CHAPTER IX.

THE END OF THE MARCH.

As Dermoyne led Barnhurst forth into the open air, the false clergyman staggered like a drunken man. His tall and angular form shook like a reed; and Arthur, catching a glimpse of his countenance, saw that it was livid and distorted in every feature.

"Do with me what you will," he said in broken accents. "The worst has come.--I do not care! Come; at last, you shall go home with me. Home!"

He turned his steps up Broadway, leaning his weight on Arthur's arm as he staggered along.

Terrible as had been the crimes of the wretch, Arthur pitied him. For a moment, only; for the dying cry of Alice was in his ear.

"Your punishment begins," he whispered.

And thus, up Broadway, they resumed their march through the city.

They had not gone many paces from the church, when two forms sprang suddenly from the shadows of the scaffolding, both clad in dark overcoats, with caps drawn over their faces. They were the forms of those unknown persons who had followed Arthur and Barnhurst from the Battery over the city. One was lean, tall and sinewy in form; his quick, active, stealthy step, resembled the step of an Indian. The other was short and thick set, with broad chest and bow-legs.

"Did yer see der Red Book, Dirk?"

"O' coss I did; as he come out o' der church, his cloak opened, and I seed 'um under his arm. O' coss I did, Slung."

We cannot give any just idea of the peculiar _patois_ of these delightful specimens of the civilized savages.

"Travel's der word," said Slung.

"O' coss it is: an' if we ketch 'um in a dark alley, or round a sharp corner, won't we smash his daylights in!"

And the one with his hand on his knife, concealed in the pocket of his overcoat, and the other with the cord of the slung-shot wound about his wrist, they resumed their hunt in the track of Dermoyne.

Unconscious of the danger which strode stealthily in his wake, Dermoyne clasped the Red Book to his side with one arm, and with the other supported the form of the trembling Barnhurst.

"Yes, we'll go home," muttered the false clergyman--"Home!" He pronounced the word with a singular emphasis, like a man half bereft of his senses. "You can work your vengeance on me there, for the worst has come."

Then, for a long time, they pursued their way in silence, turning toward the East River, as they drew near the head of Broadway.

As he drew near his destination--near the end of his singular march,--a wild hope agitated the heart of the wretched man, half stupefied as he was by despair. It was his last hope.

"This man has feeling," he thought, "and I will try him."

They stood, at length, in the hall of a quiet mansion, the hanging lamp above their heads shedding its waving light into their faces. Barnhurst had entered the door by a night key, forgetting, in his agitation, to close it after him. Arthur dropped his arm, and they confronted each other, surveying each other's faces for the first time in four long hours.

It was a singular sight. Both lividly pale, and with the fire of widely contrasted emotions, giving new fire to their gaze, they silently regarded each other. The tall and angular form of the clergyman was in contrast with the compact figure of the mechanic: and Herman's visage, singular eyes, aquiline nose, bland complexion, and hair sleekly disposed behind the ears, was altogether different from the face of the mechanic:--bold forehead, surmounted by masses of brown hair, short and curling--clear gray eyes, wide mouth, with firm lips, and round and massive chin; you might read the vast difference between their minds in their widely contrasted faces.

"Well, I am--home," said Barnhurst, with a smile hard to define.

"I will sleep in your room," answered Arthur, quietly. "To-morrow, at ten, we go together to that house."

"Let us retire, then," answered Herman. The hanging lamp lighted the stairway, and disclosed the door at its head.

Herman, with the hand of Arthur on his arm, led the way up the staircase, and paused for a moment at the door. He bent his head as if to listen for the echo of a sound, but no sound was heard. Herman gently opened the door, and entered--followed by Arthur--a spacious chamber, dimly lighted by a taper on the mantle.

"Hush!" said Herman, and pointed to a small couch, on which a boy of some three years was sleeping; his rosy face, ruffled by a smile, and his hair lying in thick curls all about his snow-white forehead.

"Hush!" again said Herman, and pointed to a curtained bed. A beautiful woman was sleeping there, with her sleeping infant cradled on her arm. The faces of the mother and babe, laid close together on the pillow, looked very beautiful--almost holy--in the soft mysterious light.

"My wife! my children!" gasped Herman. As he spoke, the agitation of his face was horrible to look upon.

Dermoyne felt his heart leap to his throat. He could not convince himself that it was not a dream. Again and again he turned from the face of Barnhurst to the rosy boy on the couch--to the beautiful mother and her babe, resting there in the half-broken shadows of the curtained bed,--and felt his knees tremble and his heart leap to his throat.

And in contrast with this scene of holy peace,--a pure mother, sleeping in the marriage chamber with her children,--came up before him, Alice, and her bed of torture in the den of Madam Resimer.

"This,--this," gasped Barnhurst, "this is why I couldn't marry Alice!"

Arthur was convulsed by opposing emotions.

"Devil!" he uttered with set teeth and clenched hands,--"and with a wife and children like these, you could still plot the ruin of poor Alice!"

"Husband," said the wife, as she awoke from her sleep--"have you come at last? I waited for you so long!"

* * * * *

Leave we this scene, and retrace our steps. The revel in THE TEMPLE is at the highest. The masks begin to fall. Hark! to the whispers which mingle softly with the clinking of champagne glasses. By all means let us enter THE TEMPLE.

PART FOURTH.

IN THE TEMPLE.

FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN.

DECEMBER 24, 1844.