CHAPTER VI.

A LONG ACCOUNT SETTLED.

Back from his brother's gaze, step by step, shrank Tarleton or Charles Van Huyden, his eyes still chained to that face, which the grave seemed to have yielded up, to blast his schemes in the very moment of their triumph.

His own child dead,--the stain of Carl Raphael's blood upon his soul,--he felt like a man who stands amid the ruins of a falling house, when the last prop gives way.

With a cry that was scarcely human, in its awful anguish, he turned and fled. Fled from the banquet-room, and through the adjoining chamber, into the darkness of the corridor. His mind, strained to its utmost tension by the perpetual excitement of the last twenty-four hours, gave way all at once, like a bow that, drawn to its full power, suddenly snaps, even as a withered reed. All was dark around him as he rushed along the corridor, but that darkness was made luminous by his soul. It was peopled with faces, that seemed to be encircled by lurid light. The worst agony that can befall a mortal man fell upon him. Nerves disordered, brain unstrung, his very thoughts became living things, and chased him through the darkness. The face of Evelyn Somers was before him, gazing upon him with fixed eyeballs. And his steps were suddenly checked, by an agonized countenance, which was sinking in wintery waves, that seemed to roll about his very feet. He was touched on the shoulder,--his dead daughter ran beside him in her shroud, linking her arm in his, and bending forward her face, which looked up into his own, with lips that had no blood in them, and eyes that had no life. And if the darkness was full of faces, the air was full of voices; voices whispering, shouting, yelling, all through each other, and yet, every voice distinctly heard,--all the voices that he had heard in his lifetime were speaking to him now. Well might he have exclaimed in the words of Cain,--"My punishment is greater than I can bear."

If he could have only rid himself of Frank, who ran by his side, in her shroud! But no,--there she was,--her arm in his,--her face bent forward looking up into his own, with lips that had no blood, and eyes that had no life.

He talked to those phantoms,--he bade them back,--he rushed on, through the corridor, and ascended the dark stairs with horrid shrieks. And the face of Carl Raphael, struggling in the waves, went before him at every step.

He readied at length the narrow garret, in which years agone, Gulian Van Huyden bid Martin Fulmer, farewell. Here, as he heard the storm beat against the window panes, he for a moment recovered his shattered senses.

"I'm nervous," he cried, "if I had been drinking, I would think I had the _mania_. Let me recover myself. Where in the deuce am I?"

A heavy step was heard on the stairway, and a form plunged into the room, bearing Tarleton against the wall. It was no phantom, but the form of a stalwart man.

"Halloo! Who are you?" cried a hoarse voice,--it was the voice of Ninety-One, and as he spoke, shouts came up the narrow stairway from the passage below. "You set here to trap me,--speak?"

And the hand of Ninety-One, clutched the throat of Tarleton with an iron grip.

"This way,--this way," cried a voice, and a gleam of light shooting up the stairs, through the narrow doorway, fell upon the livid face of Tarleton.

"O, we have met at last? Do you hear them shouts? Blossom follered by the poleese are in the house, and on my track, for the murder of young Somers. In a second they'll be here. Now I've got you, and we'll settle that long account,--we will by G--d!"

"You are choking me,--A-h!" gasped Tarleton, as he was dragged toward the window. The shouts from below grew more distinct, and once more the light flashed up the stairs.

"Carl Raphael died by drownin' and that's very like chokin'," whispered Ninety-One, as he bent his face near to the struggling wretch. "I've no way of escape,--even old Fulmer can't save me. And so we'll settle that long account."

"You are choking me,--do not,--do not--"

"You know all the items, so there's no use o' dwellin' on 'em," the hoarse voice of Ninety-One was heard above the pelting of the storm, "but the murder of that 'ar boy makes the docket full. Here goes--"

Dragging Tarleton to the window, he struck the sash, with one hand, and then kicked against it with all his strength. It yielded with a crash, and the snow and sleet rushes through the aperture in a blast.

"Spare me! Mercy! O do not--"

Ninety-One crept through the narrow aperture, out upon the roof, and dragged Tarleton after him. Then there were two forms standing erect for a moment, in the gloom, and then the blast bore away the sound of voices, and a howl that was heard, far and long, through the night.

"This way! We've caught the old fox," said a well known voice, and the red face of Blossom, adorned with carbuncles, appeared in the doorway, while the lantern which he held, filled the garret with light.

"This way," he sprang through the doorway, and followed by half a dozen men in thick coats, and with maces in their hands, he ran toward the window, "he's out upon the roof."

He held the lantern over his head, and looked without, while the snow and sleet beat in his face. From the garret-window the roof fell with a sudden slope, for the space of two yards, and there it ended. By the lantern light, he saw some rude traces of footsteps in the snow, and the print of a hand. A glance was sufficient. When he turned to confront his comrades, his red face was white as a sheet--

"By G--d the old convic' has gone an' jumped from the roof,--four storys high--as I'm a sinner!"