CHAPTER VII.

IN THE BANQUET-ROOM ONCE MORE.

Meanwhile in the banquet-room, the Legate of the Pope, with the form of his daughter, in her male attire, nestling on his breast, raised his head, and surveyed the faces of the spectators, who had not yet recovered from their surprise. His face pale and worn, as with years of consuming thought, his eyes bright as with the fire of a soul never at rest, held every gaze enchained as he spoke,--

"Rise Martin Fulmer!" he extended his hand to the kneeling man, "rise, and let me look upon the face of--an honest man."

As though disturbed in the midst of a dream, Martin Fulmer rose, his head with his snow-white hair and protuberant brow, presenting a strong contrast to the pallid face, dark hair and beard of the Legate.

"Look upon me, Martin Fulmer, and steadily. Do you recognize me."

"Gulian Van Huyden!" ejaculated the old man.

The Legate surveyed Randolph, Godlike, Yorke, who formed a group behind the Doctor, while in the background, the lights burned faintly around the iron chest and coffin. Even as the Legate looked around, Randolph turned aside, and leaning against frame of yonder window, pushed the curtains aside, and looked forth upon the cold, dark night. Not so cold and dark as his own bitter fate! Well was it for him, that his face was turned from the light! That face, terribly distorted, now revealed the hell which was raging in his breast. His soul stained with crime, his last hope blotted out, whither should he turn? Grandson of ---- ---- it had been better for you, had you never been born!

After his silent survey, the Legate spoke:

"Another place and another hour, will be needed, to repeat the full details of my life, since twenty-one years ago, I left this house,--to die," in an attitude of calm dignity, and with a voice and look, that held every soul, the Legate spoke these words,--"I was rescued from the waves, by a boat that chanced to be passing from the shore to a ship in the bay. Upon that ship, I again unclosed my eyes to life, and watched through the cabin windows, the last glimpse of the American shore, growing faint and fainter over the waves. Thus called back to life,--my name in my native land, only known as the name of the Suicide, my estates in the hands of Martin Fulmer, left to the chances or the providence of twenty-one years,--I resolved to live. The ship (the captain and crew were foreigners,) bore me to an Italian port. I sold the jewels which were about my person when I plunged into the river, and found myself in possession of a competence. Then, in search of peace, anxious to drown the past, and still every emotion of other days, by a life of self-denial, I went to Rome, I entered the Propaganda. In the course of time I became a priest, and then,----well! twenty-one years passed in the service of the church have left me as I am. Your hand, brave Martin Fulmer! Think not that your course has been unknown to me! You have been watched,--your every step marked,--your very thoughts recorded,--and now it is the Legate of the Pope, who takes you by the hand, and calls you by a title, which it is beyond the power of Pope or King to create,--_an honest man!_ Twenty times I have been near you in the course of twenty-one years,--once in Paris, when you were there on business of the estate,--once in Mexico,--once in China,--once on the Ocean,--once in Rome! How my heart yearned to disclose myself to you! But I left you go your way, and now at the end of twenty-one years, we stand face to face. And thou, my child,--" he gazed tenderly into the face of the girl, whose eyes were upraised to meet his own,--"my beautiful! my own! Think not that the garment of the priest, chills the heart of the father!"

"Father!" she whispered, putting her hands upon his shoulder,--"how my heart yearned to you, when I first met you, in the dark streets,--when friendless and homeless, I was flying to the river, as my only friend!"

It was a touching picture,--the priest, who for twenty-one years, had never permitted his heart to throb with one pulse that would remind him of the word "Home," and the daughter, who, educated to serve the dark purposes of Tarleton, had never before felt her heart bound at the sight of her _Father's_ face.

Martin Fulmer's face grew sad,--

"Do you regret my return?" said the Legate with a smile.

"I was thinking," said Martin, and his soul was in his eyes as he spoke,--"I was thinking of--ROME!"

Godlike stepped forward, with a smile on his somber visage,--"Rome!" he echoed,--"of course, now that the dead has returned to life, the heirs need not think of dividing the estate. And you as priest of the Roman Church, as one of her lords, can think of but one disposition of your immense property It will go to the church,--to Rome!"

"To Rome!" echoed Israel Yorke. Randolph, with his face from the light, did not seem to hear a word that was spoken. And Martin Fulmer, with his finger on his lips, awaited in evident suspense, the answer of the Legate.

"To Rome!" echoed the Legate and disengaging himself from the arms of his daughter, he stood erect. His entire face changed. His nostrils quivered, his lips curled, there was a glow on his pale cheek, and an intenser fire in his eyes. He passed his hand over his forehead, and brushing back his dark hair, stood for a moment, motionless as a statue, his eyes fixed, as though he saw passing before his soul, a panorama of the future.

"Within that brutal Rome which plants its power upon human skulls, there is a higher, mightier Rome! Within that order which uses and profanes the name of Jesus, as the instrument of its frauds, there is a higher, mightier Order of Jesus! I see this mightier church,--I see this mightier Order moving onward, through the paths of the future, combating the false Rome, and trampling under foot the false Order of Jesus! Yes, in the future, I see armed for the last battle, those friends of humanity, who have sworn to use the Roman Church as the instrument of Human Progress, or to drive forward the movement over her ruins."

The effect of these words, coupled with the look and the attitude of the Legate, was electric. They were followed by a dead stillness. The spectators gazed into each other's faces, but no one ventured to break the silence.

The silence was interrupted, however, by a strange voice,--

"Lor bress you, massa, de nigga hab arribe!" It was Old Royal, who emerged from the curtains, with a broad grin on his black face,--"You know dis nigga war on de ribber in a boat, fetchin ober from Jarsey shore, a brack gemman who didn' like to trabel by de ferry boat--yah--whah! Well de nigga did it,--"

He advanced a step,--passed his hand through his white wool,--surveyed his giant-like form clad in sleek broadcloth,--showed his white teeth, and continued, with an accent and a gesticulation that words cannot describe--

"Well, as we come across,--lor-a-massy how de storm did storm, and de snow did snow! As we come across, dis nigga cotched by de har ob his head, a young white gemman, who war a-drownin'. An' dis same young white gemman, Massa Fulmer,--" he pointed over his shoulder, "am out dar!"

"What mean you, Royal?" cried Martin Fulmer, and he shook with the conflict of hope and suspense,--"whom did you rescue?"

"Dar's de white _pusson_," said Old Royal.

Leaning on the arm of Mary Berman, whose face was rosy with joy, whose bonnet had fallen on her neck, while her hair, glittering with snow-drops, strayed over her shoulders,--leaning on the arm of his wife, Nameless, or Carl Raphael, came through the doorway, and advanced toward the group.

He was clad in black, which threw his pale face, shaded by brown hair, boldly into view. His eyes were clear and brilliant; his lip firm. As he advanced, every eye remarked the resemblance between him and the Legate; and also between him, and the disguised girl, who stood by the Legate's side.

"Rescued from death by the hands of this good friend,--" his voice was clear and bold, "I returned home, and found the note which you,--" he looked at Martin Fulmer, "caused to be left there. And in obedience to the request contained in that note, I am here."

At first completely thunderstruck, the venerable man had not power to frame a word.

"Fatality!" he cried at last, "but a blessed fatality! I knew that Providence would not desert us! Come to my heart, my child! Carl,--" trembling with emotion, he took Nameless by the hand, "Carl, behold your father, who, after a lapse of twenty-one years, has appeared among us, like one risen from the grave! Behold your sister, born like you, in your mother's death-agony,--separated from you for twenty-one years,--she now rejoins you, in presence of your father!"

It was now the turn of Nameless to stand spell-bound and thunderstruck. He stood like one in a dream, until the voices of the Legate and the young girl broke on his ear, voices so like his own.

"My son!"

"Brother!"

He was gathered to the Legate's breast, who kissed him on the brow, and surveying every line of his face, felt his bosom swell with pride as he called him, "my son!" Then his sister's arms were upon his neck, and Nameless, as he saw her face, so touching, in its quiet loveliness, felt his heart swell with a rapture, never felt before, as he found himself encircled in that atmosphere which is most like heaven,--the atmosphere of a sister's love.

"Listen to me, my son," said the Legate, as he took Nameless by the hand, and his eyes lit up with a new fire, while in abrupt and broken sentences, he poured forth the story of his life. His tone was impassioned, his words electric. Carl Raphael listened, while the emotions of his soul, were written in his changing features.

"And now, my son," concluded the Legate, as he put his arm about the neck of Nameless, "twenty-one years are gone, and I appear again. The estate, from two millions, has swelled into one hundred millions. You will inherit it, and you and I, and this good man, will join together, in applying the awful power embodied in this wealth, to the best interests of the human race."

To the surprise of the Legate, Nameless unwound his arm from his neck, and stepped back from him. His face suddenly became cold and rigid as stone. Rising in every inch of his stature, he surveyed the entire scene at a rapid glance.

On his right, his father and sister. Near him the venerable old man, with Mary by his side. Somewhat apart, stood the somber Godlike, and the weazel-faced Yorke. In the background, the table, with the candles burning dimly round over chest and coffin. Around him that hall, thick on every panel with the memories of the past; and far in the shadows, the white image of the master.

And by yonder window, his form half concealed in the curtains, Randolph looks out upon the black night.

Dilating with an emotion which was incomprehensible to the spectators, Nameless said.

"No, father, I will not touch one dollar of this wealth. It is accursed. Look at the passion it has evoked; look at the calamities which it has wrought! It is accursed,--thrice accursed. It was this wealth which impelled your own brother to attempt to corrupt my mother. It was this wealth which made that brother follow me with remorseless hatred, and to-night, for the sake of this, he planned my death. It was this wealth which drove you from your native land, there to bury all feeling in a church, which makes marriage a sacrament, and, at the same time, prevents her priests from ever enjoying that sacrament, from ever being hailed by the all-holy names of 'husband!' 'father!' There you buried twenty-one years of your life, leaving your children to breast the storm of life alone. It was this wealth which cast me, in childhood, into the streets, without friend or home,--and do you know the life I've lived? While you were saying mass at Rome, I was committing murder, father,--I was being sentenced to death,--I was buried alive in your family vault,--I was passing two years in a madman's cell! Look at the work of your wealth! Let these gentlemen (who, I doubt not, have been heirs of this estate in anticipation,) let them speak, and tell what passions, like fiends evoked from nethermost hell, this wealth has summoned into life! Speak, Martin Fulmer, you, who for twenty-one years, have denied yourself the blessing of wife, home, children; while in sleepless anguish you watched over this wealth,--speak! What evil thought is there in earth or hell which it has not called into deeds? No,--father,--lifting this hand to heaven, I swear by that mother, whom you left to writhe alone upon her dying bed, that I will not touch one dollar of the Van Huyden estate!"

The Legate, that is to say, Gulian Van Huyden, was crushed by these words; they fell upon him like a sentence of death.

"My son! my son!" he gasped, "spare me!"

"'Son' and 'father,' are words easily spoken," continued Nameless. "Have you been a father to me? It would be very striking, and altogether like the fifth act of a melodrama, no doubt, for me to overlook your twenty-one years of silence, and with love and tears consent to be your heir. But you have not been my father. My father,--the father of my soul,--Cornelius Berman, lies a corpse to-night. I forgive you, father, but I cannot _forget_, for I am not the Savior; I am simply a man--"

"Have you no mercy?" faltered the Legate, who stood in the presence of his son like a criminal before his judge. "Do you not know your words are killing me?"

But Carl Raphael, as though all that was dark in his own life, all that was dark in his mother's death-hour, held possession of his soul, would not give his father one chance of justification.

"A man, father, who has known so much suffering, that he now only desires to forget the real world, in the ideal world created by his own pencil; who only desires to turn his back upon wealth and all its hatreds, and win his bread humbly, and away from the world, by the toil of his hand. Mary!--thou who wast true to me, when I slept in the coffin,--thou who wast true to me when I was the tenant of a madman's cell,--Mary! come, let us go."

While the spectators stood like statues,--all, save Randolph, who, with his face from the light, took no notice of the scene,--he took Mary by the hand, and moved toward the door.

With one voice, his father, his sister, Martin Fulmer, called him back.

"Carl! Carl! you must not go!"

"My son! my son!"

"Brother!"

He lingered on the threshold, holding his beautiful wife by the hand.

"Father! sister! brave Martin Fulmer! come and see me in my poor man's home, and I will bless you from my heart for your presence. Come! come,--but not to tempt me with the offer of wealth; that word spoken, and we are strangers forever. For my oath is sworn, by the name of my mother, never to touch one dollar of the Van Huyden estate, and that oath is written up yonder!"

With these words, Carl Raphael, son of Gulian Van Huyden, and heir of One Hundred Million Dollars, took Mary by the hand, and passed from the banquet-hall, and from the house in which, twenty-one years before, his mother died.

EPILOGUE.

ON THE OCEAN,--BY THE RIVER SHORE,--IN THE VATICAN,--ON THE PRAIRIE.

My task is almost done. This work was commenced in January, 1848,--it is now June, 1852. Four years that have been of awful moment to the great world, and that, to many of you my readers, have brought change, affliction--have stripped you of those whose life was a part of your life, and made your pathway rich only in graves. Four years! As I am about to lay aside the pen, and shut the pages of this book, those four years start up before me, in living shape; they wear familiar faces; they speak with voices that never shall be heard on earth again.

* * * * *

Before the curtain falls, let us take a glance at the characters of our history.

Harry Royalton. He did not die under his brother's hands, but returned to Hill Royal, where he drank, and gambled, and talked "secession," until a kindly bullet, from the pistol of an antagonist in a duel, relieved him of the woes of this life.

Randolph Royalton was never seen in New York, after the 25th of December, 1844. It is supposed that, aided by Martin Fulmer, he went abroad, accompanied by his sister, the beautiful Esther.

In January, 1845, Bernard Lynn, completely broken down in health and appearance, returned, with his daughter, to Europe. He died soon afterward in Florence. Eleanor, it has been rumored, committed the moral suicide of burying her life in a convent. But let us hope, that Eleanor, as well as Esther, will once more appear in active life.

Israel Yorke still flourishes; the devil is good to his children. Godlike, we believe, is yet upon the stage. And the apostolic Ishmael Ghoul, still conducts the Daily Blaze, waxing fat and strong, in total depravity. As for Sleevegammon, his competitor for public favor, he still see-saws on the tight rope, with Conservatism on one side, and Progress on the other. Blossom, the policeman, has retired from active life, and now does a great deal of nothing, for three dollars a day, in the Custom-House. Dr. Bulgin still thrives; he lately published a book of 345 pages, as big as his own head almost, against "Socialism." We have not been informed whether any monument of marble, with an obelisk and an epitaph, has been erected in memory of the martyred "Bloodhound."

Before we close our task, we will gaze upon four scenes; one of which took place on the ocean; another, by the shore of Hudson river; a third, in the Vatican, at Rome; the fourth and last, upon the boundless prairie.

* * * * *

It was in January, 1845.

One winter night, when the wind was bitter cold in New York, and the snow lay white upon the hills of the northern land, there was a brave ship resting motionless upon the ocean, not under a wintery sky, but under a summer sky, and in an atmosphere soft and bland as June. On her way from New York to the West Indies, she had been becalmed. She lay under the starlit sky, with her image mirrored in every detail, upon the motionless sea. All at once another light than the pale beams of the stars, flashed over the smooth expanse, and a pyramid of flame rose grandly into the sky. The ship was on fire; in less than two hours the flame died away, and in place of the brave ship, there was a blackened wreck upon the waters. All that escaped from the wreck were six souls; the captain, three of the crew, and two passengers. Upon a hastily constructed raft, with but a scanty supply of bread and water, behold them, as they float alone upon the trackless ocean. For three days, without a breath of air to fan the smooth expanse, they floated under a burning sun, in sight of the wreck, and on the evening of the third day, they shared the last crust of bread, and passed from lip to lip the last can of water. It was on the evening of the fourth day, that the captain, a brave old seaman, driven mad by the burning sun and intolerable thirst, leaped overboard, and died, without a single effort on the part of his companions to save him. His example was followed by a sailor, an old tar, who had followed him over half the globe. Thus, there remained upon the raft four persons; two passengers and two sailors.

It was the evening of the fifth day,--five days under the burning sun,--two days and nights without water!

The sun was setting. Like a globe of red hot metal, he hung on the verge of the horizon, shooting his fiery rays through a thin purple haze.

The wreck had gone down, and the raft was alone upon the motionless ocean.

The sailors were seated near each other, on the side of the raft most remote from the sun,--they were dressed in a coarse shirt and trowsers,--and with their hands resting on their knees, and their faces upon their hands, they seemed to have surrendered themselves to their fate,--that is, to despair and death, by starvation.

The passengers were on the other side of the raft; one of them was a man of slender form, dressed in dark broadcloth; his head was buried in his hands, and the setting sun shone on his hair, which, sleek and brown lay behind his ears. Beside him, in a reclining posture, was the other passenger, a woman; a woman who had escaped from the burning vessel in her night-clothes, and who now, with the cloak of the man spread beneath her, turns her dark eyes hopelessly to the setting sun. A few days ago, with her proud bosom, and rounded limbs, and dark eyes flashing from that face, whose clear, brown complexion indicated her Spanish descent, she was very beautiful. Look at her now. Livid circles beneath each eye, lips parched, cheeks hollow,--her bosom is bare,--shrunken from its once voluptuous outline, it trembles with a faint pulsation. Five days have made terrible havoc of your beauty, proud Godiva!

The man by her side raises his head from his hands,--in that sallow face, lack-luster eyes, and hollowed cheeks, can you recognize the smooth, fair visage of Herman Barnhurst? Alas! Herman, your prospect of a West Indian paradise, with Godiva for the queen of your houris, is rather dim just now.

And the sky was above them, the trackless sea all around, the last rays of the red sun in their faces; and not a sail in sight, Scan the horizon, Herman, and in vain.

"O! it is horrible to die thus," exclaimed Godiva, in a voice so faint as to be scarcely audible.

But Herman made no reply.

And as the sailors raised their eyes,--wild and fiery from thirst and hunger,--the sun went down, and night came at once upon the scene.

"How beautiful they are,--the stars up yonder, Herman!"

Still Herman did not reply.

Godiva, resting one arm upon his knee, fell into a brief slumber, which was broken by the most incongruous dreams. At length her dreams resolved themselves into a view of Niagara Falls, that world of waters, singing its awful hymn as it plunges into the abyss. She saw the cool water, her face was bathed in the spray, and,--she awoke devoured by maddening thirst.

Herman had moved from her side; he was on the opposite side of the raft, talking with the sailors in low tones. And the sailors looked over their shoulders, with their fiery eyes, as they conversed with Herman.

Again she fell into a doze,--she was with her father this time, and Eugene, her first love, by her side. Happy days!--innocent girlhood!

She awoke with a start,--Herman was still with the sailors, conversing in low tones.

And thus the short night at the tropics wore on. It was near sunrise, and yet very dark, when Godiva was dreaming--dreaming of the night when, yet a pure girl, she was joined in marriage to the brutal sensualist. There was the familiar parlor,--the white-haired father,--the clergyman,--her profligate husband. And the husband bore her again over the threshold, she struggling in his loathed embrace. In the struggle she awoke,--sunrise was warm and bright upon the waters,--and a fresh breeze fanned her burning cheek. Over her stood Herman, his right hand upraised,--the knife which it grasped glittering in the sun.

"The lot has fallen on me!" he cried.

"Herman!" she shrieked--and spread forth her hands. Too late! The knife was buried in her bosom.

"Woman you must die to save our lives!"

Godiva never saw anything in this world, after that blow, which was followed by a stream of blood.

"Come! Let us drink!" shouted Herman to the sailors, his eyes rolling all wild and mad.

Only one of the sailors came and joined him, in that loathsome draught. In the sunken features of the poor wretch, you but faintly recognize--Arthur Conroy.

The third sailor, rose trembling to his feet,--his cheeks hollowed and his eyes sunken like the others. He folded his arms, and surveyed the three,--the body of Godiva, with Herman and Conroy bending over her.

And then the third sailor, with his great eyes flashing in their sockets, burst into a maniac laugh, and cried,--"A sail! A sail!"

The third sailor was Arthur Dermoyne.

Loathsome as was the draught which they took, it assuaged their thirst, and for a time stilled the madness in their veins. It was, therefore, with a vision somewhat clear, that Herman and Conroy looked up, and beheld a white sail breaking the monotony of the waste.

They turned from the body of the dead woman with loathing. * * * The sail grew nearer, nearer! A signal! "They are lowering a boat," cried Herman, "we shall be saved!"

"This is the very time of all others that I wished to see," said Dermoyne, in that husky and unnatural voice,--"your hands are stained with the blood of your paramour,--your heart beats with joy at the sight of a sail,--now go!" And he pushed Herman from the raft, and struck him on the hands, with the hilt of the knife, as the miserable man clutched the timbers.

"Mercy!" cried Herman, again clutching the raft.

Again Dermoyne struck his hands with the hilt of the knife.

"Go! Alice waits for you!"

When the boat from the ship came up, the crew found two men stretched insensible upon the raft, beside the body of a dead woman. As for Herman, he had sunk from sight.

* * * * *

It was June, in the year 1848--

The flush of the summer evening, lay broad and warm upon the river, when an old man came from the cottage door, and passing through the garden gate, bent his steps toward the oak, which, standing by the shore, caught upon its rugged trunk and wide-branching limbs, the golden rays of the setting sun.

He stood there, with uncovered brow, the breeze tossing his snow-white hairs, and the evening flush warming over his venerable face. By his side, grasping his hand, was a boy of some three years, with a glad, happy face, and sunny hair.

Before the old man and child spread the river, warm with golden light, and white with sails. Yonder the palisades rose up into the evening sky; and behind them, was the cottage, leaning against the cliff, with boughs above its steep roof, vines about its pointed windows, and before its door a garden, from whose beds of flowers a cool fountain sent up its drops of spray, into the evening air. The cottage of Cornelius Berman, just as it was in other days.

Presently the father and the mother of the child came from the garden gate, and approached the oak. A man of twenty-five years, with head placed firmly on his shoulders, and a face whose clear gray eyes, and forehead shaded by brown hair, indicate the artist, the man of genius,--a woman who may be seventeen, who may be twenty, but whose rounded form and pure _wifely_ face, link together the freshness of the maiden, the ripe maturity of the woman.

Beside the young wife, walks a young woman, whose form is not so full and rounded in its beauty, but whose pale face, tinted with bloom on the lips and cheek, is lighted by eyes that gleam with a sad, spiritual light. Altogether, a face that touches you with its melancholy beauty, and compares with the face of the wife, as a calm starlit night, with a rosy summer morn.

It is Carl Raphael, his wife, Mary, and his sister, now called Alice, who come to join old Martin Fulmer on the river bank. Declining to touch one dollar of the Van Huyden estate, and determined to earn his bread by the toil of his hand, Carl still had fortune thrust upon him,--for Mary was the only heir of the merchant prince, Evelyn Somers.

"Doctor, I have a letter from father, who is now in Rome," said Carl, as he stood by: the old man's side,--and he placed the letter from his father, the Legate, in Martin Fulmer's hand.

Martin seized the letter, and reading it eagerly, his eye brightening up with the light of the olden time--

"Ah, Carl, he will soon return, he will at last relieve me of the care of the Van Huyden estate! See how hopefully he speaks of the cause of humanity in Europe,--in February, the people of France cast off their chains,--now Italy is awake, and men with the soul of Rienzi and the sword of Washington, direct her destinies,--the Pope, soon to be stripped of his temporal power, will be no longer the tool of brutal tyrants, the prisoner of atheist cardinals, but simply the Head of a regenerated people, simply the first Priest of a redeemed church. Glorious news, Carl; glorious news for us, in this free land; for say what we will, Rome is a heart which never throbs, but that its pulsations are felt throughout the world."

"How can Rome directly affect us, Doctor?"

"If the absolutist party in that church,--the party who regard Christ but as their stepping-stone to unrestrained and brutal power,--obtain the mastery, then, Carl, the last battle between that party and humanity, will be fought not in Europe, but in this New World. Is there a hill in this land, but is trod by a soldier of Rome? But if the party of Progress in that church,--the party who believe in Christ, and hold the Gospels as the inspired text-book of Democratic truth,--obtain the ascendancy, then, instead of having to battle with the Catholic Church, in this New World, the friends of humanity will find in it, their strongest ally. Good news, Carl! The Pope, the Washington of Italy!"

To which Carl,--happy in that little world of his own, where he lived with his wife and child, afar from the great world,--said simply:--

"Martin, let us wait and see."

* * * * *

Some months after the conversation just recorded, a very brief scene, but full of interest took place in Rome.

Let us pass for a little while from the Empire City to the Eternal City.

In one of the chambers of the Vatican, late at night, a lamp was faintly burning, its rays struggling among the thick shadows which hung about the lofty walls. Through an open window came a dim, ominous murmur,--the voice of the arisen people of Rome.

A man of some fifty years, whose black hair was plentifully sprinkled with gray, paced up and down the marble floor, pausing every now and then before a door, in the center of the chamber, to which he directed his earnest gaze. Behind that door was the majesty of the Roman Church, 'the representative of God on earth'--the Pope of Rome.

And the solitary watcher, dressed in the plain garb of a simple ecclesiastic, was the Legate who had done the bidding of the Pontiff over half the globe,--the Legate, Gulian Van Huyden.

"Will he turn his back upon the people, and cast himself into the hands of the tyrants? Will he, after his hand has grasped the plow of Human Progress, falter and turn back, and give the power of the church into the hands of the Iscariots of the human race? Can there be any truth in the rumor?"

And again he paused before the door, behind which was the chamber which held the sovereign Pontiff.

That door opened,--the Pope appeared. Clad not in the gorgeous costume which he wears, when high upon his throne, he is carried by his guards, through thousands and tens of thousands of his kneeling worshipers; but clad in a loose robe or gown of dark silk, which, thrown open in front, discloses his bared neck and disordered attire. For with his mild countenance,--a countenance marked by irresolution,--displaying every sign of perturbation, this "representative of God on earth," wears very much the air of one who is about to fly from a falling house.

"There can be no truth in this rumor, which I hear," and the Legate steps forward almost fiercely, addressing the Pope without one word of "majesty," or "holiness,"--"this rumor of flight?"

It is in a soft and tremulous voice, (in Italian of course,) the Pope replies,--

"If I stay, poison threatens me from _above_, the _dagger_ from _below_."

And then with a gesture, supplicating silence and secrecy on the part of the Legate, the Pope retires and closes the door.

"Significant words! Poison threatens him from above,--from the cardinals,--the dagger from below,--from the people. The danger from the cardinals is not imaginary--there was once a Pope named Ganganelli, who suppressed the Jesuits, and in less than three months died horribly of poison. But the people, Pius? O, Pope without nerve, without faith in God, without hope in man, know you not, that were you to fulfill your apostolate of Liberty, the very women and children of Rome would, in your defense, build around you a rampart of their dead bodies?"

He walked to the window, up to which from the sleepless city, came the voices of arisen Rome:

"God help the Roman people!" he exclaimed; "God confound the schemes of the tyrants, who now plot the murder of the Roman people! At last, after five hundred years of wrong, the Nightmare of Priesthood is lifted from the breast of Italy. Italy has heard at last, the voice of God, calling upon her sons to arise--to cast these priestly idlers from their thrones--to assert the Democracy of the Gospel in face of tyrants of all shapes, whether dressed in military gear, in solemn black, or in Borgian scarlet. Italy has risen!"

And turning from the window, he paced the floor again,--

"My work is done in Rome. The Pope and the church in the hands of crowned and mitred miscreants, who having crushed the last spark of liberty in the Old World, will not be long ere they open their trenches before her last altar in the New World! Away to the New World then; if the battle must come, let us, let the friends of humanity, strike the first blow!"

* * * * *

Away from the eternal city,--to the New World,--to the boundless horizon and ocean-like expanse of the prairies. The sun is setting over one of those vast prairies, which stretch between the Mississippi and the Rocky Mountains. The monotony of that vast expanse, covered with grass that rolls and swells, like the wave of old ocean, is broken by a gentle knoll, crowned by a single giant oak. The setting sun flings the shadow of that solitary tree, black and long, over the prairie. Far, far in the west, a white peak rises like an altar from the horizon, into the sky--it is a peak of the Rocky Mountains. And gazing to the east, you behold nothing save the prairie and the sky,--yes! a herd of buffalo are grazing yonder, and a long caravan of wagons, drawn by mules, and flanked by armed men who ride or go afoot, winds like an immense serpent, far over the plain.

Three hundred emigrants, mechanics, their wives and little ones, who have left the savage civilization of the Atlantic cities, for a free home beyond the Rocky Mountains--such is the band which now moves on in the light of the fading day.

The leader of the band, a man in the prime of young manhood, dressed in the garb of a hunter, with a rifle on his shoulder, stands beneath the solitary oak, gazing upon the caravan as it comes on. His face bears traces of much thought,--perchance of many a dark hour,--but now his eyes shine clear and strong, with the enthusiasm which springs from deep convictions:

"Thus far toward freedom! Here they come,--three hundred serfs of the Atlantic cities, rescued from poverty, from wages-slavery, from the war of competition, from the grip of the landlord! Thus far toward a soil which they can call their own; thus far toward a free home. And thou, O! Christ, who didst live and die, so that all men might be brothers, bless us, and be with us, and march by our side, in this our exodus."

The speaker was the Socialist,--Arthur Dermoyne.

And let us all, as we survey the masses of the human race, attempting their exodus from thraldom of all kinds,--of the body,--of the soul,--from the tyranny which crushes man by the iron hand of brute force, or slowly kills him by the lawful operation of capital, labor-saving machinery, or monied enterprise,--let us, too, send up our prayer, "O! THOU of Nazareth, go with the People in this their exodus, dwell with them in their tents, beacon with light, their hard way to the Promised Land!"

THE END.