I was an adorer of hers, like the Ital- 
 ian — ha, ha! — instead of a pursuer, and an 
 enemy." 
 
 " Well, I'll be hanged if I can tell myself 
 which you are, old boy ; but, at any rate, I'm 
 glad to be able to state that your trouble will 
 soon be over," 
 
 "How's that?" 
 
 "She's going away." 
 
 "Going away!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " She ! going away ! where ?" 
 
 "Back to England." 
 
 "Back to England! why, she's just come 
 here. What's that for?" 
 
 "I don't know. I only know they're all 
 going home. Well, you know, holy week's 
 over, and there is no object for them to stay 
 longer." 
 
 "Going away! going away!" replied Da- 
 cres, slowly. "Who told you?" 
 
 "Miss Fay." 
 
 "Oh, I don't believe it." 
 
 "There's no doubt about it, my dear boy. 
 Miss Fay told me explicitly. She said they 
 were going in a carriage by the way of Civita 
 Castellana," 
 
 " What are they going that way for? What 
 nonsense I I don't believe it." 
 
 "Oh, it's a fact. Besides, they evidently 
 don't want it to be known." 
 
 " What's that ?" asked Dacres, eagerly. 
 
 "I say they don't seem to want it to be 
 known. Miss Fay told me in her childish way, 
 and I saw that Mrs, Willoughby looked vexed, 
 and tried to stop her," 
 
 " Tried to stop her ! Ah ! Who were there ? 
 Were you calling?" 
 
 "Oh no — it was yesterday morning, I was 
 riding, and, to my surprise, met them. They 
 were driving — Mrs, Willoughby and Miss Fay, 
 you know — so I chatted with them a few mo- 
 ments, or rather with Miss Fay, and hoped I 
 would see them again soon, at some fete or 
 other, when she told me this," 
 
 "And my wife tried to stop her?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And looked vexed ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then it was some secret of hers. She has 
 some reason for keeping dark. The other has 
 none. Aha! don't I understand her? She 
 wants to keep it from me. She knows you're my 
 friend, and was vexed that you should know. 
 Aha! she dreads my presence. She knows 
 I'm on her track. She wants to get away 
 with her Italian — away from my sight. Aha ! 
 the tables are turned at last. Aha ! my lady. 
 Now we'll see. Now take your Italian and fly, 
 and see how far you can get away from me. 
 Take him, and see if you can hold him. Aha I 
 my angel face, my mild, soft eyes of love, but 
 devil's heart — can not I understand it all ? I 
 see through it, I've watched you. Wait till 
 you see Scone Dacres on your track !" 
 
 " What's that ? You don't really mean it ?" 
 cried Hawbury, 
 
 "Yes, I do," 
 
 "Will vou follow her?" 
 
 "Yes, i will," 
 
 " What for ? For a vague fancy of your jeal- 
 ous mind?" 
 
 " It isn't a fancy ; It's a certainty, I've seen 
 the Italian dogging her, dodging about her 
 house, and riding with her, I've seen her 
 looking very much as if she were expecting him 
 at her balcony. Is all that nothing ? She's seen 
 me, and feels coiucience-stricken, and longs to 
 get away where she may be free from the ter- 
 ror of my presence. But I'll track her, I'll 
 strike at her — at her heart, too; for I will strike 
 through the Italian," 
 
 "By Jove!" 
 
 "I will, I swear!" cried Dacres, gloomily, 
 
 "You're mad, Dacres, You imagine all 
 this. You're like a madman in a dream." 
 
 " It's no dream. I'll follow her. I'll track 
 her." 
 
 " Then, by Jove, you'll have to take me with 
 you, old boy ! I see you're not fit to take care 
 of vourself. I'll have to go and keep vou from 
 harm." 
 
 " You won't keep me from harm, old chap," 
 said Dacres, more gently ; " but I'd be glad if 
 you wonld go. So come along." 
 
 "I will, by Jove!" 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 76 
 
 "l WATCHED IIIM." 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE baron's woes. 
 
 Dacres wns not the only excited visitor 
 that Hawbury had that day. Before its close 
 another made his appearance in the person of 
 the Baron. 
 
 "Well, my noble fiiend," cried Hawbury 
 — "my Baron bold — how goes it? But, by 
 Jove ! what's the matter, my boy ? Your brow 
 deep scars of thunder have intrenched, and 
 care sits on your faded cheek. Pour forth the 
 mournful tale. I'll sympathize." 
 
 "I swear it's too almighty bad!" cried the 
 Baron. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "The way I'm getting humbugged." 
 
 "Humbugged I Who's been humbugging 
 you ?" 
 
 " Darn me if I know ; and that's the worst 
 of it by a thundering sight." 
 
 "Well, my dear fellow, if I can help you, 
 you'd better let me know what it's all about." 
 
 " Why, Minnie ; that's the row. There ain't 
 another thing on this green earth that would 
 trouble me for five seconds." 
 
 "Minnie? Oh I And what has happened — 
 a lover's quarrel ?" 
 
 "Not a quarrel. She's all right." 
 
 "What is it, then?" 
 
 "Why, she's disappeared." 
 
 " Disappeared I What do you mean by 
 that ?" 
 
 "Darn me if I know. I only know this, 
 that they keep their place bolted and barred, 
 and they've muffled the bell, and there's no 
 servant to be seen, and I can't find out any 
 thing about them. And it's too almighty bad. 
 Now isn't it ?" 
 
 "It's deuced odd, too — queer, by Jove! I 
 don't understand. Are you sure they're all 
 locked up?" 
 
 "Course I am." 
 
 " And no servants ?" 
 
 "Not a darned servant." 
 
 " Did you ask the concierge ?" 
 
 "Course I did; and crossed his palm, too. 
 But ho didn't give me any satisfaction." 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 "Why, he said they were at home, for they 
 had been out in the morning, and had got back 
 again. Well, after that I went back and near- 
 ly knocked the door down. And that was no 
 good ; I didn't get a word. The concierge 
 swore they were in, and they wouldn't so much 
 as answer me. Now I call that too almighty 
 hard, and I'd like to know what in thunder 
 they all mean by it." 
 
 "By Jove! odd, too." 
 
 "Well, you knov/, I thought after a while 
 that it would be all explained the next day ; so 
 I went home and waited, and came back the 
 next afternoon. I tried it over again. Same 
 result. I spoke to the concierge again, and 
 he swore again that they were all in. They 
 had been out in the morning, he said, and look- 
 ed well. They had come home by noon, and 
 had gone to their rooms. Well, I really did 
 start the door that time, but didn't get any an- 
 swer for my pains." 
 
 "By Jove!" 
 
 "Well, I was pretty hard up, I tell you. 
 But I wasn't going to give up. So I staid 
 there, and began a siege. 1 crossed the con- 
 cierge's palm again, and was in and out all 
 night. Toward morning I took a nap in his 
 chair. lie thought it was some government 
 business or other, and assisted me all he could. 
 I didn't see any thing at all, though, except an 
 infernal Italian — a fellow that came calling 
 the first day I was there, and worked himself 
 in between me and Min. He was prowling 
 about there, with another fellow, and stared 
 hard at me. I watched him, and said noth- 
 ing, for I wanted to find out his little game. 
 He's up to something, I swear. When he 
 saw I was on the ground, though, he beat a 
 retreat. 
 
 "Well, I staid all night, and the next 
 morning watched again. I didn't knock. It 
 wasn't a bit of use — not a darned bit. 
 
 "Well, about nine o'clock the door opened, 
 and I saw some one looking out very cautious- 
 ly. In a minute I was standing before her, 
 and held out my hand to shake hers. It was 
 the old lady. But she didn't shake hands. 
 She looked at me quite coolly. 
 
 "'Good-morning, ma'am,' said I, in quite 
 a winning voice. 'Good-morning, ma'am.' 
 
 " ' Good-morning,' she said. 
 
 " 'I come to sec Minnie,' said I. 
 
 "'To see Minnie!' said she; and then she 
 told mo she wasn't up. 
 
 " ' Ain't up ?' said I ; ' and it so bright and 
 early ! Why, what's got her? Well, you just 
 
Miiqii III 
 
 76 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 go mill tell her I'm here, nnd I'll just step in- 
 side mid wnit till she comes down,' siiid I. 
 
 " Hut tiie old lady didn't budge. 
 
 "'I'm not a servant,' slie suid, very stiff; 
 ' I'm her aunt, and her guardian, and I allow 
 no messages to pass between her and strange 
 gentlemen.' 
 
 "'Strange gentlemen!' I cried. 'Why, 
 nin't I engaged to her?' 
 
 " 'I don't know you,' says she. 
 
 " ' Wasn't I introduced to you T says I. 
 
 " 'No,' says she; 'I don't know you.' 
 
 Let me inform you, Sir, that if you repeat it, 
 you will bo handed over to the police. The 
 jiolice woidd oertaiidy have been called yester- 
 day had we not wished to avoid hurting your 
 feelings. We now find that you have no feel- 
 ings to hurt.' 
 
 "'Very well, ma'am,' says I; 'these are 
 your views ; but as you are not Minnie, I don't 
 accept them. I won't retire from the field till 
 I hear a command to that effect from Minnie 
 herself. I allow no relatives to stand between 
 me and niv love. Show me IMiimic, and let me 
 
 
 
 ' BUT I SAVED UBK LIFE.' 
 
 " 'But I'm engaged to Minnie,' says I. 
 
 " 'I don't recognize you,' says she. 'The 
 family know nothing about you ; nnd my niece 
 is a silly girl, who is going back to her father, 
 who will probably send her to school.' 
 
 " 'But I saved her life,' says I. 
 
 "'That's very possible,' says she; 'many 
 persons have done so ; yet that gives you no 
 right to annoy her ; and vou shall not annoy 
 her. Your engagement is an absurdity. The 
 child herself is an absurdity. You are an ab- 
 surdity. Was it not you who was creating 
 such a frightful disturbance here yesterday? 
 
 hear what she has to say. That's all I ask, 
 and that's fair and square.' 
 
 "'You shall not see her at all,' says the old 
 lady, quite mild ; ' not at all. You must not 
 come again, for you will not be admitted. Po- 
 lice will be here to put you out if you attempt 
 to force an entrance as you did before.' 
 
 " 'Force an entrance !' I cried. 
 
 " 'Yes,' she said, 'force an entrance. You 
 did so, and yon filled the whole house with 
 your shouts. Is that to be borne ? Not by us, 
 Sir. And now go, and don't disturb us any 
 more.' 
 
m .pi'i >F^'mtv^^''W^ 
 
 TW 
 
 THE AMEUICAN BARUN. 
 
 77 
 
 " Well, I'll be darned if I ever felt so cut up 
 in my life. Tiie old ludy was perfectly calm 
 and cool ; wasn't a bit scared — tliougli there 
 was no reason why she slioiild be. !She just 
 gave it to me that way. IJut when she ac- 
 cused mc of forcing an entrance and kicking 
 up a row, I was struck all of a heaj) and 
 couldn't say a word. J/e force an entrance ! 
 ^fe kick up a row ! And in Minnie's house ! 
 Why, the old woman's mad ! 
 
 " Well, the old lady shut the door in my 
 face, and I walked off; and I've been ever 
 since trying to understand it, but I'll be darneil 
 il I can make head or tail of it. The only 
 thing I see is that they're all keeping Minnie 
 locked up away from me. They don't like me, 
 tliough why they don't I can't see ; for I'm as 
 good as any body, and I've been particular 
 about being civil to all of them. Still they 
 don't like me, and they see that Minnie does, 
 and they're trying to break up the engagement. 
 But by the living jingo!" and the Baron 
 clinched a good-sized and very sinewy fist, 
 which he brought down hard on the table — " by 
 the living jingo, they'll find they can't come it 
 over me! No, Sir!" 
 
 "Is she fond of you — Miss Fay, I mean?" 
 
 "Fond! Course she is. She dotes on mo." 
 
 " Are you sure '?" 
 
 " Sure ! As sure as I am of my own ex- 
 istence. Why, the way slie looks at me is 
 enough ! She has a look of helpless trust, an 
 innocent confidence, a ♦ Mider, child-like faitli 
 and love, and a l)eseechuig, pleading, inijjlor- 
 ing way that tells me she is mine through and 
 through." 
 
 Ilawbury was a little surprised. He thought 
 he had heard something like that before. 
 
 " Oh, well," said he, " that's the chief thing, 
 you know. If you're sure of the girl's atfec- 
 tions, the battle's half won." 
 
 " Half won ! Ain't it all won ?" 
 
 " Well, not exactly. You see, with us En- 
 glish, there arc ever so many considerations." 
 
 "But with us Americans there is only one 
 consideration, and that is. Do you love me? 
 Still, if her relatives arc particular about dol- 
 lars, I can foot up as many thousands as her 
 old man, I dare say ; and then, if they care for 
 rank, why, I'm a Baron !" 
 
 "And what's more, old boy," said Ilawbury, 
 earnestly, " if they wanted a valiant, stout, true, 
 honest, loyal soul, they needn't go further than 
 Biifus K. Giinn, Baron de Atramonte." 
 
 The Baron's face Hushed. 
 
 "ilawbury," said he, "that's good in you. 
 We've tried one another, haven't we 'i* You're 
 a brick ! Aii on't need you to tell me w hat 
 
 you think of me. But if you could get a word 
 into the ear of that cantankerous old lady, and 
 just let her know what you know about me, it 
 might move her. You see you're after her 
 style, and I'm not ; and she can't see any thing 
 but a man's manner, which, after all, varins in 
 all countries. Now if you could speak a word 
 for me, Ilawbury — " 
 
 "By Jove! my dear fellow, I'd be glad to 
 do so — I swear I would ; but you don't appear 
 to know that I won't have the chance. They're 
 all going to leave Konie to-morrow morning." 
 
 The Baron started as though he had been sliot. 
 
 " What !" he cried, hoarsely. " What's that ? 
 Leave Home 'i*" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And to-morrow morning?" 
 
 "Yes ; Miss Fay told me herself — " 
 
 " Miss Fay told you herself! By Heaven ! 
 What do they mean by that ?" And the Baron 
 sat trembling with excitement. 
 
 " Well, the holy week's over." 
 
 " Darn it all, that's got nothing to do with it I 
 It's me ! They're trying to get her from me I 
 How are they going ? Do you know ?" 
 
 "They are going in a carriage by the way of 
 Civita Castellana." 
 
 "In a carriage by the way of Civita Castel- 
 lana ! Darn that old idiot of a woman ! what's 
 she up to now ? If she's running awny from 
 me, she'll wish herself back before she gets far 
 on that road. Why, there's an infernal nest 
 of brigands there that call themselves Garibal- 
 dians ; and, by thunder, the woman's crazy ! 
 They'll be seized and held to ransom — per- 
 haps worse. Heavens ! I'll go mad ! I'll run 
 aiul tell them. But no ; they won't see me. 
 What '11 1 do ? And Minnie ! I can't give her 
 up. She can't give me up. She's a poor, trem- 
 bling little creature ; her whole life hangs on 
 mine. Separation from me woidd kill her. 
 Poor little girl! Separation! By thunder, 
 they shall never sejjarate us! What devil 
 makes the old woman go by that infernal road ? 
 Brigands all the way ! But I'll go after them ; 
 I'll follow them. They'll find it almighty hard 
 work to keep her from me ! I'll see her, bv 
 thunder ! and I'll get her out of their clutches ! 
 I swear I will ! I'll bring her back here to 
 Rome, and I'll get the Pope himself to bind her 
 to me with a knot ihat all the old women under 
 heaven can never loosen !" 
 
 "What! You're going? By Jove ! that's 
 odd, for I'm going with a friend on the same 
 road." 
 
 "Good again! Three cheers! And you'll 
 see the old woman, and speak a good word for 
 mc ?" 
 
 " If I sec her and get a chance, I certainly 
 will, by Jove! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 AN EVENTFUL JOUKNEY. 
 
 On the day following two carriages rolled 
 out of Rome, and took the road toward Flor- 
 ence by the way of Civita Castellana. One 
 carriage held four ladies ; the other one was 
 occupied by four lady's-maids and the luggage 
 of the party. 
 
 It was early morning, and over the wide 
 Campagna there still hung mists, which were 
 dissipated gradually as the sun arose. As they 
 
7S 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 went on the dny ndvnnced, and with the de- 
 ]iftrtinf{ mists there opened up a wide view. 
 On eitiicr side extended the desolate Ctun- 
 l)agnii, over wliicii jjiissed lines of ruined nqiie- 
 ducts oil their way from the hills to the city. 
 Hero and there crnnibling rnins arose above 
 the plain — some ancient, others medieval, none 
 modern. Before them, in the distance, arose 
 the Apennines, atnonj; which were, hero and 
 there, visible the white outlines of some villa or 
 hamlet. 
 
 Tor mile after milo they drove on ; and the 
 drive soon ])roved very monotonous. It was 
 nothiuR but one long and unvarying jilain, with 
 this only change, that every mile brought them 
 nearer to the mountains. As the mountains 
 were their only hoj)e, they all looked forward 
 eagerly to the time when they would arrive 
 tliere and wind along the road among them. 
 
 Formerly Mrs. Willoughby alone had been 
 the confidante of Minnie's secret, but the events 
 of the past few days had disclosed most of her 
 
 for this imaginary neglect. So she sought to 
 make the journey as pleasant as possible by 
 cheerful remarks and lively observations. None 
 of these things, however, produced any effect 
 upon tlie attitude of Minnie. She sat there, with 
 unalterable sweetness and unvarying i)atience. 
 just like a holy martyr, who freely forgave ail 
 her enemies, and was praying for those who 
 had dcspitefidly used her. 
 
 The exciting events consequent upon the Bar- 
 on's a])])earance, and his sudden revelation in the 
 role of Minnie's lover, had exercised a strong 
 and varied effect upon all ; hut upon one its 
 result was wholly beneficial, and this was Ethel. 
 It was so startling and so unexjjectcd that it 
 had roused her from her gloom, and given her 
 something to think of. The Baron's de'but in 
 their jiarlor had been narrated to her over and 
 over by each of the three who luid witnessed it, 
 and each gave the narrative her own coloring. 
 Lady Dalrymple's account was humorous ; Mrs. 
 Willoughby 's indignant ; Minnie's sentimental. 
 
 TUB rnOOEBBIUN AOBOBB TUE OAMPAOMA. 
 
 troubles to the other ladies also, at least as far as 
 the general outlines were concerned. The con- 
 sequence was, that they all knew perfectly well 
 the reason why they were traveling in this way, 
 and Minnie knew that they all knew it. Yet 
 this unpleasant consciousness did not in the 
 least interfere with the sweetness of her temjier 
 and the gentleness of her manner. She sat there, 
 with a meek smile and a resigned nir, as though 
 the only part now left her in life was the pa- 
 tient endurance of her immcrited wrongs. She 
 blamed no one ; she made no complaint ; yet 
 there was in her attitude something so tonch- 
 ing, so clinging, so pathetic, so forlorn, and in 
 her face something so sweet, so sad, so re- 
 proachful, and so piteous, that she enforced 
 sympathy ; and each one began to have a half- 
 guilty fear that Minnie had been wronged by 
 her. Especially did Mrs. Willoughby feel this. 
 She feared that she had neglected the artless 
 and simple-minded child ; she feared that she 
 had not been sufficiently thoughtful about her ; 
 and now longed to do something to make amends 
 
 Out of all these Ethel gained a fourth idea, 
 compounded of these three, which again blend- 
 ed with another, and an original one of her own, 
 gained from a personal observation of the Bar- 
 on, whose appearance on the stairs and impa- 
 tient summons for "Min" were very vividly 
 impressed on her memory. In addition to this 
 there was the memory of that day on which 
 they endeavored to fight off the enemy. 
 
 That was, indeed, a memorable day, and was 
 now alluded to by them all as the day of the 
 siege. It was not without difficulty that they 
 bad withstood Minnie's earnest protestations, 
 and intrenched themselves. But Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby was obdurate, and Minnie's tears, which 
 fiowed freely, were unavailing. 
 
 Then there came the first knock of the im- 
 patient and aggressive visitor, followed by oth- 
 ers in swift succession, and in ever-increasing 
 power. Every knock went to Minnie's heart. 
 It excited an unlimited amount of sympathy for 
 the one who had saved her life, and was now 
 excluded from her door. But as the knocks 
 
THE AMERICAN BAUON. 
 
 79 
 
 grew violent nnd impcrjitivc, anil Minnie grew 
 >U(1 and ]>itilul, the other hulies grew iiulignnnt. 
 Lady Dulrytnplc was on the point of sending 
 ort' for the police, and only Minnie's frantic en- 
 treaties prevented this. At last the door seemed 
 almost beaten in, and their feelings nnderwcnt 
 a change. Tiiey were convinced tinit he was 
 mad, or else intoxicated. Of the madness of 
 love they did not think. Once convinced that 
 he was mad, they became terrified. The maids 
 all hid themselves. None of tiiem now would 
 ventnro out even to call the ])olice. They ex- 
 l)ected that the concierge woidd interpose, but 
 in vain. Tiio concierge was bribed. 
 
 After a very eventfid day night came. They 
 heard footsteps pacing up and down, and knew 
 that it was their tormentor. Minnie's heart 
 again melted with tender pity for the man 
 whose love for her had turned his head, and 
 she begged to be allowed to speak to him. But 
 this was not permitted. So she went to bed 
 and fell asleep. So, in process of time, did the 
 others, and the night passed without any trou- 
 ble. Then morning came, and tiiere was a 
 debate as to who should confront the enemy. 
 There was no noise, but they knew that he was 
 there. At last Lady Dalrymijlc summoned up 
 her energies, and went fortli to do battle. The 
 result has already been described in the words 
 of the bold Baron himself. 
 
 But even this great victory did not reassure 
 the ladies. Dreading another visit, they hur- 
 ried away to a hotel, leaving the maids to follow 
 witii tiie luggage as soon as possible. On the 
 following morning they had left tlie city. 
 
 Events so very exciting as these had pro- 
 duced a very natural eft'ect upon the mind of 
 Ethel. They had thrown her thoughts out of 
 their old groove, and fixed them in a new one. 
 Besides, the fact that she was actually leaving 
 the man who had caused her so much sorrow 
 was already a partial relief. She had dreaded 
 meeting him so much that she had been forced 
 to keep herself a prisoner. A deep grief still 
 remained in her heart ; but, at any rate, there 
 was now some pleasure to be felt, if only of a 
 superficial kind. 
 
 As for Mrs. Wi Hough by, in spite of her self- 
 reproach about her purely imaginary neglect of 
 Minnie, she felt such an extraordinary relief 
 that it attected all her nature. The others 
 might feel fatigue from the journey. Not she. 
 She was willing to continue the journey for an 
 indefinite period, so long as she had the sweet 
 consciousness that she was bearing Minnie far- 
 ther and farther away from the grasp of " that 
 horrid man." The consequence was, that she 
 was lively, lovely, brilliant, cheerful, and alto- 
 gether delightful. She was as tender to Min- 
 nie OS a mother could he. She was lavish in 
 her promises of what she would do for her. 
 She chatted gayly with Ethel about a thousand 
 things, and was delighted to find that Ethel re- 
 ciprocated. She rallied Lady Dalrymple on 
 her silence, and congratulated her over and 
 over, in spite of Minnie's frowns, on the suc- 
 
 cess of her generalship. And so at last the* 
 weary rami)agiui was traversed, and the two 
 carriages l)egan to ascend among the moimtains. 
 
 Several other travelers were passing over that 
 Canipagiui road, and in the same direction. 
 They were not near enough for their faces to 
 be discerned, i)ut tiie ladies coidd look l)ack and 
 see tiie signs of their jiresence. Eirst there was 
 a carriage with two men, and about two miles 
 behind another carriage with two other men ; 
 while behind these, again, there rode a solitary 
 horseman, who was gradually gaining on the 
 other travelers. 
 
 Now, if it had been possible for Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby to look back and discern the faces of 
 the travelers who were moving along the road 
 behind her, what a sudden overturn tiicre would 
 have been in her feelings, and what a l)iigiit 
 would have fallen u\)Oi\ her spirits! But Mrs. 
 Willoughby remained in the most blissful ig- 
 norance of the persons of these travelers, and 
 so was able to maintain the sunshine of her 
 soul. 
 
 At length there came over that sunny soul 
 the first cloud. 
 
 The solitary horseman, who had been riding 
 behind, had overtaken the ditVerent carriages. 
 
 Ti'.e first carriage contained Lord Ilawbnry 
 and Scone Dacres. As the horseman passed, 
 he recognized them witii a careless nod and 
 smile. 
 
 Scone Dacres grasped Lord Ilawbnry's arm. 
 
 "Did you see him?" he cried. "The Ital- 
 ian! I thought so! What do you say now? 
 Wasn't I right ?" 
 
 " By Jove !" cried Lord Ilawbnry. 
 
 Whcreu])on Dacres relapsed into silence, sit- 
 ting upright, glaring after the horseman, cher- 
 ishing in his gloomy soul the darkest and most 
 vengeful thoughts. 
 
 The horseman rode on further, and overtook 
 the next carriage. In this there were two 
 men, one in the uniform of the Papal Zouaves, 
 the other in rusty black. He turned toward 
 these, and greeted them with the same nod and 
 smile. 
 
 " Do you see that man, parson ?" said the 
 Baron to his companion. "Do you recognize 
 him?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well, you saw him at Minnie's house. He 
 came in." 
 
 "No, he didn't." 
 
 "Didn't he? No. By thunder, it wasn't 
 that time. Well, at any rate, that man, I be- 
 lieve, is at the bottom of the row. It's my be- 
 lief that he's trying to cut me out, and he'll find 
 he's got a hard row to hoe before he succeeds 
 in that project." 
 
 And with these words the Baron sat glaring 
 after the Italian, with something in his eye that 
 resembled faintly the fierce glance of Scone 
 Dacres. 
 
 The Italian rode on. A few miles further 
 were the two carriages. Minnie and her sister 
 were sitting on the front seats, and saw the 
 
so 
 
 TlIK AMEUICAN BAUON. 
 
 Ktrniifror as he advnnpcd. IIo soon cnmo near 
 enough to he ^li^tinKllisllC(I, and Mrs. Willoiigh- 
 hy rcfogiiizcd (iirasole. 
 
 llcr siirjjrisc was ko great that she uttered 
 an exclaitiation of terror, which startled tlic 
 otiier hidies, and made them all luuk in tiiat 
 direction. 
 
 " How very odd!" said Ethel, thoiij^htfully. 
 
 "And now I suppose you'll all go and say 
 that I l)rou);ht him too," said Minnie. "That's 
 alinti/s the way you do. You tuver seem to 
 think that I nniy ho innocent. Yon a/trdi/.i 
 blame me for every little mite of a lliinj; that 
 may happen," 
 
 No one made any remark, and there was si- 
 lence in the carriage as the stranger api)roiuhed. 
 The ladies bowed somewhat coolly, except Min- 
 nie, wiio threw upon him the most imploring 
 look that could i)ossibly be sent from liunnin 
 eyes, and the Italian's impressible nature thrill- 
 ed before those beseeching, jjleading, earnest, 
 unfathomable, tender, hcl|)less, innocent orbs. 
 Kemoving iiis hat, he bowed low. 
 
 "1 haf not been awara," he said, jiolitcly, 
 in his broken English, "that youar ladysippa's 
 bin intend to travalla, Ees eet not subitu in- 
 tcnzion'i'" 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby made a polite res])onse of 
 a general character, the Italian jjaused a mo- 
 ment to drink in dcci) draughts from Minnie's 
 great licseeching eyes that were fixed ui)on bis, 
 and then, with a low bow, he ])assed on. 
 
 "I believe I'm losing my senses," said Mrs. 
 Willoughby. 
 
 "Why, Kitty darling?" asked Minnie. 
 
 " I don't know how it is, hut I actually trem- 
 hled when that man came up, and I haven't got 
 over it yet." 
 
 "I'm sure I don't sec why," said IVIinnie. 
 " You're alwdi/s imagining things, though. Now 
 isn't she, Ethel dearest?" 
 
 "Well, really, I don't sec much in the Count 
 to make one tremble. I sujiposc poor dear 
 Kitty has been too much agitated lately, and 
 it's her poor nerves." 
 
 " I have my lavender, Kitty dear," said Lady 
 Dalrynijile. "Won't you take it? Or would 
 you ])refer valerian ?" 
 
 "Thanks, much, but I do not need it," said 
 Mrs. Willoughby. "I suppose it will j)ass olf." 
 
 "I'm sure the poor Count never did any 
 body any harm," said Minnie, jjlaintively ; " so 
 you needn't all abuse him so — unless you're 
 all angry at him for saving my life. I remem- 
 ber a time when you all thought very ditl'erent- 
 ly, and all praised him up, no end." 
 
 " Keally, Minnie darling, I have nothing 
 against the Count, only once he was a little too 
 intrusive; but he seems to have got over that ; 
 and if he'll only be nice and qniet and proper, 
 I'm sure I've nothing to say against him." 
 
 They drove on for some time, and at length 
 reached Civita Castellana. Here they drove 
 up to the hotel, and the ladies got out and went 
 up to their apartments. They had three rooms 
 up stairs, two of which looked out into the street, 
 
 while the third was in the rear. At the front 
 windows was a balcony. 
 
 Tiio ladies now disrobed themselves, and 
 their maids assisted them to perforin the duties 
 of a very simple toilet. Mrs. Willoughby 's was 
 first finished. So she walked over to the win- 
 dow, and looked out into the street. 
 
 It was not a very interesting place, nor was 
 there nuich to bo seen ; but she took a lazy, 
 languid interest in the sight which met her eyes. 
 
 There were the two carriages. The horses 
 were being led to water. Around the carriages 
 was a motley crowd, composed of the poor, the 
 maimed, the halt, the blind, forming that realm 
 of beggars which from immemorial ages has 
 nourished in Italy. With these was intermin- 
 gled IX crowd of ducks, geese, goats, pigs, and 
 ill-looking, nningy, simrling curs. 
 
 Upon tiiese Mrs. Willoughby looked for some 
 time, when at length her cars were arrested by 
 the roll of wheels down the street. A carriage 
 was approaching, in which there were two trav- 
 elers. One hasty glance sufficed, and she turned 
 her attention once more to the ducks, geese, 
 goats, dogs, and beggars. In a few nunutes the 
 crowd was scattered by tlie newly-arrived car- 
 riage. It stojiped. A man jumped out. For 
 a moment he looked up, staring hard at the 
 windows. That moment was enough. Mrs. 
 Willoughby had recognized him. 
 
 iSlie rushed away from the windows. Lady 
 Dalrym])le and Ethel were in tliis room, and 
 Minnie in the one beyouil. All were startled 
 by Mrs. Willoughby 's exclamation, and still 
 more by her looks. 
 
 "Oh!" she cried. 
 
 "What?" cried thev. "What is it?" 
 
 "y/f'.s there! //t'.s there!" 
 
 " Who ? who ?" they cried, in alarm. 
 
 "That horrid num!" 
 
 Lady Dalrymiile and Ethel looked at one an- 
 other in utter horror. 
 
 As for Minnie, she l)urst into the room, 
 peejjed out of the windows, saw "that horrid 
 man," then ran back, then sat down, then 
 jumped uj), and then burst into a peal of 
 the merriest laughter that ever was heard from 
 her. 
 
 "Oh, I'm .10 glad! I'm so glad!" she ex- 
 claimed. "Oh, it's so rt(ffully funny. Oh, I'm 
 so glad ! Oh, Kitty darling, don't, please don't, 
 look so cross. Oh, ple-e-e-e-e-e-e-ase don't, 
 Kitty darling. You make me laugh worse. It's 
 so aiffully funny I" 
 
 Hut while Minnie laughed thus, the others 
 looked at each other in still greater consterna- 
 tion, and for some time there was not one of 
 them who knew what to say. 
 
 But Lady Dalrymple again threw herself in 
 the gai). 
 
 " You need not feel at all nervous, ray dears," 
 said she, gravely. " I do not think that this 
 person can give us any trouble. He certainly 
 can not intrude upon us in these apartments, 
 and on the highway, you know, it will be quite 
 as difficult for him to hold any communication 
 
THE AMERICAN lUUON. 
 
 81 
 
 in 
 
 with us. So I really don't aoo nny pniisc for 
 aliirin on your i)art, nor do I hoc why dear 
 Minnie should o\hil)it nucIi (K-iiKJit." 
 
 Thfso words hroii>;iit fonil'ort to Kflitd and 
 Mrs. Wiiiounliliy. Tiiey at once perceived their 
 truth. To tone hinisclt'into their ])resencc in 
 II puhiic hotcd was, of course, impossible, even 
 for one so reckless as he seemed to he ; and on 
 the road he could not troulile them in anyway, 
 since he would have to drive before them or 
 liehind them. 
 
 At Lady Dalrymple's reference to herself, 
 Minnie looked up with a hrijjht smile. 
 
 "You're awfully cross with me, aunty dar- 
 ling," she said; " l)ut I forgive you. Only I 
 can't help laufihiuK, you know, to see how 
 frightened you all are at poor liiifus K. Gunn. 
 Aiul, Kitty dearest, oh how you did run away 
 from the window ! It was aiffuUy funny, you 
 know." 
 
 Not long after the arrival of the Baron and 
 his friends another earria>;e drove up. None 
 of the ladies were at the window, and so they 
 did not see the easy nonchalance of Ilawhury 
 ns he lounged into the house, or the stern face 
 of Scone Dacres as he strode before him. 
 
 "a8 IOH 1>.V.MJA1KK— POUf! IIEKE IS NOSE." 
 
 CIIArTEU XXII. 
 
 ADVICE n K J E C T K 1). 
 
 DtjniNO dinner the ladies conversed freely 
 about "that horrid man," wondering what plan 
 he would adopt to try to eftect an entrance 
 among them. They were convinced that some 
 such attempt would be made, and the servants 
 of the inn who waited on them were strictly 
 charged to see that no one disturbed them. 
 However, their dinner was not interruoted and 
 F 
 
 after it was over they began to think of retiring, 
 so as to leave at an early hour on the following 
 morning. Minnie had already taken her de- 
 parture, and the others were thinking of follow- 
 ing her example, when a knock came at the door. 
 
 All started. One of the nuiids went to the 
 door, aiul l()\ind a servant there who brought a 
 message! from the Maron Atramonte. He wished 
 I to speak to the ladies on business of the most 
 urgent importance. At this confirmation of 
 ! their exjtectations the ladies looked at one an- 
 other with a smile mingled with vexation, and 
 La<ly Dalrymjilo at once sent word that they 
 could not i)ossibly see him. 
 
 Hut the Haron was not to be put off. In a 
 few nu)inents the servant caim; hack again, ami 
 brought another message, of a still more urgent 
 character, in which the Uaron entreated them 
 to grant him this interview, and assured them 
 that it was a matter of life and death. 
 
 " He's beginning to be more aixl more vio- 
 lent," said liudy Dalrynijile. "Well, dears," 
 she added, resigneilly, " in my o])inion it will 
 be better to see him, and have done with him. 
 If we do not, I'm afraid he will ])ester ns fur- 
 ther. I will see him. You had better retire 
 to your own apartments." 
 
 Ujiou this she sent down an invitation to the 
 Baron to come u]), and the ladies retreated to 
 their rooms. 
 
 The Baron entered, and, as usual, offered to 
 shake hands — an ofler which, as usual, Lady 
 Dalrymple did not accept. He then looked 
 earnestly all round the room, and gave a sigh. 
 lie evidently had cxjiected to see Minnie, and 
 was disappointed. Lady I)alrym])le marked 
 the glance, and the exi)ression which followed. 
 
 "Well, ma'ain," said he, as he seated him- 
 self near to Lady Dalrymple, " I said that the 
 business I wanted to speak about was import- 
 ant, and that it was a matter of life and death. 
 I assure you that it is. But before I tell it I 
 want to say something about the row in Home. 
 I have reason to understand that I caused a lit- 
 tle annoyance to you all. If I did, I'm sure I 
 didn't intend it. I'm sorry. There ! Let's 
 say no more ahout it. 'Tain't often that I say 
 I'm sorry, but I say so now. Conditionally, 
 though — that is, if I really </<</ annoy any body." 
 
 "Well, Sir?" 
 
 " Well, ma'am — about the business I came 
 for. You have made a sudden decision to lake 
 this journey. I want to know, ma'am, if you 
 made any inquiries about this road before start- 
 ing?" 
 
 " This road ? No, certainly not. " 
 
 "I thought so," said the Baron. "Well, 
 ma'am, I've reason to believe that it's some- 
 what unsafe." 
 
 "Unsafe?" 
 
 " Yes ; particularly for ladies." 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 " Why, ma'am, the country is in a disordered 
 state, and near the boundary line it swarms 
 with brigands. They call themselves Garibal- 
 dians, but between you and me, ma'am, they're 
 
 '-•— -~--*^ •'— -* — 
 
•^""^mwrn^ 
 
 83' 
 
 THE AMKRICAN BAKON. 
 
 ncitlier moro nor loss tlmn roMicru, Yoii hcc, 
 aloiiK the lioiiiuliiry it Ih convenient for tliem 
 to (lod^e to one side or the other, and where 
 the rond riMiH there are often erowdH of tliein. 
 Now our ]iii|ml government uu'iuih well, hut it 
 ain't Kot jiower to lieep down these hritsiind.s. It 
 would like to, liiit it can't. You see, tlie Ncuni 
 of all Italy pother ulong the liordcrH, heiau.sc 
 they know wc (ire weak ; and no there it is." 
 
 "And you think tiiern is danger on this 
 rnad'!*" 8uid Lady I)alryni|>le, looking keenly at 
 bitn. 
 
 " I do, ma'nm." 
 
 " I'ruy have you heard of any recent acts of 
 violence aloiij? the road '('" 
 
 "No, inn'ain." 
 
 ••Then what reason have you for snppOHing 
 that there is any particular danger now'/" 
 
 "A friend of mine told nic ho, ma'am." 
 
 " Hut do not jii'oplc use the road ? Are not 
 carriages constantly passing and repassing 'i* Is 
 it likely that if it were unsafe there would he no 
 acts of violence ? Yet you Hay there have been 
 none." 
 
 "Not of late, ma'am." 
 
 "But it is of late, and of the present time, 
 that we are speaking." 
 
 '•I can only say, ma'am, that the road is con- 
 sidered very dangerous." 
 
 "Who considers it so ?" 
 
 " If you had made in(|uirie8 nt Rome, ma'am, 
 you would have found this out, and never would 
 have thought of this road." 
 
 "And you advise us not to travel it?" 
 
 "I do, ma'am," 
 
 "What would you advise us to do?" 
 
 *' I would advise you, nui'am, most earnestly, 
 to turn and go back to Rome, and leave by an- 
 other route." 
 
 Lady Dalrymple looked at hira, and a slight 
 smile quivered on her lips. 
 
 " I see, ma'nm, that for some reason or other 
 you doubt my word. Would you put confi- 
 dence in it if another person were to confirm 
 what I have said ?" 
 
 " That depends entirely upon who the other 
 person may be." 
 
 "The person I mean is Lord Hawbury." 
 
 " Lord Hawbury ? Indeed !" said Lady Dal- 
 rymple, in some surprise. " But he's in Rome." 
 
 "No, ma'am, he's not. He's here — in this 
 hotel." 
 
 "In this hotel? Here?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " I'm sure I should like to see him very 
 much, and hear what he says about it." 
 
 '• I'll go and get him, then," said the Baron, 
 and, rising briskly, he left the room. 
 
 In a short time he returned with Hawbury. 
 Lady Dalrymple expressed surprise to see him, 
 and Hawbury explained that he was travel- 
 ing with a friend. Lady Dalrymple, of course, 
 thought this a fresh proof of his infatuation 
 about Minnie, and wondered how he could be 
 a friend to a man whom she considered as Min- 
 nie's persecutor and tormentor. 
 
 The Baron at once proceeded to explain how 
 the matter stood, and to usk Ilawbury's opin- 
 ion. 
 
 "Yes," said Lady Dalrymple, " I should re- 
 ally like t(/ know what you think about it." 
 
 " Well, really," said Hawbury, "I have no 
 ac(|iuiiulaiu'e with the thing, you know. Never 
 been on this road in my life. But, nt the samo 
 time, I can assure y(Mi that this gentleman is ii 
 particular frieiul of iniiu>, and one of the best 
 fellows I know. I'd stake my life on his j)er- 
 fect truth ami honor. W he says any thing, you 
 may believe it because ho says it. If ho says 
 there are brigands on the road, they must bo 
 there." 
 
 "Oh, of course," said Lady I)alryrni)le. "You 
 arc right to believe your friciul, and I should 
 trust his word also. But do you not see that 
 perhaps he may believe what ho says, and yet 
 be mistaken ?" 
 
 At this the Baron's face fell. Lord Haw- 
 bm-y's warm commendation of him bud excited 
 his hopes, but now Lady Dalrymple's answer 
 had destroyed them. 
 
 •' For my part," she added, "I don't really 
 think any of us know mudi aiiout it. I wish 
 we could find some citizen of the town, or some 
 reliable i)crsoti, and ask him. I wonder wheth- 
 er the inn-keeper is a trust-worthy man." 
 
 The Baron shook his head. 
 
 " I wouldn't trust one of them. They're the 
 greatest rascals in the country. Kvery man of 
 them is in league with the Garil)aldians and 
 brigands. This man would advise you to take 
 whatever course would benefit himself and his 
 friends most. " 
 
 " But surely wc might find some one wliosc 
 opinion would be reliable. What do you say 
 to one of my drivers? The one that drove our 
 carriage looks like a good, honest man." 
 
 " Well, perhaps so ; but I wouldn't trust one 
 of them. I don't believe there's an honest vet- 
 turino in all Italy." 
 
 Lady Dalrymple elevated her eyebrows, and 
 threw at Hawbury a glance of despair. 
 
 " He speaks English, too," said Lady Dal- 
 rymple. 
 
 " So do some of the worst rascals in the coun- 
 try," said the Baron. 
 
 " Oh, I don't think he can be a very bad ras- 
 cal, Wc had better question him, at any rate. 
 Don't you think so. Lord Hawbiny ?" 
 
 " Well, yes ; I suppose it won't do any harm 
 to have a look at the beggar." 
 
 The driver alluded to was summoned, and 
 soon made his apjiearance. He was a square- 
 headed fellow, with a grizzled beard, and one, 
 of those non-committal faces which may be worn 
 by either an honest man or a kiuive. Lady Dal- 
 rymple thought him the former ; the Baron the 
 latter. The result will show which of these 
 was in the right. 
 
 The driver spoke very fair Engl.sh. He had 
 been two or three times over the road. He had 
 not been over it later than two years before. 
 He didn't know it was dangerous. He had 
 
 ' 
 
 c 
 li 
 ii 
 d 
 
 s 
 
 '1 
 w 
 
n 
 
 THE AMKUICAN HAUON. 
 
 li- 
 
 the 
 
 liose 
 
 had 
 luul 
 'ore. 
 had 
 
 
 never hennl nrhriKnmlN hc'\ng hrrr. II(> didn't 
 know. 'I'hfre \min u Ni^iiorc at th» hotel who 
 itiixlit kiiiiw. Ilu wuM travi-liiig to Flon-iuc 
 liloiio. Ilu wax on horHvlmi-k. 
 
 Ax Nooti i\H Lady Dahyiiiplu licnrd tliix xhc 
 Hiisiu'ctcd that it wax Cninit (iirasoh*. She di>- 
 t(M'iiiiru>il to havu his advici; alioiit it. So xhc 
 Mt'iil a |ii'ivai(> ruijiti'Mt to that i-tt'i-ct. 
 
 It wax Count (iiraxoh*. ilu entered, nnd 
 threw hix nsiiul smile around. He wax chann- 
 od, in hix hrokcn iMiKli.^ii, to he of any xervieo 
 to niiladi. 
 
 To Lady Dairy mpie'x slntomcnt nnd (|neN- 
 tinn (iirasoh; listened attentively. Ax she coii- 
 clndeil n faint smile passed over hix face. The 
 Jiaron watciicd him attentively. 
 
 " I know no hri^and on dissa road," said he. 
 
 Lady Didrymple looked trinmphanlly at the 
 others. 
 
 " I have travail dissa road many time. No 
 dan^airu — alia safe." 
 
 Another smile from Lady Dahymple. 
 
 The ("onnt (iirasole looked at llawiniry nnd 
 then at the fiaron, with u slight dash of mock- 
 cry in his face. 
 
 " As for daiiRaire," he said — " pouf ! dore is 
 none. Sec, I go alone — tio arms, not a knife — 
 nn' yet pold in my ]iorte-monnaie." 
 
 And he drew forth his j)orte-moniuiic, nnd 
 opened it so as to exhibit its eontents, 
 
 A little farther conversation followed. Gira- 
 sole evidently was jierfeelly familiar with the 
 road. The idea of liri^ands appeared to strike 
 him as some exqnisite ])iecc of pleasantry, lie 
 looked as though it was only his respect for iho 
 company which ])revented him from laughing 
 outright. They had taken the trouhle to sum- 
 mon him for that ! An<!, hesides, as the Count 
 suggested, even if u brigand did appear, there 
 would he always tnivelera wiihin hearing. 
 
 ]lotIi Ilawhnry and the Haron felt humilia- 
 ted, especially the latter ; and Girasole certain- 
 ly had the hest of it on that o(.'casion, whatever 
 his lot had been at other times. 
 
 The C luut withdrew. The Haron followed, 
 in company with Ilawbury, lie was deeply 
 dejected. First of all, he had hoped to see 
 Minnie. Then he hoped to frighten the j)arty 
 hack. As to the brigands, he was in most se- 
 rious earnest. All that he mhl he believed, 
 lie could not understand the driver and Count 
 (Jirnsole. The former he 'light consider u 
 Hcoundrel ; hut why should (iiiasole mislead? 
 And yet he believed that he was right. As for 
 Ilawbury, he diiln't believe much in the brig- 
 ands, but he did believe in his friend, nnd he 
 didn't think much of Girnsole. He was sorry 
 for his friend, yet didn't know whether he want- 
 ed the i)arty to turn back or not. His one trou- 
 ble was Dacrcs, who now was watching the Ital- 
 ian like a blood-hound, who had seen him, no 
 doubt, go up to the ladies, and, of course, would 
 suppose that Mrs. Willougbby had sent for him. 
 
 As for the ladies, their excitement was great. 
 The doors were thin, and they had heard every 
 word of the conversation. With Mrs. Willongh- 
 
 hy there wan but one opinion as to the Daron'M 
 niotive : xhe thought he had come to get n peep 
 at .Minnie, and also to frighten them back to 
 Homo hy nilly NtoricN. \l\» signal fuiliiru uf- 
 forded her great triiim[ih. Minnie, hk nxual, 
 sympathized with him, but said nothing. A« 
 for Kthid, the sudden arrival of Lord Ilawbury 
 wax overwhelming, and brought a return of all 
 her former excitement. The s(Mind of \\\» voice 
 again vibrated through her, and at lirxt there 
 began to arise no end of wild hopes, which, 
 however, were ax ipiiikly dispelled. The ipiex- 
 tion arose, What broiiglit him there 'i* There 
 seemed to her but one anxwer, and that wax hin 
 infatuation for Minnie. Yet to her, n« well aa 
 to Lady Dalrymple, it xeemed >ery singular thai 
 he sliould he so warm n friend to Minnie'x tor- 
 mentor. It wax a pn/./.ling thing. Perhaps he 
 did not know that the Haron was Minnie'x lover, 
 i'erhaps he thought that his friend would give 
 her up, and he could win her. Amidst tbcxo 
 tboughlx there came a wild hope thai perhapx ho 
 did not love Minnie so very much, after all. Hut 
 this hope soon wax dispelled ax she recalled the 
 events of the jiast, and retlecled on hix cool and 
 easy imlilVerence to every thing connected with 
 her. 
 
 Such emotions ns these actuntcd the Indies; 
 and when the guests had gone they joined their 
 aunt once more, and deliberated. Minnie took 
 no part in the debate, hut sat apart, looking 
 like an injured being. There was among them 
 all the same opinion, nnd that was that it was 
 all a clumsy device of the ISaron's to frighten 
 them back to Home. Such being their opinion, 
 they did not occupy much time in debating 
 about their course on the morrow. The idea 
 of going back did not enter their heads. 
 
 This event gave a much more agreeable feel- 
 ing to Mrs. WiUongbhy and Lady Dalryniido 
 than they had known since they had been 
 nwnre that the Haron had followed them. 
 They felt that they had grappled with the dilH- 
 culty. Tliey had met the enemy and defeated 
 him. Hesides, the presence of Ilawbury wax 
 of itself n gnnrnntee of peace. There could bo 
 no further danger of any nn])lcasant scenes 
 while Ilawbury was with him. (Jirasole's pres- 
 ence, also, was felt to be an additional gnnrnn- 
 tee of safety. 
 
 It w as felt by nil to he n remarkable circum- 
 stance that so ninny men should have followed 
 them on what they had intended ns quite a 
 secret journey. These gentlemen who follow- 
 ed them were the very »nies, and the only ones, 
 from whom they wished to concenl it. Yet if. 
 had all been revealed to thcni, nnd lo! hero 
 they all were. Some debate arose as to wheth- 
 er it would not be better to go back to Home 
 now, and defy the Haron, and leave by another 
 route. But this debate was soon given up, nnd 
 they looked forward to the journey as one which 
 might atford new and peculiar enjoyment. 
 
 On the following morning they started at an 
 early hour. Girasole left about half nn hour 
 nfter them, nnd passed them a few miles nlong 
 
 1 . 
 
 um^mtt^ltmaitltait 
 
84 
 
 TIIK AMERICAN HAIiON. 
 
 * 
 
 the road. The Rtiron niid the Itevcrend Saul 
 left next; niid hist of ull ciinic Hiiwhiiry and 
 Datic's. 'I'lio hitter v/a.-*, if possilile, iiioic 
 nh)i)iiiy and veii^?t'Fid than ever. Tlie visit of 
 the Italian on tiio preceding cveniiij; was fully 
 believed hy him to he a sehenio of his wife's. 
 Nor could liny nnioiint of ]iersuasioii or vehe- 
 ment statomeiit on Ilawhury's pan in any way 
 shake his i)L'lief. 
 
 "No," he would say, "you don't inidcr- 
 stand. Depend njion it, she got him nj) there 
 to feast her eyes on him. Depend upon it, she 
 managed to get souk; note froiu him, and |)ass 
 one to him in return, lie had only to run it 
 under the leaf of a table, or stick it inside of 
 some hook : no doubt they have it all arranged, 
 and ])ass tlieir infermd love-letters backward 
 an " forward. IJiit I'll soon have a chance. 
 My time is coming. It's near, loo. I'll have 
 my vengeance; and then for all the wrongs 
 of all my life that demon of a wonnm shall 
 pay me dear!" 
 
 To all of which Ilawbury Iiad nothing to say. 
 He could say nothing; he could do nothing. 
 He roidd only stand by his friend, go with him, 
 and watch over him, hoping to avert the crisis 
 whii^li he dreaded, or, if it did come, to lessen 
 the danger of his friend. 
 
 The morning was clear and beainiful. The 
 road woiiiul among the hills. The jairty went 
 in the order above u.entioned. 
 
 First, Girasole, on horsel)ack. 
 
 Nc.\t, and two miles at least !)ehind, cnme 
 the two carriages with the ladies and their 
 maids. 
 
 Third, and half a mile behind these, came 
 the Haron and the Hevercnd Saul. 
 
 Last of all, and half a mih; behind the Haron, 
 came Ilawbury and Scone Dacres. 
 
 These last drove along at about this distance. 
 The scenery around grew grander, and the 
 mountains higher. Th(i road was sm(K)tli and 
 well constructed, and the carriage rolled along 
 with an easy, comfortable rumble. 
 
 They were driving up a slope which wound 
 along the side of a hill. At the top of the hill 
 trees appeared on each side, and the road made 
 a sharp turn here. 
 
 Sudilenly the report of a shot sounded ahead. 
 
 Thetj a scream. 
 
 "Good Lord! Dacres, did you hear that'r' 
 cried Ilawbury. "The Baron was right, after 
 all." 
 
 The driver here tried to stop his horses, but 
 Ilawbury would not let him. 
 
 " Have you u pistol, Dacres?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Get out!" he shouted to the driver; and, 
 kicking him out of the seat, he seized the reins 
 himself, and drove the horses straight forward 
 to where the noise arose. 
 
 " It's the brigands, Dacres. The Indies arc 
 there." 
 
 "My wife! () God I my wife!" groaned 
 Dacres. But a minute before he hail been 
 cursing her. 
 
 "Get a knife! Get something, man ! Have 
 a fight for it!" 
 
 Dacres murmured something. 
 
 Ilawbury lashed the horses, and drove tlicin 
 straight toward the wood. 
 
 CHArTKU XXIII. 
 
 C A U ('. II T IN A M II II H II. 
 
 TiiK, ladies had been driving on, (piite uncon- 
 scious of the neighborhood of any danger, ad- 
 miring the beauty of the scenery, and calling 
 one another's attention to the various objects of 
 interest which from time to time became visible. 
 Thus engaged, they slowly ascended the incline 
 already spoken of, and began to enter the for- 
 est. They had not gone far when the road 
 took a sudden turn, and here a startling sjjec- 
 tacle burst upon their view. 
 
 The road on turning descended slightly into 
 a hollow. On the right arose a steep acclivity, 
 covered with the dense forest. On the other 
 side the ground rose more gradually, and was 
 covered over by a forest much less dense. Some 
 distance in front the road took another turn, 
 and was lost to view among the trees. About 
 a hiindri'd yards in front of them a tree had 
 been felled, and lay across the way, barring 
 their progress. 
 
 About twenty armed men stood before them 
 close by the )ilace where the turn was. Among 
 them was a man ini horseback. To their 
 uiiiizeiucnt, it was (iirasole. 
 
 licit. r" the lailies could recover from tlieir 
 astonishment two of the armed men advanced, 
 and the driver at (nice stoii])cil the carriage. 
 
 Girasole then came forward. 
 
 " Miladi," said he, " I liaf de honore of to 
 invitar you to dcscenil." 
 
 " I'lay what is the meaning of this?" in- 
 (piired Lady Dalrymple, with much agitation. 
 
 " It means dat 1 war wrong. Dcre are brig- 
 and on (lis road." 
 
 Lady Dalryin])le said not another word. 
 'lie Count approached, and politely otVercd 
 his liand to assist the ladies out, but they re- 
 jecteil it, and got out themselves. First Mrs. 
 Willoiighby, then l"'.thel, tTien Lady Dalrymple, 
 then Minnie. Three of the Indies were wliite 
 with titter horror, and looked around in sick- 
 ening fexr upon the armed men; but Minnie 
 showed not even the slightest particle <if I'ear. 
 
 " llow horrid!" she exclaimed. "And now 
 some one will come and save my life again. 
 It's nliraijs the way. I'm sure t/iis isn't my 
 fault, Kitty darling." 
 
 Mef(ue her sister could say any thing Gira- 
 sole approiiched. 
 
 " I'ardon, inees," lie said ; " but I haf made 
 dis recep/.ion for you. You sail be well treat. 
 Do not fear. I lay down my life." 
 
 "Villain!" cried Lady Dalrymple. "Arrest 
 her at your peril. Hememberwho shejs. She 
 has friends powerful ciiougli to avenge her if 
 you dare to injure her." 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 81^ 
 
 
 
 "You nrra mistake," sniil GirHSolc, politely. 
 "So is mini', not yours. I gun her best tVeii. 
 So is finiiede to me. I save Iter life — tell her 
 my love — make a j)ro])osezion. Se aeeept me. 
 Se is my (ianeee. 1 was oppose by yoii. What 
 elso sail I do? I iiiiis Iiat' her. Se is mine. 
 1 aui an Italiano nobile, an' 1 love her. Dere 
 is no harm for any. Yon mns no.c dat I hat' 
 tie rij^ht. Hut t"or me .se would be dead." 
 
 Lady I)iilryni]ile was not usually excitable, 
 but now her whole nature was aroused; her 
 eyes Hashed with iudif;natinn ; her I'aee turned 
 red ; she pisped tor iireath, and fell to the 
 ground. I'hhel rusheil to assist her, aiul two 
 of the maids eanio up. Lady Dahymiilc lay 
 senseless. 
 
 With Mrs. Willoughby the result was diifer- 
 ent. She biu'st into tears. 
 
 " Count (iinisolc," she cried, "oh, spare her! 
 If you love her, s])are her. She is only achihl. 
 If we opposed you, it was not from any olijee- 
 tion to you ; it was bueausc she is sueh a 
 child." 
 
 " You mistake," said the Count, shrunninK 
 his shoidders. "I love her better than lite. 
 Se love me. It will nnike her hajipy. You 
 come too. Yon sail see se is hap]iy. Come. 
 IJe my sistaire. It is love — " 
 
 Mrs. WillouKliby bin'st into fresh tears at 
 this, and ttnun her arms around Minnie, and 
 moMucil and wept. 
 
 " Well, now, Kitty darling, I think it's hor- 
 rid. You're never satislied. You're always 
 lindiii); faidt. I'm sure if you don't like Uufus 
 K. (iuuu, you — " 
 
 lint Minnie's voice was interrupted by the 
 sound of approachiufj; wheels. It was the car- 
 ria>?o of the Haroii aiul his I'riend. The Huron 
 Inul feared brij;auds, but he was c'ertaiidy not 
 expecting to come u]ion them so suddenly. The 
 brif;ands had been la-epared, anil as the carriaj;e 
 tiu'iied it was suddenly stopped by the two lur- 
 riagcs in front, and at once was surroinided. 
 
 The IJaron gave one lightning glance, and 
 surveyed the whole situation. lie did not 
 move, but his form was rigiti, and every nerve 
 was braced, and his eyes gleamed fiercely. He 
 saw it all — the crowd of women, the calm face 
 of Minnie, and the uueontrollablo agitation of 
 Mrs. Willoughby. 
 
 "Well, by tiiunder!" he exclaimed. 
 
 Girasole rode u)> and called out : 
 
 "Surrender! You arra my prisoner." 
 
 "What! it's you, is it?" said the Raron ; 
 and he ghired for a moment with a vengeful 
 look at (iirasole. 
 
 "Descend," sai.l Girasole. '"You mus be 
 bound." 
 
 "Hound? All right. Here, parson, you 
 jump down, and let them tie your hands." 
 
 1"'.e Baron stood up. The Reverend Said 
 stooil up too. The Reverend Saul began to 
 step down very carefidly. The brigands gath- 
 ered around, most of them being on the side on 
 which the two were about to desceiul. The 
 Reverend Saul had just stepped to the ground. 
 
 The Baron was just preparing to follow. The 
 brigands were iuiiiatient to sccuro them, when 
 suddenly, with a (piit^k movement, the Baron 
 gave a s])ring out of the op])osito side of the 
 carriage, ami leaped to the ground. The brig- 
 ands were taken completely by surprise, and 
 before they coidd ])repare to follow him, he had 
 sprung into the forest, and, with long bounds, 
 was rushing rp the steep hill aiul out of sight. 
 
 One shot h., lired after him, and that was 
 the shot thai Ilawbury and Dacres heard. 
 Two men sprang after him with the hope of 
 catching him. 
 
 In a few moments a loud cry was heard from 
 the woods. 
 
 "MIN!" 
 
 Minnie heard it ; a gleam of light flashed 
 from her eyes, a smile of triuinj)h came over 
 her lips. 
 
 " Wha-a-a-a-t ?" she called in reply. 
 
 " Wa-a-a-a-a-a-it !" was the cry that came 
 back — ami this was the cry that Ilawbury and 
 Dacres had heard. 
 
 "Sacr-r-r-r-r-r-remento !" growled Girasole. 
 
 "I'm sure / <lon't know what ho means liy 
 telling me that," said Mimiie. "How can / 
 wait if this horrid Italian won't let me? I'm 
 sure he might be more considerate." 
 
 I'oor .Mrs. Willoughby, who had for a mo- 
 ment been roused to hope by the escajjc of the 
 Raron, now fell again into despair, and wept 
 and moaned and clung to Minnie. Lady Dal- 
 ryuiple still lay senseless, in spite of the etforts 
 of Kiliel ami the nuiids. The occurrence had 
 been nu)re to her than a mere encounter with 
 brigamls. It was the thought of her own care- 
 lessness that overwhelmed her. In an instant 
 the thought of the Raron'.s warning and his 
 solemn entreaties flashed across her nmmory. 
 She recollected how Ilawbury had commended 
 his frieiul, and how she had turned from these 
 to put her trust in the driver ami Girasole, the 
 very men who had betrayed her. These were 
 the thoughts that overwhelmed her. 
 
 Rut now there arose once more the noise 
 of rolling wheels, advancing more swiftly than 
 the last, accompanied by the lash of a whiji and 
 shouts of a human voice, (iirasole spoke to 
 his men, and they moved u]) nearer to the bend, 
 and stood in readiness there. 
 
 What Ilawbury 's nu)live was it is not dilTi- 
 cult to tell. He was not armed, and therefore 
 could not hope to do nmch ; but he 'had in an 
 instant resolved to rush thus into the midst of 
 the danger. First of all he thought that a 
 struggle might be going on between the ilrivers, 
 the other travelers, and tlie brigands ; in which 
 event his assistance would be of great value. 
 Though imarnuMl, he thought he might snatch 
 or wrest a weajion from s(uue one of the enemy. 
 In addition to this, he wished to strike a blow 
 to save the ladies from captivity, even if his 
 blow should bo unavailing. Even if ho had 
 known ;u)w nuUtcrs were, ho would probably 
 have acted in precisely the same way. As for 
 Dacres, ho had but one idea. He was sure it 
 
-\'»T- 
 
 8C 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 was some trick concocted by his wife and tlie 
 Italiuii, thoiigli why they sliould do 10 he did 
 not iiitop, ill his mad mood, to inquire. A vague 
 idea that a communication had ])assed between 
 them on the preceding evening with reference 
 to this was now in his mind, and his vengeful 
 feeling was stimulated by this tliouglit to the 
 utmost pitch of intensity. 
 
 Uawliury thus lashed his horses, and they 
 flew along the road. After the first cry and 
 the shot that they had heard there was no fur- 
 ther noise. Tlie stillness was mysterious. It 
 showed Ilawbury timt the struggle, if there had 
 been any, was over. But the first idea still re- 
 mained both in his own mind and in that of 
 Dacres. On they went, and now they came to 
 the turn in the road. Round this they whirled, 
 and in an instant the scene revealed itself. 
 
 Three carriages stopped ; some drivers stand- 
 ing and staring indiilerently ; a group of wo- 
 men crowding around a i)rostrate form that lay 
 in the road ; a pale, beautiful girl, to whom a 
 beautiful woman was clinging ])assionately ; a 
 crowd of armed brigands with leveled pieces ; 
 utid immediately before them a horsenuin — the 
 Italian, Girasole. 
 
 One glance showed all this. Ilawbury could 
 not distinguish any face among the crowd of 
 women that bent over Lady Dalrymple, and 
 Kthel's face was thus still unrevealcd ; but he 
 saw Minnie and Mis. Willoughby and Girasole. 
 
 "What the devil's all this about?" asked 
 Ilawbury, haughtily, as his horses sto])ped ut 
 the Baron's carriage. 
 
 "You are j)risoners — " began Girasole. 
 
 But before he could say another word he was 
 interrupted by a cry of fury from Dacres, who, 
 the moment that he had recognized liiin, sprang 
 to his feet, and with a long, keen knife in his 
 hand, leaped from the carriage into the midst 
 of the brigands, striking right and left, and en- 
 deavoring to force his way toward Girasole. 
 In an instant Hawbury was by his side. Two 
 men fell beneath the fierce thrusts of Dacres's 
 knife, and Ilawbury tore the riHe from a third. 
 With the clubbed end of this he began dealing 
 blows right and left. The men fell back and 
 leveled their pieces. Dacres si)rang forward, 
 and was within three steps of Girasole — his 
 face full of ferocity, his eyes flashiug, and look- 
 ing not so much like an English gentleman as 
 one of the old vikings in a Berserker rape. 
 One more spring brought him closer to Girasole. 
 The Italian retreated. One of his men Hung 
 himself before Dacres and tried to grapi)le with 
 liim. The next instant he fell with a groan, 
 stabbed to the heart. With a yell of rage the 
 oth'^rs rushed upon Dacres; but tlie latter was 
 now suddenly seized with a new idea. Turning 
 for an instant he held his assailants at bay ; and 
 then, seizing the opportunity, S])rang into tlie 
 woods and ran. One or two shots were fired, 
 and then half a dozen men gave chase. 
 
 Meanwhile one or two shots iiad been fired 
 at Ilawbury, but, in the confusion, they had not 
 taken etl'cct. {Suddenly, us he stood with up- 
 
 lifted riflo ready to strike, his enemies made a 
 simultaneous rush upon him. He was seized 
 by a dozen strong arms. He struggled fierce- 
 ly, but his efforts were unavailing. The odds 
 were too great. Before long he was thrown to 
 I the ground on his face, and his arms bound be- 
 hind him. After this he was gagged. 
 
 The njjroar of this fierce struggle had roused 
 all the ladies, and they turned their eyes in 
 horror to where the two were fighting against 
 ' such odds. Ethel raised herself on her knees 
 from beside Lady Dalrymjile, and caught sight 
 of Hawbury. For a moment she remained mo- 
 tionless ; and then she saw the escajie of Dacres, 
 ! and Hawbury going down in the grasp of his 
 assailants. She gave a loud shriek and rushed 
 forward. But Girasole intercepted her. 
 
 " Go back," he said. " De inilor is my jiris- 
 oner. Back, or you will be bound." 
 
 And at a gesture from him two of the men 
 advanced to seize Ethel. 
 
 I "Back!" he said, once more, in a stern 
 voice. "You mus be tentif to miladi." 
 
 Ethel shrank back. 
 
 I The sound of that scream had struck on 
 
 ! Hawbury's ears, but he did not recognize it. 
 
 If he thought of it at all, he supposed it was 
 
 i the scream of common terror from one of the 
 
 1 women. He was sore and bruised and fast 
 
 hound. He was held down also in such a way 
 
 that he could not see the party of ladies. Tlio 
 
 Baron's carriage intercejited the view, for he 
 
 \ had fallen behind this during the final struggle. 
 
 After a little time he was allowed to sit up, but 
 
 still he could not see beyond. 
 
 There was now some delay, and Girasole 
 gave some orders to his men. The ladies wait- 
 ed with fearful apprehensions. They listened 
 eagerly to hear if there might not be some 
 sounds of approaching help. But no such 
 sounds can\e to gladden their hearts. Lady 
 Dalrym])le, also, still lay senseless ; and Ethel, 
 full of the direst anxiety about Hawbury, had 
 to return to renew her efforts toward reviving 
 her aunt. 
 
 Before long the brigands who had been in 
 jmrsuit of the fugitives returned to the road. 
 They did not bring back either of them. A 
 dreadful question arose in the minds of the la- 
 dies as to the meaning of this. Did it mean 
 that the fugitives had escajied, or had been 
 shot down in the woods by their wrathful juir- 
 suers ? It was impossible for them to find ont. 
 Girasole went over to them and conversed witii 
 I them apart. The men all looked sullen; luit 
 j wheiher that arose from disaiipointed venge- 
 j aiicc or gratified ferocity it was impossible for 
 j them to discern. 
 
 I The brigands now turned their attention to 
 I their own men. Two cf ;l'ese had received 
 ; bad but not dangerous woniulh fioin the dag- 
 ger of Dacres, and the scowls of pain and rage 
 which they threw uj)on Ilawbury and the other 
 ca])tives boded nothing but the most cruel fate 
 to all of them. Another, however, still lay 
 there. It was the one who had intercepted 
 
 ' 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 87 
 
 I . 
 
 
 THE MllI.bE. 
 
 Dacres in his rush upon Girasole. lie hiy mo- 
 tionless in a pool of blood. Tiiey turned him 
 over. His white, rigid face, as it became ex- 
 posed to view, exhibited the unmistaka))lc mark 
 of death, and a gash on his breast showed how 
 his fate had met him. 
 
 The brigands uttered lond cries, and ad- 
 vanced toward Ilawbiiry. lie sat regarding 
 them with perfect inditference. They raised 
 their rilles, some clubbing them, others taking 
 aim, swearing and gesticulating all the time 
 like maniacs. 
 
 IIawl)ary, however, did not move a muscle 
 of his face, nor did he show the slightest fecl- 
 itig of any kind. He was covered with dust, 
 and his clothes were torn and splashed with 
 mud, and his hands were bomid, and his mouth 
 was gagged • but he preserved a coolness that 
 astonished his enemies. Had it not been for 
 this coolness his brains might have been blown 
 out — in which case this narrative would never 
 have been written ; but there was something in 
 his look which made the Italians pause, gave 
 Girasole time to interfere, and thus preserved 
 my story from ruin. 
 
 Girasole then came up and made his men 
 stand back. Tliey obeyed sullenly. 
 
 Girasole removed the gag. 
 
 Then he stood and looked at Hawbury. 
 Ilawbury sat and returned his look with his 
 usual nonchalance, regarding the Italian with 
 a cold, steady stare, which ])roduced ujion the 
 latter its usual niaddening cH'ect. 
 
 "Milor will be vcr glad to hear," said he, 
 with a mocking smile, " dat de mees will be 
 take good care to. Milor was attentif to de 
 mees ; but de mees haf been fiancee to me, 
 an' so I take dis occazione to nuik her mine. I 
 sail love her, an' so sail love me. I haf save 
 her life, an' se haf been fiancee to me since 
 den." 
 
 Now Girasole had chosen to say tliis to Haw- 
 bury from the conviction that Ilawbury was 
 Minnie's lover, and that the statement of this 
 would inflict a j)ang upon the heart of his sup- 
 posed rival which would destroy his coolness. 
 Thus he chose rather to strike at Ilawbury's 
 jealousy than at his fear or at his pride. 
 
 But he was disappointed. Ilawbury heard 
 his statement with utter indifference. 
 
88 
 
 THE AMERICAN BAUON. 
 
 "Well," said lie, "all I can say is that it 
 Hecms to mc to hu a devilish odd way of going 
 to work about it." 
 
 " Aim !" siiid Girasolc, fiercely. " You sail 
 see. Sc sail be mine. Aha!" 
 
 Ilawbiiry made no reply, and Girasolc, after 
 a gesture of ini])atience, walked otl', bafHed. 
 
 In a few minutes two men cume up to Haw- 
 bury, and led him away to the woods on the left. 
 
 
 "tuby saw a rdinf.d house." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 AMONG THB BRIGANDS. 
 
 GiRASOi.E now returned to the ladies. They 
 were in the same position in which lie had left 
 them. Mrs.Willoughby with Minnie, and Ethel, 
 with the maids, attending to Lady Ualrymple. 
 
 "Miladi,"said Girasole, "I beg your atten- 
 zion. I haf had de honore to inform you dat dis 
 mees is my fiancee. So iiaf give me her heart 
 an' her hand ; se love me, an' I love her. I was 
 prevent from to see her, an' I haf to take her in 
 dis mannaire. I feel sad at de i)ain I liaf give 
 you, an' assuir you dat it was inevitabile. You 
 sail not be troubled more. You arc free. 
 Mees," he continued, taking Minnie's hand, 
 " you haf promis me dis fair ban', an' you are 
 mine. You come to one who loves you bettaire 
 dan life, an' who you love. You owe youair life 
 to me. I sail make it so happy as nevair was." 
 
 "I'm sure / don't want to be happy," said 
 Minnie. "I don't watit to leave darling Kitty 
 — and it's a shame — and you'll make me hate 
 you if you do so." 
 
 "Miladi,"8aid Girasole to Mrs. Willoughby, 
 " de mees says so not want to leaf you. Kef 
 you want to come, you may come an' be our 
 sistairc." 
 
 " Oh, Kitty darling, you won't leave mc, will 
 you, all alone with this horrid man ?" said Min- 
 nie. 
 
 "My darling," moaned Mrs.Willoughby, 
 "how can I? I'll go. Oh, my sweet sister, 
 what misery !" 
 
 "Oh, now that will be really quite delightful 
 if you vjiU come, Kitty darling. Only I'm 
 afraid you'll find it (Hrfully uncomfortable." 
 Girasole turned once more to the other ladies. 
 "I beg you will assura de niiladi when she 
 recovaire of my considerazion de mos distingue, 
 an' convey to her de regrettas dat I haf. Mi- 
 ladi," he continued, addressing Ethel, "you are 
 free, an' c;an go. You will not be molest by 
 me. You sail go safe. You haf not ver far. 
 You sail fin' houses dere — forward — before — 
 not far." 
 
 With these words he turned away. 
 " You mus come wit me," he said to Mrs. 
 Willoughby and Minnie. "Come. Eet ecs 
 not ver far." 
 
 He walked slowly info the woods on the left, 
 and the two sisters followed him. Of the two 
 Minnie was far the more cool and collected, 
 yiie was as composed as usual; and, as there 
 was no help for it, she walked on. Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby, however, was terribly agitated, and 
 wept and shuddered and moaned incessantly. 
 
 "Kitty darling," said Minnie, "I wish you 
 wouldn't go on so. You really make me feel 
 (|iiitc nervous. I never saw you so bad in my 
 life." 
 
 " Poor Minnie ! Poor child ! Poor sweet 
 child!" 
 
 " Well, if I am a child, yon needn't go and 
 tell me about it all the time. It's really quite 
 horrid." 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby said no more, but generous- 
 ly tried to repress her own feelings, so as not 
 to give distress to her sister. 
 
 After the Count had entered the wood with 
 the two sisters the drivers removed the horses 
 from the carriages and went away, led olf by 
 the man who hud ilriven the ladies. This was 
 the man whose stolid face had seeified likely 
 to belong to an honest man, but who now was 
 shown to belong to the opposite class. These 
 men went down the road over which they had 
 come, leaving the carriages there with the ladies 
 and their maids. 
 
 Girasole now led the way, and Minnie and 
 her sister followed him. The wood was very 
 thick, and grew more so as they advanced, but 
 there was not much underbrush, and progress 
 was not difliicult. Several times a wild thought 
 of flight came to Mrs. Willoughby, but was at 
 once dispelled by a helpless sense of its utter 
 impossibility. How could she persuade the 
 impracticable Minnie, who seemed so free from 
 all concern ? or, if she could persuade her, how 
 could she accomplish her desire? She would 
 
 ;i 
 
 a 
 
in 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 •9 
 
 reiy 
 biit 
 
 nt once be pursued and surrounded, while, even 
 if she did munage to escape, how could she ever 
 find her way to any place of refuge ? Every 
 minute, also, drew them deeper and deeper into 
 the woods, and the path was a winding one, in 
 which she soon became bewildered, until at lust 
 all sense of her whereabouts was utterly gone. 
 At last even the idea of escajiiug ceased to sug- 
 gest itself, and there remained only a dull de- 
 spair, a sense of utter hel])lcssness and hope- 
 lessness — the sense of one who is going to his 
 doom. 
 
 Girasole said nothing whatever, but led the 
 way in silence, walking slowly enough to ac- 
 commodate the ladies, and sometimes holding 
 an overhanging branch to prevent it from spring- 
 ing back in their faces. Minnie walked on light- 
 ly, and with an elastic ste]), looking around with 
 evident interest njjon the forest. Once a pass- 
 ing lizard drew from her a pretty little shriek 
 of alarm, thus showing that while she was so 
 calm in ilie face of real and frightful danger, 
 she could be alarmed by even the most innocent 
 object that atfectcd her fancy. Mrs.Willough- 
 by thought that she understood Minnie before, 
 but this little shriek at a lizard, from one who 
 smiled at the brigands, struck her as u i)roblem 
 quite beyond her power to solve. 
 
 The woods now began to grow thinner. The 
 trees were larger and farther apart, and rose all 
 around in columnar arr.ay, so that it was possi- 
 ble to see between them to a greater distance. 
 At length there appeared before them, through 
 the trunks of the trees, the gleam of water. Mrs. 
 Willougiiby noticed this, and wondered what it 
 might be. At first she thought it was a harbor 
 on the coast ; then she thought it was some riv- 
 er ; but finally, on coming nearer, she saw that 
 it was a hike. In a few minutes after they first 
 caught sight of it they had reached its banks. 
 
 It was a most beautiful and sequestered spoi. 
 All around were high wooded eminences, be- 
 yond whose undulating summits arose the tow- 
 ering forms of the Apennine heights. Among 
 these hills lay a little lake about a mile in length 
 and breadth, whose surface was as smooth as 
 glass, and reflected the surrounding shores. On 
 their right, as they descended, they saw some 
 figures moving, and knew them to be the brig- 
 ands, while on their left they saw a ruined house. 
 Toward this Girasole led them. 
 
 The house stood on the shore of the lake. It 
 was of stone, and was two stories in height. 
 The roof was still good, but the windows were 
 gone. There was no door, but half a dozen or 
 so of the brigands stood there, and formed a 
 snflficient guard to prevent the escape of any 
 prisoner. These men had dark, wicked eyes 
 and sullen faces, whi(;h afibrded fresh terror to 
 Mrs. Willougiiby. She had thought, in her 
 desperation, of making some effort to escape by 
 bribing the men, but the thorough-bred rascal- 
 ity which was evinced in the faces of these ruf- 
 fians showed her that they were the very fel- 
 lows who would take her money and cheat her 
 afterward. If she had been able to speak Ital- 
 
 ian, she might have secured their services by 
 the jirosjiect of some future reward after escap- 
 ing ; but, as it was, she could not speak a word 
 of the language, and thus could not enter upon 
 even the preliminaries of an escape. 
 
 Oil reaching the house the ruffians stood 
 aside, staring hard at them. Mrs. Willougiiby 
 shrunk in terror from the baleful glances of 
 their eyes ; but Minnie looked at them calmly 
 and innocently, and not without some of that 
 curiosity which a child shows when he first sees 
 a Chinaman or an Arab in the streets, (jira- 
 sole then led the way up stairs to a room on the 
 second story. 
 
 It was an apartment of largo size, extending 
 across the house, with a window at each end, 
 and two on the side. On the floor there was 
 a heap of straw, over which some skins were 
 thrown. There were no chairs, nor was there 
 any table. 
 
 "Scusa me," said Girasole, " miladi, for dis 
 accommodazion. It gifs me pain, but I jirom- 
 isc it sail not be long. Only dis day an' dis 
 night here. I liaf to detain you dat time. Den 
 we sail go to where I haf a home fitter for de 
 bride. I haf a home wharra you sail be a hap])y 
 bride, mees — " 
 
 " But I don't want to stay here at all in such 
 a horrid place," said Minnie, looking around in 
 disgust. 
 
 " Oidy dis day an' dis night," said Girasole, 
 imploringly. "Aftairc you sail have all you 
 sail wis." 
 
 " Well, at any rate, I think it's very horrid 
 in you to shut me up here. You might let me 
 walk outside in the woods. I'm so au-'fully fond 
 of the woods." 
 
 Girasole smiled faintly. 
 
 "And so you sail have plenty of de wood — 
 but to-morru. You wait here how. All safe — 
 oh yes — secura — all aright — oh yes — slip to- 
 night, an' in de mornin' early you sail be mine. 
 Dere sail come a priest, an' we sail have de cere- 
 mony." 
 
 " Well, I think it was very nnkind in you to 
 bring me to such a horrid place. And how can 
 I sit down ? You mij/ht have had a chair. And 
 look at poor, darling Kitty. You may be un- 
 kind to me, but you needn't make her sil on the 
 floor. You never saved Iter life, and you have 
 no right to be unkind to her." 
 
 " Unkind ! Oh, mees I — my heart, my life, all 
 arra youairs, an' I lay my life at yoiiair foot." 
 
 "I tiiink it would be far more kind if you 
 would put a chair at poor Kitty's feet," retort- 
 ed Miimie, with some show of temper. 
 
 " But, oh, carissima, tiuk — de wild wood — 
 noting here — no, noting — not a chair — only de 
 straw." 
 
 " Then yon had no business to bring me here. 
 You might have known that there were no chairs 
 here. I can't sit down on nothing. But I sup- 
 pose you expect me to stand up. And if that 
 isn't horild, I don't know what is. I'm sure I 
 don't know what poor dear papa would say if 
 he wore to see mo now." 
 
"^■"iw^ ' y w wi ■■■»'i«n > i«i 
 
 00 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 
 " WUAT IB TUIB Foil?" 
 
 I ' 
 
 "Do not grieve, carissima inia — do not, 
 charming mees!, decompose yourself. To-mor- 
 ra you sail go to a bcttaire i)lace, an' I will 
 oarra you to my castello. You sail haf every 
 want, you sail enjoy every wis, you sail be 
 happy." 
 
 "But I don't see how I can be happy without 
 a chair," reiterated Minnie, in whose mind this 
 one grievance now became i)re-eniiiient. " You 
 talk as tliough you think I am made of stone or 
 iron, and you think I can stand here all day or 
 all night, and you want me to sleep on that 
 liorrid straw and those horrid furry things. I 
 suppose this is the castle that you speak of; and 
 I'm sure I wonder why you ever thought of 
 bringing me here. I suppose it doesn't make 
 so much difference about a, carpet ; but you will 
 not even let me have a chair; and I think you're 
 v<;ry unkind." 
 
 Girasole was in despair. He stood in 
 thought for some time. He felt that Minnie's 
 rebuke was deserved. If she had reproached 
 liim with waylaying her and carrying her off, he 
 conld have b..nie it, anil could have found a re- 
 ply. But such a charge as this was unanswer- 
 
 able. It certainly was very hard that she 
 should not be able to sit down. Hut then how 
 was it i)Ossible for him to find a cliair in the 
 woods? It was an insoluble problem, llow 
 in the world could he satisfy her? 
 
 Minnie's ex])ression also was most touching. 
 The fact that she had no chair to sit on seemed 
 to absolutely overwhelm her. The look that 
 she gave Girasole was so piteous, so reproach- 
 ful, so heart-rending, that his soul actually 
 quaked, and a thrill of remorse ))assed all through 
 his frame. He felt a cold chill running to the 
 very marrow of his bones. 
 
 " I think you're very, veri/ iinkind," said Min- 
 nie, " and I really don't see how I can ever speak 
 to you again." 
 
 This was too much. Girasole turned away, 
 lie rushed down stairs. He wandered frantic- 
 ally about. He looked in all directions for a 
 chair. There was plenty of wood certainly — 
 for all around he saw the vast forest — but of 
 what use was it? He could not transform a 
 tree into a chair. lie communicated his diffi- 
 culty to some of the men. They shook their 
 heads helplessly. At last he saw the stump of 
 
 oil 
 IkT 
 
 cl 
 w| 
 
 V( 
 
THE AMERICAN UAUC-N. 
 
 91 
 
 A 
 
 a trcowliicli \\.\n of such a ohnpo tliiit it looked 
 us tlioiigli it iiiigiit be used um a Heat. It was 
 liis only resource, and ho seized it. Cailiug 
 two or tlirce of tlie men, he had the slnnii> car- 
 ried to tiie ohl iiotise. He rusiied up stairs to 
 ac(|uaiut Minnie witli his success, and to try to 
 console her. She listened in coldness to his 
 hasty words. The men who were carrying the 
 stum)) came up with a clum]) and a clatter, 
 hrealhiug hard, for the stuniji was very heavy, 
 and finally placed it on the landing in front of 
 Minnie's door. On reaching that spot it was 
 found that it would not go in. 
 
 Minnie heard the noise and came out. She 
 looked at the stum]), then at the mer and then 
 nt Girasole. 
 
 "What is this for?" she asked. 
 
 " Eet — ect ecs for a chair." 
 
 "A chair!" exclaimed Minnie. "Why, it's 
 nothing but a great big, horrid, ugly old stu?np, 
 and—" 
 
 Her remarks ended in a scream. She tamed 
 and ran back into the room. 
 
 "What — what is de mattaire?" cried the 
 Count, looking into the room with a face pale 
 with anxiety. 
 
 "Oh, take it away! take it away!" cried 
 Minnie, in terror. 
 
 "What? what?" 
 
 "Take it away! take it away!" she re- 
 peated. 
 
 " Uut eet CCS for you — eet ecs a seat." 
 
 "I don't want it. I won't have it!" cried 
 Minnie. "It's full of horrid ants and things. 
 And it's dreadful — and iw_y, vi-n/ cruel in you 
 to bring them uj) here just to lease me, when 
 you know I hate them so. Take it away ! take 
 it away ! oh, do please take it away ! And oh, 
 do please go away yourself, and leave me with 
 dear, darling Kitty. She never teases me. She 
 is a/iruj/s kind." 
 
 Girasole turned away once more, in fresh 
 trouble. He had the stump carried off, and 
 then he wandered away. He was quite at a 
 loss what to do. He was desperately in love, 
 and it was a very small re(iui!st for Minnie to 
 make, and he was in that state of mind when 
 it would be a ha])piness to grant her slightest 
 wish; but here he foiwid himself in a ditliculty 
 from which he could lind no possible means of 
 escape. 
 
 "And now, Kitty darling," said Minnie, after 
 Girasole had gone — "now you see how very, 
 very wrong you were to be so opjiosed to that 
 dear, good, kind, nice Uufus K. Gunii. J/c 
 would never have treated mc so. Jfi- would 
 never have taken me to a place like this — a 
 horrid old house by a horrid damp jjoud, with- 
 out doors and windows, just like a beggar's 
 house — and then i)ut mc in a room without a 
 chair to sit on when I'm so tt«'fiilly tired. He 
 was <i/(foy.'! kind to mc, and that was the reason 
 you hated him so, because you coiddn't bear to 
 liavc ])eople kind to me. And I'm so tired." 
 
 " Come, then, poor darling. I'll make a nice 
 seat for vou out of these skins." 
 
 And Mrs. Willonghhy bognn to fold some of 
 them u|i and lay them one u])on the other. 
 
 "What is that for, Kitty dear ?"asked Minnie. 
 
 "To make you a nice, soft seat, dearest." 
 
 " Itut I don't want them, and I won't sit pu 
 the horrid things," said Minnie. 
 
 "But, darling, they are as soft as a cush- 
 ion. Sec !" And her sister pressed her hand 
 on them, so as to show how soft they were. 
 
 "I don't think they're soft at all," said Min- 
 nie ; "and I wish you wouldn't tease mo so, 
 when I'm so tired." 
 
 "Then come, darling ; I will sit on tliem, and 
 you shall sit on my knees." 
 
 " Bat I don't want to go ncor those Iiorrid 
 furry things. They belong to cows and things. 
 I think f I'cry body's unkind to me to day." 
 
 " Minnie, dearest, you really wound me when 
 you talk in that way. Bo reasomible now. 
 See what ]iains I take. I do all 1 can for 
 you." 
 
 " But I'm alivaijs reasonable, and it'syou that 
 arc unreasonable, when you want me to sit on 
 that horrid fur. It's very, very disagreeable in 
 you, Kitty dear." 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby said nothing, but went on 
 folding some more skins. These she i)laced on 
 the straw so that a pile was formed about as 
 high as an ordimiry chair. This pile was placed 
 against the wall so that the wall served as a 
 support. 
 
 Then she seated herself upon this. 
 
 "Minnie, dearest," said she. 
 
 "Well, Kitty darling." 
 
 "It's really quite soft and comfortable. Do 
 come and sit on it ; do, just la please me, 
 only for five minutes. See! I'll spread my 
 dress over it so that you need not touch it. 
 Come, dearest, only for five minutes." 
 
 "Well, I'll sit on it just for a little mite of 
 a time, if you promise not to tease me." 
 
 "Tease you, dear! Why, of course not. 
 Come." 
 
 So Minnie went over and sat by her sister's 
 side. 
 
 In about an hour Girasole came back. The 
 two sisters were seated there. Minnie's head 
 was resting on her sister's shoulder, and she 
 was fast asleep, while Mrs. Willoughby sat mo- 
 tionless, with her face turned toward him, and 
 such an expression in her dark eyes that Gira- 
 sole felt awed. He turned in silence and went 
 awav. 
 
 CHAl'TEIi XXV. 
 
 8 i: i: K I N O F O H II E L P. 
 
 The dcjiartiire of the drivers with their 
 horses had increased the dithculties of the 
 party, and had added to their danger. Of that 
 party Ethel was now the head, and her etlbrts 
 were directed more zealously than ever to bring 
 back Lady Dalrymple to her senses. At Inst 
 these elVtn'ts were crowned with success, and, 
 after being senseless for nearly an hour, she 
 
 < I 
 
vw^in^T^v^qM 
 
 92 
 
 THE AMERICAN BAUON. 
 
 1 • 
 
 "KTUEL OlITAINKD A rAIll OF SOISSOUS." 
 
 came to herself. Tlie restoration of her senses, 
 however, brouglit with it the discovery of all 
 that had occurred, and thus caused a new rush 
 of emotion, wliich threatened painful conse- 
 quences. But the consequences were averted, 
 and at length she was able to rise. She was 
 then helped into her carriage, after which tiie 
 question arose as to their next proceeding. 
 
 The loss of tiie horses and drivei's was a very 
 embarrassing thing to them, and for a time they 
 were utterly at a loss what course to adopt. 
 Lady Dalrymple was too weak to walk, and they 
 had no means of conveying her. The maids liad 
 simply lost their wits from fright; and Ethel 
 could not sec her way clearly out of the dilfi- 
 culty. At this juncture they were roused by the 
 approach of tlic Rev. Saul Tozer. 
 
 This reverend man had been bound as he de- 
 scended from his carriage, and had remained 
 bound ever since. In that state he had been a 
 spectator of the struggle and its consequences, 
 and he now came forward to offer his serv- 
 ices. 
 
 "I don't know whether you remember me, 
 ma'am," said he to Lady Dalrymple, " but I 
 looked in at your place at Rome ; and in any 
 case I am bound to offer you my assistance, 
 since you are companions with me in my bonds, 
 which I'd be much obliged if one of you ladies 
 wonld untie or cut. Perhaps it would be best 
 to untie it, as rope's valuable." 
 
 At this request Ethel obtained a pair of scis- 
 sors from one of the maids, and after vigorous 
 efforts succeeded in freeing the reverend gentle- 
 man. 
 
 " Really, Sir, I am very much obliged for this 
 
 kind offer," said Lady Dalrymple, " and I avail 
 n)yself of it gratefully. Can you advise ua what 
 is best to do?" 
 
 "Well, ma'am, I've been turning it over in 
 my mind, and have made it a subject of prayer; 
 and it seems to mo that it wouldn't be bad to go 
 out and see the country." 
 
 "There are no houses for miles," said Ethel. 
 
 " Have you ever been this road before ?" said 
 Tozer. 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Tiicn how do you know ?" 
 
 " Oh, I was thinking of the part we had pass- 
 ed over." 
 
 " True ; but the country in front may be dif- 
 ferent. Didn't that brigand ca])tain say some- 
 thing about getting help ahead?" 
 
 "Yes, so he did; I remember now," said 
 Ethel. 
 
 "Well, I wouldn't take his advice generally, 
 but in this matter J don't see any harm in fol- 
 lowing it; so I move that I be a committee of 
 one to go ahead and investigate the country and 
 bring help." 
 
 "Oh, thanks, thanks, very much. Really, 
 Sir, this is very kind," said Lady Dalrym])le. 
 
 "And I'll go too," said Ethel, as a sudden 
 thought occurred to her. "Would you be 
 afraid, aunty dear, to stay here alone?" 
 
 "Certainly not, dear. I have no more fear 
 for mvself, but I'm afraid to trust you out of my 
 sight.'" 
 
 " Oh, you need not fear for me," said Ethel. 
 " I shall certainly be as safe farther on as I am 
 here. Besides, if we can find help I will know 
 best what is wanted." 
 
 " Well, dear, I sujjposc you may go." 
 
 Without further delay Ethel started off, and 
 Tozer walked by her side. They went under 
 the fallen tree, and then walked quickly along 
 the road. 
 
 " Do vou speak /talian, miss ?" asked Tozer. 
 
 " No." 
 
 "I'm sorry for that. I don't eitliei'. I'm 
 told it's a fine language." 
 
 " So I believe ; but how very awkward it will 
 be not to be able to speak to any person!" 
 
 " Well, the /talian is a kind of offshoot of the 
 Latin, and I can scrape together a few Latin 
 words — enough to make myself understood, I 
 do believe," 
 
 " Can you, really ? How very fortunate !" 
 
 " It is somewhat providential, miss, and I 
 hope I may succeed." 
 
 They walked on in silence now for some 
 time. Ethel was too sad to talk, and Tozer 
 was busily engaged in recalling all the Latin at 
 his command. After a while ho began to grow 
 sociable. 
 
 "Might I ask, miss, what persuasion you 
 are ?" 
 
 "Persuasion?" said Ethel, in surprise, 
 
 "Yes, 'm; de-nomination — religious body, 
 you know." 
 
 " Oil ! why, I belong to the Church." 
 
 " Oh ! and what church did you say, 'm ?" 
 
!"1' 
 
 TIIK AMEHICAN BAKON. 
 
 ••ThcCliurchofKriKlnnd." 
 
 " H'm. The 'I'iKcopulian Ixxly. Well, it's 
 a hiKli-toned body." 
 
 Ktliel giivo II faint .smile at tliis wliiniHiciiI np- 
 ]ilicati()n of a iiainu to her church, and then 
 Tozer rctiniuHl to the charge. 
 
 "Are you a professor?" 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 "A professor." 
 
 "A professor?" repeated Ethel. "I don't 
 think I iiuitc, uuiierstiiiid you." 
 
 "Well, do you belong to the church? Are 
 you a member ?" 
 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 " I'm glad to hear it. It's a high and a holy 
 and a happy perrivclegc to belong to the church 
 and enjoy the means of grace. 1 trust you live 
 up to your porrivclcges?" 
 
 "Live what?" asked Ethel. 
 
 "Live up to your perrivelogcs," repeated 
 Tozer — " attend on all the nieuns of grace — be 
 often at the assembling of yourself together." 
 
 "The assembling of myself together? I 
 don't think I quitu get your meaning," said Ethel. 
 
 " Meeting, you know — church-meeting." 
 
 "Oh yes; I didn't understand. Oh yes, I 
 always go to church." 
 
 " That's right," said Tozer, with a sigh of re- 
 lief; " and I suppose, now, you feel an interest in 
 the ca\ise of missions ?" 
 
 "Missions? Oh, I don't know. The Roman 
 Catholics practice that to some extent, and sev- 
 eral of my friends say they feel benefit from a 
 mission once a year ; but for my part I have not 
 yet any very decided leanings to lloman Cathol- 
 icism." 
 
 "Oh, dear me, dear me!" cried Tozer, 
 "that's not what I mean at all; I mean Prot- 
 estant missions to the heathen, you know." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Ethel. "I 
 thought you were referring to something else.'' 
 
 Tozer was silent now for a few minutes, and 
 then asked her, abruptly, 
 
 " What's your ojjinion about the Jews?" 
 
 "The Jews?" exclaimed Ethel, looking at 
 him in some surprise, and thinking that her 
 companion must be a little insane to carry on 
 such an extraordinary conversation with such 
 very abrupt changes — "the Jews?" 
 
 "Yes, the Jews." 
 
 "Oh, I don't like them at all." 
 
 "But they're the chosen people." 
 
 "I can't help that. I don't like them. But 
 then, you know, I never really saw much of 
 them." 
 
 "I refer to their future prospects," said 
 Tozer — "to prophecy. I should like to ask 
 you how you regard them in that light. Do 
 you believe in a spiritual or a temporal Zion ?" 
 
 " Spiritual Zion ? Temporal Zion ?" 
 
 "Yes, 'm." 
 
 " Well, really, I don't know. I don't think I 
 believe any thing at all about it." 
 
 " But you must believe in either one or the 
 other — you've got to," said Tozer, positively. 
 
 " But I dorCt, you know ; and how can I ?" 
 
 Tozer threw at her a look of coinmiserntion, 
 and began to think that his conipanlon was not 
 much better than a heathen. In his own home 
 cir<le ho could have put his hand on little girJu 
 of ten who were quite at home on all these sub- 
 jects. He was silent for a time, and then be- 
 gan again. 
 
 " Id like to ask you one thing," said ho, 
 "very much." 
 
 "What is it?" asked Ethel. 
 
 " Do you believe," asked Tozer, solemnly, 
 "that we're living in the Seventh Vial?" 
 
 " Vial ? Seventh Vial ?" said Ethel, in fresh 
 amazement. 
 
 "Yes, the Seventh Vial," said Tozer, in a 
 sepalchral voice. 
 
 "Living in the Seventh Vial? I really don't 
 know how one can live in a vial." 
 
 "The Great Tribulation, you know." 
 
 "Great Tribulation?" 
 
 " Yes ; for instance, now, don't you belicvo 
 in the Apocalyptic Beast?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Ethel, faintly, 
 
 "Well, at any rate, you believe in his num- 
 ber — you must." 
 
 "His number?" 
 
 "Yos." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 "Why, the number six, six, six — six hun- 
 dred and sixty-six." 
 
 "I really don't understand this," said Ethel. 
 
 "Don't you believe that the Sixth Vial is 
 done?" 
 
 " Sixth Vial ? What, another vial ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and the drying of the Euphrates." 
 
 "The Eu])hrates? drying?" repeated Ethel 
 in a trembling voice. She began to be alarmed. 
 She felt sure that this man was insane. She had 
 never heard such incoherency in her life. And 
 she was alone with him. She stole a timid look, 
 and saw his long, sallow face, on which there 
 was now a preoccupied expression, and the look 
 did not reassure her. 
 
 But Tozer himself was a little puzzled, and 
 felt sure that his companion must have her own 
 opinions on the subject, so he began again: 
 
 " Now I suppose you've read Fleming on the 
 Papacy ?" 
 
 "No, I haven't. I never heard of it." 
 
 " Strange, too. You've heard of Elliot's 
 'Ilorre Apoealyptica;,' I suppose?" 
 
 "Ito," said Ethel, timidly. 
 
 "\w>ll, it's all in Cumming — and you've read 
 him, •f course?" 
 
 " Cumming? I never heard of him. Who 
 is he?" 
 
 " What, never heard of Cumming?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 " And never read his * Great Tribulation ?' " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Nor his ' Great Expectation ?' " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What! not even his 'Anocalvptic Sketch- 
 es ?' " 
 
 "I never heard of them." 
 
 Tozer looked at her in astonishment ; but at 
 
94 
 
 TIIK AMKUrCAN BAllOX. 
 
 , ) 
 
 "tONITIIUKNIIUM F.BT MAI.IT.M 1" 
 
 this moment tliey cnmc to a turn in tlie road, 
 wlicn a si^Iit npitearcJ wliich drew fVoiu Etlicl 
 an expression of joy. 
 
 It was a little valley on the riglit, in which 
 was a small hamlet with a ehiireh. The houses 
 were hut small, and could not give them much nc- 
 commodatioii, Itiit tliey hoped to find help there. 
 
 "I wouldn't trust the peojile," said Kthel. 
 "I dare say they're all brigands; but there 
 ought to he a priest there, and wo etui ap- 
 jieal to him." 
 
 This proposal pleased Tozcr, who resumed 
 liis work ot' collecting among the stores of his 
 memory scraps of Latin whicli he had once 
 stored away there. 
 
 The village was at no very groat distance 
 away from the road, and they reached it in a 
 short time. They went at once to the ehiuTh. 
 The door was open, and a priest, who seemed 
 the village priest, was stan<ling there. He was 
 stout, with a good-natured expression on his 
 hearty, rosy face, and a fine twinkle in liis 
 eye, which lighted up jdeasantly as he saw the 
 Btrungcrs enter. 
 
 Tozer at once held out his hand and shook 
 that of the jjriest. 
 
 " IJuon giorno," said the priest. 
 
 Ethel shook her head. 
 
 " rarhite Italiano?" said ho. 
 
 Ethel shook her head. 
 
 "Salve, domino," said Tozer, who at once 
 plunged headlong into Latin. 
 
 "Salve bene," said the priest, in sonic sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "Quomodo vales?" asked Tozer. 
 
 "Optime valeo, Dei gratia. Spero vos va- 
 Icre." 
 
 Tozer found the priest's pronunciation a lit- 
 tle difficult, but managed to understand him. 
 
 " Domine," said he, "sumus viatorcs in 
 felices et innoccntes, in quos fiires nuper im- 
 iietum feccrunt. Omnia bona nostra arripue- 
 i runt — " 
 
 " Fieri non potest!" said the priest. 
 
 " Et omnes amicos nostros in captivitatcm 
 lachrymahilem traetavcrunt — " 
 
 "Cor dolet," said the priest; " miseret mo 
 vestrum." 
 
TIIK AMEniCAN HAWON. 
 
 or. 
 
 ok 
 
 ice 
 
 iir- 
 
 lit- 
 
 iii 
 1111- 
 
 ;eni 
 
 mo 
 
 "CiijiiHiiir.di form chC hicc in qua sustcnen- 
 diiiii I'st tot liihores V" 
 
 The jtrit'Ht tiinlK'(l. 
 
 "ToiiitnuMKliiiii est ninliim!" exelaiincd To- 
 zcr, cxcileil liy the recollection of hin wroiigM, 
 
 The priest sfiircd, 
 
 " III hostiiiiii iniiiiihiis fiiiinii!*, ct, boniim toni- 
 trii ! oiiiiiiii iinpeiliiiieiitii aiiiiitsiiiiu8. Est ni- 
 inis niiuii|i<)teiis niiiiiiiii !" 
 
 "(iiiiil vis dicere?" said the jiricst, looiiiiig 
 j)ii7./.li'd. "Quid tilti vis?" 
 
 " Kst niinis seinpiternitm diinitii!" 
 
 " III iioiiiliie oniiiiiini sniictoruiii iiiiostolorum- 
 (liie," cried tiie priest, "<piid vis dicere?" 
 
 " I'otes ne jiivarc iios," continued To/.er, " in 
 hoc hulii'}'nial)ile tempore? V'olu uiiuni vcrum 
 viviiiii viriini (pii jiossit — " 
 
 " Diaiohis iirripiat mo si pnssim nnnm solum 
 vcrhum intoUinere !" cried the priest. '* He ja- 
 ilers if I ondlierstun' ycz ut all at all ; an' there 
 ye have it." 
 
 And with this the priest raised his head, with 
 its piuzled look, and scratched that orj;aii with 
 siicli a natural air, and with such a full Iri>li 
 flavor in his hro|ii;iic and in his face, that lioth 
 of his visitors were perfectly astounded. 
 
 "(lood f{i'ii''ious !" crieil Tozer ; and seizing 
 the jiriest's hand in hotli of his, he nearly wriinn 
 it off. "Why, what a luovidence! Why, 
 really, now ! And you were an Irishman all 
 the time ! And why didn't you speak Kiinlish '(" 
 
 "Sure and what made you sjtako Latin?" 
 cried the jiriest. "And v. hat was it you were 
 tliryin' to say wid yer ' senipiterniim durum,' 
 and yer 'toiiitrucndiim malum?' Sure nn' yc 
 made me fairly inofcen wid yer talk, so ye did." 
 
 '"Well, I dare say," said Tozer, candidly — 
 " I dare siiy 'tain't oiilikely that I </(>/ introduce 
 one or two Americanisms in the Latin; but 
 then, you know, I nin't hcen in practice." 
 
 The priest now lirouKht chairs for his vis- 
 itors, and, sitting thus in the church, they told 
 him about their adventures, and entreated him 
 to do something for them. To all this the 
 priest listened with thoughtful attention, and 
 when they were done he at once jiromised to 
 find horses for them which would draw the car- 
 riages to this hamlet or to the next town, 
 Ethel did not think Lady l)alryni])le could go 
 further than this jilace, and the jiriest offered 
 to find some accommodations. 
 
 lie then left them, and in about half nn 
 hour lie returned with two or three peasants, 
 each of whom had a horse. 
 
 " They'll be able to bring the leedics," snid the 
 priest, "and haul the iinptywagonsaftherthim." 
 
 "I think, miss," said To/.er, "that you'd 
 better stay here. It's too far for you to walk.'' 
 
 " Sure an' there's no use in the wiile wtirruld 
 for you to be goin' back,'' said the jiriost to 
 Ethel. " You can't do .iny giid, an' you'd bet- 
 thc vist till they come. Yer frind "11 be enough.' 
 
 Ethel at first thought of walking back, but 
 finally she saw that it would be quite useless, 
 and 80 she resolved to remain and wait for her 
 aunt. So Tozer went off with the men and 
 
 (ho horses, and the priest asked Ethel all about 
 the affair once more. Whatever his opinions 
 were, ho said nothing. 
 
 While he was talking there came n man to 
 the door who beckoned him out. He went out, 
 and was gone for some time. IIo cume buck 
 at last, liiokiiig very serious, 
 
 " I've just got a missage from tliini," said ho. 
 
 "A message, "exclaimed Ethel, "from llicm? 
 What, from (lirasole?" 
 
 " Yis. They want a prastc, nnt' tlicy've Hint 
 for me." 
 
 "A priest?" 
 
 ' Yis ; an' tlioy want a maid-servant to wait 
 on the y«iung leedics; and they want thim im- 
 majitly ; an' I'll have to start off soon. 'I'here's 
 a man dead among thim that wants to be put 
 undhorgidiind to-night, for the rist av thim 
 are goin' off in the mornin' ; an' accordin' to all 
 I hoar, I wouldn't wundlier but what I'd be 
 wanted for somethin' else afore mornin','' 
 
 "Oh, my (iod I "cried Ethel ; " they're going 
 to kill him, then!" 
 
 "Kill him! Kill who? Sure an' it's not 
 killin' they want mo for. It's the other — it's 
 marry in'." 
 
 "Marrying?" cried Ethel. "Poor, darling 
 Minnie ! Oh, you can not — you will not marry 
 them ?" 
 
 " Sure nn' I don't know but it's the best thing 
 I can do — ns things are," said the jiricst. 
 
 "Oh, what shall 1 do! what shall I do!" 
 moaned Ethel. 
 
 "Well, ye'vc got to bear np, so ye have. 
 There's throubles for nil of ns, an' lots uv thim 
 too; an' more'n some av us can bear." 
 
 Ethel sat in the darkest and bitterest grief 
 for some time, a jirey to thoughts and fears that 
 were perfect agony to her. 
 
 At last a thought came to hor which made 
 her start, and look up, ami cast at the jiricst n 
 look full of wonder and entreaty. The priest 
 watched her with tho deepest sympathy visible 
 on his face. 
 
 " We must save them !" she cried. 
 
 " Sure nn' it's me that made uji mo moind to 
 that same," said the priest, "only I didn't want 
 to rise yer hopes." 
 
 "ITe must save them," said Ethol, with 
 strong omiihasis. 
 
 "ir.'.f What can you do ?" 
 
 Ethel got up, walked to the church door, 
 looked out, came back, looked anxiously all 
 around, and then, resuming her seat, she drew 
 dose to the jiriest, and began to whisper, long 
 and anxioiislv. 
 
 niAl'TEU XXVI. 
 
 THE AVKNGlcn (I.V TIIK TRACK, 
 
 WnKN Dacres had sprung aside into the woods 
 in the moment of his fierce rush ujion Girasole, 
 he had been animated by a sudden thought 
 that escape for himself was possible, and that 
 it would be more serviceable to his friends. 
 
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I' ll''< ! 
 If -J 
 
 9C 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON, 
 
 Li 
 
 Thus, then, he had hounded into tlie woods, and 1 
 with swift steps he forced liis way among tlio i 
 trees dee])er and deeper into tlie forest. Some 
 of the brigands liad given chase, but without ! 
 effect. Dacres's superior strength and agility 1 
 gave him the advantage, and his love of life | 
 was a greater stimidus than their thirst for j 
 vengeance. In addition to this the trees gave | 
 every assistance toward the escajie of a ftigi- | 
 tive, while they threw every impediment in the ' 
 way of a pursuer. The consequence was, i 
 therefore, that Dacres soon put a great distance 
 between himself and his jjiirsucrs, and, what is i 
 more, he ran in such a circuitous route that | 
 they soon lost all idea of their own locality, and 
 had not the faintest idea where he had gone. 
 In this resj)ect, however, Dacres himself was ' 
 not one whit wiser than they, for he soon found 
 himself completely bewildered in the mazes of 
 the forest; and when at length the deep si- 
 lence around gave no further sound of pursuers, 
 he sank down to take breath, with no idea what- 
 ever in what direction the road h'y. 
 
 After a brief rest he arose and plunged deep- 
 er still into the forest, so as to ])Ut an addition- 
 al distance between himself and any jjossiJjle 
 pursuit. He at length found himself at the 
 foot of a preci])ice about fifty feet in height, 
 which was deep in the recesses of tlie forest. 
 Up this he climbed, and found a mosjy ])lace 
 among the trees at its top, where he could find 
 rest, and at the same time be in a more favor- 
 able position either for hearing or seeing any 
 signs of a])proacliing pursuers. 
 
 Here, then, he flung himself down to rest, 
 and soon buried himself among thouglits of the 
 most exciting kind. The scene which he had 
 just left wasj fresh in his mind, and amiJst all 
 the fury of that strife there rose most promi- 
 nent in his memory the form of the two ladies, 
 Minnie standing calm and immoved, while Mrs. 
 Willoughby was convulsed with agitated feel- 
 ing. What was the cause of that ? Could it be 
 possible that his wife had indeed contrived such a 
 plot with the Italian? Was it possible tliat she 
 had chosen this way of striking two blows, by 
 one of which she could win her Italian, and by 
 the other of which she could get rid of himself, 
 her husband? Such had been his conjecture 
 during the fury of the fight, and the thought 
 had roused him uj) to his Berserker madness ; 
 but now, as it recurred again, he saw otlier 
 things to shake his full belief. Her agitation 
 seemed too natural. 
 
 Yet, on the other hand, he asked himself, 
 why shoidd she not show agitation ? She was 
 a consummate actress. She could show on her 
 beautiful face the softness and the tenderness 
 of an angel of liglit while a demon reigned in 
 her malignant heart. Why should she not 
 choose this way of kee|iing up appearances? 
 She had betrayed her friends, and sought her 
 husband's death; but would she wish to have 
 her crime made manifest? Not she. It was 
 for this, then, that she wept and clung to the 
 child-angel. 
 
 Such thoughts as these were not at all adapt- 
 ed to give comfort to his mind, or make Ids 
 rest refreshing. Soon, by such fancies, he kin- 
 dled anew his old rage, and bis blood rose to 
 fever heat, so that inaction became no longer 
 tolerable. He had rest enough. He started 
 up, and looked all around, and listened attent- 
 ively. No sound arose and no sight appeared 
 which at all excited suspicion. He determined 
 to set forth once more, he scarcely knew where. 
 He had a vague idea of finding his way back 
 to the road, so as to be able to assist the ladies, 
 together with another idea, equally ill defined, 
 of coming u])on the brigands, finding the Ital- 
 ian, and watching for an oiiportunity to wreak 
 vengeance upon this assassin and his guilty 
 partner. 
 
 He drew his knife once more from a leathern 
 sheath on the inside of the breast of his coat, 
 info which he had thrust it some time before, 
 and hohling this he set forth, watchfully and 
 warily. On the left side of the preci])ice the 
 ground slo])ed down, and at the bottom of this 
 there was a narrow valley. It seemed to him 
 that this might be the course of some sjjring 
 torrent, and that by following its descent he 
 might come out upon some stream. With this 
 intention he descended to the valley, and then 
 walked along, following the descent of the 
 ground, and keejiing himself as much as pos- 
 sible among the thickest growths of the trees. 
 
 The ground descended very gradually, and 
 the narrow valley wound along among rolling 
 hills that were covered with trees and brush. As 
 he confined himself to the thicker parts of this, 
 his i)rogress was necessarily slow ; but at the 
 end of that turn he saw before him unmistak- 
 able signs of the neighborhood of some o])en 
 ])lace. Before him he saw the sky in such a 
 way that it showed the absence of foi est trees. 
 He now moved on more cautiously, and, (put- 
 ting the valley, he crej)! iq> the hill-slope among 
 the brush as carefully as possible, until he was 
 at a suflicient height, and then, turning toward 
 the open, he crept forward from cover to cover. 
 At length he sto])i)ed. A slight eminence was 
 before him, beyond which all was open, yet 
 concealed from his view. Descending the slope 
 a little, he once more advanced, and finally 
 emerged at the edge of the foi'est. 
 
 He foun<l himself u])on a gentle declivity. 
 Immediately in front of him lay a lake, circu- 
 lar in shape, and about a mile in diameter, em- 
 bosomed among wooded hills. At first he saw 
 no signs of any habitation ; but as his eyes wan- 
 dered round he saw u])on his right, about a 
 quarter of a mile away, an old stone house, and 
 beyond this smoke curling up from among the 
 forest trees on the borders of the lake. 
 
 The scene startled him. It was so quiet, so 
 lonely, and so deserted that it scorned a fit 
 place for a robber's haunt. Could this be in- 
 deed the home of his enemies, and had he 
 thus so woiulerfully come upon them in the 
 very midst of their retreat? He believed that 
 it was so. A little further observation showed 
 
 ■ !-t 
 
v 
 
 
 li'l 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 97 
 
 
 figures among the trees moving to and fro, and 
 Boon lie distinguished faint truces of smoke in 
 otlier jjlaces, wiiicli he liad not seen at first, 
 as though tliere were more fires tlian one. 
 
 Dacres cxidted witli a fierce and vengeful 
 joy over this discovery. He felt now not like 
 the fugitive, i)ut rather the ])ursuer. He look- 
 ed down upon this as the tiger looks from his 
 jungle upon some Indian village. His foes 
 were numerous, but he was concealed, and his 
 presence unsuspected. He grasjjcd his dag- 
 ger with a firmer clutch, and then pondered 
 for a few minutes on what he had better do 
 next. 
 
 One thing was necessary first of all, and that 
 was to get as near as he possibly could without 
 discovery. A slight survey of the situation 
 showed him that he might venture much near- 
 er ; and his eye ran along the border of the lake 
 which lay between him and the old house, and 
 Jie saw that it was all covered over with a thick 
 fringe of trees and brush-wood. The narrow 
 valley along which he had come ended at the 
 shore of the lake just below him on his right, 
 and beyond this the shore arose again to a 
 lieight equal to where he now was. To gain 
 that opposite height was now his first task. 
 
 Before starting he looked all around, so as to 
 be sure that he was not observed. Then he 
 went back for some distance, after which he 
 descended into the valley, crouching low, and 
 crawling stealthily among the brush -wood. 
 Moving thus, he at length succeeded in reaching 
 the opposite slope without appearing to have at- 
 tracted any attention from any pursuers. Up 
 this slope he now moved as carefully as ever, 
 not relaxing his vigilance one jot, but, if possi- 
 ble, calling into ]>lay even a larger caution as 
 he found himsdlf drawing nearer to those whom 
 he began to regard as his prey. 
 
 Moving up this slope, then, in this way, he 
 at length attained the top, and found himself 
 here among the forest trees and underbrush. 
 They were here even denser than they were on 
 ine place which he had just left. As he moved 
 along he saw no indications that they had been 
 traversed by human footsteps. Every thing 
 gave indication of an unbroken and undisturb- 
 ed solitude. After feeling his way along here 
 with all the caution which he could exercise, 
 he finally ventured toward the shore of the lake, 
 and found himself able to go to the very edge 
 without coming to any open space or crossing 
 any i)ath. 
 
 On looking forth from the top of the bank he 
 found that he had not only drawn much nearer 
 to the old house, but that he could see the whole 
 line of shore. He now saw that there were some 
 men by the door of the house, and began to sus- 
 ])ect that this was nothing else than the head- 
 quarters and citadel of the brigands. The sight 
 of the shore now showed him that he could aj)- 
 proach very much nearer, and unless the brig- 
 ands, or whoever they were, kept scouts out, he 
 would ho able to reach a point immediately 
 orerlookitig the house, from which he could 
 G 
 
 survey it at his leisure. To reach this point 
 became now his next aim. 
 
 Tiie wood being dense, Dacres found no more 
 difliculty in passing through this than in travers- 
 ing what lay behind him. The caution which 
 he exercised here was as great as ever, and his 
 progress was as slow, but as sure. At length 
 he found himself ujion the desired point, and, 
 crawling cautiously forward to the shore, he 
 looked down upon the very old house which he 
 had desired to reach. 
 
 The house stood close by the lake, upon a 
 sloping bank which lay below. It did not seem 
 to be more than fifty yards away. The doors 
 and windows were gone. Five or six ill-look- 
 ing fellows were near the doorway, some sprawl- 
 ing on the ground, others lolling and lounging 
 about. One glance at the men was sufficient 
 to assure him that they wee the brigands, and 
 also to show him that the/ kept no guard or 
 scout or outpost of any kind, at least in this 
 direction. 
 
 Here, then, Dacres lay and w.atched. He 
 could not wish for a better situation. With his 
 knife in his hand, ready to defend himself in 
 case of need, and his whole form concealed 
 perfectly by the thick underbrush into the 
 midst of which he had crawled, he peered forth 
 through the overhanging leaves, and watched 
 in breathless interest. From the point where 
 he now was he could see the shore beyond the 
 house, where the smoke was rising. He could 
 now see that there were no less than four dif- 
 ferent columns of smoke ascending from as 
 many fires. He saw as many as twenty or 
 thirty figures moving among the trees, made 
 conspicuous by the bright colors of their cos- 
 tumes. They seemed to be busy about some- 
 thing which he could not make out. 
 
 Suddenly, while his eye roved over the scene, 
 it was struck by some fluttering color at the 
 open window of the old house. He had not 
 noticed this before. He now looked at it at- 
 tentively. Before long he saw a figure cross the 
 window and return. It was a female figure. 
 
 The sight of this revived all that agitation 
 which he had felt before, but which had been 
 calmed during the severe efforts which he had 
 been putting forth. There was but one thought 
 in his mind, and but one desire in his heart. 
 
 His wife. 
 
 He crouched low, with a more feverish dread 
 of discovery at this sui)reme moment, and a 
 fiercer thirst for some further revelation which 
 might disclose what he susjiected. His breath- 
 ing came thick and hard, and his brow lowei'ed 
 gloomily over his gleaming ej'cs. 
 
 He waited thus for some minutes, and the 
 figure passed again. 
 
 He still watched. 
 
 Suddenly a figure appeared at the window. 
 It was a young girl, a blonde, with short gold- 
 en curls. The face was fai.iiliar indeed to 
 him. Could he ever forget it? There it was 
 full before him, turned toward lum, as though 
 that one, by some strange spiriti^cil sympathy, 
 
98 
 
 THE AMERICAN BAliON. 
 
 ' 
 
 ;( i 
 
 i 
 
 i ! 
 
 U \ ' 
 
 pi! 
 Mi 
 
 1:1;,. ! 
 
 1 I 
 
 m 
 
 was aware of his presence, and was thus turn- 
 ing toward liim this mute appeal. Her face 
 was near enough for its expression to be visi- 
 ble, lie could distinguisli the childish face, 
 with its soft, sweet innocence, and he knew 
 that upon it there was now that i)iteous, jdead- 
 ing, beseeching look which formerly had so 
 thrilled his heart. And it was thus that Da- 
 cres saw his child-angel. 
 
 A prisoner, turning toward him this appeal I 
 What was the cause, and what did the Italian 
 want of this innocent child? Such was his 
 thought. What could Ids fiend of a wife gain 
 by the betrayal of that angelic being? Was it 
 possible that even lier demon soul could com- 
 pass iniquity like this? lie had thought that 
 he had fathomed iier capacity for malignant 
 wickedness ; but the i)resence here of the child- 
 angel in the power of these miscreants sliowed 
 him that this capacity was indeed unfathoma- 
 ble. At this sudden revelation of sin so enor- 
 mous his very soul turned sick with horror. 
 
 He watched, and still looked with an anxiety 
 that was increasing to positive pain. 
 
 And now, after one brief glance, Minnie drew 
 back into the room. There was nothing more 
 to be seen for some time, but at last another 
 figure appeared. 
 
 He expected this; he was waiting for it ; he 
 was sure of it; yet deep down in the bottom 
 of his heart there was a liope that it might not 
 be so, that his suspicions, in this case at least, 
 might be unfounded. But now the ])roof came ; 
 it was made manifest here before his eyes, and 
 in the light of day. 
 
 In spite of himself a low groan escaped him. 
 Ho buried his face in his hands and shut out 
 the sight. Then suddenly he raised his head 
 again and stared, as though in this face there 
 was an irresistible fascination by which a spell 
 was thrown over him. 
 
 It was the face of Mrs. Willoughby — youth- 
 ful, beautiful, and touching in its tender grace. 
 Tears were now in those dark, luminous eyes, 
 but they were unseen by him. Yet he could 
 mark the despondency of her attitude ; he could 
 see a certain wild way of looking up and down 
 and in all directions ; he noted how her hands 
 grasped the window-ledge as if for support. 
 
 And oh, beautiful demon angel, he thought, 
 if you coidd but know how near you are to the 
 avenger ! Why are you so anxious, my demon 
 wife ? Are you impatient because your Italian 
 is delaying? Can you not live for five seconds 
 longer without him? Are you looking in all 
 directions to see where ho is ? Don't fret ; he'll 
 soon be here. 
 
 And now there came a confirmation of his 
 thoughts. He was not surprised ; he knew it; 
 lie suspected it. It was all as it should be. 
 Was it not in the confident expectation of this 
 that he had come here with his dagger — on 
 their trail? 
 
 It was Girasole. 
 
 He came from the place, further along the 
 shore, where the brigands were around their 
 
 fires. He was walking quickly. lie had a 
 ]uir])Ose. It was with a renewed agony that 
 Dacres watched his enemy — coming to visit his 
 wife. The intensity of that thirst for venge- 
 ance, which had now to be clieckcd until a bet- 
 ter op])ortunity, made his whole frame tremble. 
 A wild desire came to him then and there to 
 bound down u])on his enemy, and kill and be 
 killed in the presence of his wife, lint the oth- 
 er brigands deterred him. These men might 
 interjjose and save the Italian, and make him a 
 ))risoncr. No ; he must wait till he could meet 
 his enemy on something like equal terms — when 
 he could strike a blow that would not be in vain. 
 Thus he overmastered himself. 
 
 He saw Girasole enter the house. He watch- 
 ed breathlessly. Tlr: time seemed long in- 
 deed. He could not hear any thing; the con- 
 versation, if there was any, was carried on in a 
 low tone. He could not see any thing; those 
 who conversed kept quiet ; no one jiassed in 
 front of the window. It was all a mystery, and 
 this made the time seem longer. At length 
 Dacres began to think that Girasole would 
 not go at all. A long time passed. Hours 
 went away, and still Girasole did not quit the 
 house. 
 
 It was now sundown. Dacres had eaten 
 nothing since morning, but the conflict of pas- 
 sion drove away all hunger or thirst. The ap- 
 proach of darkness was in accordatu-e with his 
 own gloomy wishes. Twilight in Italy is short. 
 Night would soon be over all. 
 
 The house was on the slope of the bank. At 
 the corner nearest him the house was sunk into 
 the groimd in such a way that it looked as 
 though one might climb into the u])per story 
 window. As Dacres looked he nuule up his 
 mind to attempt it. By standing here on ti])- 
 toe he could catch the upper window-ledge 
 with his hands. He was strong. He was tall. 
 His enemy was in the house. The hour was 
 at hand. He was tlie man. 
 
 Another hour passed. 
 
 All was still. 
 
 There was a flickering lamp in the hall, but 
 the men seemed to be asleep. 
 
 Another hour passed. 
 
 There was no noise. 
 
 Then Dacres ventured down. He moved 
 slowly and cautiously, crouching low, and thus 
 traversing the intervening space. 
 
 He neared the house and touched it. Be- 
 fore him was the window of the lower story. 
 Above him was the window of the up])er story. 
 He lifted up his hands. They could reach the 
 window-ledge. 
 
 He put his long, keen knife between his teeth, 
 and caught at tlie u])per window-ledge. Ex- 
 erting all his strength, he raised himself up so 
 high that he could fling one elbow over. For 
 a moment he hung thus, and waited to take 
 breath and listen. 
 
 There was a rush below. Half a dozen shad- 
 owy forms surroimded him. He had been seeti. 
 He had been trapped. 
 
 Ifclitiil^ lilt 
 
 ■■ - - -.'!rT-':i:tiffi.r.-/~jm- 
 
but 
 
 shad- 
 
 I 
 
 THE AIIEIUCAN BARON, 
 
 9D 
 
 He ilrop))eJ down and, seizing his knife, 
 stnicii right and left. 
 
 In vain. He was hurled to the ground and 
 bound tight. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 FACE TO FACE. 
 
 ILvwnunY, on his capture, Iiad been at once 
 taken into tlie woods, and led and jjusiied on 
 liy no gentle hands. He had thus gone on un- 
 til he had found himself by that same lake which 
 others of the l)arty had come njjon in the vari- 
 ous ways which have been described. Toward 
 this lake he was taken, until finally his party 
 reached the old house, which they entered. It 
 has already been said tiuit it was a two-story 
 house. It was also of stone, and strongly 
 built. The door was in the middle of it, and 
 rooms were on cacli side of the hall. The in- 
 terior plan of the house was peculiar, for the 
 hall did not run through, but consisted of a 
 square room, and the stone steps wound spi- 
 rally from the lower hall to the njiper one. 
 There were three rooms uj) stairs, one taking 
 up one end of the house, which was occujjied 
 by Mrs. \\'illoughby and Minnie; another in 
 the rear of the house, into which a door ojiened 
 from the upper hall, close by the head of the 
 stairs; and a third, which was opposite the 
 room first mentioned. 
 
 Ilawbury was taken to this house, and led 
 up stairs into this room in the rear of the house. 
 At the end farthest from the door he saw a 
 iieap of straw with a few dirty rugs upon it. 
 In the wall a beam was set, to which an iron 
 ring was fastened. He was taken toward this 
 bed, and here his legs were bound together, and 
 the rojie that sectn-ed them was run around the 
 iron ring so as to allow of no more motion than 
 a few feet. Having thus secured the prisoner, 
 the men left him to his own meditations. 
 
 The room was perfectly bare of furniture, 
 nothing being in it but the straw and the dirty 
 rugs. Ilawbury could not a])proach to the 
 windows, for he was bound in a way which 
 prevented that. In fact, he could not move in 
 any direction, for his arms and legs were fast- 
 ened in such a way that he could scarcely raise 
 himself from where he was sitting. He there- 
 fore was compelled to remain in one position, 
 and threw himself down upon the straw on his 
 side, with his face to the wall, for he found that 
 position easier than any other. In this way he 
 lay for some time, until at length he was roused 
 by the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. 
 Several people were passing his room. He 
 heard the voice of Girasole. He listened with 
 deep attention. For some time there was no 
 rejily. At length there was the sound of a 
 woman's voice — clear, plain, and unmistaka- 
 ble. It was a fretful voice of complaint. Gi- 
 rasole was trying to answer it. After a time 
 Girasole left. Then all was still. Tiicn Gi- 
 rasole returned. Then theie was a clattering 
 
 noise on the stairs, and the bumping of some 
 heavy weight, and the heavy breathing of men. 
 Then he h^rd Girasole say something, after 
 which arose Minnie's voice, close by, as though 
 she was in the hall, and her words were, "Oh, 
 take it away, take it away!" followed i)y long 
 re])roachcs, which Ilawbury did not fully under- 
 stand. 
 
 This showed him that Minnie, at least, was 
 a jirisoner, and in this house, and in the ad- 
 joining room, along with some one whom he 
 rightly supposed was Mrs. Willougliby. 
 
 After this there was a further silence for 
 some time, which at last was broken by fresh 
 sounds of trampling and shufHing, together with 
 the confused directions of several voices all 
 speaking at once. Ilawbury listened, and 
 turned on his couch of straw so as to see any 
 thing which presented itself. The clatter and 
 the noise approached nearer, ascending the 
 stairs, until at last he saw that they were en- 
 tering his room. Two of the brigands came 
 first, carrying something carefully. In a few 
 moments the burden which they bore was re- 
 vealed. 
 
 It was a rude litter, hastily made from bush- 
 es fastened together. Upon this lay the dead 
 body of a man, his white face upturned, and 
 his limbs stitfencd in the rigidity of death. 
 Ilawbin-y did not remember very distinctly any 
 of the particidar events of his confused struggle 
 with the brigands ; but he was not at all sur- 
 prised to see that there had been one of the 
 ruffians sent to his account. The brigands who 
 carried in their dead comi)anion looked at the 
 captive with a sidlen ferocity and a scowling 
 vengefulness, which showed plainly that they 
 would demand of him a reckoning for their 
 comrade's blood if it were oidy in their power. 
 But they did not delay, nor did they make 
 any actual demonstrations to Ilawbury. They 
 placed the corpse of their comrade ujion the floor 
 in the middh of the room, and then went out. 
 
 The presence of the corpse only added to the 
 gloom of Hawbury's situation, and he onco 
 more turned his face to the wall, so as to shut 
 out the sight. Once more he gave himself up 
 to his own thoughts, and so the time passed 
 slowly on. He heard no sounds now from the 
 room where Miss Fay was confined. He heard 
 no noise from the men below, and could not tell 
 whether they were still guarding the door, or 
 had gone away. Various projects came to 
 him, foremost among which was the idea of 
 escaping. Bribery seemed the only possible 
 way. There was about this, however, the same 
 difficulty which Mrs. Willougliby had fouiul — 
 his ignorance of the language. He thought 
 that this would be an effectual bar to any com- 
 munication, and saw no other alternative than 
 to wait Girasole's j)leasure. It seemed to him 
 that a ransom would be asked, and he felt sure, 
 from Girasole's offensive manner, that the ran- 
 som would be large. But there was no help 
 for it. He felt more troubled about Miss Fay, 
 for Girasole's remarks about her seemed to 
 
 II. 
 
 .J^ 
 
 atmtu\ uutiuma ahb 
 
100 
 
 TIIK AMERICAN BAllON. 
 
 ill 
 
 I ^ 
 
 V' 
 
 i) 
 
 ill' 
 
 point to vipws of his own wliich weru incompat- 
 ible witii lier lihenition. 
 
 In tlie midst of these reflections nnotlier noise 
 arose below. It was a steady tranij) of two or 
 three men walking. The noise ascended the 
 stairway, and drew nearer and nearer. Haw- 
 bury turned once more, and saw two men enter- 
 ingthc room, carryingbetween them a box about 
 si.x feet long and eighteen inches or two feet 
 wide. It was coarsely but strongly made, and 
 was undoubtedly intended as a coiHn for the 
 corpse of the brigand. The men put the coffin 
 down against the wall and retired. After a 
 few minutes they returned again with the coffin 
 lid. They then lifted the dead body into the 
 coffin, and otiC of them put the lid in its jilace 
 and secured it with half a dozen screws. Aft- 
 er this Ilawbury was once more left alone. He 
 found this far more tolerable, for now he had 
 no longer before his very eyes the abhorrent 
 sight of the dead body. Hidden in its coffin, 
 it no longer gave offense to his sensibilities. 
 Once more, therefore, Hawbury turned his 
 thoughts toward projects of escape, and dis- 
 cussed in his mind the probabilities fur and 
 against. 
 
 The day had been long, and longer still did 
 it seem to the captive as hour after hour i)assed 
 slowly by. He could not look at his watch, 
 which his captors had sjuired ; but from the 
 shadows as they fell through the windows, and 
 from the general appearance of the .sky, he 
 knew that the close of the c'ay was not far off. 
 He began to wonder that he was left so long 
 alone and in sus])ense, and to feel im])atient to 
 know the worst as to his fate. Why did not 
 some of them come to tell him ? Where was 
 Girasole ? Was he the chief? Were the brig- 
 ands debating about his fate, or were they thus 
 leaving him in suspense so as to make him de- 
 spondent and submissive to their terms ? From 
 all that he had ever heard of brigands and their 
 ways, the latter seemed not unlikely; and this 
 thought made him see the necessity of guard- 
 ing himself against being too impatient for free- 
 dom, and too compliant with any demands of 
 theirs. 
 
 From these thoughts lie was at last roused 
 by footsteps which ascended the stairs. He 
 turned and looked toward the door. A man 
 entered. 
 
 It was Girasole. 
 
 He entered slowly, with folded arms, and 
 coming about half-way, he stood and siu'veyed 
 the prisoner in silence. Ilawbury, with a sud- 
 den ettbrt, brought himself ujj to a sitting pos- 
 ture, and cnlmly surveyed the Italian. 
 
 " Well," asked Hawbury, " I should like to 
 know how long you intend to keep up this sort 
 of thing ? What are you going to do about it ? 
 Name your price, man, and we'll discuss it, and 
 settle upon something reasonable." 
 
 " My price ?" repeated Girasole, with pecul- 
 iar emphasis. 
 
 *' Yes. Of course I understand you follows. 
 It's your trade, you know. You've caught me, 
 
 and, of course, you'll try to make the best of 
 me, and ail that sort of thing. So don't keep 
 me waiting." 
 
 " Inglis milor," said Girasole, with a sharp, • 
 quick accent, his face flushing up as he spoke 
 — "Inglis milor, dere is no price as you mean, 
 an' no ransom. He price is one dat you will 
 not wis to i)ay." 
 
 "Oh, come, now, my good fellow, really you 
 must remember that I'm tied u]), and not in a 
 ])osi!ion to be chaffed. liother your Italian 
 humbug! Don't speak in these confounded 
 figures of speech, you know, but say up and 
 down — how mncli':'" 
 
 " l)e brigands haf talk you ovair, an' dey will 
 haf no ])rice." 
 
 "What the devil is all that rot about?" 
 
 "Dev will haf youair blood." 
 
 " Mv blood ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And pray, my good fellow, what good is 
 that going to do them ?" 
 
 " It is vengeance," said Girasole. 
 
 "Vengeance? Tooh ! Nonsense! What 
 rot! What have I ever done?" 
 
 "Dat— dere — his blood, "said Girasole, point- 
 ing to the coffin. 
 
 "What! that scoundrel? Why, man alive, 
 are you crazy ? Tiiat was a fair stand-u]) fight. 
 That is, it was two English against twenty Ital- 
 ians, if you call that fair; but jjcrhaps it is. 
 His blood! By Jove! Cool, that! Come, 
 I like it." 
 
 "An' more," said Girasole, who now grew 
 more excited. " It is not de brigand who con- 
 demn you ; it is also me. I condemn you." 
 
 " You ?" said Hawbury, elevating his eye- 
 brows in some surprise, and fixing a cool stare 
 ujion Girasole. "And what the devil's this 
 row about, I should like to know? I don't 
 know you. Wiiat have you against me?" 
 
 "Inglis milor," cried Girasole, who was 
 stung to the (piick by a certain indescribable 
 yet most irritating su])ercili()usness in Ilaw- 
 bury 's tone — " Inglis milor, you sail see what 
 you sail sofl'air. You sail die! Dere is no 
 hope. You are condemn by de brigand. You 
 also are condemn by mc, for you insult me." 
 
 "Well, of all the beastly rot I ever heard, 
 this is about the worst ! What do you mean 
 by all this infernal nonsense ? Insult you I 
 What would I insult you for? Wiiy, man 
 alive, you're as mad as a March hare! If I 
 thought you were a gentlenum, I'd — by Jove, 
 I wilj, too! See here, you follow: I'll fight 
 you for it — pistols, or any thing. Come, now. 
 I'll drop all considerations of rank. I'll treat 
 you as if you were a real count, and not a sham 
 one. Come, now. What do you say ? Shall 
 we have it out ? Pistols — in the woods there. 
 You've got all your infernal crew around you, 
 vou know. Well? What? You won't? By 
 Jove!" 
 
 Girasole's gesture showed that he declined 
 the ))roi)osition. 
 
 "Inglis milor," said he, with a venomous 
 
THE AMERICAN BAUON. 
 
 101 
 
 ' INOI.IS MII.OR, I 8.\I,I, IIAl- YOUAIB LIFE.' 
 
 glitter in his eyes, "I snll haf yoiiair life — wis 
 lie pistol, but not in de duello. I sail blow your 
 brain out myself." 
 
 "Blow and bo hanged, then!" said Haw- 
 bury. 
 
 And with these words he fell back on his 
 straw, and took no further notice of the Italian. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 TORN ASUNDER. 
 
 When Dacres made his attempt upon the 
 house he was not so unobserved as he siipjjosed 
 himself to be. Minnie and Mrs. Willoughby 
 happened at that time to be sitting on the floor 
 by the window, one on each side, and they were 
 looking out. They hud chosen the seat as 
 affording some prospect of the outer world. 
 There was in Mrs. Willoughby a certain in- 
 stinctive feeling that if any rescue came, it 
 would come from the land side ; and, therefore, 
 though the hope was faint indeed, it neverthe- 
 
 less was snfficicnily well defined to inspire her 
 with an uneasy and incessant vigilance. Thus, 
 then, she had seated herself by the window, 
 and Minnie had taken her ))lace on the oppo- 
 site side, and the two sisters, with clasped 
 liiinds, sat listening to the voices of the night. 
 
 At length tlicy became aware of a movement 
 upon the biink just above them and lying op- 
 posite. The sisters clasped one another's hand8 
 more closely, and jieered earnestly through the 
 jjloom. It was jiretty dark, and the forest 
 threw down a heavy shadow, but still their 
 eyes were by this time accustomed to the dark, 
 and they coidd distinguish most of the objects 
 there. Among these they soon distinguished 
 a moving figure ; l)ut what it was, whether man 
 or beast, they could not make out. 
 
 This moving figure was crawling down the 
 bank. There was no cover to afford conceal- 
 ment, and it was evident that he was trustitig 
 altogether to the concealment of the darkness. 
 It was a hazardous exi)eriment, and Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby trembled in suspense. 
 
 Minnie, however, did not tremble at all, nor 
 
 iJU 
 
102 
 
 THE AMERICAN BAIION. 
 
 III 
 
 was the suspense nt all pninfiil. When Mrs. 
 Willoiigliby first cautiously dirt'ctod lier attcn- 
 tiun to it in a wliis])er, Minnie thought it was 
 some itniinal. 
 
 "Why, Kitty dear," she said, speaking back 
 in ft whisper, "why, it's an uninuil ; I wonder 
 if the creature is a wild lieast. I'm sure I think 
 it's very tlangeroiis, and no doors or windows. 
 But it"s (diriiijii the way. He wouldn't give me 
 a chair; and so 1 dare say I sluill be eaten uj) 
 by a bear l)efore morning." 
 
 Minnie gave utterance to tliis expectation 
 without the sliglitest excitement, Just as though 
 the prospect of becoming food for a bear was 
 one of the very commonest incidents of her 
 life. 
 
 "Oh, I don't tliink it's n bear." 
 
 "Well, then, it's a tiger or a lion, or perhaps 
 a wolf. I'm sure / don't see what difference 
 it makes what one is eaten by, when one has to 
 be eaten." 
 
 "It's a man !" said Mrs. Willoughby, trem 
 lously. 
 
 " A man ! — nonsense, Kitty darling. A man 
 walks ; he doesn't go on all-fours, except when 
 he is very, very small." 
 
 " IIusli ! it's some one coming to help us. 
 Watch him, Mimiie dear. Oh, how danger- 
 ous!" 
 
 " Do you really think so?" said Minnie, with 
 evident jjleasure. "Now that is really kind. 
 But I wonder wiio it can be?" 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby scpieczed her hand, and 
 made no reply. She was watching the slow 
 and cautious movement of the shadowy figure. 
 
 " He's coming nearer! "said she, tremulously. 
 
 Minnie felt her sister's hand throb at the 
 quick movement of her heart, and heard her 
 short, quick breathing. 
 
 "Who van it be, I wonder?" said Minnie, 
 full of curiosity, but without any excitement at 
 all. 
 
 "Oh, Minnie!" 
 
 "What's the matter, darling?" 
 
 "It's so terrible." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "This suspense. Oh, I'm so afraid !" 
 
 " Afraid ! Why, I'm not afraid at all." 
 
 "Oh! he'll be caught." 
 
 "No, he won't," said Minnie, confidently. 
 "I knew he'd come. They always do. Don't 
 be afraid that he'll be caught, or that he'll fail. 
 They never fail. They always ivill save me. 
 Wait till your life has been saved as often as 
 mine has, Kitty ilarliiig. Oh, I exjiected it all ! 
 I w as thinking a little while ago he ought to be 
 here soon." 
 
 "He! Who?" 
 
 "Why, any person ; the person who is going 
 to save me this time. I don't know, of course, 
 who he is ; some horrid nmn, of course. And 
 then — oh dear! — I'll have it all over again. 
 He'll carry me away on his back, and through 
 those wretched woods, and hinup me against 
 the trees and things. Then he'll get inc to the 
 road, and put me on a horrid old horse, and 
 
 galloj) away. And by that time it will !)c morn- 
 ing. And then he'll propose. And so tliere'll 
 be another. Ami I don't know what I shall 
 do about it. Oh dear I" 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby had not heard half of this. 
 All her soul was intent \\\)<n\ the figure outside. 
 She only jiressed her sister's hand, and gave a 
 warning "Hus-s-s-h !" 
 
 "I know one thing I do wish," said Minnie. 
 
 Her sister nnule no rejdy. 
 
 " I do wish it would turn out to be that nice, 
 dear, good, kind llufus K. Ginm. I don't want 
 any more of them. And I'm sure he's nicer 
 than this horrid ('ount, who woiddu't take the 
 trouble to get me even a chair. And yet he 
 pretends to be fond of me." 
 
 " Ilus-s-s-h !" said her sister. 
 
 But Minnie was irrc])iessible. 
 
 "I don't want any horrid stranger. But, 
 oh, Kitty darling, it would be so ((//'fully funny 
 if he were to be caught ! and then he couldn't 
 propose, you know." 
 
 By this time the figure had reached the 
 house. Minnie i)ec])ed over and looked down. 
 Then she drew back her head and sighed. 
 
 " Oh dear!" she said, in a jilaintive tone. 
 
 "What, darling?" 
 
 " Why, Kitty darling, do you know ho really 
 looks a little like that great, big, horrid man 
 that ran with me down the volcano, and then 
 pretended he was my dear ]japa. And here he 
 comes to save me again. Oh, what shall I do ? 
 Won't you ])retend you're me, Kitty darling, 
 and ])le:ise go yourself? Oh, i)le-e-ease do!" 
 
 But now Minnie was interrupted by two 
 strong hands grasping the window-sill. A mo- 
 mcut after a shadowy head arose above it. 
 Mrs. Willoughby started back, but through the 
 gloom she was able to recognize the strongly 
 marked face of Scone Dacres. 
 
 For a moment he stared through the dark- 
 ness. Then he flung his elbow over. 
 
 There arose a noise below. There was a 
 rush. The figiu-e disappeared from the win- 
 dow. A furious struggle followed, in the midst 
 of which arose fierce oaths and deep breathings, 
 and the sound of blows. Then the struggle 
 subsided, and they heard footsteps tramping 
 heavily. They followed the sound into the 
 house. They heard men coming np the stairs 
 and into the hall outside. Then thoy all moved 
 into the front-room ojiposite theirs. After a 
 few minutes they heard the stejjs descending 
 the stairs. By this they judged that the pris- 
 oner had been taken to that room which was 
 on the other aide of the hall and in the front of 
 the house. 
 
 "There dies our last hope !" said Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby, aiul bin-st into tears. 
 
 "I'm sure I don't see what you're crying 
 about," said Minnie. "You certainly oughtn't 
 to want me to be carried oH' again by that per- 
 son. If he had me, he'd never give me up — es- 
 pecially after saving me twice." 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby made no reply, and the sis- 
 ters sat ill silence for nearly an hour. They 
 
 ^M.^. — ■ 
 
THE AMKUICAX BAROX. 
 
 103 
 
 were tlipn nroiisod Iiv tlio aii|iroiich of footsteps 
 which eiiterfil the house; utter wliieh voices 
 were heard l)elow. 
 
 Tiien soiDc one nsccndcd the stairs, and they 
 saw the (iiclier of a ligiit. 
 It was Ciiriisole. 
 
 lie came into tiie room witli a small lump, 
 lioldiiiK iiis hand in front of the tlaiiie. This 
 lump he sot down in a corner out of tlic draugiit, 
 and then turned to the ladies. 
 
 "Miladi," saitl (iira-ole, in a gentle voice, 
 "I am ver jjained to haf lo tella you dat it is 
 neeessairc for you to scparat dis night — till to- 
 morra." 
 
 " To separate?" exclaimed Mrs. Willonghhy. 
 " Only till to-morra, miladi. Den you sail 
 he togeder foravva. But it is now necessaire. 
 Dere haf ben an attemjr to a rescue. I mus 
 puard again dis — an' it mus he done by a sep- 
 arazion. If you are togeder you might run. 
 Dis man was alinos np here. It was oidy 
 chance dat I saw him in time.'' 
 
 "Oh, Sir," cried Mrs. Willoughby, "you 
 can not — you will not separate ns. You can 
 not have the heart to. I promise most solemn- 
 ly that we will not escape if you only leave ns 
 together." 
 
 Girasole shook his head. 
 "I can not," said he, firmly; "de mees is 
 too precious. I dare not. If yon are ]>rison- 
 •ure se will not try to fly, an' so I secure her 
 de more ; but if you are togeder you will find 
 some help. You will bribe de men. I can 
 not trust dem." 
 
 " Oh, do not separate us. Tie us. Bind ns. 
 Fasten ns with chains. Fasten me with chains, 
 but leave me with her." 
 
 " Chains ? nonsance ; dat is impossibile. 
 Chains ? no, miladi. You sail be treat beau- 
 tiful. No chain, no; notin but affection — till 
 to-nicrra, an' den de mees sail bo my wife. 
 De priest haf come, an' it sail be allaright to- 
 morra, an' you sail be wit her again. An' now- 
 yon haf to come away; for if you do not be 
 jileasant, I sail not be able to 'low you to stay 
 to-morra wit de mees when se become my Con- 
 tessa." 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby flung her arms about her 
 sister, and clasped her in a convulsive embrace. 
 "Well, Kitty darling," said Minnie, "don't 
 cry, or you'll make me cry too. It's just what 
 we might have cx])ccted, you know. He's been 
 as unkind as he coidd be about the cluiir, aiul 
 of course he'll do all he can to tease me. Don't 
 cry, dear. You must go, I suppose, since that 
 horrid man talks and scolds so about it ; only be 
 sure to be back early; but how I am ever to 
 pass the night here all alone and standing up, 
 I'm sure /don't know." 
 
 "Alone? Oh no," said Girasole. "Charm- 
 ing mees, yon sail not be alone ; I haf guard for 
 dat. I haf sent for a maid." 
 
 " But I don't want any of your horrid old 
 maids. I want my own maid, or none at all." 
 " Se sail be your own maid. I haf sent for 
 her." 
 
 It 
 
 "What, my own nniid ? — Dowlas?" 
 
 "I am ver sorry, but it is not dat one 
 is anoder — an Italian." 
 
 " Well, I think that is rvry unkind, when yon 
 know I can't speak a word of the language. 
 Hut y(»u (ilinii/s do all you can to teubo me. 
 I irin/i I had never seen yon." 
 
 Girasole looked hurt. 
 
 "Charming mees,'' said he, "I will lay down 
 my lil'o for you." 
 
 " But I don't want you to lay down your life. 
 I want Dowlas." 
 
 "And you sail haf Dowlas to-morra. An' 
 to-night you sail haf de Italian maid." 
 
 "Well, I sujipose I must," said Jlinnie, re- 
 signedly. 
 
 " Miladi," said Girasole, turning to Mrs. 
 Willoughby, " I am ver sorry for dis leetle ac- 
 commodazion. De room whore you mus go 
 is de one where I haf jnit de man dat try to 
 safe you. He is tied fast. You mus ])romis 
 you will not loose him. Haf you a knife?" 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Willonghby, in a scarce au- 
 dible tone. 
 
 " Do not mourn. You sail be able to talk to 
 de jirisonairc and get consolazion. But come." 
 
 With these words Girasole led the way out 
 into the hall, and into the front-room on the 
 ojiposite side. He carried the lamj) in liis 
 hand. IMrs. Willoughby saw a figure lying at 
 the other end of the room on the floor. His 
 face was turned toward them, but in the dark- 
 ness she could not see it jdaiidy. Some straw 
 was heaped up in the corner next her. 
 
 "Dere,'" said Giiasole, "is your bed. lam 
 sorra. Do not be trouble." 
 
 With this he went away. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby flung herself on her knees, 
 and bowed her head and we])t convulsively. 
 She heard the heavy stcj) of Girasole as he 
 went down stairs. Her first impulse was to 
 rush back to her sister. But she dreaded dis- 
 covery, and felt that disobedience would only 
 make her fate harder. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 FOUND AT LAST, 
 
 In a few moments Girasole came back and 
 entered Minnie's room. He was followed by a 
 woman who was dressed in the garb of an Ital- 
 ian peasant girl. Over her head she wore a 
 hood to protect her from the night air, the limj) 
 folds of which hung over her face. Minnie 
 looked carelessly at this woman and then at 
 Girasole. 
 
 "Charming mees," said Girasole, "I haf 
 brought you a maid for dis night. When we 
 leaf dis you sail haf what maid you wis." 
 
 " That horrid old fright !" said Minnie. " 1 
 don't want her." 
 
 " You sail only haf her for dis night," said 
 Girasole. " You will be taken care for." 
 
 "I suppose nobody cares for what /want," 
 
JOf 
 
 THE AMERICAN KARON. 
 
 In 
 
 m> 
 
 ONE ARM WENT AIIOUNI) llEll NKOK. 
 
 said Minnie, " and I may as well speak to the 
 wall, for all the good it does." 
 
 Gii'asole smiled and bowed, and pnt his hand 
 on his heart, and then called down the stairs : 
 
 "Padre Patricio!" 
 
 A solid, firm step now sounded on the stairs, 
 and in a few moments tlie priest came up. Gi- 
 rasole led the way into llawbiiry's room. The 
 prisoner lay on his side. lie was in a deep 
 sleep. Girasole looked in wonder at the sleep- 
 er who was spending in this way tiie last hours 
 of his life, and then pointed to tlie coffin. 
 
 "Here," said he, in Italian, "is tlie body. 
 When the grave is dug they will tell you. You 
 must stay here. You will not be afraid to be 
 with the dead," 
 
 The priest smiled. 
 
 Girasole now retreated and went down stairs. 
 
 Soon all was still. 
 
 The Italian woman had been standing where 
 she had stopped ever since she first came into 
 the room. Minnie had not paid any attention 
 to her, but at last she noticed tliis. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't stand there in that 
 way. You really make me feel quite nervous. 
 And what with the dark, and not having any 
 light, and losing poor dear Kitty, and not hav- 
 ing any chair to sit upon, really one's life is 
 scarce worth having. But all this is thrown 
 away, as you can't speak English — and how hor- 
 rid it is to have no one to talk to. " 
 
 The woman made no reply, but with a quiet, 
 stealthy step she drew near to Minnie. 
 
 " What do you want ? You horiid creature, 
 keep away," said Minnie, drawing back in some 
 alarm. 
 
 "Minniedcarl"8ai(l tiiewomnn. "Il-s-s-s-hl" 
 she added, in a low whisper. 
 
 Minnie started. 
 
 "Who are you ?" she whisjicred. 
 
 One arm went around her neck, and another 
 hand went over her mouth, and the wonuui 
 drew nearer to her. 
 
 "Not a word. Il-s-s-s-hl I've risked my 
 life. The priest brought nic." 
 
 " Wliy, my darling, darling love of an Ethel I" 
 said Minnie, who was overwhelmed with sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "Il-s-s-s-h!" 
 
 " Hilt how can I li-s-s-<<-li when I'm so per- 
 fc'tlv frantic wiiii delight? Oil, voti darling 
 pet :" 
 
 "Il-s-s-s-h! Not another word. I'll bo 
 discovered anil lost." 
 
 " Well, dear. Ell speak very, very low. But 
 how did you come here ?" 
 
 "The j)riest brought me." 
 
 "The priest?" 
 
 "Yes. He was sent for, you know; and I 
 thought I could help you, and he is going to 
 save yon." 
 
 "lie! Who?" 
 
 " The priest, you know." 
 
 " The priest ! Is lie a Roman Catholic priest, 
 Ethel darling?" 
 
 "Yes, dear." 
 
 "And he is going to save me this time, is 
 he?" 
 
 "I hope so, dear." 
 
 " Oh, how perfectly lovely that is ! and it was 
 .10 kind and thoughtful in you! Now this is 
 really quite nice, for you know I've /om/vd so to 
 be saved by a priest. Tiicse horrid men, you 
 know, all go and propose the moment they save 
 one's life ; but a priest can't, you know — no, not 
 if he saved one a thousand times over. Can 
 he now, Ethel darling?" 
 
 "Oh no!" said Ethel, in a little surprise. 
 "But stop, darling. You really must not say 
 another word — no, not so much as a whisper — 
 for we certaiidy u-illhQ heard ; and don't notice 
 what I do, or the priest either, for it's very, 
 very important, dear. But you keep as still 
 as a little mouse, and wait till we are all 
 ready." 
 
 " Well, Ethel dear, I will ; but it's awM]y 
 fanny to see you here — and oh, sitch a funny 
 figure as you are!" 
 
 "H-s-s-s-h!" 
 
 Minnie relajised into silence now, and Ethel 
 withdrew near to the door, where she stood and 
 listened. All was still. Down stairs there 
 was no light and no sound. In the hall above 
 she could see nothing, and could not tell wheth- 
 er any guards were there or not. 
 
 Hawbury's room was at the back of the house, 
 as has been said, and the door was just at the 
 top of the stairs. The door where Ethel was 
 standing was there too, and was close by the 
 other, so that she coidd listen and hear the 
 deep breathing of the sleeper. One or two 
 indistinct sounds escaped him from time to 
 
 - ■ ■ ■■•'"iflfli^^i'iniUifcinl - 
 
THE AMKUICAN BAUON. 
 
 lOS 
 
 IS 
 
 time, and this wns nil that broke the deep still- 
 ness. 
 
 She waited thus for ncnily an hour, diiritiR 
 whicii ill! was still, nml Minnie said rwit iv word. 
 Then ii slnulowy figure ai)|)i'arcd near her at 
 Ilawhury's dour, and uhand touched her shoul- 
 der. 
 
 Not a word was said. 
 
 Eiliel stole softly and noiselessly info Tlaw- 
 hury's room, where the priest was. Slie conld 
 SCO the two windows, anil the priest indicated to 
 her the position of the sleeper. 
 
 Slowly anil cautiously she stole over toward 
 liim. 
 
 She reached the jilacc. 
 
 Slie knelt by his side, and hent low over him. 
 Her lips touched his forehead. 
 
 Tlie sleeper moved slightly, and murmured 
 some words. 
 
 '•All fire," he murmured ; " fire— and flame. 
 It is a furnace before us. She must not die." 
 
 Tlien he sighed. 
 
 Ethel's heart beat wildly. Tlie words that 
 he spoke told her where his tliouglits were wan- 
 dering. She bent lower; tears fell from her 
 eyes and ui>on his face. 
 
 "My darling," mnrinurcd the sleeper, "we 
 will land here. I will cook the fish. How pale ! 
 Don't cry, dearest." 
 
 The house was all still. Not a sound arose. 
 Ethel still bent down and listened for more of 
 these words which were so sweet to her. 
 
 " Ethel !" murmured the sleeper, " where arc 
 you? Lost! lost!" 
 
 A heavy sigh escaped him, which found an 
 echo in the heart of the listener. Slie touched 
 bis foreiiead gently with one hand, and whis- 
 jicrcd, 
 
 "My lord!" 
 
 Ilawbury started, 
 
 "What's this?" he murmured. 
 
 "A friend," said Ethel. 
 
 At tliis Ilawbury became wide awake. 
 
 "Wlio are you?" he wliispered, in a trem- 
 bling voice. "For God's sake — oh, for God's 
 sake, speak again ! tell mc !" 
 
 "Harry," said Ethel. 
 
 Ilawbury recognized the voice at once. 
 
 A slight cry escaped him, wliich was instant- 
 ly stippressed, and then a torrent of whispered 
 words followed. 
 
 "Oil, my darling! my darling! my darling! 
 What is this? IIow is this? Is it a dream? 
 Oh, am I awake ? Is it you ? Oh, my darling ! 
 my darling ! Oh, if my arms were but free !" 
 
 Ethel bent over him, and passed her arm 
 around him till she felt the cords that bound 
 him. She had a sharp knife ready, and with 
 tills she cut the cords. Ilawbury raised him- 
 self, without waiting for his feet to be freed, 
 and caught Ethel in his freed arms in a silent 
 embrace, and pressed her over and over again 
 to his heart. 
 
 Ethel with diflfietdty extricated herself. 
 
 "There's no time to lose," said she. "I 
 came to save you. Don't waste another mo- 
 
 ment; it will bo too late. Oh, do not! Oh, 
 wait!" she added, as Ilawbury made another 
 etVort to clasp her in his arms. " Oli, do wiiut 
 I say, for niy sake I" 
 
 She felt for his feet, and cut the rest of his 
 bonds. 
 
 "What am I to do?" asked Ilawbury. clasp- 
 ing her dose, as though ho was afraid that ho 
 would lose her again. 
 
 " E-icai)e." 
 
 " Well, come ! I'll leap with yon from the 
 window." 
 
 "You can't. Tho house and all around 
 swarms witli brigands. They watch us all 
 closely." 
 
 "I'll fight my wav through tliem." 
 
 "Then yoii'l'l be killed, and I'll die," 
 
 "Well, I'll do whatever you say." 
 
 " Listen, tlieii. You must escajje alone." 
 
 "What! and leave you ? Never!" 
 
 "I'm safe. I'm disguised, and a priest is 
 with me as my protector." 
 
 "How can you be safe in such a jdace as 
 this?" 
 
 "I am safe. Do not argue. There is no 
 time to lose. Tlie jjriest brought me here, and 
 will take me away." 
 
 "But there are others hero. I can't leave 
 them. Isn't Miss Fay a prisoner? and anoth- 
 er lady?" 
 
 "Yes; but the priest and I will be able, I 
 hope, to liberate tliem. We have a i)Iau." 
 
 "But can't I go with you and help you?" 
 
 "Oh no! it's inipossilde. You could not. 
 We are going to take them away in disguise. 
 We have a dress. You couldn't be disguised." 
 
 "And must I go alone?" 
 
 "You must." 
 
 "I'll do it, then. Tell me what it is. But 
 oh, my darling! how can I leave you, and in 
 such a place as this ?" 
 
 " I assure you I am not in the slightest dan- 
 ger." 
 
 "I shall feel terribly anxious." 
 
 " H-s-s-s-b ! no more of this. Listen now." 
 
 " Well ?" 
 
 Ethel bent lower, and whispered in his ear, 
 in even lower tones than ever, the i)lan wbicli 
 she had contrived. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 A DESPERATE PLAN. 
 
 Ethel's plan was hastily revealed. The po- 
 sition was exceedingly perilous ; time was short, 
 and this was the only way of escape. 
 
 It was the priest who bad concocted it, and 
 he had tliought of it as the only plan by which 
 Hawbury's rescue coidd be ef^'ected. This in- 
 genious Irishman had also formed another plan 
 for the rescue of Minnie and her sister, which 
 was to be attempted in due course of time. 
 
 Now no ordinary mode of escape was possi- 
 ble for Ilawbury. A strict watch was kept. 
 
 i, 
 
 JL 
 
106 
 
 THE AMKUICAN HAUOX. 
 
 m 
 
 Tlic ]iii(*Nt liiul noi !('(>(! nn his approach tliut 
 {j;iiur(ls were jKisti'd in (iirt'orrii' (lircctions in 
 siK'li tx \\i\y tliat IK) t'liniiive tVotn the himse 
 t'oiilil I'iiuie them. lit; iiail also seen that tilt; 
 Hiiard insiiie liie lioiisi; was oipuilly vi^'ilant. 
 'I'o luap iVoin tlic window and run tor it woidd 
 he ciM-tain dcatli, lor that was tlic very tiling 
 V'liich liu! ))ri^'ands anticipati-d. To niaku a 
 Hudden rush down the stairs was not ])ossil)ie, 
 for at till! door in-low lliere were niuirds ; and 
 tliere, most vij;ilant of ail, was Girasole innisell". 
 
 Tlie decision of tlie Irisii priest was correct, 
 as lias heen jjroved in tiie case of Dacres, wlio, 
 in sjiite of all Ids caution, was ohserved and 
 cajitured. Oftiiis tlie priest knew nolliing, Itiit 
 judged from what he himself had seen on his 
 approach to the house. 
 
 The jilan of the jiriest liad been hastily com- 
 municated to ICllu'l, who shared his convictions 
 and adojitcd iiis conclusions. She also hiul 
 noticed the vij;ilance with which the nuard had 
 been kept np, ami only the fact that a woman 
 liad been sent for and was expected with the 
 priest had preserved her from discovery and its 
 conserpiences. As it was, however, no notice 
 was taken of her, and her iirctended character 
 was assumed to i)e her real one. Even Girasole 
 had scarcely j;hinced at her. A village i)easaiit 
 was of no interest in his eyes. His only thoujjtht 
 was of Minnie, and the woman that the i)riest 
 brought was only used as n des])Ciate etl'ort tc 
 8how a desire for her comfort. After he had 
 decided to separate the sisters the woman was 
 of more importance; Imt he had notliiiiji; to 
 say to her, and thus Ethel had cH'ccted her en- 
 trance to Minnie's presence in safety, with the 
 result that has been described. 
 
 The i)riest had been turning over many proj- 
 ects in his brain, but at last one suggested it- 
 self which had originated in connection with the 
 very nature of his errand. 
 
 One jiart of that errand was that a man should 
 be conveyed out of the house and carried away 
 and left in a certain place. Now the man w ho 
 was thus to be carried outwasadead man, and 
 the certain place to which he was to be borne 
 and where he was to be left was the grave ; but 
 these stern facts did not at all deter the Irish 
 ])riest from trying to make use of this task that 
 lay before him for the benefit of llawbury. 
 
 Here was a problem. A ))risoncr anxious 
 for escape, and a dead man awaiting burial ; 
 how were these two things to be exchanged so 
 that the living man might pass out without go- 
 ing to the grave ? 
 
 The Irish priest puzzled and pondered and 
 grew black in the face with his efforts to get to 
 the solution of this prol)lem, and at length 
 succeeded — to his own satisfaction, at any rate. 
 What is more, when he cxi)lained his plan to 
 Ethel, she adopted it. She started, it is true ; 
 she shuddered, she recoiled from it at first, but 
 finally she adopted it. Furthermore, she took 
 it tipon herself to persuade Hawbury to fall in 
 with it. 
 
 So much with regard to llawbury. For 
 
 Minnie and her sister the indefatigable priest 
 had already concocted a plan bctoie leaving 
 home. Tills was the very commonplace plan 
 of a disguise. It was to lie an old woman's ap- 
 parel, and he trusted to the chapter of accidents 
 to make the )ilan ii Mticcess, Ho noticed with 
 jilcasure that some women were at the place, 
 and thought that the prisoners might be con- 
 founded with them. 
 
 When at length Ethel had explained the plan 
 to llawbury he made a few further objections, 
 but finally declared himself ready to carry it 
 out. 
 
 The priest now began to ])iit his jirojcct into 
 execution. He had brought a screw -driver 
 with him, and w ith this he took out the screws 
 from the colliii one by one, as (jnietly us possi- 
 ble. 
 
 Tiicn the lid was lifted off, and Hawbury 
 arose and helped the priest to transfer the 
 corpse from the collin to the straw. They then 
 put th(! corpse on its side, with the face to the 
 wall, and bound the hands behind it, and tiie 
 feet also. The jnicst then took Hawbury 's 
 handkerchief and iiound it around the lieitd of 
 the corpse. ( )iie or two rugs that lay near were 
 thrown over the figure, so that it at length look- 
 ed like a slee])iug man. 
 
 Hawbury now got into the coffin and lay 
 down on his back at full length. The ])ricst 
 had brought some bits of wood with him, and 
 these he ])iit on the edge of the coflin in such a 
 way that the lid would be ke])t off at a distanci' 
 of about a (piarter of an inch. Through tii'; 
 opening Hawbury could have all the air that 
 was rciiuisite for breathing. 
 
 Then Ethel assisted the priest to lift the lid 
 on. 
 
 Thus far all had been quiet ; but now a slight 
 noise was heard below. Some men were mov- 
 ing. Ethel was distracted with anxiety, but 
 the priest was as cool as a clock. He wliis- 
 jiered to her to go back to the room where she 
 belonged. 
 
 " Will you be able to finish it ?" she asked. 
 
 "Sure an" I will — only don't you be afther 
 stayin' here any longer." 
 
 At this Etliel stole back to Minnie's room, 
 and stood listening with a quick-beating heart. 
 
 But the jiricst worked coolly and doxtrous- 
 ly. He felt for the holes to which the screws be- 
 longed, and succeeded in putting in two of 
 them. 
 
 Then there was a noise in the hall below. 
 
 The ])riest began to put in the third screw. 
 
 There were footsteps on the stairs. 
 
 He screwed on. 
 
 Nearer and nearer came the steps. 
 
 The priest still kept to his task. 
 
 At last a man entered the room. Ethel, 
 who had heard all, was faint with anxiety. She 
 was afraid that the priest had not finislied his 
 task. 
 
 Her fears were groundless. 
 
 Just as the foremost of the men entered the 
 room the priest finished screwing, and stood by 
 
 -;-i.y ^.^^ I...-. .:..^ ., 
 
THK AMERICAN BAUON. 
 
 107 
 
 tho codin, linviiiR slii>i)P(l thn xrrow-d river into 
 his ]iiii'ket, as ciiliii iih tliiniK'li iiotiiiiiK li'i*l I):>1>- 
 jit'iii'd. Three of llic mrcws were in, and tiiat 
 was as nniriy as wcrt' nccdfd. 
 
 The men i)r()ii^;ht no liK'lit willi them, and 
 this <ireiinistaneo was in the priest's favor. 
 
 "You've heen keejiinf? nic waiting long," 
 Naid the iiriest, in Italiati. 
 
 ** Von may he ulad it wasn't lonjjer," said 
 one of them, in a sullen tone. "\\'liere is it'j'" 
 
 " Ilorc," said the priest. 
 
 Tiic men withered around the eoflin, and 
 stooped down over it, one at eaeli corner. 
 Tlien they ••ais<'d it nji. Then tiiey carried it 
 out ; and s (ui the heavy st<'ps of the men were 
 heard as they went down the stairs with their 
 iiiirden. 
 
 Ethel Htill stood wnteliing and listening. 
 
 As she listened she heard some one ascend- 
 ing tlie stairs. New terror arose. Something 
 was wrong, and all would lie discovered. Hut 
 tiie man who came ir|i had no light, and that 
 was (jiie comfort. She could not see who it was. 
 
 The man stopiied f(U' ii moment in front of 
 Minnie's door, and stood so close to her that 
 she heard his hreathing. It was ipiick and 
 heavy, like the hreathingof a very tircil or a very 
 cxciteil man. Then he turned away and went 
 to the door of the front-room ojiposite. Here 
 he also stood for a few moments. 
 
 All was still. 
 
 Then he came back, and entered Ilawbnry's 
 room. 
 
 Kow the crisis had come — the moment when 
 all might he discovered. And if so, they all 
 were lost. Ethel bent far forward and tried 
 to i)eer through the gloom. She su.v the dark 
 figure of the new-comer puss by one of the win- 
 dows, and by the outline she knew that it was 
 Girasole. He passed on into the shadow, and 
 toward the place where the straw was. She 
 couKl not SCO him any more. 
 
 Girasole stepped noiselessly and cautiously, 
 as though fearful of waking the slecjier. At 
 every step he paused and listened. The si- 
 lence reassurcil him. 
 
 He drew nearer and nearer, his left hand 
 pro|)ing forward, and his right hand holding 
 a pistol. His movements were perfectly noise- 
 less. 
 
 His own excitement was now intense, his 
 heart throbbed fiercely and almost jiainfully as 
 he a])proached his victim. 
 
 At hist he reached the sjiot, and knelt on one 
 knee. He listened for a moment. There was 
 no noise and no movement on the part of the 
 ligure before him. 
 
 In the gloom he could see the outline of that 
 figure i)lainly. It lay on its side, curled up in 
 the most comfortable altitude which could be 
 assumed, where anus and legs were bound. 
 " How soundly he sleejis 1" thought Girasole. 
 He paused for a moment, and seemed to hes- 
 itate ; but it was only for a moment. Then, 
 summing up his resolution, he held his pistol 
 close to the head of the figure, and fired. 
 
 UK UEI.n UlS l-IBTOL OI.08K TO THE UEAI), ASH KinEI).' 
 
 The loud report echoed through the house. 
 A shriek came from Minnie's room, and a cry 
 came from Mrs. Willmighby, who sprang to- 
 ward the hall. lint Girasole came out and in- 
 tercejited her. 
 
 "Eet ees notin," said he, in n tremulous 
 voice. " Eet ees all ovair. Eet ees only iv 
 false alarm." 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby retreated to her room, and 
 Minnie said nothing. As for Ethel, the siis- 
 jiensc with her had passed away us the rejtort 
 of the jiisiol came to her ears. 
 
 Meanwhile tho colHu was carried out of the 
 house, and the men, together with the ])riest, 
 walked on toward a jilace further uj) the shore 
 and on the outskirts of the woods. They reach- 
 ed a jilace where a grave was dug. 
 
 At this nKuiient a ))istol-shot sounded. The 
 priest stopjied, and the men stopped also. They 
 did not understand it. The jiriest did not 
 know the cause of the shot, but seeing the 
 alarm of the men he endeavored to excite their 
 fears. One of the men went back, and was 
 cursed by Girasole for his j)ains. So he re- 
 turned to the grave, cursing every body. 
 
 The coffin was now lowered into the grave, 
 and the priest urged the men to go away and 
 let him finish the work ; but tiiey refused. 
 The fellows seemed to have some all'ection for 
 their dead comrade, and wished to show it by 
 jiutting him underground, and doing the last 
 honors. So the efforts of the Irish priest, 
 though very well meant, and very urgent, and 
 very jiorsevcring, did not meet with that suc- 
 cess which he anticijiated. 
 
 Suddenly he stopped in the midst of the 
 burial service, which he was prolonging to the 
 utmost. 
 
 "Hark!" he cried, in Italian. 
 
 !'l 
 
h^ 
 
 108 
 
 THE AMERICAN BAKON. 
 
 i' ^ i 
 
 
 "What?" they asked. 
 
 " It'H a (;un ! It's an i\h\rm !" 
 
 "There's no gun, and no iihinn," said they. 
 
 All listened, l)ut tliere was no repetition of 
 the sotind, antl the ])riest went on. 
 
 He had to finisli it. 
 
 He stood trenihling and at his \^it's end. 
 Already tiie men began to throw in tiie earth. 
 
 But now there came a real alarm. 
 
 CIIArTER XXXI. 
 
 DI8COVKRED. 
 
 The report of the pistol had startled IMinnio, 
 and for a moment had greatly agitated her. 
 The cry of Mrs. Willoughl)y elicited a response 
 from her to the effect that all was rigiit, and 
 would, no doubt, have resulted in a conversa- 
 tion, had it not been prevented by Girasolc. 
 
 Minnie then relapsed into silence for a time, 
 and Ethel took a seat by her side on the floor, 
 for Minnie would not go near the straw, and 
 then tiie two interlocked -.heir arms in an af- 
 fectionate cmi)race. 
 
 "Ethel darling," whispered Minnie, "do 
 you know I'm beginning to get awfullv tired of 
 this?" 
 
 "I should think so, poor darling!" 
 
 "If I only had some jilace to sit on," said 
 Minnie, still reverting to her original griev- 
 ance, "it wouldn't be so very bad, you know. 
 I could put up with not having a bed, or a sofa, 
 or that sort of thing, you know; but really I 
 must say not to have any kind of a seat seems 
 to me to be very, very inconsiderate, to say the 
 least of it." 
 
 "Poor darling!" said P'thel again. 
 
 "And now do you know, Ethel dear, I'm be- 
 ginning to feel as though I shoidd really like 
 to run away from this ]ilace, if I thought that 
 horrid man wouldn't see me?" 
 
 "Minnie darling," said Ethel, "that's the 
 very thing I came for, you know." 
 
 "Oh yes, I know! And that dear, nice, 
 good, kind, delightful priest! Oh, it was so 
 nice of yon to think of a priest, Ethel dear! 
 I'm so grateful! But when is he coming?" 
 
 "Soon, I ho])e. But do try not to talk so." 
 
 "But I'm only whisjicring." 
 
 "Yes, but your whisi)ers<are too loud, and 
 I'm afraid they'll hear." 
 
 "Well, I'll try to keep still; but it's so nw- 
 fuUy hard, you know, when one has so much to 
 say, Ethel dear." 
 
 Minnie now remained silent for about five 
 minutes. 
 
 "llow did yon say yon were going to take 
 me away ?" she asked at length. 
 
 "In disguise," said Ethel. 
 
 "But what disguise?" 
 
 " In an old wonnin s dross — but hu-s-s-s-sh!" 
 
 " But I don't want, to be dressed u]) in an old 
 woman's clothi's; they make me such a figure. 
 Why, I'd be a perfect'fright." 
 
 " Ilu-s-s-s-sh ! Dear, dear Minnie, you're 
 talking too loud. Tlicy'll certainly hear us," 
 said Ethel, in a low, frightened whisjier. 
 
 " Hut do — do promise you won't take me in 
 an old woman's clothes!" 
 
 "Oh, there — there it is again!" said Ethel. 
 "Dear, dear Minnie, there's some one listen- 
 ing." 
 
 "Well, I don't see what harm there is in 
 what I'm saying. I only wanted — " 
 
 Here tliere was a movement on the stairs 
 just outside. Ethel had heard a sound of that 
 kind two or three times, ami it had given her 
 alarm : but now Minnie herself heard it, and 
 sto|i])ed s])oaking. 
 
 And now it voice sounded from the stairs. 
 Some Italian words were sjjoken, and seemed 
 to be addressed to them. Of course they could 
 make no re|)ly. The words were repeated, 
 with others, and the sjieaker seemed to be im- 
 patient. Suddenly it Hashed across Ethel's 
 mind that the sjieaker was Girasole, and that 
 the words were addressed to her. 
 
 Her iiii])ression was correct, and the speaker 
 was Girasole. He had heard the sibilant sounds 
 of the whisjiering, and, knowing that Minnie 
 could not speal; Italian, it had struck him as 
 being a very singular thing that she should be 
 whispering. Had lier sister joined her? He 
 thought he would go up and see. So he went 
 up softly, and the whis))eriiig still went on. He 
 therefore cdiicluded that the "Italian woman" 
 was not doing her duty, and that Jlrs. Wil- 
 loiighby had joined her sister. This he would 
 not allow ; but as he had already been sufH- 
 ciently harsh he did not wish to be more so, 
 and therefore he called to the " Italian woman." 
 
 "Hallo, you woman there! didn't I tell yon 
 not to let the ladies speak to one another?" 
 
 Of course no answer was given, so Girasole 
 grew more angry still, and cried out again, 
 more imperatively : 
 
 " ^^'hy do you not answer me? Where are 
 you ? Is this the way you watch ?" 
 
 Still there was no answer. Ethel heard, and 
 by this time knew what his sus|)i('ion was ; but 
 she could neither do nor say any tiling. 
 
 "Come down here at once, you hag!" 
 
 But the " hag" did not come down, nor did 
 she give any answer. The "hag" was trem- 
 tiling violently, and saw that all was lost. If 
 the priest were only here! If she could only 
 have gone and returned with him ! What kept 
 him? 
 
 Girasole now came to the top of the stairs, 
 and spoke to Minnie. 
 
 " Ciiarming mees, are you awake?" 
 
 "Yes," said Minnie. 
 
 " Ees your sistaire wit yon ?" 
 
 "No. How can she be with me, I should 
 like to know, when you've gone and put her in 
 some horrid old room ?" 
 
 " Ah ! not wit you ? Who are you whisper- 
 in' to, den ?" 
 
 Minnie hesitated. 
 
 "To my maid," said she. 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 100 
 
 WHAT HIT YOU COME FOB?" — " FOH HER." 
 
 " Does (Ic maid sjiik Inglis ?" asked Girasole. 
 
 "Yes,'" snid Minnie. 
 
 "Ah! I did not know eet. I miis have a 
 look at dc'contadina who spiks Inglis. Come 
 here, Italianii. You don't spik Italiano, I tink. 
 Come here." 
 
 Etliel rose to her feet. 
 
 Girasole ran down, and came hack after a 
 few minutes with a lamp. Concealment was 
 useless, and so Ethel did not cover her face 
 with the hood. It liail fallen otV when she was 
 sitting hy Minnie, and hung loosely down her 
 shoulders from the strings which were around 
 her neck. Girasole recognized her at one 
 glance. 
 
 "Ah !" said he : and then he stood thinking. 
 As for Ethel, now that the sus)>eiise was over 
 and the worst realized, her agitation ceased. 
 She stood looking at him witii jierfect calm. 
 
 " What dit you come for?" ho asked. 
 
 "P\)r her,'" said Ethel, making a gesture to- 
 ward Minnie. 
 
 "What could you do wit her?" 
 
 "I could see lier and comfort her."' 
 
 "Ah! an' you hope to make her escape, lla, 
 
 ha! ver well. You mus not comjilain ccf you 
 haf to soflair de consequence. Aha! an' so 
 de priest hring you here — ha ?" 
 
 Ethel was silent. 
 
 "All ! you fear to say — you fear you harma 
 de priest — ha?" 
 
 Minnie iiad thus far said nothing, hut now 
 she rose and looked at (iirasole, and then at 
 Ethel. Then slie twined one arm aroimd 
 Ethel's waist, and turned her large, soft, child- 
 ish eyes ujion Girasole. 
 
 "What do you meaii," she said, " hy <iliv(ii/s 
 coming hero and teasing, and worrying, and 
 firing ofl' ])istols, and tViglitening jjcoplc ? I'm 
 sure it was horrid enough for you to make mc 
 come to this wretched jtlace, when you hiotr I 
 don't like it, without annoying me so. Why 
 did you go and take away jroor darling Kitty? 
 And what do you mean now, pray, hy coming 
 here? I never was treated so unkindly in my 
 life. I did not think that ani/ one could bo so 
 very, very rude." 
 
 " ("^luirming mees," snid Girasole, with a dep- 
 recating air, "it pains mo to do any ting dat you 
 do not like." 
 
110 
 
 THE AMEllICAN BAllON. 
 
 " It don't jiiiii you," said Minnie — "it don't 
 pain you at all. You're aluai/s tensing me. 
 You never do what I want you to. You wouldn't 
 even give me ii chair." 
 
 "Alas, carissiinii mia, to-morra you sail huf 
 all I But dis ])lace is so remote." 
 
 "It is 7tot remote," said Miiniie. "It's close 
 by roads and villages and things. Wiiy, here 
 is Ethel ; she has been in a village where there 
 are houses, and people, and as many chairs as 
 slie wants." 
 
 "Oh, mees, cef you will but wait an' be 
 patient — eef you will but wait an' see how ten- 
 der I will be, an' how I lof you." 
 
 "You don't love me," said Minnie, "one 
 bit. Is this love — not to give me a chair? I 
 have been standing up till I am nearly ready to 
 drop. And you Inive nothing better than some 
 wretched ])romises. I don't care for to-mor- 
 row ; I want to be comfortable to-day. You 
 won't let me have a single thing. And now 
 you come to tease me again, and frighten poor, 
 dear, darling Ethel." 
 
 "Eet ees because she deceif me — she come 
 wit a plot — she steal in here. Eef she had 
 wait, all would be well." 
 
 "You mustn't dare to touch her," said Min- 
 nie, vehemently. "You shall leave her here. 
 8hc shall stay with me." 
 
 "I am ver pain — oh, very; but oh, my an- 
 gel — sweet — charming mees — eet ees dangaire 
 to my lof. She jjlot to take you away. An' 
 all my life is in you. Tink what I luif to do 
 to gain you!" 
 
 Minnie looked upon Girasole, with her large 
 eyes dilated with excitement and resentment. 
 
 "You are a horrid, horrid man," she ex- 
 claimed. "I hate you." 
 
 " Oh, my angel," pleaded Girasole, with deep 
 agitation, "take back dat word." 
 
 "I'm sorry you ever saved my life," said 
 Minnie, very calmly; "and I'm sorry I ever 
 saw you. I hate you." 
 
 "Ah, you gif me torment. You do not mean 
 dis. You say once you lof me." 
 
 " I did not say I loved i/oti. It was you who 
 said you loved me. I never liked yon. And 
 I don't really see how I coald be engaged to 
 you when I was engaged to another man be- 
 fore, lie is the only one whom I recognize 
 now. I don't know you at all. For I couldn't 
 be bound to two men ; could I, Etiiel dear ?" 
 
 Ethel did not reply to this strange (pies- 
 tion. 
 
 But upon Girasole its effect was very great. 
 The manner of Minnie had been excessively 
 perplexing to him all through this eventful 
 day. If she had stormed and gone into a fine 
 frenzy he cotdd have borne it. It would have 
 been natural. But she was perfectly uncon- 
 cerned, and her only complaint w-as aboi t tri- 
 fles. Such trifles too! lie felt ashemed to 
 think that he coidd have subjected to such an- 
 noyances a woman whom he so dearly loved. 
 And now he was once more iiuzzled. Mi.niie 
 confronted him, looking at hiui flxedly, without 
 
 one particle of fear, with her large, earnest, in- 
 nocent eyes fastened uj)on his — with the calm, 
 cool gaze of some liigh-minded cliild rei)uking 
 a younger child-coui|)anion. This was » ])ro- 
 cceding which he was not prepared for. Be- 
 sides, the child-innocence of her face and of 
 her words actually daunted him. She seemed 
 so fearless, because she was so innocent. She 
 became a greater puzzle than ever. lie had 
 never seen mucii of lier before, and this day's 
 experience of iier had actually daunted him 
 and confounded him. And what was the worst 
 to him of all her words was her calm and sim- 
 ple declaration, " I hate you !" 
 
 "Yes," said Minnie, thonghtfidly, "it must 
 be so ; and dear Kitty woidd iuive said the 
 same, only she was so awfully jirejudiccd. And 
 I always thought he was so nice. Yes, I think 
 I really must be engaged to him. But as for 
 you," she said, turning full upon Girasole, "I 
 hate you ! " 
 
 Girasole's face grew white with rage and 
 jealousy. 
 
 "Aha!" said he. "You lof him. Aha! 
 An' you were engage to him. Aha !" 
 
 "Yes, I really think so." 
 
 "Aha! Well, listen," cried Girasole, in a 
 hoarse voice — " listen. He — he — de rival — de 
 one yon say you are engage — he is dead !" 
 
 And with this he fastened u])on Miimie his 
 eyes that now gleamed with rage, and had an 
 expression in them that might have made Etiiel 
 quiver witli iiorror, but she did not, for site knew 
 that Girasole was mistaken on that point. 
 
 As for Minnie, she was not at all impressed 
 by his fi(!rce looks. 
 
 " I dou't think you really know what you're 
 talking about," said she; "and you're very, 
 very unpleasant. At any rate, you are alto- 
 gether in the wrong when you say he is dead." 
 
 "Dead! He is dead! I swear it!" cried 
 Girasole, whose manner was a little toned down 
 by Minnie's coolness. 
 
 "This is getting to be awfully funny, you 
 know," said Minnie. "I really think we don't 
 know what one anotlier is talking about. I'm 
 sure / don't, and I'm sure he don't, either; 
 does he, Ethel darling?" 
 
 "De Inglis milor," said Girasole. "lie is 
 dead." 
 
 "Well, but I don't mean him at all," said 
 Minnie. 
 
 " Who— who ?" gasped Girasole. " Who— 
 who— who ?" 
 
 "Why, the person I mean," said Minnie, 
 very placidly, "is Rufus K. Gnnn." 
 
 Girasole uttered something like a howl, and 
 retreated. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 UNDER ARREST. 
 
 Girasole retreated half-way down the stairs, 
 and then he stopi)ed for some time and tiiought. 
 Then he came back and motioned to Ethel. 
 
THE AMERICAN BAROX. 
 
 Ill 
 
 "You must come," lie said, gruffly. 
 "You shuU not," said Minnie. 
 "No, no, darling," said Ethel; "I had bet- 
 ter go. It will only get you into fresh trouble. 
 And ril be back as soon as I can." 
 
 "Oil, how I hate you !" said Minnie to Gira- 
 solc. Tiie hitter said notliing. Ethel kissed 
 Minnie, and descended the stairs after him. 
 
 Tiie Irish priest was standing over the grave 
 bathed in a cold perspiration, his heart throb- 
 bing violently, every new thud of the eartii, as 
 it sounded violently against the coffin, sending 
 a cold chill of horror through every nerve. 
 Already enough earth had been thrown to cov- 
 er three-quarters of the lid, and at the foot it 
 was heaped up some distance. He tried to 
 frame some excuse to get the men away. His 
 lirain whirled ; his mind was confused ; his 
 thoughts refused to be collected. 
 
 And now, in the midst of tiiis, the attention 
 of all was attracted by a loud stern voice, which 
 sounded from some one near. Tlie priest 
 looked around. The men Rto])ped shoveling, 
 and turned to see the cause of llie noise. 
 
 Girasole was seen approaching, and was al- 
 ready near enough to be distinguished. Be- 
 hind him followed a female form. At this 
 ■sight the jjriest's mind misgave him. 
 
 Girasole came up, and now the priest saw 
 that tlie female was no -ithcr tl.'an Ethel. 
 
 "Where, is this priest?" asked Girasole, 
 angrily, sjjeaking, of course, in Italian. 
 The priest advanced. 
 " I am here," said he, with quiet dignity. 
 At this change in the state of affairs the 
 jn-icst regained his presence of mind. The 
 cessation in the work gave him relief, and ena- 
 bled him to recall his scattered and confused 
 thoiiglits. The men stood looking at the sjieak- 
 ers, and listening, leaning on their shovels. 
 " You were sent for ?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And a maid?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You brought this lady?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You put her in disguise; you passed her 
 off as an Italian ?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 The priest made no attempt at denial or 
 equivocation. He knew that this would be 
 useless. He waited for an opportunity to ex- 
 cuse himself, and to explain rather than to 
 deny. But every answer of his only served to 
 increase the fury of Girasole, who seemed de- 
 termined to visit upon the head of the ])riest 
 and Ethel the rage that he felt at his last in- 
 terview with Minnie. 
 
 "Then why," cried Girasole, "did you try 
 to trick us? Don't you know the punishment 
 we give to spies and traitors?" 
 
 "I have nothing to do with spies and trai- 
 tors." 
 
 " You are one yourself." 
 "I am not." 
 "You lie!" 
 
 " I do not," said the priest, mildly. " Hear 
 me, and lot me tell my story, and you will see 
 that I am not a traitor; or, if you don't wish to 
 listen, then question me." 
 
 "There is but one question. What made 
 you bring this lady?" 
 
 "That is sim])ly answered," said the priest, 
 with unfaltering calmness. "This lady and 
 her friends arrived at my village and claimed 
 hospitality. They were in distress. Some of 
 tlieir friends had been taken from them. A 
 message came from you rc(iuesting my pres- 
 ence, and also a lady's-maid. Tliere was no 
 stipulation about the kind of one. This lady 
 was the intimate friend of the captive, and en- 
 treated me to take her, so that she shoidd see 
 her friend, and comfort her, and share her 
 captivity. I saw no harm in the wish. She 
 proj)osed to become a lady's-maid. I saw no 
 harm in that." 
 
 "Why did she disguise herself?" 
 
 "So as to pass without trouble. She didn't 
 want to he delayed. She wanted to see her 
 friends as soon as jjossible. If you had cpies- 
 tioned her, you would no doubt have let her 
 pass." 
 
 "I would, no doubt, have done nothing of 
 the kind." 
 
 "I don't see any objection," said the priest. 
 
 " Objection ? She is a spy !" 
 
 " A spy ? Of what, ]mi\ ?" 
 
 "She came to help her friend to escape." 
 
 "To escape? Ilow could she possibly help 
 her to escape ? Do you think it so easy to es- 
 cape from this place?" 
 
 Girasole was silent. 
 
 " Do you think a young lady, who has never 
 been out of the care of her friends before, could 
 do much to assist a friend like herself in an es- 
 cape ?" 
 
 "Slie might." 
 
 " But how ? This is not the street of a city. 
 That house is watclied, I think. There seem to 
 be a few men in these woods, if I am not mis- 
 taken. Could this young lady hel]) Iier friend 
 to elude all these guards ? Why, you know very 
 well that she could not." 
 
 "Yes; but then there is — " 
 
 " Who ?" 
 
 "Yourself." 
 
 " Mvself ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What of me?" 
 
 "What do I know about your designs?" 
 
 "What designs could / have? Do you 
 think / could plan an escape ?" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Why not? What! living here close be- 
 side you ? /be a traitor? 7, with my life at 
 your mercy at all times — with my throat with- 
 in such easy reach of any asFassin who might 
 choose to revenge my treachery ?" 
 
 " We are not assassins," said Girasole, an- 
 grily. 
 
 " And I am not a traitor," rejoined the priest, 
 mildly. 
 
112 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON, 
 
 UN DEB GUAKl), 
 
 Girasolc was silent, and stood in thought. 
 The men at the grave had heard every word of 
 this conversation. Once they huighed in scorn 
 when the priest alluded to the absinxlity of a 
 young girl escaping. It was too ridiculous. 
 Their sympathies were evidently with the priest. 
 The charge against him cotdd not be nuiiii- 
 tained. 
 
 "Well," said Girasolo at length, "I don't 
 trust you. You may be traitors, after all. I 
 will have you guarded, and if I find out any 
 thing that looks like treason, by Heaven I will 
 have your life, old man, even if you should be 
 the Holy Father himself; and as to the lady — i 
 well, I will fnid ])lenty of ways," he added, 
 with a sneer, "of inflicting on her a punish- 
 ment commensurable with her crime. Here, 
 you men, come idong with me," he added, look- 
 ing at the men by the grave. 
 
 " But we want to finish poor Antonio's 
 grave," remonstrated one of the men. 
 
 " Bah ! he'll keep," said Girasole, with a sneer. 
 
 " Can't one of us stay?" asked the man. 
 
 "No, not one ; I want you all. If they are 
 traitors, they arc deep ones. They must be 
 
 guarded ; and, mind you, if ihev escape, you 
 shall sutler." 
 
 With these words he led the way, and the 
 priest and Ethel followed him. After tliese 
 came the men, who had thrown down their 
 shovels beside the grave. Tliey all walked on 
 in silence, following Girasole, who led the way 
 to a j)lace I)cyond the grave, and within view of 
 one of the fires formerly alluded to. The jilacc 
 was about half-way between the grave and the 
 fire. It was a little knoll bare of trees, and 
 from it they could be seen by tliose at the near- 
 est fire. Here Girasole paused, and, with some 
 final words of warning to the guards, he turned 
 and took his departure. 
 
 The i)riest sat down upon the grass, and urged 
 Ethel to do the same. She followed his advice, 
 and sat down by his side. The giuirds sat 
 around them so as to encircle them, and, mind- 
 ful of Girasole's charge, they kei)t their faces 
 turned toward them, so us to prevent even the 
 very thought of flight. The priest addressed a 
 few mild parental words to the men, who gave 
 him very civil responses, but relaxed not a par- 
 ticle of their vigilance. 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 113 
 
 In the priest's mind there was still some anx- 
 iety, but much greater hope than he liad dared 
 to have for some time. He remembered tltat 
 the coffin was not all covered over, and hoped 
 that the inmate might be able to breatiie. The 
 fact that the work had been so unexpectedly in- 
 tcrrnpted was one which filled him with joy, and 
 gave rise to the best hopes. The only offset to 
 all this was his own captivity, but that was a very 
 serious one. Besides, he knew that his life lumg 
 upon a thread. Before the next day Girusole 
 would certainly discover all, and in that case he 
 was a doomed man. But his nature was of a 
 kind that could not borrow trouble, and so the 
 fact of the immediate safety of llawbury was of 
 far more importance, and attracted far more of 
 his thoughts, than his own certain but more re- 
 mote danger. 
 
 As for Ethel, she was now a prey to the deep- 
 est anxiety. AH was discovered exce])t the 
 mere fact of Hawbury's removal, and how long 
 that would remain concealed she could not know. 
 Every moment she expected to hear the cry of 
 those who miglit discover the exchange. And 
 Hawbury, so long lost, so lately found — Ilaw- 
 l)ury, whom she had suspected of falsity so long 
 and so long avoided, who now had proved him- 
 self so constant and so true — wliat was his fate ? 
 She had gazed with eyes of horror at that grave 
 wherein he lay, and had seen the men shoveling 
 in the earth as she came up. The recollection 
 of this filled her with anguish. Had th^v buried 
 him ? — how deep was the earth thai lay over 
 him? — could there, indeed, be any hope? 
 
 All depended on the priest. She hoped that 
 he had prevented things from going too far. 
 She had seen him watching tlic grave, and mo- 
 tionless. What did tiiat inactivity mean? Was 
 it a sign that Hawbury was safe, or was it mere- 
 ly because he could not do any thing? 
 
 She was distracted by such fearful thoughts 
 as these. Her heart once more throbbed with 
 those painful pulsations which she had felt when 
 approaching Hawbury. For some time she sat 
 supporting her agony as best she could, and not 
 daring to ask the priest, for fear their giuirds 
 might suspect the truth, or perhaps understand 
 lier words. 
 
 But at last she could bear it no longer. 
 
 She touched the priest's arm as he sat beside 
 her, witliout looking at him. 
 
 The priest returned the touch. 
 
 " Is he safe ?" she asked, in a tremulous 
 voice, which was scarce audible from grief and 
 anxiety. 
 
 " He is," said the priest. 
 
 And then, looking at the man before him, he 
 added immediately, in an unconcerned tone, 
 
 "She wants to know what time it is, and I 
 told her two o'clock. That's right, isn't it?" 
 
 "About right," said the man. 
 
 Now that was a lie, but whether it was justi- 
 fiable or not may be left to others to decide. 
 
 As for Ethel, an immense load of anxiety was 
 lifted off her mind, and she began to breathe 
 more freely. 
 
 H 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THE DEMON WIFK. 
 
 WiiKN Dacres was overpowered by his as- 
 sailants no mercy was shown him. His hands 
 were bound tight behind him, and kicks and 
 blows were liberally bestowed during the opera- 
 tion. Finally, lie was imshed and dragged into 
 the house, and up stairs to the room already 
 mentitjned. There he was still further secured 
 by a tight rope around his ankles, after which 
 he was left to his own meditations. 
 
 Gloomy and bitter and fierce, indeed, were 
 those meditations. His body was covered with 
 bruises, and though no bones were broken, yet 
 his pain was great. In addition to this the 
 cords aroimd his wrists and ankles were very 
 tight, and his veins seemed swollen to bursting. 
 It was ditHcult to get an easy position, and he 
 could only lie on his side or on his face. These 
 bodily jiains oidy intensified the fierceness of 
 his thoughts and made them turn more vindic- 
 tively than ever upon the subject of his wife. 
 
 She was the cause of all this, he thought. 
 She had sacrificed every thing to her love for 
 her accursed paramoiu-. For this she had be- 
 trayed bim, and her friends, and the innocent 
 girl who was her companiou. All the malig- 
 nant feelings which had filled his soul through 
 the day now swelled within him, till he was 
 well-nigh mad. Most intolerable of all was 
 his ]iosition now — the baflled enemy. He 
 had come as the avenger, he had come as the 
 destroyer; but he had been entrapped before 
 he had struck his blow, and here he was now 
 lying, defeated, degraded, and humiliated ! No 
 doubt he would be kejit to atford s])ort to his 
 enemy — i)erliaps even his wife might come to 
 gloat over his sufi'erings, and feast her soul 
 with the sight of his ruin. Over such thoughts 
 as these he brooded, until at last he had wrought 
 himself into something like frenzy ; and with 
 the pain that he felt, and the weariness that 
 followed the fixtiguesof thatday, these thoughts 
 might finally have brought on madness, had they 
 gone on without any thing to disturb them. 
 
 But all these thoughts and ravings were des- 
 tined to come to a full and sudden stoj), and to 
 be changed to others of a far dift'c^ent charac- 
 ter. This change took place when Girasole, 
 after visiting the ladies, came, with Mrs. Wil- 
 loiighby, to his room. As Dacres lay on the 
 floor he heard the voice of the Italian, and the 
 faint, mournful, pleading tones of a woman's 
 voice, and, finally, he saw the flash of a light, 
 and knew that the Italian was coming to his 
 room, and perhaps this woman also. He held 
 his breath in sus])ense. What did it mean? 
 The tone of Girasole was not the tone of love. 
 
 The light drew nearer, and the footsteps too — 
 one a heavy footfall, the tread of a man ; the 
 other lighter, the step of a woman. He waited 
 almost breathless. 
 
 At last she appeared. There she was before 
 him, and with the Italian ; but oh, how changed 
 from that demon woman of his fancies, who 
 
lU 
 
 THE AMKUICAN BARON. 
 
 was to appear before him with his enemy and 
 ftjnat over liis suffeiin^s ! Was there a trace 
 of a fiend in that beautiful and gentle face? 
 Was there thought of joy or exultation over 
 him in that noble and mournful lady, whose 
 melancholy grace and tearful eyes now riveted 
 his gaze ? Where was the foul traitor who had 
 done to dcatii her hu.sband and her friend ? 
 Wliere was the miscreant who had sacriliced 
 all to a guilty passion ? Not there ; not wi'h 
 that face ; not with those tears : to tliink that 
 was impossible — it was unholy. lie might 
 rave when he did not see her, but now that his 
 eyes beheld her those mad fancies were all dis- 
 sipated. 
 
 There was only one thing tliere — a woman 
 full of loveliness and grace, in the very bloom 
 of her life, overwhelmed with suffering which 
 this Italian was inflicting on her. Why ? 
 Coidd he indulge tiic uidioly thought that the 
 Italian had cast her oft", and supplied her place 
 with the younger beauty? Away with such a 
 thouglit ! It was not jealousy of that younger 
 lady that Dacres jjcrceived ; it was the cry of 
 a loving, yearning heart thatching to that other 
 one, from whom the Italian had violently sev- 
 ered her. There was no mistake as to the 
 source of this sorrow. Nothing was left to the 
 imagination. Her own words told all. 
 
 Then the light was taken away, and the lady 
 crouched upon the floor. Dacres could no lon- 
 ger see her amidst that gloom ; but he could 
 hear her; and every sob, and every sigh, and 
 every moan went straight to his heart and 
 thrilled through every fibre of his being. lie 
 lay there listening, and quivering thus as he 
 listened with a very intensity of sympathy that 
 shut out from his mind every other thought ex- 
 cept that of the mourning, stricken one before 
 him. 
 
 Thus a long time passed, and the lady wept 
 still, and other sounds arose, and there were 
 footsteps in the house, and whisperings, and 
 people passing to and fro ; but to all these 
 Dacres was deaf, and they caused no more im- 
 pression on his senses than if they were not. 
 His ears and his sense of hearing existed only 
 for these sobs and these sighs. 
 
 At last a pistol-shot roused him. The lady 
 sprang up and called in despair. A cry came 
 back, and the lady was about to venture to the 
 other room, when she was driven back by the 
 stern voice of Glrasole. Then she stood for a 
 moment, after which she knelt, and Dacres 
 heard her voice in prayer. The prayer was not 
 audible, but now and then words struck upon 
 his ears which gave the key to her other words, 
 and he knew that it was no prayer of remorse 
 for guilt, but a cry for help in sore atHiction. 
 
 Had any thing more been needed to destroy 
 the last vestige of Dacres's former suspicions it 
 was furnished by the words which he now heard. 
 
 " Oh, Heaven ! " he thought ; ' ' can this woman 
 be what I have thought her ? But if not, what 
 a villain am I ! Yet now I must rather believe 
 myself to be a villain than her !" 
 
 In the midst of this prayer Girnsole's voice 
 sounded, and then Minnie's tones came clearly 
 audible. The lady rose and listened, and a 
 great sigh of relief escaped her. Then Gira- 
 sole descended the stairs, and the lady again 
 sank upon her knees. 
 
 Thus far there seemed a spell upon Dacres; 
 but this last incident and the clear child-voice 
 of Minnie seemed to break it. He could no 
 longer keep silence. His emotion was as in- 
 tense as ever, but the bonds which had bound 
 his lips seemed now to be loosened. 
 
 "Oh, Arethusa !" he moaned. 
 
 At the sound of his voice Mrs. Willoughby 
 started, and rose to her feet. Ko great had 
 been her anxiety and agitation that for some 
 time she had not thought of another being in 
 the room, and there had been no sound from 
 him to suggest his existence. But now his 
 voice startled her. She gave no answer, how- 
 ever. 
 
 "Arethusa!" repeated Dacres, gently and 
 longingly and tenderly. 
 
 "Poor fellow!" thought Mrs. Willoughby; 
 "he's dreaming." 
 
 "Arethusa! oh, Arethusa!" said Dacres once 
 more. " Do not keep away. Come to me. 
 I am calm now." 
 
 "Poor fellow!" thought Mrs. Willoughby. 
 " He doesn't seem to be asleep. He's talking 
 to me. I really think he is." 
 
 "Arethusa," said Dacres again, "will you 
 answer me one question ?" 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby hesitated for a moment, but 
 now perceived that Dacres was really speaking 
 to her. "He's in delirium," she thought. "Poor 
 fellow, I must humor him, I suppose. But what 
 a funny name to give me!" 
 
 So, after a little preparatory cougli, Mrs. 
 Willoughby said, in a low voice, 
 
 "What question?" 
 
 Dacres was silent for a few moments. He 
 was overcome by his emotions, lie wished to 
 ask her one question — the question of all ques- 
 tions in his mind. Already her acts had an- 
 swered it sufficiently ; but he longed to have 
 the answer in her own words. Yet he hesitated 
 to ask it. It was dishonor to her to ask it. 
 And tluis, between longing and hesitation, he 
 delayed so long that Mrs. Willoughby imagined 
 that he had fallen back into his dreaihs or into 
 his delirium, and would say no more. 
 
 But at last Dacres staked every thing on the 
 issue, and asked it ; 
 
 "Arethusa! oh, Arethusa! do you — do you 
 love— the— the Italian ?" 
 
 "The Italian!" said Mrs. Willoughby — 
 "love the Italian! me!" and then in a mo- 
 ment she thought that this was his delirium, 
 and she must humor it, "Poor fellow!" she 
 sighed again; "how he fought them I and no 
 doubt he has had fearful blows on his head," 
 
 "Do you? do you? Oh, answer, I implore 
 you!" cried Dacres. 
 
 " No !" said Mrs. WiUoughby, solemnly. "I 
 hate him as I never hated man before.'-' She 
 
I' 
 
 THE AMEUICAN BARON. 
 
 115 
 
 Hv. "I 
 
 She 
 
 spoke her mind tliis time, nlthoiigh slie tliought I 
 the other wa.s delirious. 
 
 A sigh of relief mid of hnppiness came from 
 Daercs, hO deep that it was almost a groan. 
 
 "And ol)," he continued, "tell me this — 
 have you ever h)ved him at all?" 
 
 "I always disliked liim excessively," said 
 .Mrs. Willoughhy, in the same low and solemn 
 tone. " I saw something bud — altogether bad 
 — in his face." 
 
 "Oh, may Heaven forever bless you for that 
 word!" exclaimed Dacres, with such a dejith 
 of fervor that Mrs. AV'illoughby was surprised. 
 She now lielicved that he was intermingling i 
 dreams with realities, and tried to lead him to 
 sense by reminding him of the truth. 
 
 " It was Minnie, you know, that he was 
 fond of." 
 
 "What! Minnie Fay?" 
 
 " Yes ; oh yes. / never saw any thing of 
 him." 
 
 " Oh, Heavens !" cried Dacres ; "oh. Heav- 
 ens, what a fool, beast, villain, and scoundrel I 
 have been ! Oh, how I have misjudged you ! 
 And can ^oit forgive me? Oh, canyon? But 
 no — you can not." 
 
 At this ojipeal Mrs. Willoughby was startled, 
 and did not know what to say or to do. How 
 much of this was delirium and how much real 
 she could not tell. One thing seemed evident 
 to her, and that was that, whether delirious or 
 not, he took her for another person. But she 
 was so full of i)ity for him, and so very tender- 
 hearted, that her only idea was to "humor" 
 him. 
 
 "Oh," he cried again, "can this all be true, 
 and have all my suspicions been as mad as these 
 last? AniXyou — how ?/om have changed ! How- 
 beautiful you are ! What tenderness there is 
 in your glance — what a pure and gentle and 
 touching grace there is in your expression ! I 
 swear to you, by Heaven ! I have stood gazing 
 at you in places where you have not seen me, 
 and thought I saw heaven in your face, and wor- 
 shiped you in my inmost soul. This is the rea- 
 son why 1 have followed you. Erom the time 
 1 saw you when you came into the room at Na- 
 l)les till this night I could not get rid of your 
 image. I fought against the feeling, but I can 
 not overcome it. Never, never were you half 
 so dear as you are now !" 
 
 Now, of course, that was all very well, con- 
 sidered as the language '^f an estranged hus- 
 band seeking for recon liation with an es- 
 tranged wife ; but when one regards it simply 
 as the language of a passionate lover directed 
 to a young and exceedingly pretty widow, one 
 will perceive *hat it was not all very well, and 
 that under ordinary circumstances it might cre- 
 ate a sensation. 
 
 Upon Mrs. Willoughby the sensation was 
 simply tremendous. She had begun by "hu- 
 moring" the delirious man ; but now she found 
 his delirium taking a course which was excess- 
 ively embarrassing. The worst of it was, there 
 was truth enough in his language to increa&e 
 
 the embarrassment. She remembered nt once 
 how the moiirnfid face of this num had appeared 
 before her in different jilaccs. Her thoughts 
 instantly reverted to that evening on the bal- 
 cony when his jiale face apjieared behind the 
 foimtain. There was truth in his words ; and 
 her heart beat with extraordinary agitation at 
 the thought. Yet at the same time there was 
 some mistake about it all ; and he was clearly 
 delirious. 
 
 "Oh, Heavens!" he cried. "Can you over 
 forgive mo ? Is there a possibility of it ? Oh, 
 can you forgive me ? Can you — can you ?" 
 
 He was clearly delirious now. Her heart 
 was fidl of pity for him. He was sutVering too. 
 lie was bound fast. Could she not release 
 him ? It was terril)le for this man to lie there 
 bound thus. And perhaps he bad fallen into 
 the hands of these ruthans while trying to save 
 her and her sister. She must free him. 
 
 " Would you like to be loosed ?' she asked, 
 coming nearer. "Shall I cut your bonds?" 
 
 She spoke in a low whisper. 
 
 " Oil, tell me first, I implore you ! Can 
 you forgive me?" 
 
 He si)oke in such a piteous tone that her 
 heart was touched. 
 
 "Forgive you?" she said, in a voice full of 
 symjiatby and pity. "There is nothing for 
 me to forgive." 
 
 "Now may Heaven forever bless you for 
 that sweet and gentle word !" said Dacres, who 
 altogether misintt/jjreted her words, and tiie 
 emphasis she i)laced on them ; and in his voice 
 there was such ])eace, and such a gentle, exult- 
 ant happiness, that Mrs. Willoughby again felt 
 touched. 
 
 " Poor fellow !" she thought ; " how he must 
 have sufl'ercdl" 
 
 " Where are you fastened ?" she whispered, 
 as she bent over him. Dacres felt her breath 
 upon his cheek ; the hem of her garment 
 touched his sleeve, and a thrill passed through 
 him. He felt as though he would like to be 
 forever thus, with htr bending over him. 
 
 " My hands are fastened behind me," said he. 
 
 "I have a knife," said Jlrs. Willoughby. 
 She did not stop to think of danger. It was 
 cliiefiy pity that incited her to this. She could 
 not bear to see him lying thus in pain, which 
 he had perhaps, as she supposed, encountered 
 for her. She was impulsive, and though she 
 thought of his assistance toward the escape of 
 Minnie and herself, yet pity and compassion 
 were her chief inspiring motives. 
 
 Mrs. WilloughI)y had told Girasole that she 
 had no knife; but this was not quite true, for 
 she now produced one, and cut the cords that 
 bound his wrists. Again a thrill flashed through 
 him at the touch of her little fingers ; she then 
 cut the cords that bound his ankles. 
 
 Dacres sat up. His ankles and wrists were 
 badly swollen, but he was no longer conscious 
 of pain. There was rapture in his soul, and 
 of that alone was he conscious. 
 
 "Be careful!" she whispered, warningly ; 
 
u« 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 "KH'irds arc till nroiin', and listeners. ]5o 
 ciiret'iil ! If vou can think of a way of csca]iu, 
 Uo so." 
 
 Dacres riilibed his hiuni over liis forehead. 
 
 "Am I dreiuiiing?" said he; "or is it all 
 true ? A while ago I was siitlering from some 
 hideous vision ; yet now you say you forgive 
 mc!" 
 
 Mrs. Willoiiglihy saw in tliis a sign of re- 
 turning deliriiitn. "But tiie poor fellow must 
 be liumored, I suppose," she thought. 
 
 "Oh, there is nothing for me to forgive," 
 said she. 
 
 "But if there were any thing, would you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Freely?" ho cried, with a strong emphasis. 
 
 "Yes, freely." 
 
 "Oh, could you answer mo one more ques- 
 tion ? Oh, could you ?" 
 
 " No, no ; not now — not now, I entreat you," 
 said Mrs. Willoughby, in nervous dread. She 
 was afraid that iiis delirium would bring him 
 upon delicate ground, and siic tried to hoi 
 him back. 
 
 " But I must ask you," said Dacres, trem- 
 bling fearfully — "I must — now or never. Tell 
 me my doom ; I iiave sutVered so much. Oh, 
 Heavens ! Answer me. Can you ? Can yoi 
 feel toward me as you once did ?" 
 
 " He's utterly mad," thouglit Mrs. Willough- 
 by ; "but he'll get worse if I don't sootiie him. 
 Poor fellow ! I ought to answer him." 
 
 "Yes," she said, in a low voice. 
 
 "Oh, my darling!" murmured Dacres, in 
 rapture inexpressible; "my darlingi" he re- 
 peated ; and grasping Mrs. Willougliby's hand, 
 lie pressed it to his lips. " And you will love 
 me p.gain — you will love me?" 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby paused. The man was 
 mad, but the ground was so dangerous! Yes, 
 she must humor him. She felt his hot kisses 
 on her hand. 
 
 " You will — you will love me, will you not ?" 
 he repeated. "Oh, answer me! Answer me, 
 or I shall die!" 
 
 "Yes," whispered Mrs. Willoughby, faintly. 
 
 As she said this a cold chill passed through 
 lier. But it was too late. Dacres's arms were 
 around her. He had drawn her to him, and 
 pressed her against his breast, and she felt hot 
 tears upon her head. 
 
 "Oh, Arethusa!" cried Dacres. 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Willoughby, as soon as 
 she could extricate herself, " there's a mistake, 
 you know." 
 
 "A mistake, darling?" 
 
 "Oh dear, what shall I do?" thought Mrs. 
 Willoughby; "he's beginning again. I musff 
 stop this, and bring him to his senses. How 
 terrible it is to humor a delirious man !" 
 
 "Oh, Arethusa !" sighed Dacres once more. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby arose. 
 
 "I'm not Arethusa at all," said she ; "that 
 isn't my name. If you can shake off your de- 
 lirium, I wish you would. I really do." 
 
 " What !" cried Dacres, in amazement. 
 
 "I'm not Arethusa at all; that isn't my name." 
 
 " Not your name ?" 
 
 " No ; my name's Kitty." 
 
 "Kitty!" cried Dacres, starting to his feet. 
 
 At that instant the repo,-t of a gun burst 
 upon their ears, followed by another and an- 
 other ; then there were wild culls and loud 
 shouts. Other guns were heard. 
 
 Yet amidst all this wild alarm there was no- 
 thing which had so tremendous an ctt'cct upon 
 Dacres as this last remark of Mrs. Willougliby's. 
 
 "TUB PIUKST FLUNG IIIMSKLK FOKWAKD. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 THE CUI8IS OF LIFE. 
 
 When the Irish priest conjectured that it 
 was about two o'clock in the morning he was 
 not very far astray in his calculation. The 
 short remarks that were exchanged between 
 him and Ethel, and afterward between him 
 and the men, were followed by a profound si- 
 lence. Ethel sat by the side of the priest, 
 with her head bent forward and her eyes closed 
 as though she were asleep ; yet sleep was farther 
 from her than ever it had been, and the thrill- 
 ing events of the night afforded sufficient ma- 
 terial to keep her awake for many a long hour 
 yet to come. Her mind was now filled with a 
 thousand conflicting and most exciting fancies, 
 in the midst of which she might again have 
 sunk into despair had she not been sustained by 
 the assurance of the priest. 
 
 Sitting near Ethel, the priest for some time 
 
 
TIIK AMEUICAN BAKON. 
 
 ii; 
 
 ;dby 
 
 time 
 
 looked fixedly iilicad of him ns though he wore 
 oontc'iiiiilatiiiK tlu? soK'nin iiiidninlit scene, or 
 meditatitif; uiioii tlie Ijciuities of nature. In 
 truth, the scene around was one wiiich was de- 
 serving even of the close attention which the 
 jiriest aiipeared to give. Initnediaiely before 
 him lay tiie lake, its shore not far iieneatii, and 
 almost at their feet. Around it arose the wood- 
 ed hills, whose dark forms, darker from the 
 gloom of night, threw (U'ofound shadows over 
 the oiiposite shores. Near i)y the shore ex- 
 tended on either side. On tiie rigiit there 
 were fires, now burning low, yet occasionally 
 sending forth Hashes ; on the left, an I at sonic 
 distance, might be seen the dusky outline of 
 the old stone house. Beiiiuil th.;ni was the 
 forest, vast, gloomy, clotlied in iiu]ienetral)le 
 shade, in which lay their only hope of safety, 
 yet where even now there lurked tl.e watciiful 
 guards of the brigands. It was close behind 
 them. Once in its shelter, and they might 
 gain freedom ; yet between them and it was 
 an impassable barrier of enemies, and there 
 also lay n still more imi)assable barrier in the 
 grave where Ilawbury lay. To fly, even if 
 they coidd fly, would be to give him up to 
 death ; yet to renuiin, as they must remain, 
 would be to doom him to death none the less, 
 and themselves too. 
 
 Seated there, with his eyes directed toward 
 the water, the priest saw nothing of the scene 
 before him ; his eyes were fixed on vacancy ; 
 his thoughts were endeavoring to graj)i)le with 
 the situation and master it. Yet so compli- 
 eated was that situation, and so perplexing the 
 dilemma in which he found himself — a dilemma 
 where death jjerchcd upo:i either horn — that 
 the good priest found his faculties becoming 
 gradually more and more unable to deal with 
 the difficulty, and he felt himself once more 
 sinking down deeper and deeper into that abyss 
 of despair from w hich he had but recently ex- 
 tricated himself. 
 
 And still the time passed, and the precious 
 moments, laden with the fate not only of Ilaw- 
 bury, but of all tlie others — the moments of the 
 niglit during which alone any escape was to be 
 thought of — moved all too swiftly away. 
 
 Now in this hour of perplexity the good 
 priest bethought him of a friend whose fidelity 
 had been proved through the varied events of 
 a life — a friend which, in his life of celibacy, 
 had found in his heart something of that place 
 which a fond and faithful wife may hold in the 
 heart of a more fortunate man. It was a little 
 friend, a fragrant friend, a tawny and somewhat 
 grimy friend ; it was in the pocket of his coat ; 
 it was of clay ; in fact, it was nothing else than 
 a dudeen. 
 
 Where in the world had the good priest who 
 lived in this remote corner of Italy got that 
 emblem of his green native isle ? Perhaps he 
 had brought it with him in the band of his hat 
 when he first turned his back upon his country, 
 or perhaps he had obtained it from the same 
 quarter which had supplied him with that very 
 
 black plug of tobacco which he brought forth 
 shortly afterward. The one was the comjile- 
 ment of the other, and each was handled with 
 ecjual love and care. Soon the occupation of 
 cutting II]) the tobacco and rui)biiig it gave n 
 tem])orary distraction to his tluuights, which 
 distraction was ])rolongi'(l by the further opera- 
 tion of ](ressing the tobacco into the bowl of 
 the dudeen. 
 
 Here the j)ricst paused and cast a longing 
 look toward the lire, which was not far away. 
 
 "Would you have any olijccfion to let me 
 go and get u coal to light the jiipe?" said he to 
 one of the men. 
 
 The man had nn objection, and a very strong 
 one. 
 
 "Would f)ne of you be kind enough to go 
 and get me a l)rand or a hot coal ?" 
 
 This led to an earnest debate, and finally 
 one of the men thought that he might venture. 
 Before doing so, however, a solemn j)romise 
 was extorted from the ])ricst that he would not 
 try to escape during his absence. U'liis the 
 priest gave. 
 
 "Kscajje!" he said — "it's a smoke I want. 
 Besides, how can I escape with three of ye 
 watching me ? And then, what woidd I want 
 to escajie for? I'm safe enough here." 
 
 The man now went off, and returned in a 
 short time with a brand. The priest gave him 
 his blessing, and received the brand with a 
 quiet exultation that was jjieasing to behold. 
 
 "Matches," said he, "ruin the smoke. 
 They give it a sulphur taste. There's nothing 
 like a hot coal." 
 
 Saying this, he lighted his pipe. This oper- 
 ation was acconii)lished with a series of those 
 short, quick, hard, percussive puffs with which 
 the Irish race in every clime on this terrestrial 
 ball jjcrform the solemn rite. 
 
 And now the thoughts of the priest became 
 more calm and regular and manageable. His 
 confusion departed, and gradually, as the 
 smoke ascended to the skies, there was diffused 
 over his soul a certain soothing and all-pervad- 
 ing calm. 
 
 He now began to face the full difficulty of 
 his position. He saw that escape was impos- 
 sible and death inevitable. He made up his 
 mind to die. The discovery would surely be 
 made in the morning that Ilawbury had been 
 substituted for the robber ; he would be found 
 and punished, and the priest would be involved 
 in his fate. His only care now was for Ethel ; 
 and he turned his thoughts toward the forma- 
 tion of some plan by which he might obtain 
 mercy for her. 
 
 He was in the midst of these thoughts — for 
 himself resigned, for Ethel anxious — and turning 
 over in his mind all the various m.odcs by which 
 the emotion of j)ity or mercy might be roused 
 in a merciless and pitiless nature ; he was think- 
 ing of an appeal to the brigands themselves, 
 and had already decided that in this there lay 
 his best hope of success — when all of a sudden 
 these thoughts were rudely interrupted and 
 
118 
 
 TlIK AMKUICAN UAKOX. 
 
 (lis.si))atcd and gcnttcrcd to thu >>iiids by n 
 most stftitliii^; cry. 
 
 Ethel sturted to her foct. 
 
 "Oh lleiivens!" bhu cried, "wlint was 
 timt ?" 
 
 " Down ! down !" cried tlic men, wratiif'iilly ; 
 l)iit liet'oro Ethel coidd oliey the Moiind was re- 
 peated, mid tlie men themselves were arrested 
 hy it. 
 
 The sound that thus interrupted the niedita- 
 lioiis of tiie jiriest was the explosion of a rifle. 
 As Ethel started u]) another followed. This 
 excited the men themselves, who now listened 
 intently to learn the cause. 
 
 They ilid not have to wait long. 
 
 Another rille exjjlosion followed, which was 
 succeeded hy a loud, lonj; shriek. 
 
 "An attack!" cried one of the men, with a 
 deep curse. They listened still, yet did not 
 move away from the i)Iace, for the duty to 
 which they had been assi^jned was still ])rom- 
 inent in their minds. The ])riest had already 
 risen to his feet, still smoking his Jiiiie, as 
 .iiough in this new turn of affairs its assistance 
 might be more than ever needed to enalile him 
 to preserve his jjresence of miiul, and keep his 
 soul serene in the midst of confusion. 
 
 And now they saw all around them the signs 
 of agitation. Figures in swift motion flitted to 
 and fro amidst the shade, and others darted 
 past the smouldering fires. In the midst of 
 this another shot sounded, and another, aiul 
 still another. At the third there was a wild 
 yell of rage and jiain, followed by the shrill cry 
 of a wonmn's voice. The fact was evident that 
 some one of the brigands had fallen, and the 
 women were lamenting. 
 
 The confusion grew greater. Loud cries 
 arose ; calls of encouragement, of entreaty, of 
 command, and of defiance. Over by the old 
 house there was the njn'oar of rushing men, 
 and in the midst of it a loud, stern voice of 
 command. The voices and the rushing foot- 
 steps moved from the house to the woods. 
 Then all was still for a time. 
 
 It was but for a short time, however. Then 
 came shot after shot in rapid succession. The 
 flashes could be seen among the trees. All 
 around them there seemed to bo a struggle 
 going on. There was some unseen assail- 
 ant striking terrific blows from the impenetra- 
 ble shadow of the woods. The brigands were 
 firing back, but they fired only into thick dark- 
 ness. Shrieks and yells of ])ain arose from 
 time to time, the direction of which showed 
 that the brigands were sufJering. Among the 
 assailants there was neither voice nor cry. 
 But, in spite of their losses and the disadvan- 
 tage under which they labored, the brigands 
 fought well, and resisted stubbornly. From 
 time to time a loud, stern voice arose, whose 
 commands resounded far and wide, and sus- 
 tained the courage of the men and directed 
 their movements. 
 
 The men who guarded the priest and Ethel 
 were growing more and more excited every 
 
 moment, nnd were impatient at their enforced 
 inaction. 
 
 "They must bo soldiers," said one. 
 
 "Of course," said another. 
 
 "They fight well." 
 
 "Ay; better than the last time." 
 
 " ilow did they leurn to fight so well under 
 cover?" 
 
 "They've improved. The lust time we met 
 them wc shot them like sheep, and drove them 
 back in five iiiitiutcs," 
 
 "They've got a leader who iiiKhM'stamls 
 fighting in the woods, lie keeps them under 
 cover." 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 "Diavolol who knows? They got new 
 captains every day." 
 
 "Was there not a famous American Indi- 
 an—" 
 
 "True. I heard of him. An Indian war- 
 rior from the American forests, Guisejipe saw 
 him when he was at Kome." 
 
 "IJiih! — you all saw him." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "On the road." 
 
 "We didn't." 
 
 " You did. lie was the Zouave who fled to 
 the woods first." 
 
 "lie?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Diavolo!" 
 
 These words were exchanged between them 
 as they looked at the fighting. But suddenly 
 there came rai)id flashes and rolling volleys be- 
 yond the fires that lay before them, and the 
 movement of the flashes showed that a rush 
 had been made toward the lake. Wild yells 
 arose, then fierce returning fires, and these 
 showed that the brigands were being driven 
 back. 
 
 The guards could endure this no longer. 
 
 " They are beating us," cried one of the men, 
 with a curse, "We must go and fight." 
 
 "What shall we do with these prisoners?" 
 
 "Tie them and leave them." 
 
 " Have you a rope?" 
 
 "No. There is one by the grave." 
 
 "Let's take the prisoners there and bind 
 them." 
 
 This proposition was accejited ; and, seizing 
 the priest and Ethel, the four men hurried 
 them back to the grave. The s(itmre hole lay 
 there just beside them, with the earth by its 
 side. Ethel tried to see into it, but was not 
 near enough to do so. One of the men found 
 the roi)e, and began in great haste to bind the 
 arms of the priest behind him. Another be- 
 gan to bind Ethel in the same way. 
 
 But now there came loud cries, and the rush 
 of men near them. A loud, stern voice was 
 encouraging the men. 
 
 "On! on!" hecrieu. "Followme! We'll 
 drive them back!" 
 
 Saying this, a man hurried on, followed by 
 a score of brigands. 
 
 It was Girasolo. 
 
TIIK AMERICAN BAUON. 
 
 Ill) 
 
 TIo had licon RtmnlinK tho \voo(1h nt tlii.s 
 r'iiIc wluMi 111! liad nffii the rush tliiit hnd l)CtMi 
 iiiaiio I'lirthur ii|i. lie hud scimi liis men drivon 
 ill, mid WHS now liiiirviiiK up to tliu jihicu to 
 riitrieve the hattle. As he was running on he 
 raino up to tho party at the grave. 
 
 He 8to]ipc(l. 
 
 "What's this?" he cried. 
 
 "Tiie prisoners — wc were seciirinK them." 
 
 It was now lighter tiian it had heeii, and 
 diiwii was not far ofl". The features of Uira- 
 ^olc were plainly distinguishahle. They were 
 I'onvulsud with the most furious ])assioii, which 
 was not c'luist'd so innch hy tho ra^je of conflict 
 as hy the sight of the prisoners, lie had sus- 
 pected treachery on their l)art, and hud spared 
 them for a time only so as to see whether his 
 sus|)icions were true or not. IJiit now this 
 sudden assault hy night, coiuluctcd so skillfully, 
 imd hy such a powerful force, i)ointed dearly 
 to treachery, as he saw it, ami the ones who to 
 him seemed most prominent in guik were the 
 jiriost and Ethel. 
 
 His suspicions were cpiite reasoiiuhlc under 
 the circumstances. Here was a jiriest whom 
 he regarded as his natural enemy. These hrig- 
 ands identilied themselves with roiniblicuns 
 and Garihahliuns whenever it suited their ])ur- 
 p(jscs to do so, and consc(|nently, as such, they 
 were under tliecondemnution of the Tojie; and 
 any priest might think he was doing the Pope 
 good service hy betraying those who were his 
 enemies. As to this ])ricst, every thing was 
 against him. lie lived dose hy ; every step 
 of the country was no douht familiar to him; 
 he had come to the camp under very siis])icioiis 
 <'ircunistances, bringing with him a stranger in 
 disguise. He hud given jilausible answers to 
 the cross-(iuestioning of Girasole ; but those 
 were cmjity words, which went for nothing in 
 the presence of the living facts that now stood 
 before him in the presence of the enemy. 
 
 These thoughts had all occurred to Girasole, 
 and the sight of the two prisoners kindled his 
 rage to madness. It was the deadliest ])ur- 
 jiose of vengeance that gleamed in his eyes 
 as he looked upon them, and they knew it. 
 He gave one glance, and then turned to his 
 men. 
 
 " On ! on I" he cried ; " I will join you in an 
 instant ; and you," he said to the guards, 
 "wait a moment." 
 
 The brigands rushed on with shouts to as- 
 sist their conu'ades in the flght, while the other 
 four waited. 
 
 All this time the fight had not ceased. The 
 air was filled with the reports of rifle-shots, the 
 shouts of men, the yells of the wounded. The 
 Hashes seemed to be gradually drawing nearer, 
 IIS though the assailants wer" still driving the 
 brigands. But their jirogiess was slow, for the 
 fighting was carried on among tho trees, and 
 the brigands resisted stubbornly, retreating 
 from cover to cover, and stopping every mo- 
 ment to make a fresh stand. But the iissail- 
 uuts had gained much ground, and were al- 
 
 ready c!()8o by tho bordorn of the lake, nnd ud- 
 vancing along toward tho old stone house. 
 
 'I'he robhcrs had not succeeded in binding 
 their prisoners. The priest and Eilid boili 
 stood where they hud e.icoiinteied liirasole. 
 and the ropes fell from the robbers' hands at 
 the new interruption. The grave with it< 
 mound was only a tew feet away. 
 
 Girasole had a pistol in his left hand and a 
 sword in his right. He .sheathed his sword and 
 drew another jiistol, keeping his eyes fixed 
 steadily all the while upon his victims. 
 
 "You needn't hind these jirisoners," said 
 (iirasolc, grimly ; " I know a better vay to ue- 
 ciire them." 
 
 "In the name of fiod," cried the jiriest, " I 
 implore you not to shed innoeent blood!" 
 
 " I'ooh !" said (iirnsole. 
 
 "This lady is innocent; you will at least 
 spare her I'' 
 
 "She shall die first!" said Girasole, i'l n 
 fury, and reached out his hand to grasp I.ihel. 
 The priest flung himself forward between the 
 two. (Jirasole dashed him aside. 
 
 "Give us time to pray, for God's sake — 
 one moment to jiray !" 
 
 "Not a moment!" cried Girasole, grasjiing 
 at Ethel. 
 
 Ethel gave a loud shriek and started away in 
 horror. Girasole sprang after her. The four 
 men turned to seize her. With a wild and 
 frantic energy, inspired by the deadly terror 
 that was in her heart, she bounded away to- 
 ward the grave. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 UUUIEI) AI.IVB. 
 
 Hawiicuy last vanished from the scene to a 
 jilace wliicli is but seldom resorted to by a liv- 
 ing man. Once inside of his terrible retreat he 
 became a prey to feelings of the most varied 
 and harrowing character, in the midst of which 
 there was a susiiense, twofold, agoni/.iiig, and 
 intolerable. First of all, his sus]iense was for 
 Ethel, and then for himself. In that narrow 
 and restricted retreat his senses soon became 
 sliar])ened to an unusual degree of aciitcness. 
 Every touch against it comniunicated itself to 
 his frame, as though the wood of his inclosurc 
 had become jjurt of himself; and every sound 
 intensified itself to an extraordinary degree of 
 distinctness, as though the temporary loss of 
 vision had been compensated for by an exag- 
 geration of the sense of hearing. This was 
 particularly the case as the priest drove in the 
 screws. He heard the shuffle on the stairs, the 
 whisper to Ethel, her retreat, and the ascending 
 footsteps ; while at the same time he was aware 
 of the unalterable coolness of the priest, who 
 kept calmly at his work until the very lust mo- 
 ment. The screws seemed to enter his own 
 frame, and the slight noise which was made, 
 inaudible as it was to others, to him seemed 
 I loud enough to rouse all in the house. 
 
IliO 
 
 TIIK AMKUICAN BAUON. 
 
 Tlicn lie felt liimsclf rriisnl iind cftrrietl down 
 stiiirs. Fdi'tiiiiiitcly lu; hail ^ot in witli his 
 foct towunt the iliior, unci as that fiid was oar- 
 riod out tirst, iii> lU'sccnt of tho stairs was not 
 attended with the iiiconviMiirncu wliich ho 
 I'lJKht have fult luid it buen taiioii down in an 
 opjiosite direction. 
 
 One fact nave him very Rront relief, for he 
 had feared tiiat his lirealiiinK would i>e dilH- 
 cult. Thanks, however, to liii: iiit'<aiitioiis of 
 the priest, he felt n<> diflieulty at all in that re- 
 spoi;t. The little hits of wood which prevented 
 the lid from resting close to the eotlin formed 
 apertures which freely admitted till the iiir that 
 was necessary. 
 
 lie was borne on thus from the house toward 
 tlie nrave, and heard the voice of the priest 
 from time to time, and rij;litly supposed that 
 the remarks of the priest were addressed not 
 so much to tiie liriKanils as to himself, so as to 
 let him know that ho was not desertcil. The 
 journey to the jjrave was accomplished without 
 any inconvenience, and tlie collin was at length 
 put u])on the fjrmnid. 
 
 Then it was lowered into tlic grnve. 
 
 There was something in this wliich was so 
 horrible to Ilawbury that an involuntary sliud- 
 tler passed through every nerve, and nil tiie 
 terror of the grave and the bitterness of death 
 in that one moment seemed to deseeml ujion 
 him. lie had not thought of this, and eonse- 
 (juently was not prepared for it. lie had ex- 
 pected that he would be jiiit down somewhere 
 on the ground, and tluit the priest would be 
 able to get rid of the men, and etl'ect his liber- 
 ation before it had gone so far. 
 
 It reijuired an etl'ort to ])rcvent himself from 
 crying out ; and longer efforts were needed and 
 more time before he could regain any portion 
 of his self-control, lie now heard the priest 
 performing the burial rites ; these seemed to 
 him to be protracted to an amazing length ; 
 and so, indeed, they were; but to the inmate 
 of that grave the time seemed longer far than 
 it did to those who were outside. A thousand 
 thoughts swe])t through his mind, and a thou- 
 sand fears swelled within bis heart. At last 
 the suspicion came to him that the priest him- 
 self was unable to do any better, and this sus- 
 picion was confirmed r.s he detected the efforts 
 which he made to get the men to leave the 
 grave. This was j)articnlarly evident when he 
 pretended to hear an alarm, by which be hoped 
 to get rid of the brigands. It failed, however, 
 and with this failure the hopes of Ilawbury 
 sank lower than ever. 
 
 But tho climax of his horror was attained 
 as the first clod fell upon his narrow abode. 
 It seemed like a death-blow, lie felt it as if 
 it had struck himself, and for a moment it was 
 as though he had been stunned. The dull, 
 heavy sound which those heard who stood 
 above, to his ears became transformed and en- 
 larged, and extended to something like a thun- 
 der-peal, with long reverberations through his 
 now fevered and distempered brain. Other 
 
 clods fell, and still others, and the work went 
 on till his brain reeled, ami under the might} 
 emotions of the Imur his reason began to give 
 way. Then all his fortitude and courage sank. 
 All thought left him save the consciousness of 
 the one iiorror that had now fixed itself upon 
 his sold. It was intoleraiile. In another mo- 
 ment his despair wouhl have overimistered him, 
 aiul under its impulse he would have burst 
 through all r(^■<traiut, and tin'iieil all his ener- 
 gies toward forcing himself from his aw fid ]iris- 
 on house. 
 
 lie turned himself over. lie gathered him- 
 self lip as well as he could. Already he was 
 liiaciiig himstdffora mighty effort to burst up 
 the lid, when suddenly the voice of (iirasole 
 struck 111)011 his ear, and a wild fear for Ethel 
 came to his heart, and the anguish of that fear 
 (diecked at (Mice all further thought of himself. 
 
 He lay still and li.-tcned. He diil this the 
 more patiently as the men also stopped from 
 their work, and as the hideous earth-clods no 
 longer fell down. He listened. From the 
 conversation he gathered pretty accurately the 
 state of affairs. He knew that lOthel was 
 there ; that she had been discovered and 
 dragged forth ; that she was in danger. He 
 listened in the anguish of a new suspense. 
 He heard the words of the priest, his calm de- 
 nial of treachery, his i|uiet aiijieal to Girasole's 
 good sense. Then he heard the decision of 
 (iirasole, and the i>arty walked away with their 
 jirisoners, and he was left alone. 
 
 Alone! 
 
 At any other time it would have been n ter- 
 rible tiling thus to be left alone in such a ]dace, 
 but now to him who was thus imprisoned it af- 
 forded a great relief. The work of burial, 
 with all its hideous accomjianiments, was stayed. 
 lie could collect his senses and make up his 
 mind as to wliat he should do. 
 
 Now, first of all, he determined to gain more air 
 if jiossiblc. The earth that had fallen had cov- 
 ered up many of the chinks, so that bis breath- 
 ing had become sensibly more difficult. His 
 confinement, with this oppression of his breath- 
 ing, was intolerable. lie therefore braced 
 himself once more to make an effort. Tho 
 coffin was large and rudely constructed, being 
 merely an oblong box. He had more play to 
 his limbs than he could have had in one of a 
 more regular construction, and thus he was 
 able to bring a great cfi'ort to bear upon the 
 lid. Ho pressed. The screws gave way. He 
 lifted it up to some distance. He drew in a 
 long draught of fresh air, and felt in that one 
 draught that he received new life and strengtli 
 and hope. 
 
 He now lay still and thought about what he 
 should do next. If it had only been himself, 
 he would, of course, have escaj)ed in that first 
 instant, and fled to the woods. 13ut the 
 thought of Ethel detained him. 
 
 What was her position ; and what could ho 
 do to save her? This was his thought. 
 
 lie knew that she, together with the priest, 
 
THE AMKUK'AN HAUON. 
 
 1-Jl 
 
 IN AN INHTANT TllK OODUl'ANT OK TIIK (illAVK Hl'KAKO KOIITII." 
 
 vt he 
 
 ;irst 
 the 
 
 WHS in the hands of four of the brigands, wlio 
 were commanded to keep their jirisoners safe 
 at the peril of tlicir lives. Where tliey were 
 he did not know, nor conld he tell whether slie 
 was near or at a distance. Girasole iiad led 
 them away. 
 
 He detennined to look out and watch. He 
 perceived that tliis grave, in the heart of tlie 
 brigands' camp, atl'ordcd the very safest place 
 jri which he could he for the purpose of watch- 
 ing. Girasole's words had indicated that 
 the work of burial would not be resumed that 
 night, and if any passers-by should come lliey 
 would avoid such a ])lace as this. Here, then, 
 he could stay until dawn at least, and watch 
 unobserved. I'erhajis he could find wiiere 
 Ethel was guarded; perhaps he coidd do some- 
 thing to distract the attention of the brigands, 
 and afford her an opportunity for flight. 
 
 He now arose, and, kneeling in the coffin, 
 he raised the lid. The earth that was upon it 
 fell down inside. He tilted the lid up, and 
 liolding it up thus witii one hand, he put his 
 head carefully out of i'le grave, and looked out 
 
 in the direction where Girasole had gone with 
 his Jirisoners. The knoll to wiiich he had led 
 them was a very coiis]iicuous i)!ace, and hud 
 jiroliably been selected for that reason, since it 
 could be under his own ()l)servation, from time 
 to time, even at a distance. It was aliout iialf- 
 way between the grave and the nearest fire, 
 which fire, though low, still gave forth some 
 light, and the light was in a line with the knoll 
 to llawbury's eyes. The party on the knoll, 
 therefore, a])poared thiown out into relief by 
 the faint fire-light behind them, especially the 
 jiriest and Ethel. 
 
 And now Ilawbury kept his watch, mul 
 looked and listened and waited, ever mindful 
 of his own immediate neighborhood, and ginird- 
 ing carefully against any apjiroach. But his 
 own place was in gloom, and no one would 
 have thought of looking there, so that lie was 
 unobserved. 
 
 But all his watching gave him no assistance 
 toward finding out any way of rescuing Ethel. 
 He saw the vigilant guard around the prison- 
 ers. Once or twice he saw u movement among 
 
122 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 them, but it wns soon over, and resulted in 
 nothing. Now he began to despond, and to 
 specuhitc in his mind as to wiiether Ethel was 
 in any danger or not. He began to calculate 
 the time tliat might be re(juircd to go for help 
 with which to attack tiio brigands. He won- 
 dered wliat reason Girasole might have to ir.- 
 jure Ethel. But whatever hope he had that 
 mercy might be shown her was counterl)al- 
 anced by his own exjicrience of Girasole's 
 cruelty, and his knowledge of his merciless 
 charac'ter. 
 
 Suddenly he was roused by the rifle-shot and 
 the confusion that followed. lie saw the party 
 on the mound start to their feet. He heard 
 the shots that succeeded the first one. He 
 saw shadows darting to and fro. Then the 
 confusion grew worse, and all tlic sounds of 
 battle arose — the cries, the shrieks, and the 
 stern words of command. 
 
 All tills filled him with hope. An attack 
 was being made. They might all be saved. 
 He could see that the brigands were being 
 driven back, and that the assailants were press- 
 ing on. 
 
 Then he saw the party moving from the 
 knoll. It was already much lighter. They 
 advanced toward him. He sank down and 
 waited. He had no fear now that this party 
 would complete his burial. He tiiought they 
 were flying with the prisoners. If so, the as- 
 sa.'lants would soon be here; he could join 
 tiiem, and lead them on to the rescue of 
 Etiiel. 
 
 He lay low with the lid over him. He heard 
 them close beside liim. Tlien there was the 
 noise of rushing men, and Girasole's voice 
 arose. 
 
 He heard all that followed. 
 
 Then Etliel's shriek sounded out, as she 
 sprang toward the grave. 
 
 In an instant the occupant of the grave, 
 seizing the lid, raised it up, and with a wild 
 yell sprang forth. 
 
 The effect was tremendous. 
 
 Tiie brigands thought the dead Antonio had 
 come to life. Tliey did not stop to look, but 
 with a howl of awfid terror, and in an anguish 
 of flight, they turned and ran for tiieir lives I 
 
 Girasole saw him too, with equal horror, if 
 not greater. He saw Ilawbury. It was the 
 man whom he had killed stone-dead with his 
 own hand. He was there before him — or was 
 it his ghost ? For an instant horror jiaralyzed 
 him ; and then, with a yell like a madman's, he 
 leaped back and fled after the others. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 FLY ! FLY ! 
 
 In the midst of that wild uproar which had 
 roused Dacres and Mrs. Willougiiby there was 
 nothing that startled liim so mucli as her decla- 
 ration that slie was not Arethusa. He stood be- 
 
 wildered. While she was listening to the 
 sounds, ho was listening to the echo of her 
 words ; while siie was wondering at the cause 
 of such a tumult, he was wondering at this dis- 
 closure. In a moment a thousand little things 
 suggested themselves as ho stood there in his 
 confusion, wliicli little things all went to throw 
 .1 flood of liglit upon her statement, and prove 
 that she was another person than that " demon 
 wife" who had been tiie cause of all his woes. 
 Her soft glance, her gentle manner, her sweet 
 and tender expression — above all, the tone of 
 her voice ; all these at once opened his eyes. 
 In the course of their conversation she had 
 spoken in a low tone, often in n whisper, so 
 that this fact with regard to the diff'crencc of 
 voice had not been jierccptilile ; but her last 
 words were spoken louder, and he observed the 
 difference. 
 
 Now the tumult grew greater, and the re- 
 ports of the rifles more frequent. Tlie noise 
 was communicated to the house, and in the 
 rooms and the hall below there were tramplings 
 of feet, and hurrylngs to and fro, and the rat- 
 tle of arms, and the voices of men, in the midst 
 of wliicli rose the stern command of Girasole. 
 "Forward! Follow me!" 
 Then the distant reports grew nearer and 
 yet nearer, and all the men rushed from the 
 house, and their tramp was heard outside as 
 , they hurried away to the scene of conflict. 
 ! "It's an attack! The brigands are nt- 
 ; tacked !" cried Mrs. Willougiiby. 
 
 Dacres said nothing. He was collecting iiis 
 scattered thoughts. 
 
 j "Oh, may Heaven grant that we may be 
 saved ! Oh, it is the troops — it must be ! Oli, 
 Sir, come, come ; help us to escape ! My dar- 
 ling sister is here. Save her!" 
 " Your sister ?" cried Dacres. 
 " Oh yes ; come, save her! My sister — my 
 darling Minnie!" 
 
 With these words Mrs. Willoughby rushed 
 from the room. 
 
 "Her sister! her sister!" repeated Dacres — 
 "Minnie Fay! Her sister! Good Lord! 
 What a most infernal ass I've been making of 
 myself this last month !" 
 
 He stood still for a few moments, overwhelmed 
 by this thought, and apparently endeavoring to 
 realize the full extent and enormous size and 
 immense pro])ortions, togetlier with the infinite 
 extent of ear, appertaining to the ass to which 
 he had transformed himself; but finally he 
 sliook his head despondingly, as though he 
 gave it up altogether. Then he hurried after 
 Mrs. Willoughby. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby rushed into Minnie's room, 
 and clasped her sister in her arms with frantic 
 tears and kisses. 
 
 "Oh, my precious darling !" she exclaimed. 
 "Oh dear!" said Minnie, "isn't this really 
 too bad ? I was so tired, you know, and I was 
 just beginning to go to sleep, when those horrid 
 men began firing their guns. I really do think 
 that every body is banded together to tease me. 
 
TIIK AMEUICxVN BAllON. 
 
 123 
 
 I do wish they'd nil go ftway and let me have a 
 little peace. I am so tired and sleepy I" 
 
 While Minnie was saying this her sister was 
 nnibracing her and kissing her and crying over 
 iier. 
 
 "Oh, come, Minnie, come!" she cried; 
 " make haste. We must fly !" 
 
 "Where to?" said Minnie, wonderingly. 
 
 "Any where — any where out of this awful 
 place : into the woods." 
 
 "Why, I don't see the use of going into the 
 woods. It's all wet, you know. Can't we get 
 a carriage ?" 
 
 " ()\\ no, no ; we must not wait. They'll all 
 be back soon and kill us." 
 
 "Kill us! What for?" cried Minnie. 
 "What do you mean? How silly you are, 
 Kitty darling!" 
 
 At this moment Dacres entered. The im- 
 age of the immeasurable ass was still very 
 prominent in his mind, and he had lost all his 
 fever and delirium. One thought only re- 
 mained (besides that of tiic ass, of course), and 
 that was — escape. 
 
 " Are you ready ?" he asked, hurriedly. 
 
 "Oh yes, yes ; let us nmkc haste," said Mrs. 
 Willoughby. 
 
 "I tiiink no one is below," said he ; "but I 
 will go first. There is a good place close by. 
 We will run there. If I fall, you must run on 
 and try to get there. It is the bank just oppo- 
 site. Once there, you are in the woods. Uo 
 you understand ?" 
 
 "Oh yes, yes!" cried Mrs. Willoughby, 
 '•Haste! Oh, haste!" 
 
 Dacres turned, and Mrs. Willoughby had 
 just grasped Minnie's hand to follow, when 
 suddenly tliey heara footsteps below. 
 
 They stopped, appalled. 
 
 The robbers had not all gone, then. Some 
 of them must have remained on guard. But 
 how many ? 
 
 Dacres listened and the ladies listened, and 
 in their suspense the beating of each heart was 
 audible. The footsteps below could be heard 
 going from room to room, and pausing in 
 each. 
 
 "There seems to be only one man," said 
 Dacres, in a whisper. " If there is only one, 
 I'll engage to manage him. While I gra])ple, 
 you run for your lives. Ilimember the bank." 
 
 "Oh yes; but oh, Sir, there may be more," 
 said Mrs. Willongliby. 
 
 " I'll sec," said Dacres, softly. 
 
 He went cautiously to the front window and 
 looked out. By the increased light he could 
 see quite plainly. No men were visible. From 
 afar the noise of the strife came to his ears 
 louder than ever, and he could sec the flashes 
 of the rifles. 
 
 Dacres stole back again from the window 
 and went to the door. He stood and listened. 
 
 And now the footsteps came across the hall 
 to the foot of the stairs. Dacres could see the 
 figure of a solitary man, but it was dark in the 
 hall, and ho could not make him out. 
 
 lie began to think that there was only one 
 enemy to encounter. 
 
 The man below put his foot on the lowest 
 stair. 
 
 Then ho hesitated. 
 
 Dacres stood in the shadow of the other door- 
 way, which was nearer to the head of the 
 stairs, and prepared to s])ring as soon as the 
 stranger should come within reach. But the 
 stranger dehijcd still. 
 
 At length he spoke : 
 
 "Hallo, up there!" 
 
 The sound of those simple words produced 
 an amazing effect upon tlie hearers. Dacres 
 sprang down with a cry of joy. "Come, 
 come !" he shouted to the ladies ; "friends are 
 here!" And running down the stairs, he 
 reached the bottom and grasped the stranger 
 by both arms. 
 
 In the dim light he could detect a tall, slim, 
 sinewy form, with long, black, ragged hair and 
 white neck-tie. 
 
 "You'd best get out of this, and quick, 
 too," said the Kev. Saul Tozer. "They're all 
 off now, but they'll be back here in less than no 
 time. I jest thought I'd look in to see if any 
 of you folks was around." 
 
 By this time the ladies were both at the bot- 
 tom of the stairs. 
 
 "Come!" said Tozer; "hurry up, folks. 
 I'll take one lady and you take t'other." 
 
 "Do you know the woods?" 
 
 "Like a book," 
 
 "So do I," said Dacres, 
 
 He grasped Mrs. Willoughby's hand and 
 started. 
 
 "But Minnie!" said Mrs. Willoughby, 
 
 "You had better let liim take her; it's safer 
 for all of us," said Dacres. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby looked back as she was 
 dragged on after Dacres, and saw Tozer fol- 
 lowing them, holding Minnie's hand. This 
 reassured her. 
 
 Dacres dragged her on to the foot of the 
 bank. Here she tried to keep up with him, 
 but it was steep, and she could not. 
 
 Whereupon Dacres sto])])ed, and, without a 
 word, raised her in his arms as though she were 
 i a little child, and ran up the bank. He 
 ; plunged into the woods. Then he ran on far- 
 ther. Then he turned and doubled. 
 
 Mrs, Willoughby begged him to put her 
 down. 
 
 " No," said he ; " they are behind us. You 
 can not go fast enough. I should have to wait 
 and defend you, and then we would both bo 
 lost." 
 
 "But, oh ! wo are losing Minnie." 
 
 "No, we are not," cried Dacres ; " that man 
 is ten times stronger than I am. He is a per- 
 fect elephant in strength. He dashed past me 
 up the hill." 
 
 "I didn't see him." 
 
 "Your face was turned the other way, IIu 
 is ahead of us now somewhere." 
 
 "Oh, I wish we could catch up to him." 
 
124 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 "AT T11I8 DACUF.S BUSHED ON FA8TF.ll." 
 
 At this Dacres ni.Oied on faster. The effort 
 was tremendous. K? leaped over fallen tim- 
 bers, he burst through iho underbrush. 
 
 "Oh, I'm sure you'll kill yourself if you go 
 so fast," said Mrs. Willoughby. "We can't 
 catch up to them." 
 
 At this Dacres slackened his pace, and went 
 on more carefully. She again begged him to 
 put her down. He again refused. Upon this 
 she felt perfectly helpless, and recalled, in a 
 vague way, Minnie's ridiculous question of 
 "How would you like to be run away with by 
 a, great, big, horrid man, Kitty darling?" 
 
 Then she began to think he was insane, and 
 felt very anxious. 
 
 At last Dacres stopped. He was utterly ex- 
 hausted. He was panting terribly. It had 
 been a fearful journey. He had run along the 
 bank up to that narrow valley which he had 
 traversed the day before, and when he stopped 
 it was on the top of that precipice where he had 
 formerly rested, and where he had nurtured 
 such dark purposes against Mrs. Willoughby. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby looked at him, full of pity. 
 He was utterly broken down by this last effort. 
 
 "Oh dear!" she thought. "Is he sane or 
 insane? What am I to do? It is dreadful to 
 have to go ou and humor his queer fancies." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 Minnie's last life-preseuver. 
 
 When Tozer started after Dacres he led 
 Minnie by the hand for only a little distance. 
 On reaching tlic acclivity he seized her in his 
 arms, thus imitating Dacres's example, and 
 rushed up, reaching the top before the other. 
 Then he plunged into the woods, and soon be- 
 came separated from his companion. 
 
 Once in the woods, he went along quite leis- 
 urely, carrymg Minnie without any difficulty, 
 and occasionally addressing to her a soothing 
 remark, assuring her that she was safe. Min- 
 nie, however, made no remark of any kind, good 
 or bad, but remained quite silent, occupied with 
 her own thoughts. At length Tozer stopped 
 and put her down. It was a place upon the 
 edge of a cliff on the shore of the lake, and as 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 125 
 
 led 
 ince. 
 
 his 
 
 and 
 ther. 
 
 be- 
 
 ' WoHHli AND WORSE, SAID TOZElt. 
 
 much as a mile from the house. The cliff was 
 almost fifty feet high, and was per])endicular. 
 All around was the thick forest, and it was un- 
 likely that such a place could be discovered. 
 
 "Here," said he; "we've got to stop liere, 
 and it's about the right place. We couldn't 
 get any where nigh to the soldiers without the 
 brigands seeing us ; so we'll wait here till the 
 fight's over, and the brigands oil chased off." 
 
 "The soldiers! what soldiers?" asked Min- 
 nie. 
 
 "Why, they're having a fight over there — 
 the soldiers are attacking the brigands." 
 
 "Well, I didn't know. Nobody told me. 
 And did you come with the soldiers?" 
 
 " Well, not exactly. I came with the priest 
 and the young lady." 
 
 "But you were not at the house?" 
 
 "No. They wouldn't take me all the way. 
 The priest said I couldn't be disguised — but I 
 don't see why not — so he left me in the woods 
 till he came back. And then the soldiers came, 
 and we crept on till we came nigh the lake. 
 Well, then I stole away ; and when they made 
 an attack the brigands all ran there to fight, and 
 I watched till I saw the coast clear ; and so I 
 came, and here we are." 
 
 Miimie now was quite silent and preoccu- 
 pied, and occasionally she glanced sadly at 
 Tozer with her large, pathetic, child-like eyes. 
 It was a very piteous look, full of the most ten- 
 der entreaty. Tozer occasionally glanced at 
 her, and then, like her, he sat silent, involved 
 in his own thoughts. 
 
 "And so," said Minnie at hist, "you're not 
 the priest himself?" 
 
 "The priest?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Well, no ; I don't call myself a priest. I'm 
 a minister of the Gospel." 
 
 "Well, you're not a real \>r\cM, then." 
 
 " All men of my calling are real priests — yes, 
 priests and kings. I yield to no man in the 
 estimate which I set upon my high and holy 
 calling." 
 
 "Oil, but I mean a Roman Catholic priest," 
 said Minnie. 
 
 "A Roman Catholic priest! Me! Why, 
 what a question ! Me I a Roman Catholic ! 
 j Why, in our parts folks call me the Protestant 
 Cliamj)ion." 
 
 " Oh, and so you're only a Protestant, after 
 all," said Minnie, in a disap])ointed tone. 
 
 "Only a Protestant!" repeateil Tozer, se- 
 verely— "oh/^ a Protestant. Wiiy, ain't you 
 one yourself?" 
 
 "Oh yes; but I hoped you were the other 
 priest, you know. I did .so want to have a 
 Roman Catholic jjviest this time." 
 
 Tozer was silent. It struck him that this 
 young lady was in danger. Her wish for a Ro- 
 man Catholic priest boded no good. She had 
 just come from Rome. No doubt she had 
 been tampered with. Some Jesuits had caught 
 her, and had tried to proselytize her. His soul 
 swelled with indignatiom at the thought. 
 
 "Oh dear!" said Minnie again. 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked Tozer, in a sym- 
 pathizing voice. 
 
 " I'm so sorry." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "Why, that you saved my life, you know." 
 
 " Sorry ? sorry ? that I saved your life ?' re- 
 peated Tozer, in amazement. 
 
 "Oh, well, you know, I did so want to be 
 saved by a Roman Catholic priest, you know." 
 
 "To be saved by a Roman Catholic priest I" 
 repeated Tozer, pondering tliese words in his 
 mind as he slowly pronounced them. He could 
 make nothing of them at first, but finally con- 
 cluded that they concealed some half-suggested 
 tendency to Rome. 
 
 "I don't like this — I don't like this," he said, 
 solemnly. 
 
 "What don't you like?" 
 
 "It's dangerous. It looks bad," said Tozer, 
 with increased solemnity. 
 
 "What's dangerous? You look so solemn 
 that you really make me feel quite nervous. 
 What's dangerous ?" 
 
 "Why, your words. I see in you, I think, 
 a kind of leaning toward Rome." 
 
 "It isn't Rome, "sold Miimie. "I don't lean 
 to Rome. I only lean a little toward a Roman 
 Catholic priest." 
 
 "Worse and worse," said Tozer. "Dear! 
 dear! dear! worse rt«ti worse. This beats all. 
 Young woman, beware ! But perhaps I don't 
 understand you. You surely don't mean that 
 your affections are engaged to any Roman 
 Catholic i>riest. You can't mean that. Why, 
 tiiey can't marry." 
 
 "But that's just what I like them so for," 
 said Minnie. " I like people that don't marry ; 
 I hate people that want to marry." 
 
 Tozer turned this over in his mind, but could 
 
126 
 
 THE AMERICAN BARON, 
 
 make nothiriR of it. At length he thought he 
 saw in thi;* im lulditionnl proof tliat slic hiid 
 been tanipercd witli by Jesuits at Rome. He 
 thought he saw in tliis a statement of her 
 belief in the Roman Catiiolic doctrine of ce- 
 libacy. 
 
 He shook his head more solemnly than ever. 
 " It's not Gospel," said he. " It's mere hu- 
 man tradition. Why, for centuries there was 
 a married priesthood even in the Latin Church. 
 Dunstan's chief measures consisted in a fierce 
 war on the married clergy. So did Ililde- 
 brand's — Gregory the Seventh, you know. The 
 Church at Milan, sustained by the doctrines of 
 the great Ambrose, always preferred a married 
 clergy. The worst measures of Hildebrand 
 were against these good pastors and their wives. 
 And in the Eastern Church they have always 
 had it." 
 
 Of course all this was quite beyond Minnie ; 
 so she gave a little sigh, and said nothing. 
 
 " Now as to Rome," resumed Tozer. " Have 
 you ever given a careful study to the Ajjoca- 
 lypse — not a hasty reading, as people generally 
 (lo, but a serious, earnest, and careful examina- 
 tion ?" 
 
 " I'm sure I haven't any idea what in the 
 world you're talking about," said Minnie. " I 
 Irish you wouldn't talk so. I don't understand 
 line single word of what you say." 
 
 Tozer started and stared at this. It was a 
 depth of ignorance that transcended that of the 
 other young lady with whom he had conversed. 
 But he attributed it all to "Roman" influences. 
 ' They dreaded the Ajjocalypsc, and had not al- 
 lowed either of these young ladies to become 
 acquainted with its tremendous pages. More- 
 over, there was something else. There was a 
 certain light and trifling tone which she used in 
 referring to these things, and it pained him. He 
 sat involved in a long and very serious consid- 
 eration of her case, and once or twice looked 
 !\t her with so very peculiar an expression that 
 Minnie began to feel very tineasy indeed. 
 
 Tozer at length cleared his throat, and fixdd 
 upon Minnie a very atlectionate and tender 
 look. 
 
 " My dear young friend," said he, " have you 
 ever reflected upon the wa^ you are living ?" 
 
 At this Minnie gave him a frightened little 
 look, and her head fell. 
 
 " You arc young now, but yon can't be young 
 always ; youth and beauty and loveliness all are 
 yours, but they can't last ; and now is the time 
 for you to make your choice — now in life's gay 
 morn. It ain't easy when you get old. Re- 
 member that, my dear. Make your choice now 
 — now." 
 
 " Oh dear !" said Minnie ; " I knew it. But 
 I can't — and I don't want to — and I think it's 
 rery unkind in you. I don't want to make any 
 choice. I don't want anv of you. It's «o hor- 
 rid." 
 
 This was a dreadful shock to Tozer; but he 
 could not turn aside from this beautiful yet 
 erring creature. 
 
 " Oh, I entreat you — I implore you, mv dear, 
 dear—" 
 
 " I do icish you wouldn't talk to me that wav, 
 and call me your dear. I don't like it ; no, not 
 even if you did save my life, though really I 
 didn't know there was any danger. But I'm 
 not your dear." 
 
 And Minnie tossed her head with a little air 
 of determination, as thotigh she had quite nuide 
 up her mind on that point. 
 
 " Oh, well now, really now," said Tozer, " it 
 was only a natural expression. I do take a 
 deep interest in you, my — that is — miss; I feel 
 a sincere regard and aftcction and — " 
 
 " But it's no use," said Minnie. " Yon really 
 can't, you know; and so, why, you viustn't, you 
 know." 
 
 Tozer did not clearly understand this, so aft- 
 er a brief pause he resumed : 
 
 "But what I was saying is of far more im- 
 portance. I referred to your life. Now you're 
 not happy as you are." 
 
 "Oh yes, but I am," said Minnie, briskly. 
 
 Tozer sighed. 
 
 " I'm very happy," continued Minnie, " very, 
 very hajipy — that is, when I'm with dear, dar- 
 ling Kitty, and dear, dear Ethel, and my Uur- 
 ling old Dowdy, and dear, kind papa." 
 
 Tozer sighed again. 
 
 "You can't be Iruly happy thus," he said, 
 mournfully. " You may think you arc, but 
 you ain't. INIy heart fairly yearns over you 
 when I see you, so young, so lovely, and so in- 
 nocent; and I know you can't be happy as you 
 are. You must live otherwise. And oh, I 
 pray you — I entreat you to set your att'eetions 
 elsewhere!" 
 
 " Well, then, I think it's very, very horrid in 
 you to press me so," said, Minnie, with some- 
 thing actually like asperity in her tone ; "but 
 it's f/uite impossible." 
 
 " But oh, why ?"' 
 
 "Why, because I don't want to have things 
 any dift'erent. But if I have to be worried and 
 teased so, and if people insist on it so, why, 
 there's only one that I'll ever consent to." 
 
 "And what is that?" asked Tozer, looking 
 at her with the mosfafl'ectionate solicitude. 
 
 "Why, it's — it's — " Minnie ]iaiised, and 
 looked a little confused. 
 
 " It's what ?" asked Tozer, with still deeper 
 and more anxious interest. 
 
 "Why, it's— it's— Rufus K. Gunn." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 THE I JI r A T I K N T 1! A U O N, 
 
 The brigands had resisted stubbornly, but 
 finally found themselves without a leader. Gi- 
 rasole had disappeared ; and as his voice no 
 longer directed their movements, they began to 
 fall into confusion. The attacking party, on the 
 other hand, was well led, and nmde a steady 
 advance, driving the enemy before them. At 
 
THE AMERICAN BARON. 
 
 127 
 
 but 
 Gi- 
 \ no 
 n to 
 I the 
 ?aily 
 At 
 
 ■ rilK UlBUOVliUV OI' ,V IIODV ON THE BUOUK >!;' 
 THE LAKE." 
 
 length the brigands lost heart, and took to 
 flight. With a wild cheer the assailants fol- 
 lowed in pursuit. But the fugitives took to 
 the forest, and were soon beyond the reach of 
 their ])nrsucrs in its familiar intricacies, and the 
 victors were summoned back by tiic sound of the 
 trumpet. 
 
 It was now daylight, and as the conquering 
 party emerged from the forest they showed the 
 uniform of the Papal Zouaves ; while their lead- 
 er, who had shown himself so skillful in forest 
 warfare, proved to be no less a personage than 
 our friend the Baron. Led by him, the party ad- 
 vanced to the old stone house, and here, draw- 
 ing up his men in front, their leader rushed in, 
 and searched every room. To his amazement, 
 he found the house deserted, its only inmate 
 being that dead brigand whom Girasole had 
 mistaken for Ilawbury. This discovery filled 
 the Baron with consternation. lie had ex- 
 pected to find the prisoners here, and his dis- 
 may and grief were excessive. At first he could 
 not believe in his ill luck; but another search i Doodle.' 
 
 without result. Finally a man approached who 
 announced the discovery of a body on the shore 
 of the lake. After him came a party who was 
 carrying the corpse for the inspection of their 
 captain. 
 
 The Baron went to look at it. The body 
 showed a great gaji in the skull. On (pics- 
 tioning the men, he learned that they hail found 
 it on the shore, at the bottom of a stei-p rock, 
 about half-way between the house and the place 
 where they had first emerged from the woods. 
 His head was lying pressed against a sharji 
 rock in such a way that it was evident that he 
 had fallen over theclitf, and had been instantly 
 killed. The Baron looked at the face, and rec- 
 ognized the features of Girasole. He ordered 
 it to be taken away and laid in the empty grave 
 for future burial. 
 
 The Baron now became imjjatient. This 
 was not what he had bargained for at all. At 
 length he thought that they might have fled, 
 and might now be concealed in the woods 
 around ; and together with this thought there 
 came to his mind an idea of an effective way to 
 reach them. The trumpeter could send forth 
 a blast which could be heard far and wide. 
 But what might, could, would, or should the 
 trumpeter sound forth which should give the 
 concealed listeners a certainty that the sum- 
 mons came from friends and not from foes? 
 This the Baron puzzled over for some time. 
 At length he solved this problem also, and tri- 
 umphantly. 
 
 There was one strain which the trumpeter 
 might sound that could not be mistaken. It 
 would at once convey to the concealed hearers 
 all the truth, and gently woo them home. It 
 would be at once a note of victory, a song of 
 joy, a call of love, a sound of peace, and an in- 
 vitation — "Wanderer, come home I" 
 
 Of course there was only one tune that, to 
 the mind of the Baron, was capable of doing 
 this. 
 
 And of course that tunc was " Yankee Doo- 
 dle." 
 
 Did the trumpeter know it? 
 
 Of course he did. 
 
 Who does not know it? 
 
 All men know that tune. Man is born with 
 
 an innate knowledge of the strain of " Yankee 
 
 No one can remember when he first 
 
 convinced him of it, and reduced him to a state 
 of perfect bewilderment. 
 
 But he was not one who could long remain 
 inactive. Feeling confident that the brigands 
 were scattered every where in headlong flight, 
 he sent his men out in ditt'eroiit directions, into 
 the woods and along the shore, to see if they 
 could find any traces of the lost ones. lie him- 
 self remained near the house, so as to direct 
 the search most efficiently. After about an 
 hour they came back, one by one, without being 
 
 learned it. The reason is because he never 
 learned it at all. It was born in him. 
 
 So the trumpeter sounded it forth, and wild 
 and high and dear and far the somids arose ; 
 and it was "Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild 
 echoes fiying; and answer, echoes, answer, 
 Yankee Doodle dying." 
 
 And while the trumpet sounded the Baron 
 listened and listened, and walked up and down, 
 and fretted and fumed and chafeil, and I'm 
 afraid he swore a little too ; and at last he was 
 
 able to find many traces. One had found an | going to tell the trumpeter to stop his infernal 
 empty coffin in a grave, another a wonum's ; noise, when, just at that moment, what should 
 hood, a third had found a scarf. All of these ; he see all of a sudden emerging from the woods 
 had endeavored to follow up these traces, but I but three figures ! 
 
128 
 
 THE AMElilCAN HAUON. 
 
 And I'll lenve yon to imnjtino, if yon can, the 
 joy nnil duliglit wliicli uj^itated the hosoni of our 
 good Baron as he recognized among tiiese tliree 
 figures tiic well-known faee and form of his 
 friend Ilawhury. With Ilawliury was a lady 
 whom the Baron remembered having seen once 
 in the upper hall of a certain house in Uome, 
 on a memorable occasion, when he stood on the 
 stairs culling Min. The lady was very austere 
 then, but she was very gracious now, and very 
 wonderfully sweet in the expression of her face. 
 And with them was a stranger in the garb of u 
 priest. 
 
 Now as soon as the party met the Baron, who 
 rushed to meet them, Hawbury wrung his hand, 
 and stared at him in unbounded astonishment. 
 
 " You I" he cried ; " yourself, old boy ! By 
 Jove!" 
 
 " Yes," said the Baron, " You see, the mo- 
 ment we got into that ambush I kept my eye 
 open, and got a chance to spring into the woods. 
 There I was all right, and ran for it. I got 
 into the road again a couple of miles back, got 
 a horse, rode to Civita CastcUana, and there I 
 was lucky enough to find a company of Zouaves, 
 Well, Sir, wo came here flying, mind, I tell you, 
 and got hold of a chap that we made guide us 
 to the lake. Then we opened on them ; and 
 here we are, by thunder! But where's Min?" 
 
 "Who?" asked Hawbury. 
 
 "Min," said the Baron, in the most natural 
 tone in the world. 
 
 " Oh ! Why, isn't she here ?" 
 
 "No, We've hunted every where. No one's 
 here at all," And the Baron went on to tell 
 about their search and its results. Hawbury 
 was chiefly struck by the news of Girasole. 
 
 " He must have gone mad with terror," said 
 Hawbury, as he told the Baron about his adven- 
 ture at the grave. "If tliat'sso," headded, "I 
 don't see how the ladies could be harmed, I 
 dare say they've run off. Why, we stai'ted 
 to run, and got so far of!" that we couldn't find 
 our way back, even after the trumpet began to 
 sonnd. You must keep l)lo\ving at it, you 
 know. Phiy all the national tunes you can — no 
 end. They'll find their way back if you give 
 them time," 
 
 And now they all went back to the house, 
 and the Baron in his aiixietj- could not talk 
 any more, but began his former occupation 
 of walking up and down, and fuming and 
 fretting and chafing, and, I'm again afraid, 
 swearing — when all of a sudden, on the bank 
 in front of him, on the very top, just emerging 
 from the thick underbrush which had concealed 
 them till that moment, to their utter amaze- 
 ment and indescribable delight, they beheld 
 Scone Dacres and Mrs. Willoughby, Scone 
 Dacres appeared to Hawbury to be in a totally 
 different frame of miiul from that in which he 
 had been when he last saw him ; and what per- 
 plexed him most, yea, and absolutely confound- 
 ed him, wos the sight of Scone Dacres with his 
 demon wife, whom he had been pursuing for the 
 sake of vengeance, and whose frenzy had been 
 
 so violent that he himself had been drawn with 
 him on ])urpose to try and restrain iiim. And 
 now what was the injured husband doing with 
 his demon wife? Doing! why, doing the 
 impassioned lover most vigorously ; sustaining 
 her steps most tenderly ; grasping her hand ; 
 pushing aside the bushes ; assisting her down 
 the slo])e; overwhelming her, in short ; hov- 
 ering round her, apparently unconscious that 
 there was in all the wide world any other be- 
 ing than Mrs. Willoughby. And as Hawbury 
 looked upon all this his eyes dilated and his 
 lips parted involuntarily in utter wonder; and 
 finally, as Dacres reached the spot, the only 
 greeting which he could give his friend was, 
 
 "By Jove!" 
 
 And now, while Mrs. Willoughby and Ethel 
 were embracing with tears of joy, and over- 
 whelming one another with questions, the Bar- 
 on sought information from Dacres. 
 
 Dacres then informed him all about Tozcr's 
 advent and departure. 
 
 "Tozer!" cried the Baron, in intense deliglit. 
 " Good on his darned old head ! Hurrah foi- 
 the parson ! He shall marry us for this — he, 
 and no other, by thunder!" 
 
 Upon which Jlrs. Willoughby and Ethel ex- 
 changed glances, but said not a word. Not 
 they. 
 
 But in about five minutes, when Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby had Ethel apart a little by herself, she 
 said, 
 
 "Oh, Ethel dear, isn't it dreadful ?" 
 
 "What?" asked Ethel, 
 
 "Why, poor Minnie," 
 
 "Poor Minnie?" 
 
 "Yes, Another horrid man. And he'll be 
 claiming her too. And, oh dear! what shall 
 Ido?" 
 
 " Why, you'll have to let her decide for her- 
 self. I think it will be — this person." 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby clasped her hands, and 
 looked up with a pretty little expression of hor- 
 ror. 
 
 "And do you know, dear," added Ethel, 
 "I'm beginning to think that it wouldn't be so 
 ve.ry bad. He's Lord Hawbury's friend, you 
 know, and then he's very, very brave ; and, 
 above all, think what we all owe him." 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby gave a resigned sigh. 
 
 And now the Baron was wilder with impa- 
 tience than ever. He had questioned Dacres, 
 ond found that he could give him no informa- 
 tion whatever as to Tozer's route, and conse- 
 queiitly had no idea where to search. But he 
 still had boundless confidence in " Yankee Doo- 
 dle." 
 
 " That's the way," said Dacres ; " we heard 
 it ever so far, and it was the first thing that 
 told us it was safe to return. We didn't dare 
 to venture before." 
 
 Meanwhile Hawbury had got Dacres by him- 
 self, and poured a torrent of questions over him. 
 Dacres told him in general terms how he was 
 captured. Then he informed him how Mrs. 
 Willoughby was put in the same room, and his 
 
 t^s 
 
THE AMEllICAN BARON. 
 
 I'M 
 
 :iall 
 
 iiin- 
 lim. 
 wns 
 
 his 
 
 discovery that it wns Minnie thiit tho Italian 
 waiiteil. 
 
 "Well, do you know, old chaj)," continued 
 Dacres, "I couldn't stand it; so I oH'ered to 
 nuike it all iijt with her." 
 
 " Oil, I sec you've done that, old hoy. Con- 
 grat— " 
 
 " I'ooh! wait a minute," said Danes, inter- 
 iMptii-.^; him. "Well, you know, she wasn't my 
 wiC'j at all." 
 
 At this llawbury stood utterly aghast, 
 
 " \71iat's that?" 
 
 "She wasn't my wife at all. She looks 
 cDiit'onndedly like what my wife was at her 
 hi'st, but she's anotlier person. It's a most 
 extraordinary likeness; and yet she's isn't any 
 relation, hut a great deal prettier woman. What 
 made me so sure, you know, was the infernally 
 odd coincidence of the name ; and then I only 
 s;\w her olV and on, you know, and I never 
 heard her voice. Then, you know, I was 
 mad with jealousy ; and so I made myself worse 
 and worse, till I was ripe for murder, arson, 
 ussasinalion, and all that sort of thing, you 
 know." 
 
 To all this Ilawhury listened in amazement, 
 and could not utter a word, until at last, as 
 Daeres paused, he said, 
 
 "By Jove!" 
 
 "Well, old man, I was the most infernal ass 
 that ever lived. And how I must have bored 
 youl" 
 
 "By Jove!" exclaimed Ilawbury again. 
 "Bat drive on, old hoy." 
 
 "Well, you know, the row occurred just 
 then, and away went the scoundrels to the 
 liglit, and in came that parson fellow, and away 
 we went. I took Mrs. Willoiighhy to a safe 
 idace, where I koi)t her till I heard the trum- 
 l)et, you know. And I've got another thing to 
 tell you. It's deuced odd, but she knew all 
 about me." 
 
 "The deuce she did!" 
 
 " Yes, the whole story. Lived somewhere in 
 the county. But I don't remember the Fays. 
 At any rate, she lived there ; and do you know, 
 old fellow, the county people used to think I 
 beat my wife!" 
 
 "By Jove!" 
 
 "Yes; and afterward they raised a report 
 tliat my cruelty had driven her mad. But I 
 liad a few friends that stood up for me ; and 
 among others these Fays, you know, had heard 
 the truth of it, and, as it happened, Kittv — " 
 
 " Kitty ?" 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Willoughby, I mean — her name's 
 Kitty — has always known the truth about it ; 
 and wlien she saw mc at Najiles she felt inter- 
 ested in me.'' 
 
 "Oho!" and Hawbury opened his eyes. 
 
 " Well, she knew all about it ; and, among 
 other things, she gave me one piece of intelli- 
 gence that has eased my mind." 
 
 " Ah ! what's that ?" 
 
 " Why, my wife is dead." 
 
 " Oh, then there's no doubt about it?" 
 
 " Not a bit. She died eight years ago, and 
 in an iiisnue asylum." 
 
 "By Jove! Then she was mad all tlu' 
 time." 
 
 " Yes ; that accounts for it, and turns all my 
 curses into jiiiy." 
 
 Dacres was silent now for a few moments. 
 At length he looked at Ilawbury with a ver_\ 
 singidar expression. 
 
 " Ilawburv, old hoy." 
 
 " Well, Sconey ?" 
 
 " I think we'll keep it up." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " Why, Kitty and I— that is, Mrs. Willough- 
 by and 1 — her name's Kitty, you know." 
 
 "Keep what up?" 
 
 "Wny, the — the — the fond illusion, ami all 
 that sort of thing. You see I've got into such 
 an infernal habit of regarding her as my wife 
 that I can't look on her in any other light. I 
 claimed her, you know, and all that sort of 
 thing, and she thought I was deliri(jus, and felt 
 sorry, and humored me, and gave me a very 
 favorable answer." 
 
 "Humored you?" 
 
 "Yes ; tluit's what she says now, you know. 
 But I'm holding her to it, and I've every rea- 
 son to believe, you know — in fact, I imiy as 
 well say that it is an understood thing, you 
 know, that she'll let it go, you know, and at 
 some early day, you know, we'll have it al! 
 formally settled, and all that sort of thiujj. 
 you know." 
 
 Hawbury wrtmg his friend's hand. 
 
 " See here, old bov ; you see Ethel there?'" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Wlio do vou think she is?" 
 
 "Who?" ' 
 
 " i:i/w/ Orne .'" 
 
 "Etliel Onie!" cried Dacres, as the whole 
 truth Hashed on his mind. "What a devil of a 
 jumble every thing has lieen getting into ! By 
 Heaven, dear boy, I congratulate you from the 
 bottom of my soul 1" 
 
 And he wrung Hawbury's hand as though all 
 his soul was in that grasp. 
 
 But all this coidd not satisfy the impatience 
 of the Baron. This was all very well in its 
 way, merely as an e])isode ; but he was wait- 
 ing for the chief incident of the piece, and the 
 chief incident was delaying very unaccounta- 
 bly. 
 
 So he strode up and down, and he fretted 
 and ho fumed and he chafed, and the trumpeter 
 ke])t blowing away. 
 
 Until at last- 
 Just before his eyes — 
 
 U]) there on the top of the bank, not far 
 from where Dacres and Mrs. Willoughby had 
 made their appearance, the Baron caught sight 
 of a tall, lank, slim figure, clothed in rusty 
 black, wliose thin and leathery face, rising 
 above a white neck-tie, peered solemnly yet 
 interrogatively through the bushes ; while just 
 behind him the Baron caught a glimpse of the 
 flutter of a woman's jlress. 
 
i;jo 
 
 THE AMEllICAN BAUON, 
 
 "llli OAVE A LOUD OltV 01'" JOY, AND TUKN Sl'IiA.Mi LI' TUK IIANK. 
 
 He gave a loud cry of joy, ami then sprang 
 up the bank. 
 
 But over that meeting I think we had better 
 draw a veil. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 ASTONISHING WAY OF CONCLnDINO 
 ADVKNTUKE. 
 
 AN 
 
 The meeting between the Baron and Minnie 
 gave a new shock to poor Mrs. Willoughhy, wlu) 
 looked with a helpless expression, and wiilked 
 away for a little distance. Dacres and Haw- 
 bury were still eagerly conversing and (juestion- 
 ing one another about their adventures. Tozor 
 also had descended and joined himself to the 
 priest ; and each of these groups had leisure 
 for a prolonged conversation before tliey were 
 interrupted. At length Minnie made her ap- 
 liearance, and flung herself into her sister's arms, 
 while at the same time the Baron grasjjcd To- 
 zer by both hands, and called out, in u voice loud 
 enough to be heard by all, 
 
 "You shall many 
 us, parsoi\ — and this 
 very day, by tiiun- 
 der!" 
 
 These words caino 
 to ^Irs. Widongiiby's 
 ears in the midst of 
 iier first joy at meet- 
 ing her sister, and 
 shocked her inex- 
 l)ressil)ly. 
 
 "What's tliat, 
 Minnie darling ?" she 
 asked, auxiouslv. 
 "What is it? J)id 
 you hear what tliat 
 dreadful — what tlie 
 — the Baron said ?" 
 
 IMiunio looked 
 sweetly conscious, 
 but said nothing. 
 
 "What ilocs ho 
 mean?" asked her 
 sister again. 
 
 " I su])pose he 
 means what he says,'" 
 replied Minnie, with 
 a timid air, stealing 
 a shy look at tlie 
 Banui. 
 
 "Oh dear!" said 
 Mrs. Willotigliliy ; 
 "there's aimtiier 
 dreadful trouble, I 
 know. It's very, 
 verv hard — " 
 
 "Well, I'm sure," 
 said jMinnie, "I can't 
 help it. Tlioy all do 
 so. Tliat clergyman 
 came and saved me, 
 and he wasn't a Roman Catholic clergyman at 
 all, and he pro])osed — " 
 
 " Projiosed!" cried iMrs. Willoiighby, aghast. 
 "Oil yes," said Minnie, solemnly; "and I 
 had hard work jircventing him. But, really, it 
 was too absurd, and I would not let him be too 
 cx])licit. But I didn't hurt his feelings. Well, 
 you know, then all of a sudden, as we were sit- 
 ting there, the bugle sounded, and we came 
 back. Well, then, Rufus K. Giinn came — and 
 you know how very violent he is in his way — 
 and he said he saved my life again, and so he 
 proposed.'' 
 
 " He proposed ! Why, he had proposed 
 before." 
 
 " Oh yes ; but that was for an engagement, 
 and this was for our marriage." 
 "iMarriage!" 
 
 " Oh yes ; and, you see, he had actually saved 
 my life twice, and he was very urgent, and ho 
 is so (z»-fully aft'ectionatc, and so — " 
 
 "Well, what?" cried Mrs. Willoiighby, see- 
 ing Minnie hesitate. 
 "Whv. he—" 
 "Weil?" 
 
 
Tlir: AMEHICAN BAUON. 
 
 181 
 
 " I mcnn, I — " I wouldn't you havo Riven Iipr to mo with all 
 
 "You wliiit ? Rpully, Minnjp donrcst, you ' your lienrt, lunl your prayfrs too? You woulil. 
 
 I'cd 
 ho 
 
 'iiif^ht tell nu>, and not keep nic in bucli dread 
 fill Hiispeiise." 
 
 "Why, what coidd I say?" 
 " Hut what illil \nn say?" 
 "Why, I think I — said — yes," said Alinnic, 
 casting; down her eyes with iudcserihaidc sweet- 
 ness, shyness, n»eekncss, and resignation. 
 Airs. Willoughhy actually shuddered. 
 "Now, Kitty," exclaimed JMinnie, who at 
 once noticed it, "you needn't ho so horrid. 
 I'm sure you can't say any thing against him 
 noil'. You needn't look so. Yon (t/irai/s hateil 
 him. You yiariir woidd treat him kindly," 
 
 "Hut this — this marriage. It's too shock- 
 ing." 
 
 " Well, ho saved my life." 
 "And to-day! How utterly preposterous ! 
 It's slianieful!'' 
 
 " Well, I'm sure I can't help it." 
 " It's too horrid I" continued Mrs. Willou);h- 
 hy, in an excitctl tone. "It will break poor 
 papa's heart. Aiul it will hreak jioor darling 
 aunty's heart. And it will hreak my heart." 
 
 " Now, Kitty dearest, this is too silly in you. 
 If it hadn't hcen for him, I would now he mar- 
 ried to that wretched Count, who hadn't sulli- 
 cient affection for mc to got mo ii chair to sit 
 on, and who was very, very rude to you. You 
 didn't care, though, whether I was married to 
 him or not ; and now when I am saved from him 
 you haveflothiug l)Ut very uui)leasant things to 
 say ahout Uufus K. Gunn." 
 
 "Oh dear, what would I give if you were 
 only safe home I" 
 
 " Well, I'm sure T don't see what / can do. 
 reo])le are always saving my life. And there 
 is Cajitain Kirhy hunting all over Italy for me. 
 And I k-noii' I will ho saved hy somebody — if — 
 if— I — I — if — I — if — you know — that is — I'm 
 SlU'C — " 
 
 "Nonsense !" said Mrs. Willoughhy, as Jfin- 
 nie broke down in confusion. "It is too ab- 
 surd. I won't talk ahout it. You are a silly 
 child. Oh, how I do wish you were home!" 
 
 At this juncture the conversation was inter- 
 ru]itcd by the Baron. 
 
 " It is not my fashion, ma'am, "said he, grave- 
 ly, "to remind another of any obligation under 
 which he may be to me ; hut my claims on Min- 
 nie have been so opposed by you and the rest 
 of her friends tliat I have to ask you to think 
 of them. Your father knows what my first 
 claims are. You yourself, ma'am, know ])er- 
 fcctly well what the last claims are which I 
 have won to-Jay." 
 
 The Baron spoke calmly, firmly, and with dig- 
 nity. Mrs. Willoughby answered not a word. 
 "If you think on your position last night, 
 and Minnie's, ma'am," resumed the Baron, 
 " you'll acknowledge, I expect, that it was pret- 
 ty hard lines. What would you have given a 
 few hours ago for a sight of my uniform in that 
 
 l)y thunder! Think, nui'am, on your sutl'erings 
 last night, and tlien answer me." 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby iuv(duntarily thought of 
 that night of hiurur, and shuddered, and said 
 nothing. 
 
 "Now, ma'am, Just listen to this. I find on 
 coming here tiuit this /talian had a jiriest here 
 all ready to marry him and Minnie. If I'd 
 been delayed or defeated, Minnie woidd have 
 been that rascal's wil'e by this time, 'i'lie ]U'iest 
 was here. They would have been married as 
 sure as you're born. You, ma'am, woidd have 
 had to see this poor, trend)ling, broken-hearted, 
 desjjairing girl torn from your anus, and bouiul 
 by the nuirriage tie to a ndlian and a scoundrel 
 whom she loathed. Aiul now, ma'am, I save 
 her fnuu this. I have my priest too, ma'am. 
 He iiin't a lioman Catholic, it is true — he's an 
 orthodox parson — but, at the same time, I ain't 
 |iariicidar. Now I proi)ose to avail myself this 
 day of his invaluable services at the earliest 
 liour jiossible; but, at the same time, if Miu 
 ])refers it, I don't olijeet to the jiricst, I'or I have 
 a kind of Houum Catholic leaning myself. 
 
 "Now you may ask, ma'am," continued the 
 Baron, us Mrs. Willoughby continued silent — 
 "you may ask why I'm in such a thundering 
 hurry. My answer is, because you (it me oti 
 so. You tried to keep me from Min. Yon 
 locked me out of your house. Y(ju threatened 
 to hand me over to the po-liee (and I'd like to 
 see one of tiicm try it on with me). Yon .said 
 I was mad or drunk ; and finally you trietl to 
 run awa\ . Then you rejected my advice, and 
 ])li;uged liead-foremost into this fix. Now, in 
 view of all this, my position is this — that I can't 
 trust you. I've got Miu now, and I mean to 
 keep her. If you got hold of her again, I feel 
 it woidd be the last of her. Consetpiently I 
 ain't going to let her go. Not me. Not by a 
 long eiialk. 
 
 " Finally, ma'am, if you'll allow me, I'll touch 
 upon aiunlier point. I've thought over your ob- 
 jections to me. It ain't my rank — I'm a noble ; 
 it ain't money — I'm worth a hundred thousand 
 dollars ; it ain't my name — for I call myself 
 Atramoute. It must be something in me. I've 
 come to the conclusion that it's my general 
 style — my manners and customs. Very well. 
 Perhaps they don't come up to your standard. 
 They mayn't square with your ideas. Yet, let 
 mo inform you, ma'am, there are other stand- 
 ards of action and manner and speech tlum 
 those to which you arc accustomed, and mine 
 is one of them. Minnie doesn't object to that, 
 yhe knows my heart is all right, and is willing 
 to trust herself to me. Conse((uently I take 
 her, and I mean to make her mine this day." 
 
 As the Baron ])aused Mrs. Willoughby began, 
 first of all, to express her gratitude, and then to 
 beg him to postpone the marriage. She de- 
 clared that it was an unheard-of thing, that 
 
 old house yonder? If I had come then to save it was shameful, that it was shocking, that it 
 Minnie from the clutches of that /talian, | was dreadful. She grew very much excited; 
 
 -^-^ -- *-..*^'* — ^... 
 
m 
 
 THE AMEUICAN nAIlON. 
 
 she protested, slio cntrcnted. FiiiDlly slio burst 
 into toiirH, ami appuali'd to Lord llawbiiry in 
 tlio most iiioviii); tuniis. IIa\v!)ury listenud 
 very gravely, with liis eyes waiideiiiiK "vor to 
 where Ktliel was; and Ktliel ciuiKlit the ex- 
 pression ol'liis faee, and looked ((iiite confused. 
 
 " ( )li, think, only think," said Mrs. WillouKh- 
 hy, after an ehi(|iient and ]iathel'.«i appeal — 
 "think how rhc poor child will be talked 
 about!" 
 
 "Well, really — ah — 'pon my life," said 
 Ilawbiiry, with his eyes still wandeiing over 
 toward Ethel, "I'm sure I don't — ah — share 
 your views altogether, Mrs. Willouxhby ; for — 
 ah — there (tre times, you know, when a fellow 
 linds it very uneoiuinonly desirable — rniiuway 
 matches, you know, and all tlnu s(jrt of tiling. 
 And, by Jove! to tell the truth, I really admire 
 the idea, by Jove! And really — ah — I'm 
 sure — I wish most conl'oimdedly it was the 
 universal fashion, by Jove!" 
 
 "But she'll be so talkc<l about. She'll make 
 herself so shockingly ronsfiicitoiis.'" 
 
 *' Conspicuous V By Jove !" said Ilawbnry, 
 who seemed struck by the idea. At that mo- 
 ment Minnie began talking to her sister, and 
 Hawbmy went off to Ethel, t) whom he began 
 talking in the most earnest maimer. The two 
 wandered oif for some distance, and did not re- 
 turn for a full half hour. When they ilid re- 
 turn Ethel looked somewhat embarrassed, and 
 Ilawbury was radiant. With this radiance on 
 his face he went up to IMrs. Willoughby, leav- 
 ing Ethel in the background. 
 
 "Oh, by-the-way," said he, "you were re- 
 marking that your sister would be too coii- 
 sj)icuous by such a hasty marriage." 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Willoughby, anxiously. 
 
 "W^ell, I thought I would tell you that she 
 needn't be so veri/ consi)icuous ; for, in fact — 
 that is, you know, Ethel and I — she told y(ni, 
 I su])pose, about our mistake ?'' 
 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 "Ami I tliink I've persuaded her to save 
 Minnie from being too conspicuous." 
 
 Mrs. AVillougbby gave Ilawbury a look of 
 astonishment and reproach. 
 
 "You!" she cried; "and Ethel!" 
 
 "Why, I'm sure, we're the very ones you 
 might expect it from. Think how infernally 
 we've been humbugged by fate." 
 
 "Fate!" said Mrs. Wllloughby. "It was 
 all your own fault. She was chosen for yoti." 
 
 " Chosen for me ? What do you mean ?" 
 
 "Bv vour mother." 
 
 "My mother?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " She said one of Biggs's nieces." 
 
 "Ethel is that niece." 
 
 "The devil !" cried Ilawburv. " I beg par- 
 don. By Jove!" 
 
 Ilawbury, overwhelmed by this, went back to 
 Ethel, and they wandered otf once more. The 
 Baron had already wandered oH' with Minnie 
 
 in another directifui. Tozcr ftnd the priest had 
 gone to survey the house. 
 
 Seeing .Mrs. Willoughby thus left alone, Da- 
 cres drifted up to her. lie canie up sih'iitly, 
 
 " Kitty," saiil he, in a low voice, "you scaui 
 sad." 
 
 By which familiar address it will be seen 
 that Dacres had nuule some progress towaril 
 intimacy with her. 
 
 Mrs. Willoughby did not seem at all oU'end- 
 ed at this, but looked up with one of her frank- 
 est smiles, and the clouds of jierplcxity passed 
 away. She was an exceedingly pretty woman, 
 and she was certainly not omu- twenty-four. 
 
 "I'm .so worried," she .said, jilaiutively. 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked IJacrcs, in .1 
 tone of the deejicst and tendercst sym])atliv. 
 
 " Why, these horrid men ; and, what's worse. 
 Lord Ilawbury is actually encouraging Mr. — 
 the — the Baron; and I'm .so woirieii. Oh 
 dear!" 
 
 " But why should you be worried?" 
 
 "It's so horrid. It's shocking. It's not to 
 be thought of." 
 
 " But why not?" asked Dacres, 
 
 "Why, it's— it's so horrid," said Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby. 
 
 Dacres stood looking at her for a long time, 
 
 " Kitty," said he at last. 
 
 Jlrs. Willougliliy looketl up. 
 
 Dacres looked all around. He then took 
 her hand. 
 
 "Isn't it too bad," lie said, "\o let Miu- 
 nic— " 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 "To let her go through this ordeal aloiio?" 
 
 "Alone!" exclaimed Mrs. Willougiiby, look- 
 ing in wonder at him. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 " Coukln't ICC accom])any her?" 
 
 Jlrs. Willoughby snatched away her hand, 
 
 "Arc you mad?" she cried. "I do believe 
 the whijle world's mad to-day." 
 
 " Mad ! " cried Dacres. " Yes, I'm mad — in- 
 sane — raving! Won't you be merciful again? 
 Won't you, Kitty? Won't you 'humor' my 
 ravings? Oh, do. Oh, Kitty ! dear Kitty— I" 
 
 " It's j)ositivc insanity!" 
 
 "Oil, Kitty!" 
 
 " You're raving I" 
 
 "Won't you 'humor' me — ^just this once! 
 only this once." 
 
 "Hush! there they come," said Mrs. Wil- 
 loughby, suddenly snatching away her hand, 
 wliich Dacres had somehow got lujld of agiiiii. 
 and moving a little further away from him. 
 
 It was the Baron and Minnie who were com- 
 ing back again, while Ilawbury and Ethel were 
 seen a little further away. 
 
 Tiierc they all stood — there, on the spot where 
 they had found the crisis of tlieir fortunes ; and 
 as tlipy stood there the two clergymen. Catholic 
 and Protestant, slowly came out of the house. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 *■-- •■■- ■-■- - 
 
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 III Aiiliiiiliiit. Ilv U'llkh' ( (illliin N) 
 
 \Vi. '/.Mw\\\ lly itulwiT M 
 
 \V.\. Ki'^'liiiild lliixtliiK^. lly Warlmrton Nl 
 
 I 11. I'l'lclr unci Iri'l'iillllUM f*) 
 
 I in. 'I'lic iilil link I III 4t. lly.liiiiii'K Rll 
 
 I 111. .Iiilla llii»»nl. lly Mix Miirllii llrll Ml 
 
 I IT. Adiliil.l.' I.liiilwiy. I (lllid by .Mrn. MiirMi.... Ml 
 
 IIS. ri.llli'ciaMMiviriiiiiiiit. Ilv Mrn. 'rnilliuM' fill 
 
 l-Jfl. TlicH.iiltrcll^. lly I. WIliliiiiiH Ml 
 
 Ifiii. >lii(,'lrl(iii liiiitiiKiv, I;. N. lly I lummy M 
 
 Iftl. ttllvr. lly MIxrt .Mulock Ml 
 
 ir>'J. Ili'iiry Snic'iitnii lly .InnirK Ml 
 
 j.'ill. Tiiuc, till! AviiiKiT. lly .Miv. .Miiruli Ml 
 
 I.Vt. 'I lie CiiiiiiiitKi'liinrr. Ilv .laiiiiH 1 OH 
 
 ir.r>. Tim Wlf. 'rt .NUtiT. Ily'.MrK. Iliililiuck Ml 
 
 IMl. 'I'hiilidlil WiiiKliliMTrt M) 
 
 U.7. The Diuinlitir Mf NlKlit. lly I'lillcmi '.'ft 
 
 lf)S. Htliiul MlPiiiiliiitli. lly lli.n. I'iumIIiic Nmldil Ml 
 
 15:i. Artliiir I (>M»iiy lly C'liptiilii Iv II. .Milinaii. . M) 
 
 Kill. Tim lati'. llv .liuiiirt I>0 
 
 1(11. The I.H(lv iiiiii llii' I'rlrxt. lly Mrn. Miiliorly. . Ml 
 
 III.'. Aliiirt 1X11(1 olMliicIrr'. lly.IiimiM M) 
 
 lOii. rill' Tutnr'rt Wind 6(1 
 
 UM. I'liin^iiii' Sftckvilli'. llv Mr--. Iliirhiiry 7ft 
 
 111.'). Unviii.Ji'lilli'. liy Mrs. Mar^li Ml 
 
 lilll. .Mnurli'i' Tlcninv. llv Lever 10(1 
 
 1(17. The Ileiidof (lie Kiiiiillv. lly MIhk .Mulodk. . . 75 
 
 lO-*. DriIcu. lly Waiburtoii Ml 
 
 Kill. KiilkeiiliiiiK' 7.') 
 
 170. I'he Diilliiii..'. Itv Level- 1 Ml 
 
 171. Iviir; or, I'he Sk.intx-lliiy. lly Mln« Curlen . . Ml 
 
 17-. reciiiliillli). lly .lunie.J Ml 
 
 17:1 Aiiim llaiiiiiier. lly Temmi' M) 
 
 171. A Life i.f VIeixdIii.le.-. lly .laiiu's M) 
 
 l"ri llenrv I!hiii(iii(1. lly Tlmekeray 7r) 
 
 170,177. .My Novel. Itv lliilwer 1 BO 
 
 17S. Katie Stewart, lly Miv. oli pliant 'J5 
 
 17!). Cattle Avon. lly Miv. Maivh r>0 
 
 ISil. AKne..< Sorei. lly .laiiieM M) 
 
 HI. Anallia'H lliisliaiid. lly MUrt Miilock M1 
 
 !><•.'. Villetli'. lly (liner Hell... 7.'> 
 
 18;i. Lover's St riita},'eiii. lly Mi.''.-- Carlen Ml 
 
 LSI. Cloiuleil llaiiiiine.-'s. ily CoiiiiteHM D'Oivay. . . Ml 
 
 K"*. Charle.^ Aiiehester. A Memorial 7ft 
 
 iMi. Lady Lee"» Widowhood ftO 
 
 1S7. Tlie Do.ld I'aniily Aliroad. lly Lover 1 '.'ft 
 
 I8S. .*<ir .lanper ( arew. llv Lever 7ft 
 
 ISO. Quiet Heart, lly MTh. Olipliant '2ft 
 
 190. Aubrey. Hy Miv Maivh 75 
 
 101. TieonderoK'a. lly rlaiiie.i 5(1 
 
 lO'J. Hard Times. llv IMekenn Ml 
 
 19.1. The YomiK lliiHrmnd. Ity Mrn. drey 50 
 
 191. The Motlier'H L'eediiipeiiKe. llv (iraee Ajjiiilar. 7ft 
 \m. Avillion, and oilier TaleH. Hv Mien .Miiloek. . . 1 'Jft 
 I'.Ki. Norlh anil .-'outh. llv Mrs. ( faskell M) 
 
 107. t;oimtry N'eit;liborlio(id. lly Miss Diipiiy r)0 
 
 108. ('oiistanee Herbert, llv Miss .lewsbiiry .M) 
 
 199. The Heiress of Ilaiiglitoii. liy .Mrs. AJarsh. . . 50 
 
 'IW. The Old Dominion, liy , lames .Ml 
 
 '.'01. ,Iohn Halifax. Hy Miss Miiloek 75 
 
 2lli>. Hvelyn Marston. Hy .Mrs. Marsh 50 
 
 20;t. Kortnnes of (ilencore. llv Lever 51) 
 
 204. Leonora d' Oreo. Hv .lames .ftO 
 
 5:nft, Nothint' New. Hy Miss Mnloek 50 
 
 •ii)0. The Hose of Ashnrst. Hy Mrs. Marsh 50 
 
 •-'07. The Athelings. Hy .Mrs. ( Hipliant 75 
 
 •-'iW. Scenes of Cleriral i.ife Hy (Jeorfro Kliot 7ft 
 
 'illO. My Lady Ludlow. Hv Mrs. (iaskell 2ft 
 
 210, 211. Gerald IMtzgerald. Hv Lever 50 
 
 212. A Life for a Life. Hy .Miss Mnloek 60 
 
 213. Sword and down. Hy deo. Lawrenre 2ft 
 
 214. Misrepresentation. Hv .\nna II. Dnirv 100 
 
 i\Tt. The Mill on the I'loss.' Hy deoifre Kliot 75 
 
 210. One of Them. Hv I .ever 75 
 
 •-'17. A Day's liide. Hv Lever 50 
 
 ■JIS Notice to (Juit. liv Wills 50 
 
 •-'10, A Strange Story. Hy Hiilwer 1 00 
 
 '2211. The StrnggleB of r.rnwii,.lones, and Kobinson. 
 
 Hv Anthony TroUope .^0 
 
 •221. Abe'l Drake's Wife, liy .lohn Saunders 7ft 
 
 'lli. Olive Hlnke'8 Good AVork. lly Jeiiffreson... . 75 
 
 22.1. The I'rofes^or'B Ijidy 2ft 
 
 3-'4. Mistress and Maid. By Miss Mnloek .Ml 
 
 22ft. Aurora IToyd. Hy M. K. Braddou 75 
 
 220. Harrington. By Lever 7ft 
 
 227. Sylvia's Lovers. By Mrs. Ga.'kcll 75 
 
 •22s. 
 2J0. 
 2:10. 
 '.'ill. 
 •2:12. 
 ■2!i:i. 
 •2:14. 
 
 2115. 
 •2:10. 
 2:17. 
 
 2;i8. 
 
 2ni>. 
 •241 '. 
 
 •241. 
 •.'42. 
 •24:1. 
 244. 
 245. 
 '24(1. 
 247. 
 24 «. 
 240. 
 '.'Ml. 
 '251. 
 2ft2. 
 
 2ft:i. 
 
 •.!.'->4. 
 2M-.. 
 250. 
 257. 
 2fts. 
 
 250. 
 200. 
 '201, 
 202. 
 
 203. 
 
 '204. 
 
 20.-.. 
 
 200. 
 ! 207. 
 i 20.8. 
 I '20.1. 
 ! 270. 
 I 
 
 271. 
 
 •.'7'2. 
 
 27:1. 
 
 274. 
 
 27.5. 
 
 270. 
 
 277. 
 
 27S. 
 
 270. 
 
 280. 
 
 281. 
 
 2,82, 
 
 2'^;!. 
 
 284. 
 
 28ft, 
 
 280. 
 
 2^7. 
 
 288, 
 ' 2sO. 
 [ 200. 
 
 '201. 
 
 20'.'. 
 
 203. 
 i 204. 
 
 '205. 
 
 200! 
 
 297. 
 
 208. 
 I 200. 
 
 :!iio. 
 
 301. 
 
 '302. 
 
 303. 
 
 ' 304. 
 305. 
 300. 
 307. 
 308. 
 
 309. 
 310. 
 311. 
 
 PWri; 
 
 A rimt I'rlendshlp , $0 50 
 
 A Hark Muht's Work, lly Mri", tiiukull 5' 
 
 doiintess (.|,.elii. liy 1;, Marllit 'tt> 
 
 St. olave'K TB 
 
 A I'olnl of Honor 50 
 
 LIveltDonii, lly .lealTreson 1(H) 
 
 Martin I'ole. lly Miiinders f,() 
 
 Mary Lyndsav. Hy Lady liiilly I'onsniiliy. . . 50 
 
 I'.leanor's \ le'tory. lly .M. L. I raddoii 75 
 
 Itaehel L'ay. Hy Trollope M) 
 
 .lohn .Marehinont'rt Legacy, lly M. 10. limit- 
 
 (Ion 75 
 
 Aniiis Warlelgh's 1 (irtniKs. Hv Holme I,ee. . 75 
 
 The Wife's l.vldcnce. Hv Wills Ml 
 
 lliirliara's Hlslorv. Hv Aiiiella II. i:d«ur(li4. . . 75 
 
 Cousin I'hilll.s. llv Mrs. (ia-kell '2ft 
 
 Wlinl will lie do with Ity llv Hiilwer 1 50 
 
 The l,ad(l( r of l.lf.. Hy Aiiolia II. Ldwardn.. Ml 
 
 Denis Diiviil. Hy Tliiiekeriiy ftd 
 
 .Maurice Derlng. lly deo. Lawrence Nl 
 
 .Margaret Deiizil's History 75 
 
 (;nlle ,\loiie, Hy diorge Augustus Sain 75 
 
 Mallle: a Strav 75 
 
 Mv HidHk r'H Wife, Hy Ann lia B. Ldwards. . 5(. 
 
 llicle Silas. Hy ,). S. I.e I aim 75 
 
 Level the Uld((H er. Hy TliKckeray if. 
 
 Miss Miiekeii/.ie. |!y Antlioiiy Trolloiiu Ml 
 
 (111 tiiiard. lly Aniile Til as BO 
 
 Tlico Leigh, ily Annie Tlioinas 50 
 
 Denis Donne, llv Annie ThoinaH 50 
 
 Belial .' Ml 
 
 Carry's l onfession. lly the Author of " .Mat- 
 tie : a Stray" 7ft 
 
 Miss darew. lly Amelia I'.. I'dw ards Ml 
 
 Hand and dliive. lly Amelia II. Ldwards. . . . 50 
 
 dliv Deveicll. llv .1". S. I.e I iinii 60 
 
 Hair a Million of'.Mime.v. lly Amelia B. Kd- 
 
 warils 7ft 
 
 The Helton I'.state. Bv .\iithonv Trolloiio. ... Ml 
 
 Agnes. By Mrs.ollphiiiil ." 75 
 
 Walter Goring. Bv .\iinle Tjiomi.s 75 
 
 Mii.twell Dnwltt. "llv Mrs. .1. 11. IIiMell 75 
 
 The Tollers oftlieSeii. By Victor Hugo 75 
 
 Miss Mnriorilianks. By Mrs Olipliant 50 
 
 The True IlisUiryofa l.iltle liiigiiniiinin till 
 
 Gilbert lliig-e. By the Anllior of " A I'irst 
 
 Friindship" 1 00 
 
 Sans Merci. By Geo. I.awi ciice 50 
 
 I'linui.' Keller. Hy Mrs. ,1. II. laiidoU 50 
 
 Land at Last. Hy IMiiinnd \ ales fto 
 
 I'elix Holt, the I;a'illcal. lly (leoige Kliot 7ft 
 
 Hound to Hie Wheel. By .lohn Siaiiulers 75 
 
 All in Hie Dark. By ,1. S. Le Iniiii 60 
 
 Kissing tile Led. Itv 1 diniiiuMates 7ft 
 
 The Itace for Wealth'. By .Mrs. ,1. II. IMddell. . 75 
 Lizzie Lurion of drevrlgg. liy .Mrs. i:, Lynn 
 
 Linlon '. 75 
 
 The He.incleics, I'atlier and Son. Bv Clarke. 50 
 
 Sir Brooke Tossbrooke. By Cliaiies Lever .. . 611 
 
 Madonna Marv. Hv Mrs. ( >li|ilmiit 50 
 
 dradock Nowc^ll. liy 1!. D. Hliukinore 76 
 
 Beriilbal. I'roiii the (terman of 1.. .Milhlbach. 50 
 
 Itacliel's Secret 75 
 
 The Claverings. Hv Anthony Trollojie Ml 
 
 The Village on the (ililT. liy .Miss TJjackeray. 26 
 
 I'layed Out. By Annie Tlionias 7ft 
 
 Black Sheep. By i:diinind ^'ates 60 
 
 Sowing the Wind. Hy JIis. i:. Lynn Linton.. 50 
 
 Nora and Archibald Lee .' ftn 
 
 Uayniond's lleicijiie Ml 
 
 Mr. Wynyard's AVard. By 1 loline Leo 60 
 
 Alec rorbes of Howglen. lly Mac Donald 75 
 
 No Man'.s Trlend. By V. ^\. L'oliiiison 7f( 
 
 Called to Account. By Annie Tlioniiis fio 
 
 Casto 50 
 
 The Curate's Discipline. Hy Mrs. lOiloait 50 
 
 Circe. Bv Habinglon White ftO 
 
 The Tenants of .Malory, lly .1. S. Le Fanii 50 
 
 Carlyon's Year, lly the Author of " Lost Sir 
 
 Massingberd," itc 25 
 
 The Waterdale N'eiglibors. Hy tlie Author of 
 
 "Paul Massie" 6(1 
 
 Mabel's Progress. Hy the Author of "Aunt 
 
 Margaret's Trouble " 50 
 
 Onild I'ourt. By deorge Mac Donald 5n 
 
 The lirothers' Bet. liy Kmilio ITygare Carlcn 25 
 
 Playing for High Stakes. By Aiu'iio Thomas. . 2ft 
 
 Margaret's lOngagcnuiit 5(1 
 
 One of the Tamily. By the Author of "Car- 
 lyon's Year" 25 
 
 Five Hundred Pounds I!i ward. Hya Barrister 50 
 
 Hrownlowfl. Hy Mrs. ( lliplmnt 3s 
 
 Charlotte's Inheritance. By M. K. BiadJou . . 6U 
 
Harper's Library qf Seltet Navels. 
 
 .'Ita. Ji'i\nlu'« OiiIkI \M\\ Ily tli.i Aiitlior of "}<t. 
 
 i»Ihvi''k, .Vr to M 
 
 3ia. I'.i r lliiiimtilly. Ily 1'. W, lli>l)lii*on .'>•• 
 
 :ii4. llrjiki>i<|i('iiii>. Ily (jro. I,iiHri'i'iin> M 
 
 aiS A l.'Mt Niiirii'. Ily ,;, Slirrliliiii 1^' rnnii fti» 
 
 lllrt. l,MV.'..r Mining.' llv Wllllaiii lllni-k M 
 
 :iK. I>.'ii(l-S>':t Iriilt. Ily Si. i:. lliiHl.lori M) 
 
 ills. Did IhiHiT llnii-'t'. Ily .\riiili' 'I'll 114 r>il 
 
 lll.i. liii' llmiiili'l^lix iif lliKlii>|i'H I nllv. Ily 1 4! VII r. M 
 
 ll'JO. MIMi'nl. Ily iiiMii'Kliiiin M. Criilk tM) 
 
 .'iJl. NutiiH'N Niilili'iiiiiu. Ily tliii Aiitiiiir nf '• Uii. 
 
 clii'l'H .iront" Ml 
 
 :!'.'.'. Kiillili'i'M. Ily tlio Author III' " lliiyiiiiiiul'rt llo- 
 
 rMliir" Ml 
 
 i'.'.'.l Tliiit lliv "f Niirrntl'K. Ilv « liurli'H U'vcr 'Jft 
 
 ;'.21. In Silk Alllrc. Ilv W. Uliiok M 
 
 ;fjft. Ill Ity. Ily lliiirv Klni,'^. y '-'•'' 
 
 S.'i'i. Kul-ii' ('iil"r.i. Ilv .\iiiiii' riiiiiim" 5i 
 
 lliT. Mi'taV riiltli. It'v 111.. Author iif" St. oliiv.'H." W 
 U2i. I'liiiiiil lii'ul. liy iliii Aiith.ir of "Ciirlyoii'd 
 
 Yiiir" M 
 
 820. Wn rkeil In I'lirt. Ily I'.ilmnml ViitcM Ml 
 
 8:i'i. Th,. .\llnl.HT'< \Mf... Ily .MrH. oilphiint 7.'> 
 
 :i;il. A llrgu'iir <in ILirHitmck. Ily tliii Antlinr i.f 
 
 "Ciirlvdii'rt ^iMr'" .15 
 
 8n2, KIttv. Ilv Iho Aiith. riif "PiK'tnr.lm'.ih" .... r.o 
 
 83:;. Oiilv IIiT-ilf. Ily Annli! ThiimiiH r> i 
 
 .Til. Ilirill. Ily John Saunili'm M 
 
 aS.'i. Inhr I'l.nt. Ilv .\lt..n ('ly.lo M 
 
 83i'i. Si l!iin-i ihiiU.niil Ahmv. Ily Mm. A.t '. Sti'clo. U\ 
 
 :t:i7. ItiiUl.d. Ily .liilhili.iil.liinl ",') 
 
 illis. Ilinntth Ihu Whcelrt. Ity tho Aiithm ot "Olivii 
 
 Viirroo" .M) 
 
 .l.'iO. Stern N'.Ti'Hslty. Ily !•'. W. Knhlnsiin Ml 
 
 :i4ii. tiwiiiilnljrii.'.^ Ilnrvont. liy thu Authnr of 
 
 "L'luiyoii'a \L'iir" 2.'» 
 
 riiH't 
 
 nil. Kllini'ny. Ily \V. Illark f M 
 
 Ml .liilui! It fxivi' htmy, Ily Mr', <)l |>hunt M 
 
 ■.AS. Trui. til II i>i.|f. Ily I'. \V. Itnliiiirt .n M 
 
 UI4. Vi rmilcii. Ilylln' Auiliorof "Aum Miirn'nrt'l'ii 
 
 Triiiihlu" n.l 
 
 8in. A ll.iht:!'!. iii< Oiii'nl. Ily tliu Aniliiir of 'M;|I. 
 
 Iurt lliigp. " SO 
 
 ;ini. Km.iii. |{iiH..,.|| Tft 
 
 :i4T. 'I'hil Mill l;\|i,'<'tiiiit. llyllifAuthiirnf 'liny- 
 
 nimi.l'H ||i.|..|iii." n<i 
 
 :M<). Whiili U till. Il.r.ijni.r hi 
 
 :U'>. 'I'll'' Viviiiii K.iiiiiii'i-. Ily M"rlliiitir Ciilliiiii., Mi 
 
 :if<ii. Ill Iiiity li'iiin.l. Illiilr«ii.il M 
 
 •ir>l, Ihi' WiinliMi mill IliK'hi ."ti'l'TiiH't'ln. Ill 1 vol. 
 
 Ily .\fitliimv rriilhi|iu 1ft 
 
 :l^.'. Fi''iiiri'liUll.M-.i.rii|,i',^? Ilv Mih. Illlnurl,... M 
 
 :i.'.;i. .\ Nlrrn. Ily r. A'li.l|ilin- rinllnpc Ml 
 
 o.M, .Sir Harry llntK|iiir of llninlil' ilmultr. liy 
 
 Antl.oiiy 'rro'l'i|i(>. llliii'trMtril .... ft' 
 
 ':ttf>. Vm\\'« I ii'iii'. Ily It i;. rraiiCillon r.'i 
 
 ;.N1. Dal'.v .Nlihol. Ilv I.ady llanlv f)ll 
 
 ilM. Ilri'il ill til.' Iloni'.' Ily the Autlu r of •> Curly. 
 
 on'H ^lar" BO 
 
 .'t.'iS, Kt'iihiiiN (^111' t. Ilv Mii-iillrnililon. IlluHlrutdl. ft" 
 Sift'J. M-nanli ,,t .MiiiiiiiK.r.ano. Ily VV. Illiick. II- 
 
 IiHtrati'd (HI 
 
 tiOil. A l.ili'H A""!/.!'. Ily Mrs.I. II. I.'lihli'll Bn 
 
 iltU. Aiili'ioH. Ily ( M'li. I.iwvi'ncc fla 
 
 .".rta. Her 1,'pril aii'l Mii'trr. Ily I'liTpnco .Miirrynl.. Bo 
 
 3..X Won-S'.t \V 1. Ily the Aiithoi of "rurijr- 
 
 on'H \i'ar" BO 
 
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 :iOf). Anno I'imui'.''h. Hy tin' Author of ".Miibi'l'H 
 
 rn'j.-ri'^-" Tf. 
 
 :i(lil. A niiii-lil.r of ll.'lh. Ily \V. Illnclt B i 
 
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THE DOMESTIC LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 THOMAS JEFFEESON. 
 
 COMPILED FllO-M 
 
 FAMILY LETTEES AXD IlEMIXISCENCES 
 
 liY HIS (UiEAT-GUANDDAUGIITEK, 
 
 SAKAH N. RANDOLPH. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Crown 8vo, lUuniinatcd Cloth, Ijevcled Edges, $2 50, 
 
 Tliis vol'.iino briiiir'' tho life of JefTerpon in a l)iief 
 cpuco witliiii Uie itMch "f all. While not writin;,' of 
 liim lis of the gi'e^'t man or HlatcsiMian, Miss Kandulph 
 has j,'iven t-ntlicionl outline of tlie oontenii)orary pub- 
 lic events, esp(!cially of thoBe in wliiih Jeflerson was 
 enjiaged, to make the history of his limes snmcienlly 
 (•lc7)r. Ilcr o'ljcct, however, slie .says, Inis been to ^'ive 
 .1 faillifiil i)ictnre of Jefferson as he was in private life, 
 and for this Aw. was particularly well tltted. Her bi- 
 o"rapby is so artU^ss, so frank, and so uiicolored, dif- 
 lerinf,' so completely from the lives of public men as 
 ;;oncrally written. * ' " This extremely iutereating vo\- 
 nmc.—ltichmund Whvj. 
 
 One of the most charraing and entertaining of books, 
 and its pa<,'cs will be a source of continual surpiise 
 and pleasure to tliosc who, while admirinir the states- 
 Man, liave had their admiration tempered by the be- 
 lief tliat he was a demago^'ue, a libertine, a framcsler, ; 
 and a scoffer at reliu'ion. The age in which Jefferson j 
 lived was one in which political rancors and aiiimosi- ■ 
 lies e.xistcd with no less bitterness than in our later i 
 (lay, and in which, moreover, mutual abuse and malig- I 
 nant recrimination were indulged in with equal fury j 
 and recklessness. Charges were nnide against Jcffer- 
 s(m, by his political opponents, that clung to his good 
 name and sullied it, making it almost a by-word of 
 shame, and its owner n man whose example was to be 
 shuinied. Tlie ijiejudices and calumnies then born 
 have existed down to the i)resent day; but the mists 
 of evil report that have hemmed his life and his mem- 
 ory about are now clearing away, and this sunny l)ook 
 will dispel the last shadow they have cast, and will 
 display the maligned victim of party hate in his true 
 character— as a I'ond, an amiable, and a sim))le-hearted 
 father; a Arm friend; a truly moral and (Jod-fearing 
 citi/.cn, and one of those few trreat men who have had 
 the rare fortune to bo likewise good men.— /?()s<«)i 
 Satiirdan hrciiiii;! Gazcttr. 
 
 The author of this charming book has had access to 
 the best possible sources of information conf-erninir 
 the private character of Mr. Jefferson, embracing both 
 the written testimony of his correspondence and the 
 oral testimony of family tradition. From these ma- 
 terials, guided by a profound reverence for the subject, 
 the writer has constructed a most interestini,' (icrsonal 
 biography. " * " A most agreeabi' : iddition to American 
 literature, and will revive the memory of a patriot wl.o 
 merits the respect and gratitude of his countrymc;:.— 
 I'hiladelphia Age. 
 
 This handsome volume is a valuable acnui.'ition !!i 
 American history. It brings to the iinblic ol)servalii>n 
 nnuiy most interesting iiicicleuls in the life of the ihird 
 President; and the times and men of the repuliiic's 
 beginnings are here portrayed in a glowing and geni- 
 al liglit. The author, in referring to the death-scenes 
 of Jefferson, reports seutiiuenls from liig lips which 
 contradict the current opinion that the writer of the 
 Declaration of Imlependcuce was an inlldel. We are 
 !,'lad to nnike this record in behalf of truth. Young 
 people would tind this book botli entertaining and 
 instructive. Its style is fresh and compact. Its jiages 
 are full of tender memories. The great man whose 
 career is so charmingly pictured belongs to us all. - 
 Mfthodiat liccordcf. 
 
 Tliere is no more said of public matters in it than is 
 absolutely necessary to make it clear and intelligible; 
 but we Inive Jefferson, the man and the citizen, the 
 husband, the father, the agriculturist, and the neich- 
 biH-— the man, in short, as he lived in the eyes of his 
 relatives, his closest friends, and liis most intimate 
 associates. lie is the Virginian gentleman at the va- 
 rious stages of his marvelous career, and comes home 
 to us as a beintr of llosb nnd blood, and .so his story 
 gives a series of lively ])ictures of a manner of exist- 
 ence that has iiasscd away, or that is so passing, for 
 they are more c(niservativc at the South, socially 
 speakin;:, than are we at the North, tboUL'b they live 
 so nnich nearer tlie sun than we ever can live. •*' We 
 can commend this book to every one who would Know 
 the main facts of Mr. Jefferson's iiublic career, and 
 those of bis jirivate life. It is tho best work respect- 
 ing him that has been i)ublished, and it is not so lame 
 as to repel even indolent or careless readers. It is, 
 too, an ornamental volume, being not only beautifully 
 printed and bound, but well illustrated. * * * Kvery 
 American should own the volume.— />(w/«» Tntvrlhr. 
 A charmiuL'ly compiled and written book, and it 
 has to do with one of tho very <jrreatest men of our na- 
 tional history. There is scarcely one on the roll of 
 our ))iiblic men who was jxissessed of more progress- 
 ive individuality, or whose character will better repay 
 st\idy, than Thomas Jefferson, and this biography is a 
 gre.it boon. -.V. 1'. Krcnina Mail. 
 
 Hoth deeply interesting and valuable. The author 
 has displayed great tact and taste in the seleftinn of 
 her uniterials and its arrangemeut.— /iic/i)»n)((; DU- 
 jiati-h. 
 A charming book. -AVio Orkam Times. 
 
The Domestic Life of Thomas ycffcrson. 
 
 It is o series of (Icllslitfiil home pictures, which pre- 
 sent tile licro as lie was I'aiinlisirly l;iiowu to his fami- 
 ly and liis he.it friends, in \\\* lukls, in liis lihiary, al 
 lij>i lal)le, and ou tliu i)ri)ad vcraiidan at Monticcllo, 
 wliere all the ^!weete^t llavors of his social iialuio were 
 (lifTubeil. Ills descendant does nut conceal the fact 
 that she is jirond of h<ir f^reat proi^enitor; but she is 
 in:;cnions, and leaves his private letters mostly to 
 speak for themselves. It has been thouijlit that "a 
 kin^; is never a hero to his valet," and the proverb has 
 been considered undeniable; but this volnme shows 
 that Jefferson, if not exactly the "hero" to whom a 
 liitle obscurity is so essential, was at least warmly 
 loved and enthtisiastically esteemed and admired by 
 those who kncwhiiu best. The letters in thisvohinic 
 are full of interest, for they are chietly published for 
 the llrst lime now. They show a conscientious ;;cn- 
 tleman, not at all ^iveii to jjersonal indultrences, (piick 
 in both aiiLier and fori;ivene>s, the J;l•<^■ltest American 
 student of his time, excepting the cold-blooded Ham- 
 ilton, absolutely without formality, but particular and 
 exacting; in the extreme— just the man who carried 
 his wife to the Wliite House on the i)illioii of his gray 
 mare, and showed a liritish embassador the door for an 
 ofl'euse airaiust g'jod-breeding. — Cliicwjo Kveninij I'nnt. 
 
 The reader will recoi;ni/.e the calm and iihilosophic 
 yet cariie-t sjiirit of the thinker, with the tenderness 
 aud playful amiability of the fatlier and friend. The 
 letters can not but shed a favoralilc light on the char- 
 acter of perhajis the best-abused man of his time. — 
 .V. 1'. Ei-eniixj I 'nut. 
 
 No attempt is made in this volume to present its 
 subject as a public man or as a statesman. It is sim- 
 ply soULTht to i)icture him as livini; in the midst of his 
 (liiinestic circle. And tliis it is whicli will invest the 
 book with interest for all classes of readers, for all 
 who, whatever their politics, can apiireciatc the beauty 
 of a pure, loving life. * * " It is written in an easy, 
 agreeable style, by a most loving hand, and, ijcrliaps, 
 better than any other biography extant, makes the 
 reader acipiaiuted witli the real character of a man 
 whose public career has furnished material for so 
 much book-inaking.— /'A!7«(/('/;)/a'rt Inquirer. 
 
 The perusal of this interesting volume confirms the 
 impression that whatever criticisms may be brought 
 to bear upon the ofllcial career of Jlr. Jctlerson, or his 
 intluencc upon the politics of this country, there was 
 a peculiar charm in all the relations of his pcrsomil 
 and social life. In si)ite of the streuL'th of his ccm- 
 victions, which he certainly often expressed with an 
 energy amounting to vehemence, he was a man of rare 
 sunuiuesB of temperament and sweetness of disposi- 
 tion. He had qualities which called forth the love of 
 bis friends no less than the hatred of his opponents. 
 His most familiar acquaintance cherished the most 
 ardent admiration of his cluiracter. His virtuiis in the 
 circle of home won the applause even of Lis public 
 adversaries. — .V. V. Tribune. 
 
 It lifts up the curtain of his private life, and by nu- 
 merous letters to his familyailowsustocatchaglim))se 
 of his real nature mid character. Many interesting 
 reminiscences have been collected by the author and 
 are presented to the reader.— Boston Commercial liul- 
 kiln. 
 
 These letters show him to have been a loving hus- 
 band, a tender father, aud a hospitable gentleman.— 
 Preshiiterian. 
 
 Jelterson was not only eloquent in state papers, but 
 he was full of point and clearness amounting to wit 
 in his minor correspondence. — .llbanii Ariiun. 
 
 It is the record of the life of one of the most ex- 
 traordinary nieu of any age or country.— 7{jcA?)iO(uf 
 Inquirer, 
 
 With the public life of Thomas Jeflerson the i)ublic 
 is fatniliar, as without it no adecpiate knowledge is 
 l)ossil)le of the history of Virginia or of the United 
 States. Its guiding principles ami great events, as 
 likewise its smallest details, have long been before the 
 world in the "JelVeisoii Papers," and in the laborious 
 history (jf Kandall. But to a full appreciation of the 
 politician, tlie statesman, the publicist, and the think- 
 er, there was still wanting some ciinii)lete and correct 
 knowledge of the man and his daily life amidst his 
 family. This want Miss Uandolph has endeavored 
 most successfully to supply. As scarcely one of the 
 founders of the republic had warmer friends, or ex- 
 erted a deeper and a wider iiilluence uiion the country, 
 so scarcely one encountered more bitter anitnosity or 
 had to live down slander more envenomed. Truth 
 conquered in the end, ami the foul rumors, engendered 
 in partisan conllicts, against the private life of Jefler- 
 son have long shrunk into silence in the light of hi- 
 fame. Nevertheless, it is well done of his descendant 
 thus to place before the world his lite as in his letters 
 and his conversation it appeared from day to day to 
 those nearest and dearest to him. N(U- is it a matter 
 of small value to bring to our sight the interior life of 
 our ancestors as it is delineated in the letters of Jef- 
 ferson, touching incidently on all the subjects of dress, 
 food, manners, amusements, expenditures, occupa- 
 tions — in brief, neglecting nothing of what the men 
 of those days were and thought ami did. It is of sucli 
 materials that consist the i)icturcs of history whose 
 gauntoutlinesofbattles, sieges, coronations, dethrcme- 
 ments, and parliaments are of little worth without the 
 living and breathing details of everyday existence. ** * 
 The author has happily iierformed her task, never ob- 
 truding her own presence upon the reader, careful only 
 to come forward when necessary to ex])lain some 
 doubtful i)oint or to connect the events of dilTeront 
 ilates. She may be congratulated upon the grace with 
 which she has both written and forborne to write, 
 never being beguiled by the vanity of authorship or 
 that too great care which is the besetting sin of hi- 
 oirraphy. — I'etirdmnj Dailii Imlex, 
 
 It is a highly interesting book, not only as a por- 
 traiture of the domestic lite of Jeflerson, but as a side 
 view of the parties and iioutics of the day, witnessed 
 in our country s(^venty years ago. The correspond- 
 ence of the public characters at that period will be 
 read with sjiecial interest by those who study the ear- 
 ly history of our government. — llichmond Chrintian 
 Oh-icrver. 
 
 In theunrcstrainedconfidenceof family correspond- 
 ence, nature has always full sway, and the revelations 
 ])resented in this book of Mr. Jefl^erson's real temper 
 and opinions, unrestrained or unmoditled by the can- 
 tiiin called for in public documents, make the work 
 not only vahn\ble but entertaining.— .V. 1'. Worhi. 
 
 The author has done her work with a lovint' hand, 
 and has made a must interesting book.- .V. V, Cum- 
 mereial Adrertiser. 
 
 It gives a i)icture of his private life, which it pre- 
 sents in a most favorable liirht, calculated to redeem 
 Jefferson's character from nuiny, if not all, the asper- 
 sions and slanders which, in common with most pub- 
 lic characters, he had to endure while living.- ^Vcm) 
 IScilfind ,'<tanil(tr(l. 
 
 The letters of .left'erson are models of epistolary 
 composition— easy, graceful, and simple.— A'cu' Bedford 
 Mernnij. 
 
 The i)ook is a very good picture of the social life 
 not only of himself hut of the age in which he lived. 
 — Detroit /Vi.s/. 
 
 One of the most cbarmiug memoirs of the day.— 
 .V. r. Times. 
 
 
 PuBLisHEn BY HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 
 

 THE TOM BROWN BOOKS. 
 
 TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS. 
 
 By An Old Boy. New Edition. Beautifully Illustrated by Arthur Hughes 
 and Sydney Prior Hall. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 
 
 Nntliing need be said of the merits ot this ncknowl- 
 edged (111 all hands to be one of the very best i)oy's books 
 ever written. '■Tom llrown"does not reach the point 
 of ideal excellence. He is not a faultless boy : but his 
 boy-faults, by t!ie way they are corrected, help him in get- 
 ting on. The more of such reading can be furnished the 
 better. There will never be too miicli of \\..—ExatniMy 
 and Chronicle. 
 
 Can be read a dozen times, and each time with tears 
 and laughter as genuine and impulsive as at the first. — 
 Rochester Demoi—^f. 
 
 Finely printi d, and contains excellent illustrations. 
 
 "Tom Drown" is a book which will always be populai 
 
 ' with boys, and it deserves to be, — World (N. Y.). 
 
 ! For healthy reading it is one book in a thousand. 
 
 i vance. 
 
 -Ad- 
 
 rOM BROWN AT OXFORD. 
 
 By the Author of "Tom Brown's School Days." New Edition. With Il- 
 lustrations by Sydney Prior Hall. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents. 
 
 A new and very pretty edition. The illustrations are 
 exceedingly good, the typography is clear, and tlie paper 
 while and fine. 'Ihere is no need to say any thing of the 
 bter.yy merits of the work, which has become a kind of 
 classic, and which presents the grand old Tory University 
 to the reader in all its glory and fascination.— A-wwiV/i"- 
 Vost. j 
 
 A book of which one never wearies.— /V.j/y/,?r/(jK. ! 
 
 Fairly entitled to tlie rank and dignity of an Englisli 
 classic. Plot, style, and truthfulness are of the soundest 
 Hritish character. Racy, idiomatic, mirror-like, always 
 interesting, suggesting thought on the knottiest social 
 and religious questions, now deejily moving by its uncon- 
 scious pathos, and anon inspiring uproarious laughter, 
 it is a work the world will not willingly let die. — Christian 
 A dvocatc. 
 
 Both books ^ in One Volume, ^vo, Cloth, ^i 50. 
 
 ifn 
 bd. 
 
 Published p,y HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 
 
 Harper & Brothers also publish 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF ETON. By an Etonian. 
 With Illustrations. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 
 
 Sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the UniUd States, on receipt of the price 
 
TWO VALUABLE HOUSEHOLD BOOKS 
 
 PcuLisHED BY IIAKrER & UKOTIIEHS, Ni;w Youk. 
 
 OXJR GMRLS. 
 
 By DIO LEWIS, A.M., M.D. 
 
 NKW KDITIOIV. 12mo, Cloth, $^1 OO. 
 
 The hodk not only deserves to be rend ; it vill lie 
 rcjul, IteciintiC it is fiill of interest, conceriiinf^ itself, 
 ns it (l()e^', witli t-iich inattersi as ;;irls' boot." and glioesi ; 
 liow ^'irlti tiliould Wiillv: low neck and short slcives; 
 oiitratre.s upon llie body; Htockiiijrs siippoiterii! why 
 are women so small? idlenestt anion;,' ^^irls: sunshine 
 and health; a word about baths; what you should 
 eat; how to ninnaj.'e a cold; fat and tliin girls, etc., 
 etc. — .V. Y. Kccniitii Ptn^t. • 
 
 lir. Die Lewis lias written n sensible and lively book. 
 There is not a dull paire in it, and scarcely one that 
 does not convey some sound instruction. We wish 
 the book could enter thousands of our lioine.", fash- 
 ionable and unfashionable; for we believe it contains 
 su'^'ircstions and teacliiiii,' of precisely llie kind that 
 "our frirls" every where need. — S. Y. Imhyindent. 
 
 Tliis really important book. — Cliriatian fnlon. 
 
 Written in Dr. Lewis's free and lively stylo, and is 
 full of good ideas, the fruit of long study and e.vperi- 
 eiice, told in a sensible, practical way that commends 
 them to every one who reads. The whole liook is a<l- 
 mirably sensible. — Hnxtnn I'ust. 
 
 Full of practical and very sensible advice to young 
 womvn. —Ejiiicdjialian. 
 
 Dr. Lewis is well known as nn acute observer, .a 
 man of great practical sagacity in sanitary reform, and 
 a lively and brilliant writer upon medical subjects. — 
 S. Y. ()hKervcr. 
 
 We lilve it exceedingly. It says Just what ought to 
 be said, and that in style coUoqi'iial, short, sharp, and 
 inemnrablo. — Chrintian Adrnratc. 
 
 The whole tone of the book is pure and healthy.— 
 Albany J-^xpress. 
 
 Every page shows him to bo in earnest, mid thorongh- 
 ly alive to the importance of tlie subJectB he discu.-^es. 
 lie talks like one who lias a solemn message to deliver, 
 and who deems the matter far more essential than the 
 manner. Ills book is, therefore, a series of sliort, earn- 
 est ajjpcals against the unnatural, foolish, and suicidal 
 customs prevailing in fashionable society.— C/iurc/i- 
 iitaii. 
 A timely and mostdesirablebook.— .'Tjiri'd/T/fcW Union. 
 
 Full of spirv, sharp tilings about niatters i)ertaining 
 to health ; full of good advice, which, if people would 
 but take it, would soon change the world in some very 
 important resjiects; not profound or systematic, but 
 still a book Willi numberless good things iu it. — Lili- 
 erat Clin'xtian. 
 
 The author writes with vigor and point, and with 
 occasional dry humor. — U'iuti uti'r !^jiji. 
 
 IJri:nl"al of good, common-sense hints regarding 
 dress, diet, recreation, and other necessary things in 
 the fcinale economy. — lliintnn JaiiDud. 
 
 J)r. Lewis talks very i)lainly and sensibly, and makes 
 very many important suggestions. He does not mince 
 matters at all, but puts every thing in a straightfor- 
 ward iind, not seldom, homely way, perspicuous to the 
 dullest understanding. Ilis'stylo is lively and read- 
 able, and the book is very entertaining as well as in- 
 structive. — Itigifilfi; Salem, Mass. 
 
 One of the most popular of modern writers upon 
 health and the means ofits preservation.— /Vl.■s^//^ rinii 
 Danncr. 
 
 There is hardly any thing that may form a jiart of 
 woman's experience that is not touched upon.- C'Ai- 
 cago Journal. 
 
 THE BAZAR BOOK OF DECORUM: 
 
 CARE OF THE PERSON, MANNERS, ETIQUETTE, AND CEREIVIONIALS. 
 
 IGmo, Toned Paper, Cloth, Beveled Edges, $1 00. 
 
 A series of sensible, well-written, and pleasant es- 
 says on the care of the person, manners, etiquette, and 
 reicinonials. The title ISazar Honk is taken from the 
 fact that some of the essays which make U|) this vol- 
 ume appeared originally in the columns of Ilnrpn'H 
 Iktzar. This in itself is a sufficient recommendation— 
 /AujcrVs' /Ja--ar being probably the only journal of fiish- 
 i(Ui in the world which has good sense and enlight- 
 ened reason for its guides. The " I5a/.ar Hook of 
 Decorum" deserves every commendation.— /«(/('pe)l(^ 
 i'lit. 
 
 A very graceful and judicious compendium of the 
 laws of etiquette, taking its name l^rom the llnzni- 
 weekly, which has become an established authority 
 with the ladies of America upon all matters of taste 
 nud relinement. — S. Y. Hivninit I'oxt. 
 
 It is, without (piestion, the very best and most thor- 
 ough work on tlie subject whicii has ever been pre- 
 sented to the imblic. — nmoklini Dailii Times. 
 
 It would be a good thing if at least one copy of this 
 book were in every household of tlie I'liited States, in 
 order that all— especially the youth of both sexes— 
 might read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest its wise 
 instruction, iileasantly conveyed in a scliolarly man- 
 ner which eschews pedantry.— y7/i7a(/(7j>/4ia J'n'M. 
 
 Abounds in sensible suggestions for keeping one's 
 person in proper order, and (ov doing lltly and to one's 
 own satisfaction tlic lliousand social (liu"ies that make 
 111) so large a jiart of social and domestic life.— Cwvc- 
 Kjjonilenrc af Ciiirinnati Clironii-h. 
 
 Full of good and sound common-sense, and its sug- 
 gestions will ])rove valuable in many a social quanda- 
 ry. — I'ortlnnd 'J'lniiHcn'jit. 
 
 A little work embodying a multitude of useful hints 
 and suggestions regarding the proi)i'r care of the per- 
 son ami the formation of refined habits and manners. 
 The subject is treated with good sense and good taste, 
 and is relieved from tedium by an abundance of enter- 
 taining anecdotes and historical incident. Tlie author 
 is thorouixhly acquainted with the laws of hvLriene, and 
 wisely inculcates them while specifying theViiles based 
 upon them which regulate the civilities and cere- 
 monies of social life. — Krevimj Pout, Chicago. 
 
 * * * It would be easy to quiite a hundred curt, sharp 
 sentences, full of truth and force, and touching points 
 of behavior and iiersonal habitude that concern us all. 
 —Sprliiiijicld III j mill if(in. 
 
 Dy far the best book of the kind of which wc have 
 any knowledge. — Cliirnim .fovrnal. 
 
 An eminently seusiblu hook.— Liberal Christian. 
 
 It^~ Hai^per & Bkothers iviU send either of the above works by mail, postage frepaid, to any fiart o/ the 
 
 United States, on receipt of the price. 
 
SCIENCE FOR THE YOUNG. 
 
 laki' 
 
 iilts 
 per- 
 
 LTS. 
 
 stc. 
 iter- 
 tlKir 
 ami 
 used 
 ere- 
 
 BY JACOB ABBOTT, 
 
 Author of "The Youn;; Chi-is^tian SericH," "Marco Pnul Series," "Riiinbow and Lucky Series," "LiUlo 
 Learuer Series," "Fraucouia Stories," Illustrated llistories, &c, &c. 
 
 Few men enjoy a wider or better eiimed poimlarity us a writer for tlio youiiK than Jai-ol) 
 Abbott. His series of iiistories, and stories illustrative of moral truths, have furnished ainuseinent 
 and instruction to thousands. He has the knack of iniiiiing and gratifyiii},' curiosity. In the book 
 before us he shows his haiii)y faculty of iinpartint; useful information through the niediuin of a 
 |ileasant narrative, keeping alive the "iiuerest of the young reader, and fixing in his memory valu- 
 able truths. — Mvrcunj, New Bedford, .Mass. 
 
 Jacob Abbott is almost the only writer in the English language who knows how to combine 
 real amusement with real instructioii in such a manner that the eager young readers are (juite as 
 much interested in the useful knowledge he imparts as in the story which he makes so pleasant a 
 medium of instruction. — Buffalo Cummvrcinl Adrertiscr. 
 
 HEAT: 
 
 Being Part I. of Science for the Young. By 
 •fAcou AnnoTT. Coi)iously Illustrated. I'imo, 
 iUumiuated Cloth, black and gilt, ijil oO. 
 
 Perhaps that emincut and ancient gentleman who 
 told his yoniii,' master that there was no royal road 
 to Hcieuce could admit that he was mistaken after ex- 
 amining; one of the volumes of the series "Science lor 
 tlie YouiiLT," which tlie Harpers are now brin^'inj; out. 
 'i'lie lii-st, of these, "Heat," by Jacob Abbott, while 
 briiitrins two or throe youiif: travelers from a New 
 York liotel across the ocean to Liverpool in a Cuuarder, 
 makes tliom accpiaiiited with most of the Icadiiii,' scieu- 
 I ilic principles reirardint; heal. The idea of coiiveyinjr 
 scientific instruction in this manner is admirable, and 
 t lie metlind in which the plan is carried out is excellent. 
 While the youthful reader is skillfully entrapped into 
 penisiii^Mvliat appears to be an interestiiis; story, and 
 wliicli is really so, ho devours the substance and prin- 
 cipal facts of many learned treatises. Surely this isn 
 roval road for our young sovereigns to travel over. — 
 ir."-i7i;, N. Y. 
 
 It combines information with amusement, weav- 
 ing in with a story or sketch of travel dry rules of 
 mechanics or chemistry or philosophy. Mr. Abbott 
 accomplishes tins object very successfully. The story 
 is a simple one, and the characters he introduces are 
 natural and agreeable. Keaders of the volume, young 
 and old, will follow it with unabating interest, and it can 
 not, fail to have the intended eflect.— Ji'd'/.s/t Mvssciirier. 
 
 It is admirably done. * * * Having tried the book with 
 children, and found it absolutely fasciuatintj, even to 
 a bright hoy of eight, who has had no special prepa- 
 ration for it, we caii speak with entire contidence of its 
 value. The author has been careful in his statements 
 of facts and of natural laws to follow the very best au- 
 thorities; and on some i)oints of importance his ac- 
 count is more accurate and more useful than that given 
 in many works of considerable scientillc pretensions 
 written before the true character of heat as what Tyn- 
 dall calls "a mode of motiou" was fully recognized. 
 * * * Mr. Abbott has, in his " Heat," thrown a peculiar 
 charm upon his pages, wliich makes them at once clear 
 and delightful to children who can enjoy a fairy tale. 
 — ,V, Y. Kvenvhj Past. 
 
 • * * Mr. Abbott has avoided the errors so comm(m 
 with writers for popular effect, that of slurring over 
 tlie difflculiies of the subject through the desire of 
 making it intelligible and attractive to unlearned 
 readers. He never tampers with the truth of science, 
 nor attempts to dodge the solution of a knotty i)rob- 
 lem behind a cloud of plausible illustrations. The nu- 
 merous illustrations which accompany every chapter 
 are of unquestionable value in the comprehension of 
 the text, and come next to actual experiment as an aid 
 to the reader.— A^ Y. Tribune. 
 
 LIGHT: 
 
 Being Part II. of Science for the Yoiimj. By 
 .Iacois AnitoTT. Cojiiously Illustrated. 12mu, 
 Illuminated Cloth, black and gilt, $1 .'")0. 
 
 Treats of the theory of " Light," presenting in a pop- 
 ular form the latest conclusions of chemical and ojitic- 
 al science on the subject, and elucidating its various 
 iwinls of interest with characteristic clean e-s and 
 force. Its simplicity of laiigua^'C, and the beauty and 
 aiipropriatciiess of its pictorial illustrations, make it a 
 mo.-l attractive volume for young persons, while the 
 fullness and accuracy of the information with which 
 it overllows commends it to the attention of mature 
 readers.— A. 1'. Tiilmnc. 
 
 Like the previous volume, it is in all respects admir- 
 able. It is a mystery to us how Mr. Abbott can so 
 simplify the most abstruse and dithcult priiiciiiles. <n 
 wliich optics especially abounds, as to bring t hem with- 
 in the gras]) of quite youthful readers; we can only be 
 very grateful to him for the result. This book is up 
 to ()ur latest knowledge of the wonderful force of 
 which it treats, and yet weaves all its astoundiui: facts 
 into pleasing and readable narrative form. 'I'here are 
 few grown peojile, indeed, whose knowledge will not 
 be vastly increased by a perusal of this capital book.— 
 A'. >'. Kccniiiif Mail. 
 
 Terhaps tliere is no American author to whom our 
 young people are under so great a debt of gratitude 
 as to this writer. The book before us, like all its jire- 
 decessors from the same pen, is lucid, simple, amusing, 
 and instructive. It is well gotten up and linely illus- 
 trated, and should have a place in the library of every 
 family where there are children.— X Y. ,Stur. 
 
 It is the second volume of a delightful series st.irtoa 
 by Mr. Abbott uiiilcr the title of "Science for the 
 Younir," in which is detailed interesting conversations 
 ami experiments, narratives of travel, and adventures 
 l)y the young in pursuit of knowledge. The science 
 of optics is here so plainly and so untechnically un- 
 folded that many of its most mysterious phenomena 
 are rendered iiitelligible at ouco.— Cleveland I'luiii 
 Dealer. 
 
 It is complete, and intensely interesting. Such a 
 series must be of great usefulness. It should be in 
 every family library. The volume before us is thor- 
 ough, and succeedsin popularizing the branch of sci- 
 ence and natural history treated, and, we may add, 
 there is nothinir more viiried in its phenomena or im- 
 portant iu its effects than light — Chicaijo Evemwj 
 Journal. 
 
 Any person, young or old, who wishes to inform 
 himself in a pleasaiit way about the spectroscope, 
 matric-lantern cameras, and other optical instruments, 
 and about solar, electric, calcium, magnesium, and all 
 other kinds of light, will tlnd this book of Mr. Abbott 
 both interesting and instructive.— LuWicruit Observer. 
 
 Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 
 
 t/ie 
 
 1^ Either of the above works sent by mail, postage free, to any part of the United States, 
 
 on receipt of $i 50. 
 
-»T^W»S|l|H»p,»lil« I] 
 
 By Anthony Trollope. 
 
 Anthony Trollope's position grows more secure with every new work which comes from his 
 pen. He is one of the moat prolific of writers, yet his stories improve with time instead of grow- 
 ing wealvcr, and each is as finished and as forcible as though it were the sole production of tr.e 
 author.— yV. K Sun. 
 
 
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 Jiart of the United States, on receipt of the price 
 
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By the Author of "John Halifax." 
 
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 MISS MULOCK'S NOVELS. 
 
 She attempts to show how the trials, perplexities, joys, sorrows, labors, and successes of life deepen or wither ilie 
 character according to its inward bent. 
 
 She cares to teach, not how dishonesty is always plunging men into infinitely more complicated external difficulties 
 than it would in real life, but how any continued insincerity gradually darkens and corrupts the very life-springs of 
 the mind ; not how .ill events ccmspire to crush an unreal being who is to be the " example " of the story, but how 
 every event, adverse or fortunate, tends to strengthen and expand a high mind, .md to break the springs of a selfish 
 or merely weak and self-indulgent nature. 
 
 She does not limit herself to domestic conversations, and the mere shock of character on character ; she includes a 
 large range of events — the influence of worldly successes and failures — the risks of commercial enterprises— the power 
 of soci.tl position — in short, the various elements of a wider economy than th.ft generally admitted into a tale. 
 
 She has a true respect for her work, and never permits herself to " make books," and yet she h.is evidently very 
 great facility in making them. 
 
 There are few writers who have exhibited a more marked progress, whether in freedom of touch or in depth of pur- 
 pose, than the authoress of "The Ogilvies" and "John Halifax." 
 
 :«V 
 
 Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 
 
 CS^ H,\RPHR & Brothers will send the above w.->rA-s fy mail, f^ ■'stage f<aid, to any part of the United Slates, en 
 
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wm wL^w^wiPmnviiii M|iii ujp 
 
 TENNYSON'S 
 
 COMPLETE 
 
 POETICAL WORKS. 
 
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 POETICAL WORKS OF ALFRED TENNYSON, Poet Laureate. With 
 numerous Illustrations and Three Charactenstic Portraits. Forty -fifth 
 Thousand. Including many Poems not hitherto contained in his collected 
 works. New Edition, containing " The Window ; or. The Loves of the 
 Wrens ;" with Music by Arthur Sullivan. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents ; Cloth, $1 25. 
 
 Tennyson is, without exception, the most popular of 
 living poets. Wherever the English language is spoken, 
 in America as well as in England, his name has become 
 familiar as a household word, and some volume of the 
 many he has published is to be found in almost every 
 library. For several years a complete cheap edition of 
 his poetical works has been an acknowledged desideratum. 
 Messrs. Harper & Brothers, taking advantage of the con- 
 clusion of the Arthurian Poems, liave now supplied this 
 want by publishing an attractive household edition of 
 the Laureate's poems, in one volume, clearly and hand- 
 somely printed, and illustrated with many engravings 
 after designs by Gustave Doro, Rossetti, Stanfield. W. 
 H. Hunt, and other eminent artists. The volume con- 
 tains every line the Laureate has ever published, including 
 the latest of his productions, which complete the noble 
 cycle of Arthurian legends, and raise them from a frag- 
 mentary series of exquisite cabinet pictures into a mag- 
 nificent tragic epic, of which the theme is the gradual de- 
 thronement of Arthur from his .spiritual rule over his order, 
 throujjhthe crime of Guinevere and Lancelot; the spread 
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 yond. 
 
 The print is clear and excellent ; the paper is good ; 
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 in its way. — Indefendent. 
 
 Those who want a perfect and complete edition of the 
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 the Harper edition. — Troy Budget. 
 
 A marvel of cheapness. — The Christian Era. 
 
 The whole get-up and style of this edition are admir- 
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 Del.). 
 
 A marvelous instance of blended beauty and cheapness. 
 — Charleston Courier. 
 
 Published bv HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 
 
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