You have come to Wissahikon,—to seek the murderers of your
mother—to weep over the ashes of Madeline? No—trickster, your
schemes are webs for flies—they do not blind the eyes of men. You
come hither, in the uniform of his Majesty, your life at the beck of any
rebel who may chance to spy the scarlet under the blue—you come hither
to prosecute an amour with the daughter of Sir Ralph Wyttonhurst. Do
you intend marriage?—Perchance to-night? Well, the bridal party is
assembled, the Preacher is waiting, book in hand, when your father breaks
in upon the scene, and tears you from your beautiful Leola!”

“He dare not,” gasped Reginald, “By Heaven, he dare not—'

“Said I not so? He lays his hand upon you—'tis a way the Lynqulfes
have! You submit, and like a child caught in the pantry among
the sweetmeats, are dragged away to receive your chastisement. You
would not strike your father?”

The brow of the young Lord was corrugated; he stood panting and
trembling, with his hand upon the hilt of his knife.

“He dare not, he dare not,—” the muttered words came through his
set teeth.

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“Read, O read the history of your race, and then look into the mirror
and behold your own visage, stamped with the curse, which has descended
from father to son, through the dark course of two hundred years! The
blood which now forsakes your cheek, and rushes to your heart, young
Lord, is impregnated in its every throb with that curse. It only demands
a Time, a Circumstance, and the work is done, the hand of the Son is
reddened with the father's blood.

“You remember the Medal which you tore from the heart of Madeline?
It bears a cross, a name, a date. `Eola' and `November the Twelfth.'
Can you—dare you call to mind, the deeds which through the course of
centuries, have marked that fatal day, in the history of your house?
`November the Twelfth,' in our modern language, simply means `November
Twenty-Third.' On that day, your grandfather, John of Lyndulfe,
was found dead in the park of his ducal mansion, and near him, the mangled
carcase of his eldest son, Ranulph-John. What does this mean? It
has but one meaning; you are a brave man, read it—Parricide.”

No word came from Reginald's lips; he gazed into the face of the
speaker, and was dumb.

“On that day, Catherine Conwell, the victim in place of your mother,
died within these walls, her last groan mingling with the cry of her new-born
child. On that day—but let us go back at once to the reign of the
Eighth Henry, when the destinies of your house were sown in the luxuriant
soil of Murder, * * * * * * and Parricide. It was in the year 1538, that
the baptism of unnatural crimes first descended upon your Race. It was
in the silence of night—after a day spent in drunken revelry—that a
Father and his Sons were linked together, in a series of crimes, whose
blackness might make the Devils weep; weep for shame, at the thought,
that even in the sublimity of Satanic crime, they were outstripped by this
poor creature, Man. Three Lords of your house were bound together in
the deeds of that night; one of those Lords, your Ancestor. Of the
nature of these crimes, I cannot—dare not speak—but they took place on
the Twelfth of November. A year passes; and one of the Three,—
the Parricide, on the anniversary of that day, glides behind the chair of
his wife, whose babe is sleeping on her breast. Then, as she turns her
face to the setting sun, as the babe awakes, and toys with her flowing hair
the Parricide lifts the dagger —

“From that hour, the Race of Lyndulfe has been accursed. The Head
of your house, whether Baron or Duke,—he that wears the title and rules
the domains—dies by the hand of his son. Do you tremble: come, this
is unmanly! Laugh, my Lord—you are witty—give speech to those
merry jests, which even now flit over your brain.—Dies by the hand of
his son, either by accident or design, and from this curse there is no escape;
for it is not the work of an Evil Angel, it is not the judgment of a
blind Fatality, it is simply in your blood, transmitted with your organi

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zation, bequeathed by every father with the life which he bestows upon
his child.”

As though a dark truth had changed his whole being, Reginald, with
pallid aspect and vacant and lustreless gaze, began to speak in a hollow
voice:

“Yes, yes,—one day while wandering in the park, near the spot where
the dead bodies of the old Duke and his son were found, an aged peasant
breathed into my ear, a tradition of our house—I laughed then, but I
shudder now. I remember its every word. `The Baron of Lyndulfe,
who committed these crimes ages ago, was doomed to live until he had
expiated his guilt by sweeping every one of his race from the earth; or
until he ascertained that the wife whom he so basely slew, was innocent.
From the lips of a woman descended from this wife, and wearing the
Medal which he coined in memory of his Father and his Wife—from the
lips of a woman, and a woman only—can he obtain the word which will
permit him to die. Until that word is pronounced, he is doomed to live
and destroy.' These were the words of the old peasant, and this Demon,—
the embodied Curse of our race—lives at this hour, as he has lived for
centuries. Yes, he glides by us in the sunshine; at dead of night, he
stands near us as we sleep, and breathes the pestilence of his infernal being
into our souls. And I saw him, two years ago—on the rock which stood
near the wayside, as I came to Wissahikon—even now his words ring in
my ears.”

He turned and gazed upon the strange man, whose words had stirred
these dark thoughts into life.

Rolof Sener crouched upon the floor; he had fallen like a man wounded
by a pistol shot; he lay with his face buried in his hands and his limbs
quivering as with a death-spasm.

Reginald attempted to raise him, but in vain. His struggles were like
the writhings of a person seized with epilepsy—his hands shook with an
incessant tremor; he sunk his nails into the boards, and uttered a low,
faint moan.

Reginald turned his face to the light; it was the visage of a dead man,
the features rigid, the eyes fixed as stone.

And the young Lord, heir to the fortunes of Lyndulfe, stood contemplating
this inanimate form, with a look of vague curiosity, while the flickering
light shone full upon those motionless eyeballs.

“Is he dead?” he faltered, while a shudder pervaded his veins—“Hah!
He breathes again, and something like life shines in his eyes.”

“And so, Madeline was not of your blood,—” were the first words
which trembled from the lips of Rolof, as he looked around with a bewildered
glance: “Only the daughter of Poverty and Innocence! Hah! Is't you,
Reginald?” he started to his feet—“Pardon me. I have been subject to
these attacks from childhood. Some wild words have passed between

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us,—it is over now—you would marry Leola, to night? It is well; I
will be your friend. The Duke comes to Wissahikon, but he shall not
know of your presence here, much less of your intended marriage.'

He seized Reginald's hand while a kindly—almost paternal—smile
stole over his face.

“You have seen Leola?”

“I have; her father's house is thronged with guests from the city. We
met not an hour ago, in the grove which skirts his place. Something was
said between us of a private marriage, to night, but these guests may recognize
me as a British officer; I have no other dress than the uniform
which I wear. Then there is no clergyman—”

“Go to! These guests are all good Tories; stout loyalists, sworn to
the king, every man and woman of them. As for your dress and the
clergyman, when you return to Sir Ralph's you will find them both in the
care of one person, to wit, the knave Jacopo, otherwise known as the Rev.
Jacob James.”

“Jacopo!”

“Aye, Jacopo; he will dress you for the wedding, and marry you
afterward.”

“You speak in mysteries—

“Is he not clergyman enough, for the occasion? Go to, Reginald! I
read your eyes; I translate your heart into words. Leola is a fair girl,
beautiful as a syren,—”

“She is indeed beautiful!”

“That tone reveals your heart! Beautiful she is, without a doubt, and
her form might lure a saint into the madness of passion; but the daughter
of a Baronet is no match for Reginald, heir to the Dukedom of Lyndulfe.
Jacopo is a clergyman—dost comprehend, my child? A convenient
clergyman, whose signature to your marriage parchments may one day
melt into air. Go to, boy—I am your best friend. I serve you and at
the same time rescue your House from the shame of an ill-assorted
marriage.”

With downcast eyes and averted face, Reginald listened, and after a
pause replied—

“Yes, I remember, Jacopo is a clergyman. Did he not take orders
last year? But I must away; even now Leola looks for me, and ah!
I had well nigh forgotten; Paul Ardenheim awaits me at the Blasted
Pine.”

“Paul Ardenheim? A student-like youth, who strangely disappeared
from Wissahikon, two years ago?”

“A noble fellow; every inch a man. He is my friend. He went with
me to England; in a word, we are as Brothers.”

“He is rich?”

While I have a guinea.”

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“A dependent then upon your bounty?”

“No! Paul would blush at the idea, with the true instinct of a high-minded
and honorable man.”

“And yet he is poor!'

“But his heart is true, his arm brave! One night, I was beset by
assassins—he saved me at the hazard of his own life. It was a generous
deed, but it left a scar upon his forehead. Paul will carry that scar to the
grave; and while it endures I am his friend.”

“Nobly spoken! Worthy of your race. Go, Reginald, Leola awaits
you.”

Reginald grasped Rolof's hand, some whispered words passed between
them, and then he hurried from that charnel-room, as the light was flickering
in the socket. As if recalled by a sudden thought, he turned upon
the threshold, and exclaimed—

“This Son of Gaspard Michael—was that also a dream?”

“To-night,” replied Rolof, “I will tell you all. We meet at the
wedding.”

With a light heart and a glad step, Reginald turned away from the
gloomy chamber, leaving the skeleton of Catherine Conwell and the
memory of Madeline to silence and the grave, as he hurried onward, with
the name of Leola on his lips.

Rolof Sener closed the door, and turned him once again to the memories
of that silent room.

The light was burning fast into the socket, and its wan and uncertain
glare gave his face a wild and haggard look.

He stood perfectly motionless, his folded arms and vacant eyes and fixed
features, giving him the appearance of some quaint effigy, on an ancient
tomb, rather than a living man.

“Washington comes to Wissahikon, and comes to receive a Crown!
The purity of his soul, the sublimity of his patriotism will be tried—it
would bring a smile to a cheek of marble—this Hero of an hour will
attempt to repeat the old story of Oliver Cromwell! Should he prove
true to his mission—what then? Must he still be surrendered, blinded
and bound, into the hands of the Royalists?

“Twelve o'clock to-night will decide it all.

“The Duke, too, comes to Wissahikon, comes to secure his prisoner,
and—to confront the Son of Gaspard Michael. Well, well, the Duke was
ever a cautious man, full of `business tact,' and attentive to the main
chance”—he smiled.

“Reginald goes to meet Leola, with all the fire of his race in his eye,
and solemn vows on his lips, vows, the more to be relied upon, when we
remember that—Jacopo is to be clergyman. 'Tis a brave youth, this
Reginald!

“Paul Ardendeim!

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“And thus, as the clouds, toward the close of a warm summer day,
hasten from every point in the sky, and at the hour of sunset unite
in thunder and lightning, so they gather all—these men and women,—and
before the morrow comes, there will be a storm.

“And I—”

The light flashed its last, and darkness enshrouded the form of Rolof
Sener.