The Three Brides, Love in a Cottage, and Other Tales

THE DIAMOND STAR;

"Too late!" he muttered to himself; "too late! It is hard, after having ventured so much for them, that I should have been baffled in my attempt to escape with them. However, they are safe and happy. If this breeze holds, they will soon pass Cape St. Martin. Dear Estella, how I value this pledge of your friendship and gratitude."

And the young man, after raising to his lips a small diamond star, attached to a golden chain, deposited the trinket in his bosom, and then, with a parting glance at the distant vessel, turned homewards in the direction of the city gates.

Absorbed in his own reflections, he did not notice that his footsteps were dogged by a tall figure, muffled in a black cloak, which pursued him in the moonlight, like his shadow, and left him only when he entered his posada.

Landon spent some time in his room in reading and arranging letters and papers; and when the clock of a neighboring cathedral sounded the hour of eleven, threw himself upon his bed without undressing, and was soon asleep. From a disturbed and unrefreshing slumber, crowded with vexatious visions, he was suddenly and rudely roused by a rough hand laid upon his shoulder. He started upright in bed, and gazed around him with astonishment. His chamber was filled by half a dozen sinister-looking men, robed entirely in black, in whom he recognized, not without a shudder, the dreaded familiars of the Holy Office, the officials of the Inquisitorial Tribune. His first impulse was to grope for his arms; but his sword and pistols had been removed. A rough voice bade him arise and follow, and he had no choice but to obey the mandate. Preceded and followed by the familiars, who were all armed, as he judged by the clash of steel that attended each footstep, though no weapons were apparent, he descended the staircase, came out upon the street, and was conducted through many a winding lane and passage to a low-browed arch, which opened into the basement story of a huge embattled building, that rose like a fortress before him. The conductor of the band halted here, and knocking thrice upon an oaken door, studded with huge iron nails, it was opened silently, and the party entered a dark, subterranean passage of stone, lighted only by a smoky cresset lamp swinging in a recess.

After passing through this corridor, Landon was conducted into a huge vaulted hall, dimly illuminated by the branches of an iron chandelier, by whose light he discovered in front of him a raised platform, on which were seated three men, robed in black, while before them, at a table, sat two others, similarly attired, with writing implements before them. On the platform was planted a huge banner, the blazon on the folds of which was a wooden cross, flanked by a branch of olive and a naked sword, the motto being, "Exurge, Domine, et judica causam tuam." Rise, Lord, and judge thy cause. It wanted neither this formidable standard, nor the implements of torture scattered around, to convince the young Englishman that he stood in the halls of the Inquisition.

After being permitted to stand some time before the judges, that his mind might be impressed with the terrors of the place, the principal Inquisitor addressed him, demanding his name.

"Clarence Landon," was the reply.

"Your birthplace?"

"London, England."

"Your age?"

"Twenty-five years."

"Occupation?"

"I am a gentleman of fortune, with no pursuit but that of knowledge and pleasure."

"You are accused," said the judge, "of having aided and abetted a countryman of yours, named Walter Hamilton, in seducing and carrying off Estella Martinez, a lady of a noble house, and a sister of St. Ursula. How say you, guilty or not guilty?"

"I am not guilty—I am not capable of the infamy with which you charge me."

"He refuses to confess," said the judge, turning to a familiar, the sworn tormentor. "We must try the question. Sanchez, is the rack prepared?"

The man addressed was a brawny, muscular ruffian, with a livid and forbidding countenance, whose dark eyes sparkled with pleasure as he bowed assent to the interrogation.

"Hold!" cried Landon. "The truth can no longer harm any but myself; and though you may inflict death upon me, you shall not enjoy the fiendish satisfaction of mutilating my limbs with your horrid enginery. I did aid Hamilton, not indeed in ruining an injured maiden, but in rescuing from the thraldom she abhorred a lovely lady whom Providence formed to make the happiness of an honorable man. By this time Estella is a happy bride."

"Her joys will be shortened," said the inquisitor, frowning. "They cannot long elude the power of Rodrigo d'Almonte, at once judge of the Holy Office and governor of Valencia."

"Moderate your transports, governor," replied the Englishman, boldly; "the fugitives are beyond your reach. This very night a swift-winged felucca bore them away from these accursed shores, to a land of liberty and happiness."

The brow of Rodrigo grew black as night.

"Insolent!" he answered; "you have outraged and set at naught the authority of church and state; your life shall pay the forfeit."

"Be it so," replied Landon, folding his arms; "but let me tell you, that for every drop of blood shed, my country will demand a life. The cross of St. George protects the meanest subject of the English crown."

Rodrigo d'Almonte made no reply, but waving his hand, Landon was removed from the tribunal and thrown into a dungeon on the same floor with the hall of torture.

Towards the close of a sultry summer day, the narrow streets of Valencia wore an aspect of unusual activity and life, filled, as they were, with representatives of every class of citizens. The tide of human beings seemed to be setting in one direction, towards a plaza, or square, in the centre. The Alameda was deserted by its fashionable promenaders; and young and old—all, indeed, who were not bedridden—were at length congregated in the square. The attraction was soon explained; for in the centre of the plaza was seen a lofty platform of wood, on which was erected a stout stake or pillar, to which was affixed an iron chain and ring. Around this were heaped, to the height of several feet, huge fagots of dry wood, ready for the torch. A large body of men-at-arms kept the crowd back from a large open space around the platform. These preparations were made, so the popular rumor ran, for the punishment of a young Englishman, who had aided a Spanish nun in the violation of her vows.

The numerous bells of the city were tolling heavily; and at length, after the patience of the populace had been nearly exhausted, the head of a column of men, marching in slow time, was seen to enter upon the plaza. First came the governor's guard, their steel caps and cuirasses and halberds polished like silver. After these, walked the officials of the Inquisition, and some friars of the order of St. Dominic, surrounding the unfortunate Landon, who wore the corazo, or pointed cap, upon his head, and the san benito, a robe painted all over with flames and devils, typifying the awful fate which awaited him. He ascended the scaffold with a firm step, while the cortége ranged themselves around it; and the governor of Valencia, mounted on a splendid barbed charger, and wearing his inquisitorial robes over his military uniform, rode into the square, amid the vivas of the crowd and the presented arms of the troops, and made a sign for the ceremony to proceed.

As an officer, appointed for the purpose, was about to read the sentence, a great tumult arose in the square, and attracted the attention of all the spectators.

"What is the meaning of this, Alvarez?" asked the governor, addressing one of his lieutenants.

"The people, please your excellency, have got hold of Isaac, the rich Jew, and insist on his beholding the august spectacle of the auto da fe."

"The unbelieving dog has never liked these brave shows," answered the governor, with a grim smile, "since his well-beloved brother, Issachar, expiated his heresy on this spot in the great auto, when we burned twenty of his tribe before the king. Beshrew my heart! he abuses my clemency in permitting him to hold house and gold here in Valencia. He shall behold the execution! Make room there, and drag him into the heart of the hollow square."

The cruel order was obeyed; and the old Jew, who was a mild and venerable-looking man, was forced into the centre of the plaza, whence he could have a full view of the horrid scene about to be enacted.

But the indignities to which he had been subjected aroused a latent spark of fire even in the soul of the aged Hebrew. He lifted up his voice and cried aloud:—

"Spaniards! Christians! are ye men, or are ye brutes? Fear ye not the vengeance of Heaven, when ye enact deeds that would make the savage blush? Think ye that Heaven will long withhold its vengeance from atrocities that cry aloud to it night and day—that the innocent blood ye have spilt will sink, unavenged, into the earth? Fear and tremble, for the hour of wrath and woe is at hand!"

The energy and eloquence with which he spoke sent a strange thrill of terror through the crowd. The governor, alone insensible to fear, shouted from his saddle:—

"Tremble for yourself, Isaac! for, by the rood! if you dare question the justice of the Holy Office, you shall share the fate of yonder prisoner."

"I fear not the wrath of man," replied the Jew; "fear you the wrath of Heaven!"

And at this moment, as if in vindication of his words, a heavy clap of thunder, that shook the city like the discharge of a park of artillery, broke upon the ear; and one of those sudden storms, so common in southerly latitudes, rolled up its dark masses of clouds, and the light of day was suddenly quenched, as in an eclipse. Vivid flashes of lightning lit the upturned and terror-stricken faces of the cowering multitude. At the same time, the wind howled fiercely through the streets that debouched upon the plaza, and tore the plumage that waved and tossed upon the helmets of the soldiery.

"Executioner!" roared the governor, whose high, stern tones of military command were heard above the roar of the sudden tornado, "do your duty! Set fire to the fagots!"

The order was obeyed; the torch was applied, and already a quivering, lurid flame shot up at the feet of the luckless Landon, when the storm burst forth with ungovernable fury. The scaffolding was blown down, the fragments scattered, and the rain, descending in torrents, instantly quenched both torch and fagot. The vast crowd was thrown into utter confusion; the terrified horses of the cavalry plunged madly among the footmen; hundreds fell and were trampled under foot; and prayers, shrieks, and imprecations filled the darkened air.

Landon was unhurt amid the wreck of the sacrificial pyre. A ray of hope shot up in his heart. Scrambling out of the ruins, unobserved and unpursued, he fled down the nearest lane with the utmost speed. Anxious to obtain shelter, he, without even a thought, climbed a garden wall; once within which he was safe, for a moment, from pursuit. Rushing through a shaded alley of the garden, he found himself at the door of a large and splendid house. Almost without a hope of finding it yield, he tried the handle, and the door opened. Silently and swiftly he ascended a large, stone staircase, and took refuge in the first apartment which he found before him. A beautiful young girl, the only occupant of the room, starting at the fearful apparition of a stranger flying for his life, in the robe of the san benito, fell upon her knees and crossed herself repeatedly, as her dark eyes were fixed in terror on the intruder.

"Lady!" cried Landon, "for the love of that Being whom we both worship, though in a different form, take pity on a wretched fellow-being. Save me! save me!"

"You are accursed and condemned," she answered, rising and recoiling.

"I am! I am!—but you know my offence. If you ever loved yourself, you know how to pardon it. Think of the horrid fate which awaits me, if you are pitiless."

The lady paused and reflected, Landon watching the expression of her countenance with the most intense anxiety. At length her brow cleared up; there was an expression of sweetness about her rosy lips that revived hope in the heart of the fugitive.

"I will save you if I can," she answered.

"Heaven's best blessing on you for the word!" exclaimed the Englishman.

"But you have come to a dangerous place for shelter and safety," she continued, sadly. "Do you know whose house this is? It is the dwelling of my father, Don Rodrigo d'Almonte, the governor of Valencia."

Landon started back in terror, but he instantly recovered from that feeling.

"You, then," he said, "are Donna Florinda, in praise of whose beauty and goodness all Valencia is eloquent. I feel that I am safe in your hands."

"I will never betray you," said the lady. "You are safe here. It is my bed chamber," she continued, blushing; "but I resign it to you—sure, from your countenance, that you are a cavalier of honor, who will never give me cause to repent of the step."

"Be sure of that."

"Swear it," she said, "upon this trinket, which my father took from your person in the hall of the Inquisition."

Landon took from Florinda's hand the diamond star given him by Estella, and thus mysteriously restored, and pressed it to his lips.

"By this talisman," he said, "by this token, which I prize so highly, I pledge myself not to abuse your confidence, but to repay the priceless service you render me by a life of gratitude."

"You may remain here, then, for the present," said Florinda, "till I can think what can be done for you."

"If I can only make my way to the house of the English ambassador," replied Landon, "I think I can count upon my safety."

Donna Florinda, after lighting a lamp, (for it was now nightfall,) and setting upon a table some wine and fruit, left the chamber, locking the door behind her.

Descending to the garden, she went directly to a secluded arbor, embowered in foliage, at no great distance from the house.

"Cesareo!" she whispered.

A young cavalier, who was concealed in the arbor, instantly advanced, and clasped her in his arms.

"Dear Florinda," he cried, "I feared that you would disappoint me. But we have yet some happy moments to pass together."

"Not a moment, Cesareo," replied the lady; "my father will soon return. I come to beg you to retire instantly, and await another opportunity of meeting."

"You are anxious to get rid of me!" replied the cavalier.

"Not so; my father will soon return, and he will be sure to inquire for me directly."

"Well, then," said the lover, "if it must be so, go you to the house, and leave me the solitary pleasure of watching the window of the room gladdened by your presence."

"No, no, Cesareo," cried Florinda, in terror, "that must not be."

As she said this, her eyes were instinctively turned to the window of her room, and Cesareo's followed the same direction. The shadow of Landon's figure, as it passed between the lamp and the window, was seen defined distinctly on the curtain.

"By Heaven!" cried Cesareo, "there is a man in your bed chamber!"

"My father!" said Florinda.

"You told me in your last breath that he had not returned. You are playing me false, Florinda. You have a lover, and a favored one."

"No, no!" cried the agonized girl. "It is nothing, believe me—trust not appearances. I will explain all."

But at this moment the distant clang of trumpets and kettledrums was heard, announcing the governor's return.

"I must begone!" cried Florinda; "believe me, I am faithful;" and with these words she fled into the house.

"The dream is over!" said Cesareo. "But I will have vengeance on my rival;" and he left the garden, muttering curses, and grasping the cross hilt of his sword.

Florinda flew to her chamber.

"Fly!" she cried to Landon. "I have sheltered you at the risk of my reputation—my father is returning, and you must leave this house. A jealous lover may denounce me, and both of us be ruined forever. Farewell; climb the wall at the back of the garden, and take refuge in the next house. I will still watch over you."

Landon obeyed, and made his escape from the governor's garden just as Don Rodrigo was entering his court yard. He crossed another small garden, and entered a small house at the extremity, the door of which was unbarred, and again found refuge in a room on the first floor, where he concealed himself behind a screen.

He had not been here long before he heard footsteps entering the room, and the voices of two persons in conversation, one of whom was evidently a female, and the other an old man.

"Dear father!" said the female, "I am rejoiced to see that you are returned. You never go forth in this city that you do not leave me trembling for your safety."

"I have passed through much peril, Miriam," replied the man. "Snares and violence have beset my path. I went to carry the gold and the silver I had promised to Jacob, the goldsmith, when, lo! I was beset by the ungodly rabble."

"Dear father!"

"Yea! and they dragged me to their place of skulls—even to their accursed Golgotha, where the blood of mine only brother was drunken by the ravening flames, and where thirty of our brethren perished because they believed in the God of Abraham, and of Isaac, and of Jacob."

"And did they force you to witness the auto da fe?"

"They brought me to the place, Miriam—but there the spirit of prophecy descended upon me, and I lifted up my voice and denounced their abominations, even as the prophet of old did the iniquities of the Egyptian king. And lo! Miriam, there was a miracle wrought. The voice of Heaven spake in thunder to rebuke their impious bloodthirstiness. The floodgates of heaven were opened, and the rain descended in mighty torrents, and quenched the Moloch fires kindled by the Christians. And a great wind arose, and the scaffold was destroyed, and the goodly youth that stood thereupon was saved from the death of fire as the multitude were scattered."

"And lives he, father?"

"I fear not," answered the old man, sadly. "For if he were not crushed by the falling scaffold, yet verily the cruel swords of the troopers and the men-at-arms must have sought out his young life."

At this moment, Landon stepped from his concealment.

"No, my friends," said he, "I yet live to thank Heaven for its providential care. I have even found a friend in the household of my bitter enemy, for Donna Florinda d'Almonte sheltered me, and commended me to your roof."

He now had time to scan the persons of his hosts. The elder, Isaac, the Jew, was, as we described him on his appearance in the plaza, a man of venerable appearance, with a mild and noble countenance, wearing the long beard and flowing robes of his race. His daughter, Miriam, had the commanding beauty, the dark eyes, the flowing hair, and the bold features of the daughters of Israel. She was richly clad in robes of silk, and many a jewel of price gleamed in the raven tresses of her hair.

"Thou art safe beneath this roof," said the Hebrew, "for Donna Florinda, though the daughter of the man of tiger blood, hath yet befriended us and ours, and for her sake as well as for thine, thou art welcome."

Landon thanked his new friends for their hospitable pledges.

"I would fain," said the old Hebrew, "give thee garments more fitting than the accursed robe that wraps thy youthful limbs. But of a truth I have none of Spanish fashion, and the Jewish gabardine is almost as fatal to the wearer as the robe of the san benito."

"Here comes Reuben," said Miriam. "Welcome home, dear brother."

A handsome youth of sixteen entered at this moment, and saluted his father, his sister, and the stranger. He bore a bundle in his arms.

"I was charged," he said, "by the lady Florinda, to bear this packet to the stranger I should find here. It contains a Spanish dress. She bid me say," he continued, addressing Landon, "that when you have put on these habiliments, you can repair with me to the governor's garden at midnight. The waiting maid and confidant will conduct you through the house to the street, and once there you can make your way to the English ambassador's."

After thanking the youthful messenger, Landon was shown to an apartment, where he was left alone to change his dress. Donna Florinda had supplied him with a plain but handsome cavalier's suit, including mantle, hat, and plume, and in addition to these, a good sword. Landon hailed this latter gift with joy, and buckled the belt with trembling eagerness. He drew the weapon, and found it to be a Toledo blade of the best temper. He kissed the sword with ecstasy.

"Welcome!" he cried, "old friend! With you I can cut through odds, and at least sell my life dearly, if I fall again into the hands of the Philistines."

Returning to his new friends, he sat down to a hearty meal which they had prepared for him, and to which he did an Englishman's justice. At the hour of twelve, his young friend Reuben signified his readiness to accompany him on his adventure.

"Farewell!" he cried; "I owe you a debt that nothing can repay. But believe me that your kindness will always dwell in the heart of Clarence Landon."

Reuben and the Englishman were soon in the governor's garden. It was pitch dark, and they advanced cautiously, groping their way. All at once Landon stumbled against some person.

"Is it you, Reuben?" said he, in a low tone.

But he was instantly grasped by the throat. Dealing his unknown assailant a blow with his clinched hand, which made him release his hold, the Englishman instantly drew his sword and threw himself on guard. His steel was crossed by another blade, and a fierce encounter ensued, the combatants being practised swordsmen, and guided, in the dark, by what swordsmen term the "perception of the blade." Reuben had made his escape, and gone to inform his father of this new disaster. The struggle was brief, for the antagonist of Landon, closing at the peril of his life, and being a man of herculean strength, wrested the sword from the Englishman's grasp, and held him at his mercy.

"Now, dog!" whispered the victor, "have you any thing to offer why I should not take your life as a minion of the tyrant Rodrigo?"

"I scorn to ask my life of an unknown assassin," replied Landon; "but I am no minion of Rodrigo's, and I was even now seeking to escape his clutches."

"If there was light here," said the stranger, "I could see whether you lied, friend, by your looks. You may be palming off a tale upon me. How did you propose to escape Rodrigo?"

"By making my way through his house," answered Landon.

"A likely tale. How are you to gain access to his house?"

"A waiting maid was to let me in."

"Well, I'll test your veracity. I have your life in my hands. You are unarmed; I have rapier and dagger. The experiment costs me nothing."

"It would be idle in me to interrogate you," said Landon; "it would be idle to ask who you are."

"I will answer you frankly," replied the stranger; "I am one of those freebooters whose fortunes are their swords. If I were in Rodrigo's power, my life would not be worth five minutes' purchase; and yet I am seeking him to-night."

"You speak in riddles."

"Perhaps; but be silent now, if you value your life, and follow me."

The stranger, still retaining a firm grasp upon the luckless Landon, approached a door which led into the governor's house, showing, in their progress, a perfect acquaintance with the labyrinthian alleys of the garden. They halted, and a female voice spoke in a whisper, saying, "Here's the key."

The stranger grasped it, and dragging Landon into the house, instantly locked the door behind him. A dark lantern was placed on the floor of the corridor; the stranger told Landon to take this up, and precede him up stairs. Landon obeyed, the stranger following close behind, and giving him whispered directions as to his course.

Having reached a certain door, the stranger took the light and entered a chamber, followed by the wondering Englishman. The walls of the room were heavily draped, and upon a huge bed the governor of Valencia was reclining, buried in a deep slumber.

"He sleeps!" whispered the stranger in the ear of Landon; "he sleeps, as if he had never shed blood—as if the head of my brother had never fallen on the block by the hand of his bloody executioner. He will soon sleep sounder."

"What mean you?" asked Landon.

"Wait and see," was the reply.

The stranger cautiously lifted the light in his left hand, bending over the sleeper, while with his right he drew a broad, sharp poniard from his belt, and raised it in the act to strike. But just as it was descending, Landon caught the assassin's arm, and shouted in his loudest tones,—

"Don Rodrigo, wake!"

"Baffled!" cried the ruffian, with an oath. "You shall pay with your life for interfering."

The governor sprang from his bed in time to witness the deadly struggle between Landon and the midnight assassin. It was short and decisive, for as the robber was aiming a blow at his antagonist, the latter changed the direction, and it was buried to the hilt in his own heart. He fell, and died without a groan. The noise of the struggle had aroused the household, and the servants came pouring into the room with lights, accompanied by Donna Florinda, who was agonized with terror.

"Dear father!" she cried, rushing into the governor's arms, "what does this mean?"

"It means," replied Don Rodrigo, "that this ruffian, who had sworn to take my life because I had condemned his brother to death for manifold misdeeds, has been slain in the attempt by this young man."

"And do you recognize your generous savior?" exclaimed the daughter. "Behold! it is the young Englishman you condemned to perish at the stake. O father!" And she explained the manner in which Landon had been enabled to save the governor's life.

"Young man," said the governor, addressing Landon with deep emotion, "a mightier Power than the hand of man is visible in this. For the life you have saved I will repay you in the same manner. I insure you a full and free pardon, and you shall not have it to say that Don Rodrigo d'Almonte, bad as he has been represented, was a monster of ingratitude."

And he kept his word. Landon soon after set sail for England, in company with the Hebrew family who had sheltered him, and there, in due time, was united to the lovely Miriam, with whose beauty he had been impressed on first sight. In England, he rejoined Hamilton and his Spanish bride, to secure whose happiness he had perilled his own life; and he always preserved Estella's diamond star as a memorial of his adventures in Valencia. Soon after his arrival he received a letter from Donna Florinda, announcing her marriage to Cesareo, whose jealousy had been so signally excited by Landon's shadow on the window curtain. When Don Rodrigo died, he was buried with all the honors due to a soldier, a governor, and an eminent member of that mild and benevolent institution, the Spanish Inquisition.

THE GAME OF CHANCE.

"Ah! my boy!" continued he, twirling his jet black mustache, "your uniform will be a passport to the smiles of the fair. But you already seem to have made your way to the good graces of Madame Von Berlingen, the rich widow who resides at this hotel."

"Bah! she is forty," answered Ernest, carelessly.

"But in fine preservation, and a beauty for all that," said Captain Steinfort. "The Baron Von Dangerfeld was desperately in love with her; but within a few days, the widow seems rather to have cut him. You are the happy man, after all."

"Undeceive yourself, my dear Christian," said Ernest, blushing; "I have only flirted with the handsome widow. My hand is already engaged to a charming girl, Meena Altenburg, the playmate of my infancy, adopted and brought up by my good father. I am to marry her as soon as I get my company."

"And what is to support you, Captain Ernest?"

"My pay, of course, and the income of the moderate dowry my father, who is well enough off for a farmer, proposes to give his favorite. So, you see my lot in life is settled."

"Precisely so," replied the captain. "But since you are free this evening, I engage you to pass it with me. Have you got any money about you?"

"A good deal. Besides the price of my company, which is safely stowed away in bank notes in this breast pocket, I have a handful of ducats about me, with which I propose purchasing some trinkets for my bride. But I have a gold piece or two that I can spare, if——"

"Poh! poh! I'm well enough provided," answered the captain. "You know this is pay day. Come along."

"But whither?"

"You shall see."

With these words, the captain thrust his arm within that of his companion, and the pair walked off at a rapid rate. After passing through several streets, Steinfort halted, and rang at the door of a stately mansion. It was opened by a servant in handsome livery, and the young gentlemen entered and went up stairs.

Walstein soon found himself in a scene very different from any of which he had ever dreamed of in his rustic and simple life upon his father's farm. Around a large table, covered with cloth, were seated more than a dozen persons of different ages, all so intent upon what was going forward, that the captain and his friend took their seats unnoticed. At the head of the table sat a man in a gray wig, with a pair of green spectacles upon his nose, before whom lay a pile of gold, and who was busily engaged in paying and receiving money, and in giving an impetus to a small ivory ball, which spun at intervals its appointed course. Walstein soon learned that this was a rouge-et-noir table. The gentleman in the gray wig was the banker.

"Make your game, gentlemen," said this individual, "while the ball spins. Your luck's as good as mine. It's all luck, gentlemen, at rouge-et-noir. Rouge-et-noir, gentlemen, the finest in all the world. Black wins; it's yours, sir—twenty ducats, and you've doubled it. Make your game—black or red."

"Try your fortune, Ernest," said the captain. Ernest mechanically put down a few ducats on the red.

"Red wins," said the banker, in the same monotonous tone. "Make your game, gentlemen, while the ball rolls."

Why need we follow the fortunes of Ernest on this fatal evening, as he yielded, step by step, to the seduction to which he was now exposed for the first time in his life? Long after Steinfort left the gambling house, he continued to play. His luck turned. He had soon lost all his winnings, and the money set apart for his bridal presents. Still the ball rolled, and he continued to stake. He had broken the package of bank notes, the money he had received from his father for the purchase of his commission; and though he saw bill after bill swept away before his eyes, he continued to play, in the desperate hope of winning back his losses. At length his last ducat was gone. He rose and left the room, the last words ringing in his ears being,—

"Make your game, gentlemen, while the ball rolls."

Despairing and heart-stricken, the young man sought his hotel and his chamber. On the staircase he encountered Madame Von Berlingen, but he saw her not. His eyes were glazed. He did not notice or return her salutation. He threw himself upon his bed without undressing, and towards morning fell into an unrefreshing and dream-peopled slumber.

When he arose, late the next day, he looked at himself in the glass, but scarcely recognized his own face, so changed was he by the mental agonies he had undergone. When he had paid some little attention to his toilet, he received a message from Madame Von Berlingen, requesting the favor of an interview in her apartments. He mechanically obeyed the summons, though ill fitted to sustain a conversation with a lady.

The widow requested him to be seated.

"Mr. Walstein," said she, with a smile, "you are growing very ungallant. I met you last night upon the staircase; but though I spoke to you, you had not a word or a nod for me."

"Last night, madam," answered the unfortunate young man, "I was beside myself. O madam, if you knew all!"

"I do know all," replied the lady.

"What! that I had been gambling—that I had thrown away—yes, those are the words—every ducat of the money my poor father furnished me with to purchase my commission?"

"Yes, I know all that. But the loss is not irreparable."

"Pardon me, madam. My father, though reputed wealthy, is unable to furnish me with a similar sum, even if I were base enough to accept it at his hands."

"But if some friend were to step forward."

"Alas! I know none."

"Mr. Walstein," said the lady, "I am rich. A loan of the requisite amount would not affect me in the least."

"O madam!" cried the young man, "if you would indeed save me by such generosity, you would be an angel of mercy."

"What is the amount of your loss?" inquired the lady, calmly, as she unlocked her desk.

"Three thousand ducats," answered Ernest. "But I can give you no security for the payment."

"Your note of hand is sufficient," said the lady, handing the young man a package of notes. "Please to count those, and see if the sum is correct. Here are writing materials."

Ernest did as he was bid—counted the money, and then sat down at the desk.

"Write at my dictation," said the lady.

Ernest took up a pen and commenced.

"The date," said the lady.

Ernest wrote it.

"Received of Anna Von Berlingen the sum of three thousand ducats."

Ernest wrote and repeated, "three thousand ducats."

"In consideration whereof, I promise to marry the aforesaid Anna Von Berlingen."

"To marry you?" exclaimed Ernest.

"Ay—to marry me!" said the lady. "Am I deformed—am I ugly—am I poor?"

"I cannot do it—you know not the reason that induces me to refuse."

"Then go home to your father and confess your guilt."

Ernest reflected a few moments. He could not go home to his father with the frightful tale. It was a question between suicide and marriage—he signed the paper.

"Now then, baron," said the widow to herself, as she carefully secured the promise, "you cannot say that you broke the heart of Anna by your cruelty. Take the money, Ernest," she added aloud; "go and purchase your commission."

Ernest obeyed. His dreams of yesterday morning had all been dissipated by his own act; he felt a degraded and broken-spirited criminal. He had sold himself for gold.

CHAPTER II.

"Here comes Captain Ernest!" cried a youthful voice. And a beautiful, blue-eyed girl of nineteen stood at the garden gate of a pretty farm house, watching the approach of a horseman, who, gayly attired in a hussar uniform, was galloping up the road. At her shout of delight, a sturdy old gray-haired man came forth and stood beside her.

"Captain Ernest!" he repeated. "That sounds well. When I was of his age, I only carried a musket in the ranks. I never dreamed then that a son of mine could ever aspire to the epaulet."

Ernest, waving his hand to Meena Altenburg and his father, rode past them to the stable, where he left his horse. He then rushed into the farm house where his father met him.

"What is the meaning of this, boy?" he said. "How wild and haggard you look! And you have avoided Meena—and this, too, upon your wedding day."

"My wedding day—O Heavens! I shall die," said the young man, sinking into a seat.

As soon as he could collect himself, he told his father that he could not marry Meena, and the reason—he had pledged himself to another. The old man, who was the soul of honor, burst forth in violent imprecations, and drove him from his presence. As he left the house, the unfortunate young man encountered a person whom he at once recognized as the Baron Von Dangerfeld, the reputed suitor of Madame Von Berlingen.

"I have been looking for you, Captain Walstein," said the baron, sternly.

"And you have found me," answered the young man, shortly.

"Yes—and I thank Heaven you wear that uniform. It entitles you to meet a German noble, and answer for your conduct."

"I am answerable for my conduct to no living man," retorted Ernest.

"You wear a sword."

"Yes."

"Very well—if you refuse to give satisfaction for the injury you have done me, in robbing me of my mistress, I will proclaim you a coward in the presence of the regiment upon parade."

"O, make yourself easy on that score, baron," answered Ernest. "Life is of too little worth for me to think of shielding it. If you will step with me into the shadow of yonder grove, we can soon regulate our accounts."

The two men walked silently to the appointed spot, and without any preliminary, drew their swords and engaged in combat. The struggle was not of long duration, for Ernest wounded his adversary in the sword arm, and disarmed him.

"Are you satisfied?" he asked.

"I must be so for the present," replied the baron, sullenly. "When I recover, you shall hear from me again."

"As you please," said Ernest, coldly. "In the mean time, suffer me to bind up your arm."

The young man bandaged the wound of his adversary, and as he faltered from the loss of blood, led him towards the farm house. As they approached it, two ladies advanced to meet them—one of them was Meena, the other Madame Von Berlingen.

"Dangerfeld wounded!" cried the latter, bursting into tears—"O, I have been the cause of this: forgive me—forgive me, Dangerfeld, or you will kill me."

"You forget, madame, that you belong to another."

"I am yours only—I can never love another. Nor does the person you allude to," added the lady, turning to Ernest, "cherish any attachment to me."

"My only feeling for you, madame," said Ernest, with meaning, "would be gratitude, were a certain paper destroyed."

"What is the meaning of all this?" asked the father of Ernest, coming forward.

"It means," said Ernest, tearing to atoms the promissory note he received from the widow's hands, "that I had very ugly dreams last night—I dreamed that I played at rouge-et-noir, and lost all the money you gave me to purchase my commission with, and then that I made up the loss by promising——"

"Hush!" said the widow, laying her finger on her lips.

"Then it was all a dream," said the old man.

"Look at my uniform," replied the captain.

"And what did you mean in the story you told me just now?" asked the old man.

"Forget it, father," said Ernest. "Dear Meena, look up, my love. It is our wedding day; and if you do but smile, I'm the happiest dog that wears a sabre and a doliman."

That very day two weddings were celebrated in the farm house, those of Captain Ernest Walstein with the Fraulein Meena Altenburg, and Baron Von Dangerfeld with the yet beautiful and wealthy widow. The captain never tried his luck again at any GAME OF CHANCE.

THE SOLDIER'S SON.

It will be seen from the above, that François Bertrand belonged to the army which had recently covered itself with glory in the Egyptian campaign, under the command of General Bonaparte, a name already famous in military annals. He had fought like a hero in the battle of the Pyramids, when the squares of the French infantry repulsed the brilliant cavalry of Murad Bey, and destroyed the flower of the Mamelukes by the deadly fire of their musketry. Wounded in that memorable battle, he was afterwards attacked by the ophthalmia of the country; but his eyesight, though impaired, was not yet utterly destroyed. Honorably discharged, he had just arrived at Marseilles, from Egypt, and was now on his way home, eager to be folded in the arms of his beloved wife and his young son. So the soldier toiled bravely up the hill, for he knew that the white walls of his cottage and the foliage of his little vineyard would be visible in the valley commanded by the summit.

At length he reached the brow of the hill, and gazed eagerly in the direction of his humble home; but O, agony, it was gone! In its place, a heap of blackened ruins lay smouldering in the sunlight that seemed to mock its desolation. Fatigue—weakness—were instantly forgotten, and the soldier rushed down the brow of the hill to the scene of the disaster. At the gate of his vineyard, he was met by little Victor, a boy of ten.

"A soldier!" cried the boy, who did not recognize his father. "O sir, you come back from the wars, don't you? Perhaps you can tell me something about my poor papa?"

"Victor, my boy, my dear boy! don't you know me?" cried the poor soldier; and he strained his son convulsively in his arms.

"O, I know you now, my dear, dear papa," said the boy, sobbing. "I knew you by the voice—but how changed you are! Why, your mustaches are turned gray."

"Victor, Victor, where is your mother?" gasped the soldier.

"Poor mamma!" said the boy.

"Speak—I charge you, boy."

"She is dead."

"Dead!" François fell to the ground as if a bullet had passed through his brain. When he recovered his senses, he saw Victor kneeling beside him, and bathing his head with cold water, which he had brought in his hat from a neighboring spring. In a few words, the child told him their cottage had taken fire in the night, and been burned to the ground, and his mother had perished in the flames.

A kind cottager soon made his appearance, and conducted the unfortunate father and son to his humble cabin. Here they passed the night and one or two days following. During that time, François Bertrand neither ate nor slept, but wept over his misfortune with an agony that refused all consolation. On the third day only he regained his composure; but it was only to be conscious of a new and overwhelming misfortune. His eyesight was gone. The agony of mind he had suffered, and the tears he had shed, had completed the ravages of his disorder.

"Where are you, Victor?" said the soldier.

"Here, by your side, father; don't you see me?"

"Alas! no, my boy. I can see nothing. Give me your little hand. Your poor father is blind."

The agonizing sobs of the boy told him how keenly he appreciated his father's misfortune.

"Dry your eyes, Victor;" said the soldier. "Remember the instructions of your poor mother, how she taught you to submit with resignation to all the sufferings that Providence sees fit to inflict upon us in this world of sorrow. Henceforth you must see for both of us; you will be my eyes, my boy."

"Yes, father; and I will work for you and support you."

"You are too young and delicate, Victor. We must beg our bread."

"Beg, father?"

"Yes, you shall guide my footsteps. There are good people in the world who will pity my infirmities and your youth. When they see my ragged uniform, they will say, 'There is one of the braves who upheld the honor of France upon the burning sands of Egypt,' and they will not fail to drop a few sous into the old soldier's hat. Come, Victor, we must march. We have been too long a burden on our poor neighbor. Courage, mon enfant, le bon temps viendra."

And so the boy and his father set forth upon their wanderings. Neither asked alms; but when seated by the roadside, under the shadow of an overhanging tree, the passer-by would halt, and bestow a small sum upon the worn and blind soldier. Victor was devoted to his father, and Heaven smiled upon his filial affection. Though denied the society and sports so dear to his youth, he was always cheerful and happy in the accomplishment of his task. Often did his innocent gayety beguile his father into a temporary forgetfulness of his sufferings. Then he would place his hand upon the boy's head, and stroking his soft, curling locks, smile sweetly as his sightless eyes were turned towards him, and commence some stirring narrative of military adventure.

In this way, days, weeks, months, and even years rolled by. They were every where well received and kindly treated; and all their physical wants were supplied. But the old soldier often sighed to think of the burden his misfortunes imposed upon his boy, and of his wearing out his young life without congenial companionship, without instruction, without a future beyond the life of a mendicant. He often prayed in secret that death might liberate, his little guide from his voluntary service.

One day, François was seated alone on a stone by the roadside, Victor having gone to the neighboring village on an errand, when he suddenly heard a carriage stop beside him. The occupant, a man of middle age, alighted, and approached the soldier.

"Your name," said the stranger, "is, I think, François Bertrand."

"The same."

"A soldier of the army of Egypt?"

"Yes."

"And that pretty boy who guides you is your son?"

"He is—Heaven bless him!"

"Amen! But has it never occurred to you, my friend, that you are doing him great injustice in keeping him by you at an age when he ought to be getting an education to enable him to push his way in the world?"

"Alas! sir, I have often thought of it. But what could supply his place? and then, who would befriend and educate him?"

"His place might be supplied by a dog—and for his protector, I, myself, who have no son, should be glad to adopt and educate him."

His son's place supplied by a dog! The thought was agony. And to part with Victor! The idea was as cruel as death itself. The old soldier was silent.

"You are silent, my friend. Has my offer offended you?"

"No sir—no. But you will pardon a father's feelings."

"I respect them—and I do not wish to hurry you. Take a day to think of my proposition, and to inform yourself respecting my character and position. I am a merchant. My name is Eugene Marmont, and I reside at No. 17 Rue St. Honoré, Paris. I will meet you at this spot to-morrow at the same hour, and shall then expect an answer. Au revoir." He placed a golden louis in the hand of the soldier, and departed.

A little reflection convinced Bertrand that it was his duty to accept the merchant's offer. But cruel as was the task of reconciling himself to parting with his son, that of inducing Victor to acquiesce in the arrangement was yet more difficult. It required the exercise of authority to sever the ties that bound the son to the father. But it was done—Victor resigned his task to a little dog that was procured by the merchant, and after an agonizing farewell was whirled away in Marmont's carriage.

Years passed on. Victor outstripped all his companions at school, and stood at the head of the military academy; for he was striving to win a name and fortune for his father. The good Marmont, from time to time, endeavored to obtain tidings of the soldier; but the latter had purposely changed his usual route, and, satisfied that his son was in good hands, felt a sort of pride in not intruding his poverty and misfortunes on the notice of Victor's new companions. The boy, himself, was much distressed at not seeing or hearing from his father; but he kept struggling on, saying to himself, "Courage, Victor—le bon temps viendra—the good time will come."

On the death of Marmont, he entered the army as a sub-lieutenant, and fought his way up to a captaincy under the eye of the emperor. At the close of a brilliant campaign he was invited to pass a few weeks at the chateau of a general officer named Duvivier, a few leagues from Paris. The company there was brilliant, composed of all that was most beautiful, talented, and distinguished in the circle in which the general moved. But the "star of that goodly company" was Julie Duvivier, the youthful and accomplished daughter of the general. Many distinguished suitors contended for the honor of her hand; but the moment Victor appeared, they felt they had a formidable rival. The belle of the chateau could not help showing her decided preference for him, though, with a modesty and delicacy natural to his position, he refrained from making any decided advances.

One night, however, transported beyond himself by passion, he betrayed the secret of his heart to Julie, as he led her to her seat after an intoxicating waltz. The reception of his almost involuntary avowal was such as to convince him that his affection was returned. But he felt that he had done wrong—and a high sense of honor induced the young soldier immediately to seek the general, and make him a party to his wishes.

He found him alone in the embrasure of a window that opened on the garden of the chateau.

"General," said he, with military frankness, "I love your daughter."

The general started, and cast a glance of displeasure on the young man.

"I know you but slightly, Captain Bertrand," he answered, "but you are aware that the man who marries my daughter must be able to give her her true position in society. Show me the proofs of your nobility and wealth, and I will entertain your proposition."

"Alas!" answered the young soldier in a faltering voice, "I feel that I have erred—pity me—forgive me—I was led astray by a passion too strong to be controlled. I have no name—and my fortune is my sword."

The general bowed coldly, and the young soldier passed out into the garden. It was a brilliant moonlight evening. Every object was defined as clearly as if illuminated by the sun's rays. Removing his chapeau, that the night air might cool his fevered brow, he was about to take his favorite seat beside the fountain where he had passed many hours in weaving bright visions of the future, when he perceived that it was already occupied. An old man in a faded military uniform sat there, with a little dog lying at his feet. One glance was sufficient—the next instant Victor folded his father in his arms.

"Father!" "My boy!" The words were interrupted by convulsive sobs.

After the first passionate greeting was over, the old man passed his hand over his son's dress, and a smile of joy was revealed by the bright moonbeams.

"A soldier! I thought I heard the clatter of your sabre," said the old man. "Where did you get these epaulets?"

"At Austerlitz, father—they were given me by the emperor."

"Long live the emperor!" said the old man. "He never forgets his children."

"No, father. For when he gave me my commission, he said, thoughtfully, 'Bertrand! your name is familiar.' 'Yes, sire—my father served under the tricolor.' 'I remember—he was one of my old Egyptians.' And then—father—then he gave me the cross of the legion—and told me, when I found you, to affix it to your breast in his name."

"It is almost too much!" sighed the old soldier, as the young officer produced the cross and attached it to his father's breast.

"And now," said the young man, "give me your hand as of old, dear father, and let me lead you."

"Whither?"

"Into the saloon of the chateau, to present you to General Duvivier and his guests."

"What! in my rags! before all that grand company?"

"Why not, father? The ragged uniform of a brave soldier who bears the cross of honor on his breast is the proudest decoration in the world. Come, father."

Leading his blind father, young Bertrand reëntered the saloon he had so lately left, and went directly to the general, who was standing, surrounded by his glittering staff.

"General," said he, "here is my title of nobility—my father is all the wealth I possess in the world."

Tears started to the general's eyes, and he shook the old soldier warmly by the hand. Then beckoning to Julie, he led her to Victor, and placed her trembling hand in his.

"Let this dear girl," said he, "make amends for my coldness a moment since. A son so noble hearted is worthy of all happiness."

In a word, Captain, afterwards Colonel, Bertrand married the general's daughter, and the happiness of their fireside was completed by the constant presence of the good old soldier, to whose self-denial Victor owed his honors and domestic bliss.

TAKING CHARGE OF A LADY.

"We were disappointed in not meeting a friend, sir," continued the benevolent-looking old gentleman, "and so I had to trust to chance for finding an escort to Fanny. Only as far as New York, sir; my daughter will give you very little trouble. She's a strong-minded, independent woman, sir, and abundantly able to take care of herself; but I don't like the idea of ladies travelling alone. If the boat sinks, sir, she's abundantly able to swim ashore. Good by, Fanny."

"Father," said the lady in the blue habit, in a deep and mellow baritone,—rather a queer voice for a woman, though,—"a parting salute!" She threw back her veil, displaying a pair of piercing black eyes, kissed the paternal cheek, veiled the black eyes a moment with a lace-bordered handkerchief, as her sire descended the gang plank,—his exit being deprived of dignity by the sudden withdrawal of the board,—and then placed her arm within that of the sandy-haired young gentleman, and began walking him up and down the promenade deck.

"Isn't this delightful?" said she. "O, what can exceed the pleasure of travelling, when one has a sympathizing friend as a companion!" And she rather pressed the arm of her companion. She was strong-handed as well as strong-minded.

Mr. Brown, for that was the name of the timid young gentleman with the sandy hair and the blue cotton umbrella, was not particularly susceptible, for he had already lost his heart to a sandy-haired young lady, who resided in New York; and, besides, he didn't like strong-minded women; so he asked, very unromantically, but sensibly, if the happy parent of the lady in the blue habit had purchased her a ticket.

"I believe—I am certain that he did not," was the reply. "Father is so forgetful!"

"I'll do it myself then, ma'am—if you'll excuse me a moment. What name?"

"Brown," said the lady.

"My own name!" cried the young man.

"Is it possible?" cried the blue beauty. "What a coincidence! How striking! charming!"

She made no offer of money, and Brown invested his own funds in a passage and supper ticket.

"You dear creature!" cried the lady, when he handed them to her, "you are very attentive. But there was no necessity for this supper ticket. I am the least eater in the world."

She said nothing about the cost of the tickets; and how could Brown broach the subject?

"There's that bell, at last!" she cried, when the supper bell rang; "do let's hurry down, Brown, for people are so rude and eager on board steamboats, that unless you move quick you lose your chance."

Brown was hurried along by his fair friend, and she struggled through the crowd till she headed the column and got an excellent seat at the table. Our sandy-haired friend had exalted opinions of the delicacy of female appetites; he had never helped ladies at a ball, or seen them in a pantry at luncheon time, and fancied they fed as lightly as canary birds. He was rather glad to hear Fanny make that remark about the supper ticket on the promenade deck. But now he found she could eat. The cold drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead as he watched the evidences of her voracity. She was helped four times, by the captain, to beefsteak—no miniature slices either, but huge, broad cubes of solid flesh. A dish of oysters attracted her eye, and she gobbled them up every one. Toast and hot bread disappeared before her ravenous appetite. Sponge and pound cake were despatched with fearful celerity. She took up the attention of one particular nigger, and he looked weary and collapsed when the supper was finished.

Yet, after all this, Fanny paraded the deck, and had the heart to talk about the "orbs of heaven," and Shelley, and Byron, and Tennyson, and Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Fanny Ellsler, and Schiller. Brown was very glad when she retired to the lady's cabin.

The morning he rose late, purposely to avoid her till the boat touched the wharf. He engaged a carriage and hunted up the lady's baggage; fortunately there was not much of it. This done, he escorted her on shore, and handed her into the coach.

"Now, then," said the one-eyed driver,—he had recently lost his eye in a fight, on the first night of his return from Blackwell's Island,—"where away? Oyster House, Merrikin, or Globe?"

"Where are you going, madam?" asked Brown.

"Where are you going?" asked the lady.

"To the American, ma'am."

"What a coincidence!" exclaimed the lady, rolling up her black eyes.

"American House, driver."

"All right—in with you!" cried the one-eyed man, as he pitched Brown headlong into the coach, slammed the rickety door on him, sprang to his box, and lashed his sorry steeds into a gallop. In due time they arrived, and a room was engaged for the lady, and one for her cavalier.

Brown went up town as soon as he had dressed, to see his sweetheart, taking particular care to say nothing of his namesake, the fair Fanny.

The next day he was promenading Broadway with Miss S., when he was confronted, opposite St. Paul's, by a furious man, with black whiskers, who halted directly in his path.

"Do you call yourself Brown?" asked the furious man, furiously.

"That's my name, sir," said the sandy-haired young gentleman, meekly.

"It's my name, sir," shouted the furious man. "John Brown. Now you know who I am. Do you know Mrs. Brown?"

"I don't know," stammered the unfortunate young man with sandy hair.

"Who did you come from Providence with? answer me that!" roared the furious man, getting as black as his whiskers with apoplectic rage.

"I—I took charge of a lady, certainly," stammered the guiltless but confounded young man.

"You took charge of Mrs. Brown, sir—Fanny Sophonisba Brown, sir, who has left my bed and board without provocation, sir,—vide the Providence papers, sir,—left me, sir, because I didn't approve of her strong-minded goings on, sir, her woman's-rights meetings, sir, and her nigger colonizations, sir, and her—but that's enough, sir."

Here Miss Sumker, who was a mild, freckled-faced girl, dropped the arm of her companion, and meekly sat down on a doorstep, and covered her face with a handkerchief.

"Mr. Brown, sir!" cried our poor young friend, finally plucking up a spirit.

"Go it, lemons!" shouted a listening drayman, as he hung over the scene from one of his cart stakes.

"Captain Brown," suggested the furious man, with smothered rage.

"Well then, Captain Brown," said Brown, 2d., spitefully, "the lady you allude to is a total stranger to me. She was put under my care by a benevolent-looking old gentleman, with gold-bowed spectacles, and she has already cost me ten dollars, money advanced on her account."

"All persons are forbidden to trust the same, as I will pay no debts of her contracting," said the furious man, with gleams of unmitigated ferocity and savage exultation.

"Then I'm done brown, that's all," said the young man, gloomily. "As for Mrs. Fanny Sophonisba Brown, I never want to see her face again. She is at the American House, and you can recover her by proving property and paying charges. And, for my part, I hope I may be kicked to death by grasshoppers if ever I take charge of a lady again."