Original. ANDREA DAL CASTAGNO. BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. "I WILL work no longer," exclaimed Andrea, throwing down his pencil, "I will not be compelled to see every fool pointing out the difference between your figures and mine; finish the picture yourself, Domenico, I will never touch it again!" “Andrea,” replied Domenico, “you well know what a costly sacrifice you ask; you well know that the sacrifice of life is nothing compared with the voluntary relinquishment of never-dying fame. Your own thirst for glory may teach you what that friend deserves, who unlocks to you the fountain of immortality, and gives you to drink of those waters which might be all his own; but you shall be gratified-to-morrow you shall know all that art has taught Domenico." "Nay, Andrea, this is injustice to yourself," said Domenico; "few but those who look with a painter's eye could see the difference which to you seems so evident." "Look," replied the impetuous Andrea, and the livid hue of envy overspread his face as he spoke, "look at that group-they are figures of wax compared with the almost living, breathing forms, which grow beneath your ' "To-morrow!" cried the impatient artist, "to-morrow! pencil." A benignant smile lit up the placid countenance and why not to-night? To-morrow you may think otherof Domenico as he approached the side of the church wise may hesitate-" where Andrea was employed, and with his own pencil gave a few light touches to the face and hands of one of the figures. "See!" cried Andrea, "am I not right? here have I been laboring three days to give the coloring of life to that flesh, and you have done it in three minutes; I will not be so disgraced-never will I touch pencil again until you teach me the secret of your art!" Nothing could be more smilingly contrasted than were the faces of the two painters, as they stood together, gazing at Andrea's picture. The mild and saint-like countenance of Domenico, seemed the index of a mind too pure and gentle to have any communion with the dark spirit that betrayed itself in the sullen brow and heavy features of Andrea. But they were, in truth, warm friends, and though Domenico, with all a painter's jealous love of fame, hesitated to betray the grand secret of his art, he yet longed to behold his beloved Andrea sharing the honors which were so lavishingly bestowed upon himself. The rapidly waning light warned them to lay aside their employment for the day, and leaning on the arm of his friend, Domenico sought the quiet of his own studio. Throwing down the implements of his art as he entered, he took down the lute which hung by the casement, and began a light and graceful melody. "Come Andrea," said he, when he had finished the air, "come, let us to the window of the fair sisters; the gentle Manetta will wonder why she hears not Andrea's evening song; and it may be that the bright-eyed Lisa waits to hear the lute of Domenico." "No!" returned Andrea, sullenly, "I am in no mood for fooling. Since boyhood have I been laboring for fame and fortune, and am yet as far from them as ever. You are confident of success-you have reaped the reward of your labors-fortune has been your friend and discovered to you a secret which will make you immortal; you can afford to play the lover-for me nothing remains but to return to the humble village where I first drew this hated breath, and again become a keeper of flocks and herds." "Andrea, friend of my soul," said Domenico, "it grieves me to see you thus cast down; compare your works with those of other masters of the art, and can you not triumph in your own superiority? Why waste your Andrea, did I ever fail in a promise?" was the calm reply of Domenico. "What I have said shall be done! To-morrow when we resume our employment in the church, you shall know all." Transported with joy, Andrea could scarcely restrain his impatience until morning. Rousing Domenico at early dawn, they repaired to the church of Santa Marie Nuova, which they had been employed to adorn with paintings, and there Domenico disclosed his secret. This was no other than the art of painting in oil. At that period painters usually laid on their colors by means of various glutinous substances, and this mode, while it rendered pictures extremely liable to injure from heat and damp, very much diminished the brilliancy of the coloring. The invention of painting in oil has been disputed by so many, that it would be difficult now to determine who is best entitled to the honor. The proba bility is, that like many other inventions which were the offspring of necessity, it was discovered by several artists at nearly the same period, when the gradual advancement of the art and the increased demand for fine pictures had called forth the talents of painting in every part of Italy. It is well known, however, that Domenico Veneziano was one of the first who employed oil in painting; and to this he was indebted for the great reputation which he so rapidly acquired. Carefully did he now instruct Andrea in the principles of that art which had been almost exclusively his own, and by the most unwearied diligence, Andrea soon mastered its difficulties. But in his heart the spirit of generous emulation could not exist. Envy, base envy, was the only feeling which he was capable of cherishing, and the dislike with which Domenico's superiority had long since inspired him, was gradually ripening into a deep and deadly hatred. They had nearly finished the decorations of the church during the progress of Andrea's instruction in the new manner of painting, and as only one picture remained to be completed, it was agreed that each should paint a portion of it. But this work was destined to remain unfinished. One day as Andrea stood contemplating one of his earliest paintings, in the church, and exulting in his im provement as he compared it with those he had since ANDREA DAL CASTAGNO. 57 Not executed under the direction of Domenico, two of the most celebrated connoiseurs in Florence entered. observing the painter, they commenced making remarks upon the pictures, and after praising the productions of Domenico's pencil, proceeded to ridicule without mercy the early paintings of Andrea. The poor artist, concealing himself behind a column, anxiously waited till they should approach the later efforts of his art, not doubting that he should then be gratified by their praises; but what were his feelings, when after a careless glance at his labors, they merely remarked that Andrea's style was much improved; but that he must ever remain in the shade, when his works were placed beside those of Domenico. Fixed as a statue, Andrea remained in the very spot where he had first placed himself, until the unconscious critics quitted the church, then, rushing home and locking himself in his apartment, he gave way to all the agonies of envy and disappointment. The gentleness of Domenico's character, the purity of his life, the generous friendship which he had shown him, all were powerless to check the tide of passion in Andrea's bosom. The demon-like malice of his evil nature was aroused-he thought of Domenico not as the friend who had shared with him the master secret of his art, but as the hated object who stood between himself and fortune. There is no tempest so fearful as the tempest of passion; no whirlwind so devastating as the whirlwind of evi! thoughts. Hour after hour did Andrea sit brooding over his dark and half-imagined scheme of guilt, unconscious of the lapse of time, when the voice of Domenico, summoning him to his usual evening walk, aroused him. He hastily answered that he was engaged in designing and could not be disturbed. Domenico, accustomed to the wayward moods of his friend, bade him good-night, and departed. upon his In the dark hour, When Death o'ershadows us with his mighty wing, Oh, be thou near us with thy gentle power, And to our souls the balm of healing bring." The music ceased, and as if the demon that tortured him was suddenly released from a spell, the same wild and horrible thoughts again arose in the bosom of Andrea. There was no time for deliberation-Domenico was rapidly approaching-one step more and he would be beyond it crushed at once the lute his reach. Raising the heavy mass of lead with all the strength of his muscular arm, and the breast of his unhappy friend. Then hastily giving him a violent blow on the head, he ran with all speed to his own apartment, and appeared deeply engaged in finishing a chalk drawing, which lay on his table. A brief interval of time elapsed, when a servant burst into the room with tidings of the dreadful event which had befallen Domenico. Feigning the utmost grief, Andrea hastened to the spot. There breaking out into the most violent lamentations, he threw himself on the earth beside the body of his friend, and the murdered Domenico actually breathed his last sigh upon the bosom of his assassin. Years passed on. Not a breath of suspicion had ever tarnished the name of Andrea dal Castagno; but from the hour when the blood of Domenico stained his hand, his pencil had lost its power. He was in possession of the secret for which he had perilled his soul, but it was of no use to him. The merest dauber that ever attempted the art could excel him. The weight of blood was on his spirit-his mind was benumbed, his hand palsied, and after a life rendered miserable by his restless and envious passions, he died, confessing on his death-bed that he was the murderer of Domenico Veneziano. But even in his latest hour no remorse mingled with his confession. He died as he had lived, hardened and vindictive to the last, and by a singular fortune, his body was church which he and Domenico had been employed to interred in the church of Santa Marie Nuova, the very decorate, and beside the very spot where, nearly thirty years before, the victim of his perfidy had found repose. As the sound of Domenico's footsteps struck ear, Andrea arose and throwing open the window, looked out upon the tranquil beauty of the summer evening landscape. The fresh breeze played about his burning temples, and opening his vest as if to cool the fire that NOTE.-Andrea dal Castagno di Mugello, was born A. D. 1406, was raging in his bosom, he stood leaning against the which he derived his name. Having been left an orphan at an casement until he suddenly perceived Domenico, with his in a little village not far from Florence, called II Castagno, from lute in his hand, slowly taking the way to a romantic early age, he was compelled to earn a scanty subsistence by wards excelled, soon showed itself, and he was continually valley, at a short distance. The fiendish spirit which tending flocks. But his genius for the art in which he afterA Florentine gentleman named Berwith the point of a knife. had gained possession of Andrea immediately suggested sketching figures upon the walls with charcoal, or tracing them a horrible plan. Snatching up a heavy leaden weight nadetto de Medici, accidentally learned the boy's talents, and which lay in his apartment, and stealing with a assas- becoming strongly interested in him, sent him to Florence to soon established a reputation as an artist. He was associated sin's step after his unconscious friend, he stationed himself pursue the study of painting. His progress was rapid and he the church of Santa Marie Nuova. Domenico had become posbehind a clump of low trees in a narrow part of the path with Baldovidetti and Domenico Veneziano, in the decoration of sessed of the secret of painting in oils, an art which by some through which he knew Domenico would return. had not waited long, when he heard the sound of Dome-writers he is said to have invented-or according to others, to nico's lute. He was singing the vesper hymn. The music, mellowed by the clear evening air, came upon the ear of the miserable Andrea like angel tones, and his heart sunk as he listened to the closing words of the hymn. "Mother of God! He have learned of Atonello of Messina. His pictures of course possessed a brilliancy of coloring which none of his cotempoto discover the secret. The close friendship which subsisted raries could equal, and Andrea, jealous of his success, determined between himself and Domenico, rendered this no difficult task. pecting generosity of his unsuspecting friend is related in the He succeeded, and the manner in which he repaid the unsusforegoing tale, the incidents of which are strictly historical. Andrea was fond of painting scenes of cruelty, such as martyrdoms and executions. He was therefore chosen to depict the execution of the Chiefs of the Pazzi conspiracy, and the horrible accuracy of the picture procured him the title of " Andrea deg l'Impeccati." He died A. D. 1480, at the age of seventy-four, and the picture upon which he and Domenico had been engaged in the church of Santa Marie Nuova remains unfinished to this day. Vide Vassari, Vite de Pittori, etc. Original. THE CHARIB BRIDE. A LEGEND OF HISPANIOLA. BY THE AUTHOR OF CROMWELL," CHAPTER II. DAYS, months and seasons held their course; yet there was no change in the deep azure of the glowing skies-no alteration in the green luxuriance of the forest -no falling of the woods "into the sear-the yellow leaf"-no fast-succeeding variation from the young floweriness of springtide, to the deep flush of gorgeous summer, or thence to the mature but melancholy autumn -to the grim tyrant, winter. In that delicious island, nature had lavished on the earth, in her most generous mood, the mingled attributes of every clime and region. The tender greenery of the young budding leaf was blent at one and the same moment-and that moment, as it seemed, eternal-with the broad verdant foliage the smiling bud, the odoriferous and full-blown flower, the rich fruit might be seen side by side on the same tree -the same bough. Nothing was there to mark the flight of time-the gradual advance of the destroyer over that lovely land. Nothing to warn the charmed spectator that, for him, too, as for the glowing landscape, maturity but leads to decay-decay which ends in death! Verily, but it is a paradise for the unthinking. mind well and deeply trained, shrewd, polished, courteous, yet keen and energetical, withal, and brave as his own trusty weapon. Like every dweller of a mountain land, he possessed that high and romantic adoration of the charms of nature, that exquisite appreciation of the picturesque and beautiful-whether embodied in the mute creations of wood and wild and water, or in the animated dwellers of earth's surface, which, in the breasts of others, is rather an acquired taste, nurtured by delicate and liberal education, than an intuitive and innate Handsome, moreover, eloquent and young, it would have been no great marvel had the brightest lady of the proudest European court selected Don Hernando as the ennobled object of a fresh heart's holiest aspirations. What wonder, then, that the untutored Indian sense. girl, princess, although she was, revered almost to adoration by her own simple people, secluded, from her earliest childhood, from aught of mean or low association, removed from any contact with the debasing influences of the corrupt and contaminating world, secured from any need of grovelling and sordid labor-voluptuous and luxurious as the soft climate of her native isle, yet pure as the bright skies that overhang it-romantic and poetical, as it would seem, by necessity arising from her lonely musings-what wonder that Guarica should have surrendered, almost on the instant-to one who seemed to her artless fancy, not merely one of a superior mortal And who were race, but as a god in wisdom, worth, and beauty-a heart more unthinking than the young Spaniard and his Indian love-who were more happy? which had been sought in vain by the most valiant and Morn after morn beheld Hernando de Leon, threading the most proud of her nation's young nobility. His grace, pathless forest-now with horse, horn and hound, sweep- his delicate and courteous bearing, so different from the ing the tangled thickets, now skirring in pursuit of his coarse wooing of her Charib lovers, who seemed to fancy fleet falcon, over the watery vegas, and now, with keen, that they were conferring, rather than imploring an honor, observant eye, and cat-like pace, wandering, arbalast in when they sought her hand-his eloquent and glowing hand, in silent search after the timid deer-but still in conversation-these would alone have been sufficient to one direction, and still with one intent to join the fair secure the wondering admiration of the forest maidenGuarica! Day after day they loitered, side by side, but when, to these, were added the deep claim which he among the cool shades of the mighty woods, while the now possessed to her gratitude, by the swift aid which fierce sun was scourging the clear champaign with intole-he had borne to her when in extremity of peril—and the rable heat; or sat reclined by the cold head of some streamlet, fuller, to them, of inspiration and of love, than were those fabled founts of Gadara, whence Eros rose of yore, twin-born with the dark Anteros, to greet the rapt eyes of Iamblichus. The powerful mind of the Nor were these unions between the dusky maidens of young soldier had been cultured, from his earliest youth, the west, and the hidalgos of old Spain, by any means to skill, in all those liberal arts and high accomplish-unfrequent or surprising among the earliest of those bold ments, by which the gallant cavaliers of Spain had gained such honorable eminence above the ruder aristocracy of every other land-to his hands, no less familiar were the harp and gittern, than the toledo or the lance; to his well-tutored voice, the high heroic ballads of his native land, the plaintive elegies of Moorish Spain, the wild musical areytos of the Indian tongue were equally adapted-nor did its accents sound less joyously in the clear hunting holloa, less fearfully in the shrill war-shout, that it was oft attuned to the peaceful cadences of a lady's lute-his foot firm in the stirrup, whether in the warlike tilt, in the swift race, or in the perilous leap, was no less graceful in the rapid dance, or agile in the wrestler's struggle on the greensward. He was, in short, a gentleman of singular accomplishment, of a respectful earnestness of pure and self-denying love which he displayed toward her, it would, in truth, have been well nigh miraculous, had she resisted the impression of her youthful fancy. adventurers who had been sharers-in his first and second voyages-of the great toils and mighty perils which had been undergone by that wise navigator, who, in the quaint parlance of the day, gave a new world to Leon and Castile. On the contrary, it was rather the policy of that great and good discoverer, who, in almost all his dealings with the rude natives, showed higher sentiments of justice and of honor than could have been expected from the fierce and turbulent age in which he lived-to encourage such permanent and indissoluble alliances between the best and bravest of his own followers, and the daughters of the Caciques and nobles of the land, as would assuredly tend, more than any other means, to bind, in real amity, the jarring races brought into close and intimate contact by his discoveries and conquests. There was therefore not any thing to deter Guarica from lavishing her heart's gem on the handsome cavalier, who had so singularly introduced himself to her favor, and who, so eagerly―nay, devotedly-followed up that chanceformed acquaintance. For several months, despite the ancient adage, the course of true-love did, in their case, run smooth. No day, however stormy-for heavy falls of rain, accompanied by sudden gusts of wind, with thunder-claps, and the broad fearful lightning of the tropics, were, by no means, unfrequent-prevented the adventurous lover from threading the tangled brake, scaling the steep precipitous ascent, fording the swollen river, straight as the bird flies to his distant nest. No turn of duty hindered him-the imposed task performed —from hurrying through the hot glare of noon, or through the moonless night, to visit his beloved. At first, his well-known ardor in the chase, accounted to his comrades for his protracted and continual absences from their assemblies, whether convened for woodland sports, or wild adventure-but when it was observed that, though he never went abroad save with the hawk and hound, or arbalast and bird-bolts, he brooked, no longer, any comrade in his sportive labors―that, though renowned above all his compeers for skill and courage in the mimicry of war, he often now returned, jaded, indeed, and overspent with toil, but either altogether empty-handed, or, at least, so ill-provided with the objects of his unwearying pursuit, that it was utterly impossible to suppose that a hunter, so renowned, could have, indeed, spent so much toil and time, all to so little purpose. This, for a short space, the point of many a light jest, many a merry surmise, gradually grew to be the subject of grave wonder and deliberation; for it was now remarked by all, even by his superiors, that Hernando-who, of yore, had been the keenest volunteer to offer-nay, to urge his services, when any foray was proposed against the daring tribe of Caoñabo, the bold Cacique of the Charibs, who now, alone, of the five hereditary monarchs, who held sway in Hispaniola, dared to wage war against the white invaders of his native fastnesses-no longer sought to be employed on such occasions-nay! that he even had refused, as it appeared to those who had solicited his aid, on slight and feigned excuses, to join their perilous excursions. Whispers increased among his comrades, and, ere long, grew to be dark murinurs-rumor said that no hunter ever saw the form of Don Hernando backing his fiery Andalusian, or heard the furious bay of his staunch blood-hounds in any of those haunts where strayed most frequently, and in the greatest plenty, the quarry which he feigned to chase-fame said, and for once truly, that though the best scouts of the Spaniards had been urged, by curiosity, to play the spy upon his movements, their utmost skill had availed nothing! that whether in broad day, or in the noon of night, they never could keep him in view beyond the margin of one belt of forest land; or track the foot-prints of his chargeralthough the soil was deep and loomy-into its dark recesses! that, in whatever course he turned his horse's head, or bent his footsteps, on departing from the fortress of his friends, he ever reached, by devious turns and secret byepaths, that same almost impenetrable thicket, and there vanished. It was an age of credulous fearof dark fanatical superstition! He, who a few short months before had been the idol of his countryman, the soul of their convivial meetings, the foremost and the blythest in their bold hunting-matches, the best lance in their forays, was now the object of distrust, of doubt, of actual fear, and almost actual hatred. Some said that he had cast by his allegiance to his country and his king --that he had wedded with an Indian girl, and joined himself to her people, heart and hand-that he kept up this hollow show of amity with his betrayed, forsaken countrymen, only that he might gain some sure and fatal opportunity of yielding them, at once, to the implacable resentment of the Charib Caoñabo. Others, more credulous still, averred, in secret, that he had leagued himself-more desperately yet, and yet more guiltily— with creatures of another world!—that mystic sounds, and voices, not as of human beings, had been heard by the neighbors of his barrack-chamber! and one-he who had scouted him the farthest and most closely-swore that, on more than one occasion, he had beheld a grim and dusky form rise suddenly, as if from out the earth, and join him in the wildest of those woodlands, through which he loved to wander. Thus did the time pass onward-Hernando and Guarica becoming, every day, more fond and more confiding, and, if that could be, more inseparable—and at the same time, suspicion, enmity, distrust, becoming more and more apparent at every hour, between him and his Spanish kinsmen. "It will be but a little while," he said, one lovely evening as they sat by the verge of their favorite streamlet, with the cold round moon soaring slowly through the immeasurable azure, and the dews rustling gently on the rich foliage, “it will be but a little while, beloved, before the good and great Columbus shall return; and then, then, sweet one, there will be an end to all your doubts, anxieties, and fears. He is the best, the noblest, the most just of men-he is my friend, too, and a tried one. He once returned-I will avow at once, to him. my love for my Guarica; his consent it is meet that we should have, before our union-and of it, I am certain! || Then-then, thou shalt be mine for ever-mine in the sight of men-as thou art now in the sight of Heaven and all its angels!" "My own Hernando!" was her sole answer-for her heart swelled as she spoke, and her soul was too full for words, and two large diamond tears collected slowly on the long silky fringes of her eyelids, and hanging there like dewdrops on the violet's petals, slid slowly down her soft transparent cheeks. Tears-tears, Guarica!" cried the lover, half reproachfully-" and wherefore? Can it be-can it be that thou doubtest me?-me, who have never asked the slightest freedom-never assayed the smallest and most innocent familiarity-me, who would rather die-die, not on earth only, but for all eternity-than call up one chaste blush upon those maiden cheeks-than wake one doubt in that pure heart-than print one stain upon the whiteness of that virgin mind! Can it be " "No! No!" exclaimed the girl, panting with eager Even as she spoke, while her cheek almost touched the face of her young lover, for, in the intense excitement of the moment, she had leaned forward, clasping Hernando's hand in both her own, and watering it with her tears a sharp, keen twang, mixed with a clash as if of steel, was heard behind them-a long dark streak seemed to glance through the narrow space between their heads with a loud whizzing sound, and on the instant a bolt or arrow stood quivering, buried almost to the feather, in the stem of a palm-tree opposite. ness to interrupt him, for he had spoken, hitherto, with || beside us. Come, dearest, come, let us leave this such impetuous haste, that she had vainly sought to perilous spot. By Heaven! but it is wondrous strange !" answer him. "No! no! Sooner could I doubt Heaven In silence for the girl was too full of terror, the cavathan thee, Hernando. They were tears not of sorrow, lier of dark and anxious thought, to enter into any connor of doubt-but of pure, heart-felt joy! I know thou verse-he led her homeward. Across the bright savanart the very soul of honor-I know thou would'st ask nah gleaming in the moonlight, they reached rapidly nothing of thy Guarica, that it would not be her pride, the portico of her loved home--and there, after a tender her joy, her duty, to bestow. It was but joy, dear, dear parting, Hernando vaulted into the saddle of his fiery Hernando, to think that we so soon should be united, Andalusian-whistled his faithful bloodhounds to his beyond the power of man to part us." heel, and dashed away, at a furious gallop, toward the fortress of his unfriendly countrymen. Eager still to discover, if so it might be, something of him who had so ruthlessly aimed the murderer's shaft that night, Hernando rode directly to the spot where he had sat with Guarica when the fell missile was discharged-he saw the grass betraying, by its bruised and prostrate blades, the very spot on which they had been sitting-but all was still and lonely. Onward he went across the very ground which he had searched so carefully, scarce half an hour before, and ere he had traversed fifty paces, both bloodhounds challenged fiercely. Calling them instantly to heel, the cavalier alighted, bound his hot war-horse to a tree, and eagerly scanned the soil. At the first glance, deep printed in the yielding mould, he found the clear print of a Spanish buskin, furnished with a long knightly spur. To follow the trace backward was his first impulse, and scarce three minutes were consumed, before he had tracked it to a tall and shadowy oak, the bark of which, scarred and defaced, showed that some person had not long before both climbed it and descended. To spring upon his feet, to whirl his long two-edged toledo from the scabbard-to dash, with a loud shout, into the thicket, calling upon his trusty hounds, which, quite unconscious of the vicinity of any peril, were slumbering at Guarica's feet, to whom they had become familiar || guardians—was but an instant's work to the young and fiery Hidalgo. For, at the least ten minutes' space he was absent from the Indian maiden, who, trembling with apprehension for the safety of him whom she had learned to love far more than life itself, with every tinge of color banished by mortal terror from her features, awaited his return. With every sense on the alert, eye, ear, and spirit, on the watch, she stood in terrrible excitement. She heard him crashing through the tangled brake, she heard his loud voice cheering the eager bloodhounds to track out the footsteps of his hidden foeman, but no bay of the sagacious animals, no clash of steel, or answering defiance fell on her anxious ear. His search was vain-his anxious labor fruitless-no fraying of the interlaced and thorny branches showed where the dastardly assassin had forced a passage for his retreating footsteps-no print in the clayey soil revealed where he had trodden-and, stranger yet, the keen scent of the sagacious dogs detected not the slightest taint upon the|| earth, or on the dewy herbage, although they quested to and fro, three hundred yards, at least, in circuit, around the tree wherein the well-aimed arrow stood-meet evidence of the murderer's intent. He returned, balked and disappointed, to Guarica, big drops of icy perspiration standing, like bubbles, on his high, clear forehead, and his whole frame trembling with the agitation of strong excitement. Ha!" he exclaimed striking his breast with his clenched hand, "Ha! idiot that I was, who thought not of this. It matters not, however. By God! it matters not, for right soon will I have him! Forward, good hounds," he added, forward, hark. Halloa, ho! Hark, forward!" and the vexed woodlands rang to the tremendous baying of the deep-mouthed dogs, and the hard gallop of the hunter. They reached the open ground, a league of forest having been already passed, and the hounds, for a moment, were at fault. Springing again to earth, Hernando easily discovered by the prints in the soil, that here the fugitive had taken horse, having, it would seem, left his charger under the keeping of a menial, while prosecuting his foul enterprise. For, henceforth, two broad horse-tracks might be seen running distinctly over the bare savannah, homeward. Laying the hounds upon the horse-track, the cavalier again remounted, and the fresh dew aiding the scent, away they drove at a pace almost unexampled, through brake and bush, over the open plain, athwart the murky covert-hill and hollow vanished beneath their fiery speed ||—rock and tree glanced by and disappeared, so furious was their pace-the deepest torrent barred him not, nor the most perilous leap deterred him—for the most fiery, the most constant, the most pervading of all human passions-deadly revenge was burning his heart's core, turning the healthful currents of his blood to streams of "By him who made me," he exclaimed, as he returned to her, "this is most marvellous! there is not, nor hath been, within two hundred yards of us, a human being since we have sat here-if I may trust on mine own eyes, or, what is truer far, the scent of my good hounds! Yet here," he added, as he tore, from the stem of the tall palm-tree, the short massive bolt, with its four-fiery lava. cornered barbed steel head, "here is the evidence that The deadest hour of night had long been passed one-and that, too, a Spaniard-hath been, or now is close already, when he dashed forth upon that desperate race |