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on a table near by. Julie Dorine was square, ingeniously ventilated from the dead.

ceiling, but unlighted. It contained When M. Dorine heard the indescrib- two sarcophagi : the first held the reable cry that rang through the silent mains of Madame Dorine, long since house, he hurried from the library, and dead; the other was new, and bore on found Philip standing like a ghost in one side the letters J. D., in monogram, the middle of the chamber.

interwoven with fleurs-de-lis. It was not until long afterwards that The funeral train stopped at the gate Wentworth learned the details of the of the small garden that enclosed the calamity that had befallen him. On place of burial, only the immediate relthe previous night Mademoiselle Do- atives following the bearers into the rine had retired to her room in seem- tomb. A slender wax candle, such as ingly perfect health. She dismissed is used in Catholic churches, burnt at her maid with a request to be awak- the foot of the uncovered sarcophagus, ened early the next morning. At the casting a dim glow over the centre appointed hour the girl entered the of the apartment, and deepening the chamber. Mademoiselle Dorine' was shadows which seemed to huddle tositting in an arm-chair, apparently gether in the corners. By this flickasleep. The candle had burnt down to ering light the coffin was placed in its the socket; a book lay half open on granite shell, the heavy slab laid over the carpet at her feet. The girl started it reverently, and the oaken door rewhen she saw that the bed had not volved on its rusty hinges, shutting out been occupied, and that her mistress the uncertain ray of sunshine that had still wore an evening dress. She ventured to peep in on the darkness. rushed to Mademoiselle Dorine's side. M. Dorine, muffled in his cloak, It was not slumber. It was death

threw himself on the back seat of the Two messages were at once de- carriage, too abstracted in his grief to spatched to Philip, one to the station observe that he was the only occupant at G- the other to his hotel. The of the vehicle. There was a sound of first missed him on the road, the sec- wheels grating on the gravelled avenue, ond he had neglected to open. On his and then all was silence again in the arrival at M. Dorine's house, the ser- cemetery of Montmartre. At the main vant, under the supposition that Went entrance the carriages parted company, worth had been advised of Mademoi- dashing off into various streets at a selle Dorine's death, broke the intelli- pace that seemed to express a sense of gence with awkward cruelty, by show- relief. The band plays a dead march ing him directly to the salon.

going to the grave, but Fra Diavolo Mademoiselle Dorine's wealth, her coming from it. beauty, the suddenness of her death, It is not with the retreating carriages and the romance that had in some way that our interest lies. Nor yet wholly attached itself to her love for the young with the dead in her mysterious dream; American, drew crowds to witness the but with Philip Wentworth. funeral ceremonies which took place The rattle of wheels had died out of in the church in the Rue d'Aguesseau. the air when Philip opened his eyes, The body was to be laid in M. Dorine's bewildered, like a man abruptly roused tomb, in the cemetery of Montmartre. from slumber. He raised himself on

This tomb requires a few words of one arm and stared into the surrounddescription. First there was a grating ing blackness. Where was he? In a of filigraned iron; through this you second the truth flashed upon him. looked into a small vestibule or hall, at He had been left in the tomb! While the end of which was a massive door kneeling on the farther side of the of oak opening upon a short fight of stone box, perhaps he had fainted, and stone steps descending into the tomb. in the last solemn rites his absence The vault was fifteen or twenty feet had been unnoticed.

His first emotion was one of natural had been left in the tomb. This would terror. But this passed as quickly as serve him in examining the fastenings it came. Life had ceased to be so very of the vault. If he could force the inprecious to him ; and if it were his ner door by any means, and reach the fate to die at Julie's side, was not that grating, of which he had an indistinct the fulfilment of the desire which he had recollection, he might hope to make expressed to himself a hundred times himself heard. But the oaken door that morning? What did it matter, a was immovable, as solid as the wall itfew years sooner or later? He must self, into which it fitted air-tight. Even lay down the burden at last. Why not if he had had the requisite tools, there then ? A pang of self-reproach folwere no fastenings to be removed : the lowed the thought. Could he so lightly hinges were set on the outside. throw aside the love that had bent over Having ascertained this, he replaced his cradle. The sacred name of mother the candle on the floor, and leaned rose involuntarily to his lips. Was it against the wall thoughtfully, watching not cowardly to yield up without a the blue fan of flame that wavered to struggle the life which he should guard and fro, threatening to detach itself for her sake? Was it not his duty to from the wick. “At all events," he the living and the dead to face the thought, “the place is ventilated.” difficulties: of his position, and over- Suddenly Philip sprang forward and come them if it were within human extinguished the light. His existence power ?

depended on that candle ! With an organization as delicate as He had read somewhere, in some aca woman's, he had that spirit which, count of shipwreck, how the survivors however sluggish in repose, can leap had lived for days upon a few candles with a kind of exultation to measure its which one of the passengers had instrength with disaster. The vague fear sanely thrown into the long-boat. And of the supernatural, that would affect here he had been burning away his most men in a similar situation, found very life. no room in his heart. He was simply By the transient illumination of one shut in a chamber from which it was of the tapers, he looked at his watch. necessary that he should obtain release. It had stopped at eleven, — but at eleywithin a given period. That this cham- en that day, or the preceding night? ber contained the body of the woman The funeral, he knew, had left the he loved, so far from adding to the church at ten. How many hours had terror of the case, was a circumstance passed since then? Of what duration from which he drew consolation. She had been his swoon ? Alas! it was was a beautiful white statue now. Her no longer possible for him to measure soul was far hence; and if that pure those hours which crawl like snails by spirit could return, would it not be to the wretched, and fly like swallows shield him with her love? It was im- over the happy. possible that the place should not en- He picked up the candle, and seated gender some thought of the kind. He himself on the stone steps. He was a did not put the thought entirely from sanguine man, this Wentworth, but, as him as he rose to his feet and stretched he weighed the chances of escape, the out his hands in the darkness; but his prospect did not seem encouraging. mind was too healthy and practical to Of course he would be missed. His disindulge long in such speculations. appearance under the circumstances

Philip chanced to have in his pock- would surely alarm his friends ; they et a box of wax-tapers which smok would instigate a search for him ; but ers use. After several ineffectual at- who would think of searching for a live tempts, he succeeded in igniting one man in the cemetery of Montmartre ? against the dank wall, and by its mo- The Prefect of Police would set a mentary glare perceived that the candle hundred intelligences at work to find him ; the Seine might be dragged, les forgotten ; faces he had known in misérables turned over at the dead- childhood grew palpable against the house ; a minute description of him dark. His whole life in detail was unwould be in every detective's pocket; rolled before him like a panorama; and he -- in M. Dorine's family tomb! the changes of a year, with its burden

Yet, on the other hand, it was here of love and death, its sweets and its he was last seen; from this point a bitternesses, were epitomized in a sinkeen detective would naturally work gle second. The desire to sleep had up the case. Then might not the un- left him. But the keen hunger came dertaker return for the candlestick, again.. probably not left by design? Or, It must be near morning now, he again, might not M. Dorine send fresh mused ; perhaps the sun is just gilding wreaths of flowers, to take the place of the pinnacles and domes of the city ; those which now diffused a pungent, or, may be, a dull, drizzling rain is aromatic odor throughout the cham- beating on Paris, sobbing on these ber? Ah ! what unlikely chances ! mounds above me. Paris ! it seems But if one of these things did not hap- like a dream. Did I ever walk in its pen speedily, it had better never hap- gay streets in the golden air? O the pen. How long could he keep life in delight and pain and passion of that himself?

sweet human life! With unaccelerated pulse, he quietly Philip became conscious that the cut the half-burned candle into four gloom, the silence, and the cold were equal parts. “To-night,” he meditated, gradually conquering him. The fever“I will eat the first of these pieces ; to- ish activity of his brain brought on a morrow, the second ; to-morrow even reaction. He grew lethargic, he sunk ing, the third ; the next day, the fourth; down on the steps, and thought of nothand then-then I 'll wait !”

ing. His hand fell by chance on one He had taken no breakfast that morn- of the pieces of candle ; he grasped it ing, unless a cup of coffee can be called and devoured it mechanically. This rea breakfast. He had never been very vived him. “How strange," he thought, hungry before. He was ravenously hun- “ that I am not thirsty. Is it possible gry now. But he postponed the meal as that the dampness of the walls, which I long as practicable. It must have been must inhale with every breath, has supnear midnight, according to his calcu- plied the need of water? Not a drop lation, when he determined to try the has passed my lips for two days, and first of his four singular repasts. The still I experience no thirst. That drowbit of white-wax was tasteless; but it siness, thank Heaven, has gone. I served its purpose.

think I was never wide awake until this His appetite for the time appeased, hour. It would be an anodyne like he found a new discomfort. The hu- poison that could weigh down my eyemidity of the walls, and the wind that lids. No doubt the dread of sleep has crept through the unseen ventilator, something to do with this." chilled him to the bone. To keep T he minutes were like hours. Now walking was his only resource. A sort he walked as briskly as he dared up of drowsiness, too, occasionally came and down the tomb; now he rested over him. It took all his will to fight against the door. More than once he it off. To sleep, he felt, was to die; was tempted to throw himself upon the and he had made up his mind to live. stone coffin that held Julie, and make

Very strange fancies fitted through no further struggle for his life. his head as he groped up and down the Only one piece of candle remained. stone floor of the dungeon, feeling his He had eaten the third portion, not to way along the wall to avoid the sepul- satisfy hunger, but from a precautionary chres. Voices that had long been si- motive. He had taken it as a man lent spoke words that had long been takes some disagreeable drug upon the result of which hangs safety. The regard Mr. Wentworth with deepened time was rapidly approaching when interest. As I met him from day to even this poor substitute for nourish- day, passing through the Common ment would be exhausted. He delayed with that same abstracted air, there that moment. He gave himself a long was something in his loneliness which fast this time. The half-inch of candle touched me. I wondered that I had which he held in his hand was a sacred not before read in his pale meditathing to him. It was his last defence tive face some such sad history as Mr. against death.

H— had confided to me. I formed At length, with such a sinking at the resolution of speaking to him, heart as he had not known before, he though with what purpose was not very raised it to his lips. Then he paused, clear to my mind. One May morning then he hurled the fragment across the we met at the intersection of two paths. tomb, then the oaken door was flung He courteously halted to allow me the open, and Philip, with dazzled eyes, precedence. . saw M. Dorine's form sharply defined “Mr. Wentworth,” I began, “I—" against the blue sky,

He interrupted me. When they led him out, half blinded, “My name, sir,” he said, in an offinto the broad daylight, M. Dorine hand manner, “is Jones.” noticed that Philip's hair, which a short “Jo-Jo-Jones ! ” I gasped. time since was as black as a crow's “Not Jo Jones,” he returned coldly, wing, had actually turned gray in places. “Frederick.” The man's eyes, too, had faded; the Mr. Jones, or whatever his name is, darkness had spoiled their lustre. will never know, unless he reads these

“And how long was he really con- pages, why a man accosted him one fined in the tomb?" I asked, as Mr. morning as “Mr. Wentworth,” and H- concluded the story.

then abruptly rushed down the nearest "Just one hour and twenty min path, and disappeared in the crowd. utes !" replied Mr. H- , smiling The fact is, I had been duped by Mr. blandly.

H- Mr. H- occasionally conAs he spoke, the little sloops, with tributes a story to the magazines. He their sails all blown out like white had actually tried the effect of one of roses, came floating bravely into port, his romances on me! and Philip Wentworth lounged by us, My hero, as I subsequently learned, wearily, in the pleasant April sunshine. is no hero at all, but a commonplace

young man who has some connection Mr. H— 's narrative made a deep with the building of that pretty granite impression on me. Here was a man bridge which will shortly span the who had undergone a strange ordeal. crooked little lake in the Public GarHere was a man whose sufferings were den. unique. His was no threadbare ex- When I think of the cool ingenuity perience. Eighty minutes had seemed and readiness with which Mr. Hlike two days to him! If he had really built up his airy fabric on my credulibeen immured two days in the tomb, ty, I am half inclined to laugh ; though the story, from my point of view, would I feel not slightly irritated at having have lost its tragic element.

been the unresisting victim of his Black After this it was but natural I should Art.


WITH clearer light, Cross of the South, shine forth

In blue Brazilian skies;
And thou, O river, cleaving half the earth

From sunset to sunrise,
From the great mountains to the Atlantic waves

Thy joy's long anthem pour.
Yet a few days (God make them less !) and slaves

Shall shame thy pride no more.
No fettered feet thy shaded margins press;

But all men shall walk free
Where thou, the high-priest of the wilderness,

Hast wedded sea to sea.

And thou, great-hearted ruler, through whose mouth

The word of God is said,
Once more, “Let there be light!” — Son of the South,

Lift up thy honored head,
Wear unashamed a crown by thy desert

More than by birth thy own,
Careless of watch and ward ; thou art begirt

By grateful hearts alone.
The moated wall and battle-ship may fail,

But safe shall justice prove;
Stronger than greaves of brass or iron mail

The panoply of love.

Crowned doubly by man's blessing and God's grace,

Thy future is secure ;
Who frees a people makes his statue's place

In Time's Valhalla sure.
Lo! from his Neva's banks the Scythian Czar

Stretches to thee his hand
Who, with the pencil of the Northern star,

Wrote freedom on his land.
And he whose grave is holy by our calm

And prairied Sangamon,
From his gaunt hand shall drop the martyr's palm

To greet thee with “Well done!”
And thou, O Earth, with smiles thy face make sweet,

And let thy wail be stilled,
To hear the Muse of prophecy repeat

Her promise half fulfilled.
The Voice that spake at Nazareth speaks still,

No sound thereof hath died;
Alike thy hope and Heaven's eternal will

Shall yet be satisfied.
The years are slow, the vision tarrieth long,

And far the end may be ;
But, one by one, the fiends of ancient wrong
• Go out and leave thee free.

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