Hatchie, the Guardian Slave; or, The Heiress of Bellevue / A Tale of the Mississippi and the South-west

"The accursed plot he overheard,
Its every point portrayed;
Yet ere the villain's words were cold.
The counter-plot was made."

Hatchie was chagrined at the loss of his prisoner. His diligent search was of no avail. The Chalmetta's boat, which lay at the wood-yard in the morning, was gone; so he had no doubt Maxwell had made his escape in it. Having no further motive in remaining at the wood-yard, he procured a small canoe, with the intention of joining his mistress at Cottage Island.

Seated in the stern of the canoe, Hatchie propelled it with only sufficient force to avoid the eddies which would have whirled his frail bark in every direction. His thoughts wandered over the events of the past few days. He moralized upon the conduct of the attorney and the uncle, and nursed his indignation over them. Hatchie was a moralist in his own way, but not a moralist only. The great virtue of his philosophy, unlike much of a more scholastic origin, was its practical utility. From the past, with its conquered trials, he turned to the future, to inquire for its dangers, to ask what snares it had spread to entangle the fair being whom he worshipped with all a lover's fondness, without the lover's sentiment.

We will not follow him in his peregrinations through the mazes of the misty future, for they were interrupted by the appearance on the water of a distant object, which excited his attention. A searching and anxious scrutiny convinced him that it was the boat in which Maxwell had made his escape. Though at a great distance from him, he could see that it contained two men. Guardian as he was of his mistress' honor and safety, the sight awakened all his fears and called up all his energy. Did they know that his mistress had gone to Cottage Island? It was possible that Vernon had obtained a knowledge of her movements. The faithful fellow was almost maddened at the thought.

The boat approached Cottage Island, and Hatchie observed them pull in under the high bank. This movement was ominous of evil, and all the mulatto's fears were confirmed, when, as they passed the mouth of the little stream, he saw one of them rise in the boat and point it out. Satisfied that his canoe was yet unnoticed by his enemies, and dreading no immediate danger, he paddled across the river so as to bring the island between them. When he had gained a position which hid him from their view, he used all his immense strength in propelling the canoe towards the island. A few minutes sufficed to bring him up with the western shore of the islet, his enemies being upon the opposite side. Keeping close to the high bank, he paddled down-stream to the lower extremity of the island, where the sound of voices caused him suddenly to check his progress, and gain a landing. Drawing the canoe out of reach of the current, he climbed up the bank, which, being near the down-stream end of the island, sloped gradually down, till it terminated in the low, sandy beach.

He reached the high bank without attracting the attention of the party of whose motions he wished to obtain a knowledge. He could now distinctly hear their conversation, though they were still at a considerable distance from him. Cautiously he climbed a thick cotton-wood tree, whose foliage completely screened him from observation, and there awaited the nearer approach of Maxwell and his confederate.

"Are you sure this is the island?" said Maxwell, when they had come within hearing of Hatchie.

"This must be the one," replied Vernon. "We shall soon see whether it is inhabited or not."

"With whom did the girl leave the wood-yard?"

"With a doctor who lives like a hermit on this island. I saw them from a distance get into the sail-boat, and I asked a boatman for the particulars."

"Who is the doctor?"

"Don't know. The boatman said it was an outlandish name, and he had forgotten it. You mean to have the girl, do you?"

"I do, if possible."

"O, it's quite possible—nothing easier. You say the girl belongs to you?"

"I do; did I not show you the bill of sale?"

"That might be a trick of your own, you know. It's a devilish queer story."

"Pshaw! man, are you crazy? This thing has startled your conscience more than all the crimes of a lifetime. What has gotten into you, Vernon? I never knew you to moralize before."

"Look here, my boy, I can do almost anything; but I would not wrong a woman,—no, not a woman,—I am above that," said Vernon, with much emphasis.

"But, man, she is my slave—a quadroon."

"Property's property; but since I met the girl in the boat, I am half inclined to believe she is no quadroon. Maxwell, I had a sister once, and may my body be rent into a thousand pieces but I would tear out the heart of the man who would serve her as you do this girl. If she is your property, why, that alters the case."

"Certainly it does; so, end your sermon, and tell me how to gain possession of my property."

"We can storm the island."

"What! two of us?"

"I can get plenty of soldiers, if you will pay them."

"I will give a thousand dollars for her; and, if I get her again, by heavens, she shall not escape me! I will put a pair of ruffles on her wrists such as the dainty girl never got of her milliner. How many persons are on the island?"

"That I don't know—perhaps half a dozen. Your hangman will be there," and Vernon chuckled at the thought of the scene he had witnessed near the wood-yard.

Maxwell's teeth grated, and Hatchie distinctly heard the malediction he bestowed upon him. Fears for his personal safety did not, for a moment, disturb him. Prudence alone prevented him from rushing upon the villains, and thwarting in its embryo stage their design upon his mistress.

"You mean," said Maxwell, "to take the girl from the house by force?"

"There is no other way."

"Then we had better examine the island, or it will not be an easy matter to land in a dark night."

"How does the owner land?"

"Probably by the little stream we saw above."

"Rather difficult navigation for a stranger. We had better land in this part of the island. Let us walk through the thicket and find the house."

Hatchie saw them attempt to pass through the thick brush; but the task was not an easy one. By the aid of a bowie-knife, with which they cut away some of the bushes, they penetrated to the larger growth of trees, where the under-brush no longer impeded their progress. They passed beyond the hearing of the mulatto, though from his elevated position he occasionally obtained a view of them, as they approached the cottage. Anxiously he waited their return, in the hope of getting more definite ideas of the time and method of the proposed attack upon the island.

After a careful survey of the premises, Maxwell and Vernon returned to their former position.

"Quite an easy job," said Vernon; "the only difficulty is this thick brush, which can be easily removed. I will cut away a part now."

"Very well," responded Maxwell, as his associate proceeded to cut away the bushes, and form a pathway through, the thicket. "When shall the thing be done?"

"As to that I can hardly say. When we get to Vicksburg we can decide. Better let the girl rest a week or so; for it may take that time to get things ready. You can't hire men to do such work as easily as you can to cut wood and dig ditches. It takes skill and caution."

"Very well, I am in no haste."

For nearly an hour Vernon labored at his task, and completed a path through which the party could easily pass to the cottage.

The object of their visit accomplished, Hatchie saw them return to their boat, and row down the river. After they had disappeared round a bend, he descended from the tree, and examined the labors of Vernon. He found the bushes which had been cut down were nicely placed at each end of the path in an upright position, so as to conceal it from the eyes of the passer. For a long time the mulatto reflected upon the conversation he had heard, and considered the means of defeating the diabolical plot. Against a band of ruffians, such as Vernon would enlist for the service, he could not contend single-handed. To remove his mistress from the island, while Henry Carroll lay helpless there, would not be an acceptable proposition to her. Resolving to lay the information he had gained before Dr. Vaudelier, he returned to his canoe, and, having rounded the island, reached the cottage by the usual passage.

Henry Carroll still slept. For six hours he had lain under the influence of the powerful opiate. Emily entered his chamber in company with the doctor, on their return from the wood-yard. The sight of Henry, pale and worn as he appeared, excited all her sympathy. His right arm, which was uninjured, lay extended on the bed; she gently grasped it, and, bending over him, imprinted upon his pallid lips a kiss, that was unknown and unappreciated by its recipient. Only a few days before she had listened to the eloquent confession of him who now lay insensible of her presence. She was a true woman, and the presence of Dr. Vaudelier did not restrain the expression of her woman's heart. It was visible in her pale cheek, in her heaving breast, and in her sparkling eye, from which oozed the gentle tear of affectionate sympathy.

She held his hand; unconsciously, at the silent bidding of her warm heart, she gently pressed it. As though the magnetism of love had communicated itself to the sleeper, he sighed heavily, and uttered a groan of half-subdued anguish. His eyelids fluttered; he was apparently shaking off the heaviness of slumber. His lips quivered, and Emily heard them faintly articulate her name.

At the request of the good physician, she reluctantly withdrew from the apartment.

The sufferer endeavored to turn in the bed; the effort drew from him a groan of agony, which, in a more wakeful state, a proud superiority over every weakness would not have permitted him to utter. His eyes opened, and he stared vacantly about the darkened chamber. The doctor took his hand, and examined his pulse.

"How do you feel, captain? Does your head ache?" asked he.

"Slightly; I am better, I think," replied the invalid, faintly.

"And you are better," said the doctor, with evident satisfaction. "The scalds are doing very well, and the wound on your head is not at all serious."

"Now, sir, will you tell me where I am?"

Dr. Vaudelier imparted the information.

"Emily! Emily! Won but lost again!" murmured Henry. "Would that we had sunk together beneath the dark tide!"

"Do not distress yourself, my dear captain. We must be careful of this fever."

"Distress myself!" returned Henry, not a little provoked at the coolness of the doctor. "You know not the loss I have sustained."

"But you must keep calm."

"Doctor, did you ever love?" asked Henry, abruptly, as he gazed rather wildly at his host.

This was a severe question to a man whose matrimonial experience was of such a disagreeable nature. But he remembered the day before marriage,—the sunny dreams which had beguiled many a weary hour,—and he sympathized with the unhappy man.

"I have," replied the doctor, solemnly, so solemnly that it chilled the ardent blood of the listener. "I have loved, and can understand your present state of feeling."

"Then you know, if I do not regain her whom I have lost, I had better die now than endure the misery before me."

The doctor was not quite so sure of this, but he did not express the thought.

"You will regain her," said he.

"Alas! I fear not. The boat was almost a total wreck. I saw scores of dead and dying as I clung to my frail support."

"Fear not. Believe me, captain, I am a prophet; she shall be restored to your arms again."

"I thank you for the assurance; but I fear you are not an infallible prophet."

"In this instance, I am."

Henry looked at the doctor, and saw the smile of satisfaction that played upon his usually stern features. It augured hope—more than hope; and, as the wrecked mariner clings to the disjointed spar, his mind fastened upon that smile as the forerunner of a blissful reunion with her his soul cherished.

"Be calm, sir, be calm; she is safe," continued Dr. Vaudelier.

"Do you know it?" almost shouted Henry, attempting to rise.

"Be quiet, sir," said the doctor, in a voice approaching to sternness; "be quiet, or I shall regret that I gave you reason to hope."

"Where is she?" asked Henry, sinking back at the doctor's reproof, and heeding not the darting pain his attempt to rise had produced.

"She is safe; let this suffice. I see you cannot bear more now."

"I can bear anything, sir, anything. I will be as gentle as a lamb, if you will tell me all you know of her."

"If you keep entirely quiet, we will, in a few days, let her speak for herself."

"Then she is safe; she has escaped every danger?"

"She has."

"And was not injured?"

"No; she was taken, it seems, from the wreck by a villain. Thank God, she has escaped his wiles!"

Henry's indignation could scarcely be controlled, even by the reflection that Maxwell's wicked intentions had been turned, by an overruling Providence, into the means of her safety.

Dr. Vaudelier related to his patient the incident of the wood-yard; not, however, without the necessity of frequently reproving his auditor, whose exasperation threatened serious consequences. When, at the conclusion of the narration, he told Henry that the loved one was at that moment beneath his roof, he could scarcely restrain his immoderate joy within the bounds of that quiet which his physician demanded.

"May I not see her?" said he.

"That must depend entirely upon your own behavior. You have not shown yourself a very tractable patient thus far."

"I will be perfectly docile," pleaded Henry.

"I fear I cannot trust you. You are so excitable, that you explode like a magazine of gunpowder."

"No, no; I solemnly promise to keep perfectly quiet. She will, I know, be glad to see me, wounded and stricken though I am."

"She has already seen you."

"Indeed!"

"Yes; and not content with seeing you merely, your lips are not yet cold from the kiss she imprinted upon them;" and a smile, not altogether stoical, lit up the doctor's cold expression. "You shall see her, but the instant I perceive that the interview is prejudicial to your nerves, I shall remove her."

"Thank you, doctor!" said Henry, fervently.

"O, it is part of my treatment. It may do you more good than all my physic. I have known such cases."

"I am sure it will," returned the patient.

Dr. Vaudelier retired, and after a serious charge to Emily, he reëntered, leading the Hygeia who was to restore the sick man.

"Be careful," was the doctor's monition, as he elevated his fore-finger, in the attitude of caution; "be careful."

"O, Emily!" exclaimed Henry, more gently than the nature of the interview would seem to allow, as he extended his hand to her.

Emily silently took the hand, and while a tell-tale tear started from her eye, she pressed it gently; but the pressure startled the sick man's blood, and sent it thrilling with joy through its lazy channels. The invalid, as much as the pressure of the hand warmed his heart, seemed not to be satisfied with the hand alone; for he continued to draw her towards himself, until her form bent over him, and their lips met. It was the first time when both were conscious of the act. We will not go into ecstasies over the unutterable bliss of that moment. We will not deck our page with any unseemly extravagances. If the experience of the reader has led him through the hallowed mystery of the first kiss of love, he needs not another's fancy to revive the beatific vision. If not, why, thousands of coy and blushing damsels, equally in the dark, are waiting, from whom he may select one to assist him in solving the mystery. Besides, it is not always wise to penetrate the secrets of the heart, even in a novel; for there is a sacredness about them, a kind of natural free-masonry, which must not be made too common.

Dr. Vaudelier, when he saw that the patient was disposed to behave himself in a reasonable manner, withdrew from the room, and left them to the undisturbed enjoyment of their happy reunion. In an hour he returned, and peremptorily forbade all further conversation. He permitted Emily to remain in the room, however, on the promise to allow the invalid to use no further exertion in talking.

All day, like a ministering angel, she moved about his couch, and laved his fevered brow. All his art could not lure her into any conversation beyond the necessary replies to his questions concerning his physical condition. Henry was too thankful for being permitted to enjoy her presence to forfeit the boon by any untractableness, and, for one of his excitable temperament, he was exceedingly docile.

"Appius. Well, Claudius, are the forces
At hand?

"Claudius. They are, and timely, too; the people
Are in unwonted ferment."

KNOWLES.

It was midnight at Cottage Island,—the third night after the events of the preceding chapter. Henry Carroll, by the skilful treatment of his host, was in a great degree relieved from his severe pain, and had now sunk into a natural and quiet slumber. By his bedside sat Dr. Vaudelier. Emily had, an hour before, retired to the rest which her exhausted frame demanded. For the past three days she had watched patiently and lovingly by the invalid. And now she had only been induced to retire by the promise of the doctor to call her, if any unfavorable symptom appeared.

The threatened assault upon the island had been thoroughly considered, and for the past two nights the island wore the appearance of a garrisoned fortress, rather than the secluded abode of a hermit. Emily knew of the peril which now menaced her, but the ample means at hand for protection rendered it insignificant. All thought, even of her own security, was merged in her generous interest in the comfort of the sufferer.

The good physician was uneasy and disturbed, as he sat by the bedside of his patient. The circumstances which surrounded him were novel in the extreme. Accustomed as he had been to the quiet which always reigned in his domain, to find himself, as it were, the inmate of a fortress, in momentary expectation of an attack, was so singularly odd, that his natural indifference deserted him. He had collected quite a large force of his humble neighbors to assist him in his present emergency, and they were now making their final arrangements to meet the assault.

The doctor was restless; but it was not on account of any fear of his personal safety,—he was above that. The lonely and innocent being whom he had undertaken to protect had filled his mind with a sense of responsibility. A single day had been long enough for Emily to win a way to his affections, and he had grown to regard her with the tender care of a father. Occasionally he left his place at the bedside, and went to the window, as if to assure himself that the attack had not already commenced.

In front of the cottage a different sentiment prevailed among the motley group there assembled. There were twenty men, including Hatchie, all armed with rifle and bowie-knife, and every one anxious for the fight to commence. Besides their arms, each man was provided with a small cord, and a torch of pitch-wood, the end of which had been plentifully besprinkled with turpentine.

The party was composed mostly of woodmen and boatmen, who had promptly and willingly obeyed the doctor's summons. Like most men of their class in that locality, they were hardy and reckless; they had not that healthy horror of a mortal combat which the moralist would gladly see. Dr. Vaudelier had always been their friend; had always promptly and kindly aided them in their necessities, whether moral, physical, or pecuniary. As he had laved the fevered brows of their wives and children, so had he said prayers over their dead, in the absence of a clergyman. He had exhorted the intemperate and the dishonest, and with his purse relieved the needy in their distress. They were not ungrateful; they appreciated his many kindnesses, and rejoiced in an opportunity to serve him. These men, notwithstanding their rude speech, their rough exteriors, and their reckless dispositions, were true-hearted men. They reciprocated the offering of a true friendship, not by smooth speeches and unmeaning smiles, but by actions of manly kindness. The philosopher in ethics may say what he pleases of the refinements of sympathy; we would not give a single such heart as those gathered on Cottage Island for a whole army of puling, sentimental, hair-splitting moralizers. They were men of action, not of words; and, though they hesitated not, in what they deemed a good cause, to close with their man in deadly combat, they were true as steel to a friend in the hour of his need.

With these men the exploits of Hatchie, which had been related, and perhaps exaggerated, by Jerry Swinger, who was a leading spirit of the party, had been much applauded, and he had, in spite of the odium of his social position, obtained a powerful influence over them. They heard him with attention, and deferred to his skill and judgment. By his advice, and to remove the confusion of the affray from the vicinity of the cottage, it was determined to receive the invaders near the beach where he had overheard Vernon propose to land. Jerry Swinger, whom natural talent and the wish of the party seemed to indicate as leader, marched the expedition towards the avenue which had been made in the bushes by the ruffians.

For so many men, excited as they were by the anticipation of a conflict, they were remarkably quiet and orderly. Dr. Vaudelier had cautioned them to avoid all noise, and not to fire a rifle unless absolutely necessary. He had also instructed them to make prisoners of the assailants, if possible, without injuring them.

Jerry Swinger stationed his party near the avenue, ready to spring upon and overpower the foe, when the favorable moment should arrive.

An hour passed by, and the impatience of the ambushed woodmen seemed likely to give their faithful leader some trouble, when the careful dip of oars near the shore saluted their ears. In a whisper Jerry gave the oft-repeated caution for silence, and charged them to be prompt when the moment came.

The assaulting party approached the shore. There were two boats, the foremost of which contained eight men, under the direction of Maxwell, and the other six, led by Vernon. The latter had reconnoitred the island several times, and had somewhat modified the plan of the attack, on discovering that the cottage, for the past two nights, had been occupied by more than its usual occupants. Several men had been seen to land there; but, as his preparations on the lower part of the island were undisturbed, it never occurred to him that his purpose would be anticipated.

Vernon had procured the services of fourteen men, chicken-thieves, and others of desperate fortunes, to engage in the enterprise, by holding out to them the hope of plunder, of which the cottage, he assured them, would afford an abundant harvest. The real purpose of the expedition was, therefore, unknown to any of the party, except the leaders. The prospect of a sharp fight had not in the least dampened the ardor of their hopes. With men of their craft it was a dull season, and the prospect of "cracking a crib" plentifully stored with valuables was quite a pleasant anticipation.

It was arranged that Maxwell, with the larger portion of the desperadoes, should land at the lower part of the island, and, if any defenders appeared, commence hostilities, and draw them away from the house, while Vernon, with the most experienced of the "cracks-men," should assault the house, and effect the purpose of the enterprise. In the person of one of the chicken-thieves a pilot for the creek was discovered; and, to make assurance doubly sure, it was decided that Vernon should approach the cottage by the usual channel.

Maxwell's boat was beached, while that of Vernon proceeded up the river to the little stream. The skill of his pilot, of whom Vernon had felt many doubts, soon brought him to the creek. The current, he found, was quite rapid, and he feared it would carry him into the midst of the "enemy's camp" before Maxwell should have made his demonstration. As the boat was whirled along towards the centre of the island, for the oars could not be used, on account of their noise, his position seemed to grow desperate. Vernon was on the point of risking the noise, and taking to the oars, when he discovered an overhanging branch, which he seized as the boat passed under it. Fortunately for him, a bend in the stream turned the current from the middle of the creek, or its violence would have drawn him into the water. By the aid of his companions, he succeeded in making the boat fast to the branch. He listened; but all was still. There were no indications of the approach of the other party.

Seating himself in the stern-sheets of the boat, he again considered the operations in which he was soon to engage; but, as these were necessarily to be directed by the circumstances of the moment, his deliberations soon gave way to that impatience which the perpetrator of crime experiences at an unexpected delay. His eager spirit was, however, soon gratified by sounds of conflict, which proceeded from the part of the island where Maxwell had landed. Awhile he listened, and the sounds grew more and more distinct. Loosing the boat from its aërial moorings, it was again driven by the current towards the landing in front of the cottage. Preparations were now made to effect the grand object, and, landing by the side of the doctor's yacht, Vernon found no one to oppose his progress, though the sounds from the lower extremity of the island indicated that the affray was growing hotter and more violent. At the head of his party, Vernon was about to enter the house, when the approach of a body of men from the scene of action caused him to pause, and await their approach.

Maxwell had landed on the beach, and, not suspecting the proximity of the ambush which waited to receive him, had proceeded towards the avenue made at his first visit to the island. Removing the loose bushes, they attempted to pass through; but no sooner were they fairly involved among the young trees than Jerry Swinger shouted his first order, to light the torches, and, in an instant, the woods were illuminated, and the position of both parties disclosed. This was, undoubtedly, a masterly stroke of preparation on the part of Jerry. The torches, on the application of the match, emitted a broad sheet of flame, which glared upon the invaders like a sudden flash of lightning, and utterly confounded them. It seemed like the bolt of Omnipotence thrown across their path in the hour of their great transgression.

Maxwell was unprepared for an immediate attack. He had calculated on effecting a junction with Vernon in the vicinity of the cottage. Before his party had time to recover from the panic, they were surrounded by the resolute woodmen. The attorney, who was as brave and active as he was unprincipled and cunning, was not a man to be defeated without a stout resistance. Encouraging his party by shouts, and by his own example, a general engagement ensued.

Hatchie no sooner saw the foe of his mistress' peace, than, stepping between him and Jerry Swinger, who also had an account to settle with him, he knocked down the pistol which was levelled at his head, and grasped him by the throat. In the hands of Hatchie the attorney was as nothing. The stalwart mulatto cast him upon the ground, and, with his cord, bound him hand and foot. The leader vanquished, it was the work of but a few moments to secure the rest of the assailants.

Jerry Swinger learned, from sundry exclamations of the defeated party, that another portion of the expedition was to land at the creek. Leaving a few of his men in charge of the prisoners, he made all haste, with the remainder, towards the cottage.

The affray had occupied but a few moments. The sturdy woodmen, accustomed to such scenes, and animated by a high motive, had done their duty promptly and efficiently, as the woful appearance of the disconcerted ruffians testified. Some hard blows had been dealt; some few upon both sides were severely wounded; but, considering the desperate character of the invaders, the masterly tact of Jerry Swinger had evidently saved much bloodshed.

Hatchie, as soon as he had secured his prisoner, hastened, somewhat in advance of Jerry's party, towards the cottage.

Vernon waited the approach of the party in front of the cottage. While it was yet at some distance, he discovered Hatchie, whom he recognized by the light of his torch, running in front of it. The appearance of the mulatto, alone, he interpreted as the signal of victory to the party in conjunction with him, who, he imagined, were pursuing him. Resolving, therefore, to lose no more time, he advanced towards the house, ordering two of his followers to secure Hatchie.

Dr. Vaudelier had heard the sounds of the distant encounter, and occasionally sought the window to assure himself the invaders did not approach the cottage. The glaring torch of Hatchie, who was running towards the house, gave him some misgivings, and, seizing the pistols which lay upon the table, he went to the door, on opening which he was confronted by Vernon.

"Come on, boys! come on!" shouted the ruffian, as he pushed by the doctor. "The way is clear; let us make quick work."

The pistol of Dr. Vaudelier had been raised to shoot down the assailant; but his hand dropped at the sound of his voice, he staggered back and let the weapon fall from his hand, and uttered an exclamation of intense feeling.

"This way, men! this way!" shouted Vernon, as he pressed on.

Entering the room at the right of the entry, in which a bed had been temporarily placed for the use of Emily, he found the affrighted girl, who had been aroused from her transient slumber by the noise of the attack. Rising from the bed upon which she had merely thrown herself, she was confounded by the appearance of her former persecutor.

"Ah, my pretty bird, you are again in my power, and I shall take care that no weak indulgence again deprives me of your society," said Vernon, as he seized her arm, and attempted to hurry her from the room.

"Unhand me, villain!" exclaimed she, roused to desperation by the sudden and painful change which had overtaken her.

"Do not pout, my pretty dove! there is no chance to escape this time. Your valuable assistant, that bull-headed nigger, cannot help you; so I advise you to come quietly with me."

"Never, villain! I never will leave this house alive!"—and she struggled to free herself from the ruffian's grasp.

"Nay, nay, lady! do not be unreasonable."

"Help! help!" shouted Emily, with the energy of desperation.

"No use, my pretty quadroon; I put your man, Hatchie, into the hands of two stout fellows; he cannot come, even at your bidding."

The ruffian had hardly finished the sentence before a heavy blow on the back of the head laid him prostrate upon the floor.

"You are a false prophet," said Hatchie, quietly, as he assisted his mistress to a sofa, while Jerry Swinger, who had followed him, examined the condition of the fallen man.

"Thank God!" continued Hatchie, "we have beaten them off."

"Heaven is kinder to me than I deserve," murmured Emily, bursting into tears, as the terrible scene through which she had just passed was fully realized. "But where is Henry—Captain Carroll—is he safe?"

"All safe, ma'am; the catamounts have not been in his room," replied Jerry Swinger. "Cheer up, ma'am; it mought have been worse."

"Let us carry this carrion from the house," said Hatchie, seizing the prostrate Vernon in no gentle gripe. "Let us fasten him to a tree, and I will not take my eye from him or the lawyer till both are hung."

"Stay, stay, Hatchie!" exclaimed Dr. Vandelier, who at that moment entered. "He is my son!"

"Good heavens!" said Emily, rising from her recumbent posture on the sofa.

"It is indeed true," replied the doctor, in a melancholy tone. "I would that he had died in the innocency of his childhood. I recognized him as he entered the house, and had nearly lost my consciousness, as the terrible reality stared me in the face, that my son, he whose childhood I had watched over, who once called me by the endearing name of father, is a common midnight assassin!

"Is he your persecutor?" continued the doctor, relieved by an abundant shower of tears which the terrible truth had called to his eyes. "Is he the person who has caused you so much trouble?"

"No, no, sir!" responded Emily, eager to afford the slightest comfort to the bereaved heart of the father; "he only acted for Maxwell."

"A hired villain! without even the paltry excuse of an interested motive to palliate the offence. O God! that I should be brought so low!"—and the doctor wrung his hands in anguish.

"Perhaps, sir," said Emily, "he is not so bad as you think; let us hear before we condemn him."

Her resentment, if her gentle nature had for a moment harbored such a feeling, had all given way to the abundant sympathy she felt for the doctor in his deep distress. Forgiving as the spirit of mercy, she now applied restoratives to the man who had so lately attempted to wrong her; and Dr. Vaudelier, with a sad heart, assisted her in her merciful duty.

Hatchie, on his approach to the cottage, had been assailed by the men whom Vernon had sent to secure him. A severe encounter had ensued, and although Hatchie's great muscular power and skill had enabled him to keep his assailants at bay, he would eventually have had the worst of it; but Jerry Swinger came to his aid in season for him to save his mistress from injury. Vernon's party, like that of Maxwell, were all secured.

The noise caused by the entrance of Vernon had awakened Henry Carroll from his slumbers. He listened, but could not make out the occasion of it; for, in consideration of his feeble condition, he had not been informed of the meditated attack. The cry for help uttered by Emily convinced him of the nature of the disturbance. His first impulse was to rise and rush to her assistance; but of his inability to do this he was painfully reminded in his attempt to rise. The heavy fall of Vernon on the floor, and the voice of Hatchie, assured him that, whatever the affair might be, it had assumed a new phase. His painful apprehensions were quieted by the appearance of Hatchie, who in a concise manner related the events of the night.

The last lingering doubt of the suspicious invalid was removed by the entrance of Emily herself.

"You are safe, dear Emily!" exclaimed he.

"I am, thank God!"

"And I could not assist in your defence!"

"Heaven will protect me, Henry. It seems as if a veritable angel hovered over my path to shield me from the thousand perils that assail me."

"The angels do hover around you, Emily; you are so pure, and good, and true, that they are ever near you, even in your own heart. Angels always minister to the good,—to those who resist the temptations of the world."

"You speak too well of me. But you have been excited by this tumult, Henry."

"I was a little disturbed; but, unable to help myself, I could do nothing for others,—not even for you, dearest."

"I know what you would have done, if you had been able. I know your heart, and I feel just as grateful as though your strong arm had rescued me."

Dr. Vaudelier, who had succeeded in restoring Vernon—or, by his true name, Jerome Vaudelier—to consciousness, now entered the room. He appeared more melancholy and harassed in mind than Emily had before seen him. His soul seemed to be crushed by the terrible realization that his son was a common felon—worse than felon, the persecutor of innocence. A soul as sensitive as his to the distinctions of right and wrong could hardly endure the misery of that hour.

With an absent manner, he inquired into the condition of the patient, and took the necessary steps to soothe him to slumber again.

Hatchie, having satisfied himself that the prisoners were all safe, left them under guard of the woodmen, and returned to the chamber of the sick man; and, at the doctor's urgent request, Emily left Henry to his care.

"Friar Can you forgive?
Elmore. As I would be forgiven."

LOVELL.

On the morning following the defeat of Maxwell and Vernon, it became necessary to make some disposition of the prisoners, so that the conquerors could attend to their daily duties. Their number was too large to be left upon the island in the absence of its defenders. A consultation between Dr. Vaudelier and the principals of the party took place. There were so many difficulties in the way of bringing the invaders to justice, that it was finally decided to release them all. The burden of the evidence was against the physician's son. The doctor, however much he deprecated the deed, was anxious to save his son from the publicity of a trial. His friends, seeing the melancholy truth, relieved his mind by suggesting that all of them be released, which was accordingly done.

Vernon had entirely recovered from the effects of Hatchie's blow, and was seated at the window of his apartment, contemplating the means of escape. At his father's request, two men had sat by him during the night, as much to prevent his escape as to minister to his wants. The watchers were still in the room. Vernon was not yet informed of the relation he sustained to the proprietor of the mansion in which he now involuntarily abode. He thought that, considering the unequivocal circumstances under which he had been made a prisoner, he was treated with a great deal of gentleness; but to him the reason was not apparent. He had been an alien from his father's house for a long period, and was not acquainted with the history of the past three or four years of the doctor's life.

His mind was now occupied in devising the means of escape; and just as he had struck upon a feasible project, he was interrupted by the entrance of Jerry Swinger, who had been sent by Dr. Vaudelier to ascertain the present frame of his son's mind, and broach to him the tidings that he was beneath his father's roof,—a circumstance of which his watchers were also ignorant.

"Well, stranger, how do you feel yourself, this morning?" asked Jerry.

"Better. That was a cursed hard rap which some one gave me, last night," replied Vernon,—as, from the force of habit, we must still call him.

"That are a fack, stranger; the man that gin you that blow has a moughty hard fist; and I advoise you to keep clear of him, or he will beat you into mince-meat."

"I will try to do so."

"You will larn to, if he mought have one more chance at that head of yours."

"Who is he?"

"He's an oncommon fine fellow, and made your cake dough once before."

"Ah, was it Miss Dumont's—that is, the quadroon's servant."

"Quadroon, man!—that's all humbug. But he's the boy, and is bound to fotch his missus out straight, in the end."

"Well, if she is his mistress, I hope he may. I wish her no harm, however much appearances belie me."

"Is that a fack, stranger?"

"Certainly; she never did me any harm."

"Then what mought be the reason you were so onmerciful to her?"

"I never used her hardly. My friend said she was his slave, and all I wished was to have him obtain his own. In short, I was paid for my services."

"No doubt of it, stranger. But I can't see how the tenth part of a man could hunt down such a gal as that,—it's onnateral. Besides, you didn't believe she was a slave."

"'Pon my honor I did, or I would not have lifted a finger. But I see you have released the rest of your prisoners,—I hope you will be as generous towards me."

"Don't flatter yourself, stranger!"

"I have a mortal aversion to courts of justice."

"Quite likely," returned Jerry, pleased with the man's frankness.

"Besides, I belong to a respectable family, who will not mind paying something handsome to avoid exposure."

"Can't be bought, stranger; besides, respectable villains arn't any better nor others."

"True; but, you know, their friends, who are educated, are more sensitive in such matters than others."

"That mought be true, for's aught I know; but it's mighty strange you never thought of that sarcumstance before."

"Never was in limbo before."

"That's the go, is't? Look-a-here, stranger, is it the darbies, or the crime, which brings the disgrace upon the family? Accordin' to my notion,—and I believe I've got something besides nits and lice in my head,—it's the deed, and not the punishment, that fotches the disgrace. But whar does your family live?"

"In New Orleans," replied Vernon, who knew nothing to the contrary, though we are not sure that, if he had, it would have made any difference in his reply.

"And your name is Vernon?"

"It is."

"Is that your family name, or only a borried one?"

"It is my real name," replied Vernon, not a little perplexed by the coolness and method of the woodman's queries.

"I rather guess not," suggested Jerry, mildly.

"'Pon my honor—"

"Think again,—maybe you mought fotch the real one to your mind."

Vernon, whose temper was not particularly gentle under contradiction, was nettled, and disposed to be angry.

"Perhaps you know best," said he, conquering his passion, and assuming one of those peculiarly convincing smiles, which must be an hereditary possession in the family of the "father of lies."

"Perhaps I do," replied Jerry. "If you don't know any better than that, why, then, I do know best. It arn't Vernon."

"It is not manly, captain, to insult a prisoner," replied Vernon, with an air of dignity, which came from the same source as the liar's smile.

"I don't mean to insult you, stranger; but facts is facts, all over the world," said Jerry, untouched by the other's rebuke.

"What mean you?"

"Nothin', stranger, only I know you. Your mother arn't livin'."

"No," returned Vernon, with a start; for, with all his vices and his crimes, a sense of respect for the name and honor of his family had outlived the good principles imbibed upon a mother's knee. Although a villain in almost every sense of the word, there were many redeeming traits in his character, which the reader will be willing to believe, on recalling his expressions of conscientiousness uttered to Maxwell. Family pride is often hereditary, and the reverses and degradations of a lifetime cannot extinguish it. It was so with Vernon. His real name was unknown, even among his most intimate associates. He had early taken the precaution—not in deference to the feelings of his father—to assume a name; it was from pride of birth, which shuddered more at the thought of a stain upon the family escutcheon than at all the crimes which may canker and corrode the heart.

"My mother is not living," continued he; "but how know you this?"

"It don't matter, stranger. Have you seen your father lately?"

"Not for many years. I am an outcast from his presence," replied Vernon, with some appearance of feeling.

"That's onfortunate; does he know what sort of a lark you are?"

"I hope not," replied Vernon, with a sickly smile.

"But he does; he knows all about this ongodly scrape you got into last night."

"What mean you?" said the ruffian, sternly.

"Mean? Why, just exactly what I say, Mr. Vaudelier! Don't start! I know you as well as you know yourself."

Vernon bit his lips; he was confounded at hearing his name uttered,—a name which had not greeted his ears for many years. His passion was disarmed before the rude but cutting speech of the woodman, whose knowledge of human nature, bred in the woods as he had been, was remarkable. There are men in the world, supposed to be entirely intractable, who, when rightly approached, prove as gentle as lambs. There is no evil without its antidote, however deeply it may be hid from the knowledge of man; and there is no man so vile that he cannot be reformed. The image of God, marred and disfigured as it may be, exists in every man, as the faultless statue exists in the rough block of marble; from which, when the fashioning hand, aided by the magic of genius, touches it, the imago of beauty shall come forth. So, when man, in whom always exists the elements of the highest character, shall be approached by the true reformer,—the highest and truest genius,—the bright ideal shall assume the actual form.

The woodman had touched a chord in the heart of the gambler which vibrated at his touch. It was not the words, but the genuine sympathy with which they were laden, that overcame the indifference of the vicious man. Perceiving his advantage, the woodman followed it up, repeatedly disarming the bolt of passion, which was poised in the mind of his auditor.

"Your father," said Jerry, "is a good man, and you mought go round the world without finding a better."

"Very true!" replied Vernon, moved to a degree he was unwilling to acknowledge.

"Now, if you jest turn over a new leaf in the book of life, and try to fotch out right in the end, I believe the old man would cry quits on the old score."

"Send those men away, captain! I will not attempt to escape."

Jerry complied, and the watchers took their departure.

"Where is my father?"

"Close by, stranger. May be you'd like to see him?"

"On no account!"

"That's a good sign, anyhow," muttered Jerry. "You will have to see him, I am afraid. You are under his ruff."

Vernon, completely overcome, staggered to a chair, and covered his face with his hands.

"Not so bad a boy as one mought suppose," soliloquized Jerry, as he went to the door, and requested the servant to summon Dr. Vaudelier. "The fellow has fed on husks long enough, and, as the scripter says, he is goin' to rise and go to his dad."

"Do not let my father see me,—anything, rather than that!" exclaimed Vernon, rising, and grasping the woodman's arm. "I am a great villain!"

"That's very true, stranger; but you have got into the scrape, and the best thing you can do is to get out on't."

"How can I!"

"Be an honest man."

"I fear I never can be that."

"Try it! There is something left of you."

At this moment Dr. Vaudelier entered the room. His aspect was stern and forbidding, and the son buried his face in his hands after the first glance at him.

"Jerome," said he, "you will bring my gray hairs with sorrow down to the grave."

"Easy with him, doctor, easy! He is a little touched, and, if you manage him right, you can fotch him over. He is under conviction now. Don't let on yet!"

"Jerome, this is a sorry visit you have made me," continued the doctor. "Are you entirely lost to all shame, that you could thus enter my house with a band of ruffians behind you?"

"Father," said the convicted Vernon, "I did not know it was your house, or I could never have done it."

"Alas, that a son of mine should have become a midnight assassin!" and Dr. Vaudelier covered his face with his hands, and sobbed like a child.

"Forgive me, father!" exclaimed the repentant son. "Forgive me!"

"God and your country alone can forgive crimes like yours!"

"Easy with him, doctor!" interposed Jerry, fearful lest the son's repentance should be dissipated before the father's sternness.

"I will atone for all, to the best of my ability."

"Would that you might do so!"

"I will! Heaven witness my sincerity!"

"Your first act of atonement must be to the lady you have so deeply injured."

"I would be her slave for life!"

"If you are sincere, you will disclose all you know of the wrongs which have been inflicted upon her."

"I fear, for her sake, that my knowledge is too limited to avail anything to her. Maxwell assured me she was his slave, and showed me the bill of sale. I believed him, or he could never have had my help."

"You were too willing to believe him," said the doctor, sternly.

"I told him, at the outset, that I would expose all I knew (which is but little), if I discovered she was not a slave. I will tell you all."

"Let Miss Dumont be called, Jerry."

Emily came at the summons, and Dr. Vaudelier informed her of the position of the matter.

"Can you forgive me, Miss Dumont, for the wrong I have done?"

"Freely, sir; and may God enable you to persevere in the course you have taken!"

"Thank you! With an angel's prayer, I shall begin the new life with the strength your good wishes impart."

Vernon now related all he knew of the machinations of the attorney, concealing no part of his own or his confederate's villany. Of the will he knew nothing, his operations having been confined to the attempts to obtain possession of her person.

Dr. Vaudelier was satisfied that his son had told the whole truth. It was a source of much satisfaction to him that he had chosen the better part. His fervent prayer ascended that the penitent might be faithful to his good resolutions.

All the circumstances relating to the will were unknown to Vernon, which was the occasion of much congratulation both to his father and to Emily. It seemed to relieve him from some portion of the guilt which the subsequent transactions fastened upon him; and, when these circumstances were related to him, a burst of generous indignation testified that he, the blackleg, the robber, was above such villany. However depraved in some respects, that vice which is commonly called meanness had no place within him. He was, or rather had been, of that class of operators who "rob the rich to pay the poor;" who have no innate love of vice, only a desire to be free from wholesome restraint, and have at hand, without toil or sacrifice, the means of enjoying life to the utmost.

"Jerome," said Dr. Vaudelier, "this Maxwell must be watched, and, if you are true to yourself, no one can do this duty as well as you."

"Trust me, sir! I am strong in this lady's service."

"I shall not doubt you, my son, until I have occasion to do so. I am satisfied, if Miss Dumont is."

"I feel perfectly confident in the good faith of your son, and am indebted to him for the zeal he manifests in my cause."

"Thank you, Miss Dumont," said Vernon. "You are too generous; but, be assured, your confidence shall not be abused."

It was determined that Vernon should immediately depart for Vicksburg, whither Maxwell had gone.

"He gives me leave to attend you,
And is impatient till he sees you."

SHAKSPEARE.

It was the afternoon of the same day, as Dr. Vaudelier was reclining upon a rustic seat near the landing, he was surprised by the appearance of a canoe coming down the creek. The canoe contained an elderly gentleman, and a negro, who, after several unsuccessful attempts, succeeded in landing the passenger upon the little pier. He was about fifty years of age, apparently. His hair and whiskers were a mixture of gray and black; his countenance was full, and his complexion florid, which contrasted oddly with the green spectacles that rested upon his nose.

"Do I have the honor of addressing Dr. Vaudelier?" said, the stranger, in a tone so soft and silky that the doctor could hardly persuade himself it did not proceed from a woman.

"That is my name, sir; and to whom am I indebted for this unexpected pleasure?"

"De Guy, sir,—Antoine De Guy, at your service," squeaked the visitor, with whom the reader is already acquainted.

"Well, sir, may I inquire the object of your visit?"

"Certainly, sir. I am informed there is a lady at present residing with you, one of the unfortunate persons who were on board the Chalmetta at the time of her late disaster. A Miss Dumont."

"Who informed you, sir?"

De Guy hesitated a little, and then said he heard a number of gentlemen discuss the late disaster at the hotel in Vicksburg; that one of them had mentioned this fact—he really could not tell the gentleman's name.

"What is your business with the lady?" asked the doctor, to whom the idea of a new enemy of Emily had already presented itself.

"That, sir, I can best disclose to the lady in person," squeaked the street-lawyer, with a low bow.

"This way then," and the doctor led him to the library, into which he soon after conducted Emily.

"Miss Dumont?" said De Guy, rising and making a profound obeisance as she entered. "My name is De Guy."

Emily bowed slightly, but made no reply.

"May I beg that our interview may be private?" said the attorney, glancing at Dr. Vaudelier.

"This gentleman is my friend and confidant; it is not necessary that he should retire," replied Emily, as Dr. Vaudelier was moving towards the door.

"Very well, madam; though I think, from the nature of my business, you would wish it to be confidential."

"Perhaps I had better withdraw," suggested the physician.

"By no means, my dear sir; if this gentleman's visit relates to business matters, I must beg the favor of your counsel."

"As you please, Miss Dumont; I come charged with a message from your uncle, my respected client, Mr. Dumont."

"Indeed, sir!" replied Emily, a slight tremor creeping through her frame; "pray deliver it at once."

"It is simply to say your immediate presence at your late residence is necessary."

"Where did you see my uncle?" asked she.

"At Bellevue, madam, yesterday morning. I arrived at eleven o'clock to-day."

"When did Mr. Dumont return from his journey up the river?" asked Dr. Vaudelier.

De Guy reflected a moment; from the shade of displeasure on his countenance, it was evident he disliked the interference of the doctor.

"About four days ago."

"When did you last see your uncle, Miss Dumont?" asked the doctor.

"I have not seen him since the second day of our journey,"—which was the time that Jaspar had been left at the wood-yard.

"Probably, then, he has returned to Bellevue. It is singular that, under the instructions of the will, he should leave you in this unceremonious manner."

"Not at all," interrupted De Guy.

"You speak as though you were familiar with his motions," said Dr. Vaudelier, with a penetrating glance at the attorney.

"To some extent, I am," replied the silky-toned lawyer, with a smile which was intended to declare his own innocence in any of the plots of Jaspar. "He has voluntarily acquainted me with some of the particulars of this unfortunate affair."

"Indeed, sir!"

"Such is the fact," continued the attorney, with professional ease; "he has sent for Miss Dumont in order to effect a compromise."

"A compromise!" exclaimed Emily, with disdain; "there can be no compromise, short of restoring, absolutely, my rights!"

"It is very probable he is quite ready to do so," replied the accommodating attorney.

"May I ask what has produced this singular and sudden change in the purpose of my uncle?"

"Well, madam, it would be difficult to explain the precise reasons. His mind seemed troubled; I advised him to unburden to me, which he did. The conclusion of the whole matter is, he has taken this step by my advice," said De Guy, with an air of the deepest humility.

Emily was somewhat moved, by the revelation of the attorney, from the stern reserve she had manifested, and said,

"I am grateful for your interest in my behalf."

"Do not mention it, madam. There is a pleasure in doing one's duty, which is superior to every other gratification."

"May I ask what prompted you to give such advice?" asked Dr. Vaudelier, incredulously.

"The consciousness that my duty to this lady demanded it. It was not exactly in keeping with the profession, I am aware; but I felt obliged to sacrifice professional consistency to the call of justice," said the attorney, in such a way as to leave it doubtful whether he was perpetrating a jest or a moral axiom.

"Humph!" said the doctor, with a doubtful sneer.

"Principle before professional advantage, is my motto, sir," continued De Guy.

"Pray, what gave you the first intimation that all was not right between this lady and her uncle?"

"The voluntary confession of Mr. Dumont," replied De Guy, readily.

"You do not believe Mr. Dumont would have abandoned his purpose, just as it was in the very act of being consummated, without a strong motive."

"True; I understand that the body-servant of the late Colonel Dumont is upon this island. He must have informed the lady, by this time, of his share in the transaction."

"Well."

"And Mr. Dumont saw the boy the night before he left the steamer."

"True."

"Was not the reäppearance, the rising from the dead, of this man, quite enough to convince him that all his plans had failed?"

"Why so?"

"The boy had the will!"

"It is all plain to me," said Emily, more disposed to trust De Guy than Dr. Vaudelier was.

"Perfectly plain, madam; it is not at all strange that he should adopt this course. He must trust to his niece's good-nature to save him from exposure."

"Perhaps this is only a plan to get the lady into his power again," suggested Dr. Vaudelier.

"I assure you it is not. He is sorely troubled in mind, even now, at the guilt which is fastened upon him. His conscience is awakened."

"And well it might be," said the doctor.

"True," responded the silky attorney, with an appearance of honest indignation; "but when we see a man disposed to repent, we should be ready to assist him."

Dr. Vaudelier involuntarily turned his thoughts to the incidents of the morning,—called to mind the feelings which had been awakened in the presence of his penitent son, and he felt the full force of De Guy's argument.

"If Mr. Dumont is disposed to repent of the injury he has done his niece, and make atonement for it, I should, by all means, advise her to follow the course which, I am sure, her gentle nature suggests. 'To err is human; to forgive, divine.' The lady is a Christian, and will act in the true spirit of Christianity."

"I trust she will," responded De Guy, meekly; "I trust she will, and, with all convenient haste, try to mitigate his distress."

"I will! I will!" exclaimed Emily.

"Perhaps you will accompany me, as your uncle suggests," insinuated De Guy.

"There is certainly no need of such haste as this," said the doctor.

"Her uncle may change his mind."

"Then his penitence is not sincere, and he cannot be trusted."

"I should scarcely call it penitence, sir, since it is only the fear of discovery which has driven him to this step," said the attorney, branching off in to a new school of ethics.

"I can go in a few days," said Emily. "Captain Carroll, you think, is out of danger now?"

De Guy started, and a scowl of the deepest malignity overshadowed his countenance, which had before been that of a meek and truthful man. The change was so sudden that he seemed to be a man within a man, and the two creatures of an opposite character. Neither the doctor nor Emily noticed the start, or the sudden change of expression; and the attorney, seemingly aware of the danger of wearing two faces, restored the former aspect.

"I think he is entirely out of danger," replied Dr. Vaudelier, in reply to Emily's question. "Perhaps he will be able to accompany you in a few days."

Emily blushed, but made no reply, other than a sweet smile, betokening the happiness such an event would give her.

"I fear, madam, the delay will be dangerous," suggested De Guy, who did not relish the proposition of the doctor.

"Why dangerous? If Mr. Dumont changes his mind, we have the means of proving that that miserable will is false."

"You forget, sir, that Mr. Benson may be lost, and with him the will," interposed Emily, whose love of truth did not enable her to conceal the weakness of her case.

"Indeed! Is the will in the hands of a third party?" said the attorney, with apparent indifference, while, in reality, he was inwardly chuckling with delight.

"It matters not," replied the doctor; "the lady's case is safe. You can inform Mr. Dumont that his niece will present herself in a week or ten days."

"But, my dear sir, the delay will be fatal, both to the lady and her uncle," said the attorney, with alarm.

"It cannot be helped," said the doctor.

"Mr. Dumont's health, I fear, will render it unsafe to wait so long. Miss Dumont does not wish her uncle to die unforgiven."

"I will go, sir; I will go at once," exclaimed Emily, shocked at the condition of Jaspar, and anxious, as was her nature, to relieve the sufferings he must endure in her absence. She forgot how basely he had wronged her—how he had attempted her life; the divine sentiment, "Love your enemies," prevailed over every other consideration.

"Die unforgiven," muttered the doctor. "Is he sick?"

"He is, sir, and near his end."

"Why have you not mentioned this circumstance before? It seems of sufficient importance to merit a passing word."