CHAPTER II.

RANDOLPH AND HIS BROTHER.

The hour of dawn drew near, Randolph was in his own chamber, seated by his bed, watching the face of the sleeper, who was slumbering there.

A singular look passed over Randolph's visage, as he held the candle over the sleeper's face,--a look hard to define or analyze, for it seemed to indicate a struggle between widely different emotions. There was compassion and revenge, brotherly love and mortal hatred in that look.

For the sleeper was Harry Royalton, of Hill Royal.

The candle burned near and nearer to its socket,--the morning light began to mingle with its fading rays,--and still Harry slept on, and still Randolph watched, his eyes fixed on his brother's visage, and his own face disturbed by opposing emotions.

It was near morning when Harry woke.

"Hey! halloo! what's this?" he cried, starting up in the bed, and surveying the spacious apartment,--strange to him,--with a vacant stare. "Where am I?"

His gaze fell upon Randolph, who was seated by the bed.

"You here?" and his countenance fell.--"What in the devil does all this mean?"

Randolph did not reply. There was a slight trembling of his nether lip, and his eyes grew brighter as he fixed his gaze on his brother's face.

"Where's my coat?" cried Harry, surveying his shirt sleeves, "and my cravat,"--he passed his hands over his muscular throat,--"and--you,--what in the devil are _you_ doing here?"

Randolph, still keeping his gaze on his brother's face, said in a low voice,--"I am in my own house, brother."

"Your house?" ejaculated Harry, and then burst into a laugh,--"come, now,--don't,--that's too good."

"My own house, to which I brought you some hours ago, after I had rescued you from the persons in the cellar----"

"_Rescued_ me?" and an incredulous smile passed over Harry's face as he pulled at his bushy whiskers. "Better yet,--ha! ha!--You don't think to stuff me with any such damned nonsense?"

Randolph grew paler, but his eye flashed with deeper light.

"Brother, I did rescue you," he said, in the same low voice, as he bent forward.--"As we were about to engage in conflict, you fell like a dead man on the floor. I took you in my arms; I defended you from the negroes who were clamorous for your blood; I bore you to upper air, and I, brother, then brought you in a carriage to my home; and I laid you on my bed, brother; and when you awoke from your swoon,--awoke with the ravings of delirium on your tongue,--I soothed you, until you fell in a sound sleep. This is the simple truth, brother."

Harry grew red in the face, then pale,--bit his lip,--pulled his whiskers, and then without turning his head, regarded Randolph with a sidelong glance. To tell the simple truth, Harry did not know what to say. He felt a swelling of the heart, a warmth in his veins, as though the magnetic gaze of Randolph had influenced him even against his will.

"You did all this?"--there was a faint tremor in his voice.

"I did, brother,"--Randolph's voice was deep and earnest.

"Why,--why,--did not you kill me, when you had me in your power?"

"Brother, the blood of John Augustus Royalton flows in my veins, and it is not like a Royalton to strike a fallen foe."

"And you could have put poison in my drink," hesitated Harry, impressed against his will by the manner of his brother.

"I never heard of a Royalton who became a poisoner."

"A _Royalton_? and you call yourself a Royalton?" said Harry, still regarding his brother with a sidelong gaze.

Randolph bit his lip, and folded his arms upon his chest, as if to choke down the strong emotions which were struggling within him. He did not reply.

"I suppose I am your _prisoner_?" asked Harry, intently regarding Randolph's face. "You can keep me secluded until the twenty-fifth of December has passed. Is that the dodge?"

"Brother, the door is open, and the way is free, whenever you wish to leave this house," was Randolph's calm reply.

"Well, if I can make you out, may I be ----!" cried Harry, and the next moment uttered a groan of agony, for his back was very painful. "Why did you not take me to my hotel?" he said, in a peevish, impatient tone.

"You forget that I did not know the name of your hotel," replied Randolph, "and beside, what place so fitting for a sick man as his brother's home?"

Harry grew red in the face, and then burst into a laugh.--"We've been such good _brothers_ to each other!"

The thought which had been working at Randolph's heart for hours, now found utterance in words,--

"Brother, O, brother! why can we not indeed be brothers?" his eyes flashed, his voice was deep and impassioned. "Children of one father, let us forget the past; let us bury all bitter memories, all feelings of hatred,--let us forget, forgive, and be as brothers to each other. Harry Royalton, my brother, there is my hand."

He rose,--his chest heaving, his eyes dimmed by tears,--and reached forth his hand.

Harry, completely overwhelmed by this unexpected appeal, reached forth his hand, but drew it back again.

"No," he cried, as his face was flushed,--"not with a nigger." The contempt, the scorn, the rage which convulsed his face, as he said these words, cannot be depicted.