And at the same moment, the door of the chamber was opened, and a
footstep echoed from the secret stairway. Reginald heard neither the
echo of the step, nor the sound of the opening door.

But when he raised his head, he saw Leola standing by his side, her
lips curling in scorn, her eyes flashing with wild light—Leola surpassingly
beautiful in her Bridal Dress, with her dark hair crowned with pale lilies,
and a diamond glittering on her proud forehead.

Leola was at his side, and before him stood Gilbert Morgan, his almost
giant form attired in green and gold, trembling in every nerve, his sun-burnt
face darkening with deadly anger, his hands clenched, and his brown
hair falling in disordered masses over his corrugated brow.

Gilbert had entered by the secret door, as Leola came through the other
door of her chamber.

“Go on,” she cried laughingly, in a tone of withering scorn, “This
drama amuses me. Go on, husband of mine. I would not disturb your
love scene for the world.”

And the future Duchess of Lyndulfe cast upon him a glance, which
might have killed him, had glances the power to kill.

“And soh, my gay friend, we've met at last,” said Gilbert, drawing a
hunting knife from his belt: “I've waited a long time for this meetin'. But
we have met, an' face to face too. There's no mistake this time. We
can settle our long account at once, and without delay. Come!”

And in the face of his plighted wife, and with her scornful gaze upon him,
and in the face of Gilbert, and with his uplifted knife flashing in the light,
Reginald drew Madeline to his breast, and kissed her rosy lips once
more.

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Gilbert uttered a blasphemous oath; Leola bit her red lip until it was
stained with blood.

“For this, Madeline,” he cried, “for this I have defied the power of
the Fiend, and resolved to shake off his infernal sorcery, and be a man
agin! Ah, girl, your words and heart are alike—false—false as the
Fiend himself!”

Leola did not speak, but her thoughts was full of agony—“For this, I
have sacrificed Paul Ardenheim!”

Reginald's handsome face was convulsed with laughter.

“Leola! Behold my long lost sister!” he cried, and taking Madeline
by the hand, urged her gently into the arms of his Betrothed.

“Ah! That face is stamped upon my soul. Yes, yes, I have seen you
before!” and the proud damsel extended her arms to clasp the Orphan
Girl to her heart.

But Madeline did not respond to her caresses, nor look into her eyes.
For Madeline's warm cheek was warm and glowing no longer, and Madeline's
bright eyes were obscured with a misty film. Trembling in every
limb, she had suffered Reginald to press her lip, and lead her toward his
Betrothed, but from the moment, when the voice of Gilbert broke on her
ears, she had lost all consciousness of anything but his presence. And
yet she had not seen him; she had not the power of will to turn and gaze
upon him.

Even as the queenly woman pressed her hands, Madeline murmured
faintly—“You saved my life on that fatal night!” but her thoughts were
of Gilbert—every instant she expected to clasp his hand and be gathered
to his heart.

“You are not well; this excitement has been too much for you, my
sweet sister,” exclaimed Leola.

And like a maiden walking in her sleep, Madeline turned and beheld
Gilbert. Stood face to face with him—surveying not his glittering suit
so different from the rude huntsman's costume of other days, nor yet his
sunburnt face, with brown curls about the brow, and a thick beard around
the muscular throat—but looking into his eyes, as though she would grasp
his very Soul.

Gilbert saw her look so wildly on him—trembled—and reached forth
his arms. “Come, Madeline,” he said, in a husky voice—“You're the
only thing left to me on this earth, and you only can save me from the
Fiend.”

She did not glide to him, she did not dart into his arms, but she was
there—upon his breast—her maidenly form, which looked slight and diminutive
beside his giant frame, quivering in his convulsive grasp. And the
tears of that strong man fell like rain upon her face, and in the very agony
of his joy, he muttered incoherent ejaculations, which no one unfamiliar
with his adventures, might comprehend.

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“True! True! True by —! True as light to-day, or an angel to
its God. There aint no blemish in you, girl. Spotless as the driven
snow. And you'll pray for me, and God will hear your prayer. Wont
you Madeline?” He did not suffer her to answer him with words, but
took his answer from her lips. How that kiss, the first that had pressed his
mouth from Madeline's lips, since the fatal night thrilled poor Gilbert's
soul! It was like a token of Peace—of Forgiveness.

“And I murdered you, Madeline; yes, stabbed you as if you'd been a
savage beast, or a devil in human shape, like myself. Did n't I? Can
you ever forgive?”

“Gilbert,” she answered softly, pressing her hands upon his sunburnt
face, as he held her to his breast, as you would hold a child: “The darkness
has gone from us forever. It is morning with us now!”

Leola proud and beautiful, as she was in her bridal attire, could not restrain
her tears. She suffered them to flow freely, and did not attempt to
hide them, as they flashed over her glowing cheek.

Reginald with a moody brow, and lips pressed between his teeth, surveyed
the scene in sullen silence, only muttering a deep curse or two,
with some gallant ejaculation, such as this: “He carries it bravely! The
peasant grub turned butterfly, as I live! Zounds! He'll strangle her
with his clownish kisses!”

“And as you intend to marry the Lady Madeline, sister of my Lord
Reginald, may I, as an humble friend of the family, presume so far as to
request the favor of your name?”

It was a very mild voice, low and gentle, and yet it thrilled Leola and
Reginald with the same shudder; forced a shriek, half joy, half fear from
Madeline's lips, and as for Gilbert, it seemed to transform into a statue;
a sort of quaint effigy of the giant Sampson, with a face of marble, and
costume of velvet glittering with gold.

It was the voice of Rolof Sener.

He had glided unperceived from the secret door, and now he stood between
Gilbert and Reginald, his pale face slightly drooped upon his breast,
as he gazed—with upturned eyes—into Gilbert's visage. There was
something at once grotesque and sublime in the horror manifested by Gilbert,
at the sight of Rolof Sener.

“The Fiend himself!” he gasped, “save me from him, Madeline—save
me, or I'm lost. He put his Soul upon me an hour ago, when I was in
your room, at the Haunted House, away yonder at Germantown, and I
was forced to obey him—and walk where he wished—and do as he
willed me—but I've resolved to break his power. To break his power, I
say, and cast off his spells, and be my own man agin. You can help me,
Madeline—you only! Back! Back! I say! You dare not touch me
while this pure girl is on my breast!”

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“Why this is my father, good Rolof Sener,” cried Madeline, amazed
at Gilbert's horror.

“You see, my children, I have not moved an inch, and yet he bids me
back! and shrinks away from me, as if I meant to strike him. I indeed!
when a blow from his arm would crush me to powder.”

Rolof with his arms folded, and his head drooped on his breast, gazed
around with upturned eyes, while a sad sweet smile hung on his thin lips.

Leola shuddered; why, she could not tell: “His face does not seem to
me, like the Rolof Sener, who talked with me to-day!” the thought darted
over her mind.

“Ranulph John!” muttered Reginald, as a singular memory agitated
his brain.

“You wish to marry this lady,” continued Rolof, who now kept his
gaze fixed immovably upon Gilbert's horror-stricken face—“You are
gaily dressed. This is well. Unless indeed, your beautiful plumage
covers a vulture's heart. But we wish to know your name?”

“Back! Back! Your eyes from my face I say, your curse from my
soul!” shrieked Gilbert, and in his despair he clutched poor Madeline
with an embrace like Death itself; “You're spinnin' your infernal web
around me—I know it, I know it. An' I must come into your clutches
at last, but while this girl is near my heart, I defy you.”

The words had scarcely passed his lips, when his arms were out-stretched,
with a stiff, mechanical movement; his features became rigid
and motionless; his eyes, fixed in their sockets, shone with a dull leaden
lustre.

“It is not Gilbert!” shrieked Madeline—“It is a Corpse!” and half-swooning
she sank into the extended arms of Reginald.

“Now my Lord, and you fair lady, with your permission I will question
the cunning knave, who thinks to hide his criminal life, and cowardly
designs, under the cloak of madness. Have the goodness to remain perfectly
still while I question him. And you, my own Madeline, let not
your heart throb against your bosom, like a bird against the bars of its
cage. The real Gilbert, may come back some day.”

“The real Gilbert?” cried Madeline, “This is Gilbert Morgan,—at
least—” she gazed into the corpse-like face and hesitated—“At least I
thought it was a moment ago.”

It is not to be denied that Leola and Reginald awaited the issue of this
scene with a breathless interest. And as they stood, perfectly silent and
motionless, their eyes alternating between the remarkable visage of Rolof
and the face of Gilbert, who looked in truth, like a frozen man, placed
on his feet, by some strange fancy, the merry sound of the Marriage
Music, still burst in one bounding peal, through the window of the Bridal
Chamber.

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“Answer me,” said Rolof Sener, never for an instant removing his
gaze from Gilbert's face, “Where was you, this night one year?”

A horrible smile distorted Gilbert's lips, while the other part of his
face remained fixed as Death.

“On board the brave Ship Avenger, with as tight a crew as ever trod a
pirate's deck. Ha, ha—” it was not a burst of laughter, which came from his
lips, but rather a series of spasmodic groans—“How we boarded the
East Indiaman, at set of sun, and raked her decks, and drove her crew
into the hold, and then——why then, the moon came up, and saw
five hundred of them walk the plank, and struggle their last, among the
waves as red as blood.”

“You hear?” whispered Rolof, turning to Madeline—this is your
lover.

Madeline was silent, but Leola muttered—“If he was brave, and only
made war upon the strong, I could love him in spite of all.”

Rolof again turned to Gilbert, whose face still retained its corpse-like
immovability. “You were the Captain of the Ship? answer me truly;
I know your life, and can punish falsehood with a halter.”

“The Captain—ha, ha!” again that burst of unearthly laughter—
“You should have asked my men, as they gathered about me after the
fight, who was Captain of our Avenger! We had wine from the stores
of the East Indiaman, and women, too,—aye, we saved the best of the
lot, and made a night o' t together. We did. I and my jolly crew.”

“You are listening my child?” and again Rolof with his sweet smile
turned to Madeline.

“It is only a frightful dream!” she faltered and gathered her hands,
across her breast with a clash like iron. “And yet in spite of all, it is
Gilbert, and he is my plighted husband.”

Leola reached forth her hand, and pressed the cold hand of the Orphan
Girl, while a tear glittered in her proud eye.

Meanwhile Reginald's face, manifested the extremes of surprise and
horror. “The wretch!” he muttered and retreated a step from Gilbert:
“He would have stolen my sister, and made her the toy of his brutal
orgies!” Fraternal Reginald!

“Listen once again, Madeline, my child. Tell me, Sir Pirate, did you
ever encounter a rude landsman in your travels, named Gilbert Morgan?
You lately assumed his name; but his rugged honesty would put your
shallow knavery to the blush.”

“I did. In the West Indies, I saw him two years ago; he often spoke
of the Wissahikon. By—it was the last word on his lips!,'

“The last word?” cried Madeline, starting from the arms of Reginald.
“He is dead, then, but no—no! It is a mockery. You are here, Gilbert.
My heart tells me, it is you. Wherefore these idle words? Speak to me
Gilbert! What means this scene?”

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But the Man whom she addressed did not answer her with a word—
not even with a look. His leaden gaze was still centered on the visage
of Rolof Sener. To Rolof, Madeline turned and laid her head upon his
folded arms, looking into his face, with all her soul, in the intensity of her
gaze: “This is not kind of you, my Father! It is unworthy of your
generous nature!”

Yet Rolof without pausing to answer her, continued his questions:
“You saw the last of Gilbert Morgan?”

“He died in my arms, scarcely two years ago, of the yellow fever too,
raving to the last about Wissahikon and Madeline,” was the answer.

The Orphan Girl sank back as if a bullet had penetrated her bosom;
she buried her pale face upon the breast of Leola, who whispered—
`Courage, my Sister! It is not so dark as it appears.”

“You bear a great personal resemblance to Gilbert Morgan?” Madeline
awaited the answer to this question with quivering suspense.

“I do. Not a doubt of it, by Jove! My comrades often laughed about
it, while he lived, and when he was dead, I resolved that I'd turn it to
advantage, if I ever came to Philadelphia.”

Madeline buried her face again; the last hope had gone out.

“How?” asked Rolof Sener.

And the Man with the motionless form and corpse-like visage, uttered
a burst of hollow laughter as he replied: “Gilbert had spoken of the
pretty lass named Madeline. Had told me, in fact, those dear little secrets
of his love affairs, which are generally only known to two persons,
to wit, the lover and the sweetheart. Says I,—that is after he died—if
I even come to Philadelphia, I will seek out this Wissahikon, and make
love to this Madeline—if she happens to be living—in the name of the
dead Gilbert. So I planned it, and so I've tried to accomplish it, but
you—”

“Villian! I have foiled your cunning and brought your knavery to the
light,” interrupted Rolof, his eyes for the first time, flashing with rage.
“Now depart! Once this day, have I warned you; I now repeat my
warning! This time you depart unscathed. But remember! Should
you ever appear upon the Wissahikon again or dare again, to assume the
name of poor Gilbert Morgan—remember! I will deliver you into
the clutches of that Justice, whose very name, makes your face wear the
look of death, and the heart within turn to ice. This time depart in
Peace!”

And the man, clad in the green doublet embroidered with gold, turned
his fixed eyeballs from the light, and with a measured, but mechanical
stride, crossed the threshold of the secret stairway.

“Gilbert! Gilbert!” shrieked Madeline, darting forward with panting
bosom and outspread arms, “Do not leave me! Do not leave me, Gilbert—”
But he did not turn back, and cast one farewell look upon her

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face. Without a look, without one accent of farewell, he crossed the
threshold, and was gone.

“Let me arrest his flight,” cried Reginald, starting from his stupor,
which had bound his senses while these events transpired before his very
eyes: “A wretch like this, is not fit to live!”

Rolof waved him back. “Would the Lord of Lyndulfe convert himself
into a bailiff on his wedding night. I have unmasked the wretch.
That is sufficient. Let him depart in peace.”

“Unmasked, indeed,” murmured Madeline, sadly, gazing upon the spot
where the Pirate had lately stood: “But at the same time, good father,
you have unmasked my grave. It was concealed by flowers, only a few
moments since. I see it clearly now, and—my foot is on the brink.”

Was it a tear that subdued the stern light of Rolof's gaze? Very sad
it was, to see her standing there, the centre of the silent group, her pure
and virgin loveliness frozen at its fountain, by the corpse-hand of despair.

“Come, Madeline, you need repose,” said Rolof, kindly, as he took her
by the hand: “This house must be your home, until you depart for England,
with your Brother Reginald, and your sister, his Bride.”

Even the thought of leaving Wissahikon, brought no glimpse of color
to her cheek; she took his hand in silence, and with faint and uneven foot-steps,
moved with him toward the door.

“Reginald,” he said, as he passed the young Lord, “I will join you
again, before the marriage ceremony. Jacopo waits below,” he added, in
a whisper, “and when Leola cloys your appetite, the daughter of Catherine
Conwell will lead on the drama of your loves.” There was a strange
significance in his look and smile, as he spoke these latter words.

Then passing onward, to where Leola stood, he addressed her in a
paternal tone: “Arrayed for the bridal, my child? I thought you beautiful
before, but now, it seems to me, you look like the Duchess of Lyndulfe,
and yet—” he hissed the words in an emphatic whisper: “Paul
Ardenheim will yet be yours!”

With Madeline clinging to his arm, he left the Bridal Chamber, while
the Bride stood gazing on vacancy, her cheek flushed and her bosom
heaving; and the Bridegroom, with his gaze fixed upon Madeline's retreating
form, felt all the sensualism of his nature, mount to his eyes. The
last words of Rolof Sener had thrilled like molten fire through their veins.

“Paul Ardenheim will yet be yours!” murmured Leola, as she laid her
hand upon her voluptuous breast.

And Reginald, as he smoothed the snow-white cambric which fluttered
over his breast, exclaimed to himself—“The daughter of Catherine Conwell
and Leola! A delicious contrast, upon my soul!”

With thoughts like these stirring in their hearts, they took each other
by the hand, and looked into each other's eyes. Never stood nobler pair
before the marriage altar. Reginald magnificent in his young manhood,

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his entire form presenting a perfect type of physical beauty; his limbs at
once graceful and muscular; his blonde complexion lighted by eyes of
dark blue, his forehead relieved by hair of chesnut brown. Leola, well-developed
in every rounded limb, her bosom swelling with life, her clear
brown complexion blooming into vermillion on the lips and cheeks, the
intense blackness of her hair, encircled with pale lilies, only exceeded by
the darkness of her eyes. The Soul of a sensualist embodied in a manly
form—the Soul of a proud and ambitious Spirit embodied in the shape of
a voluptuous Woman. There they were, hand in hand, eye gleaming in
eye, looking into one another's faces, with all the frankness of an all-trusting
Faith, and meanwhile, in their hearts was written, Lust and
Pride.

“A beautiful animal!” he thought, as he pressed her hand.

“A convenient stepping stone for me and Paul!” she thought, as she
looked into his eyes.

There is a lesson in this scene; a lesson worth all the sermons ever
preached in grand marble churches, to ears of lead and hearts of brass.
Survey it with your own eyes; paint it in your memory.

This luxurious chamber, so beautiful with the pictures that seem to
breathe from the canvass, and marble images that look like human beings
whose footsteps have only been arrested for a moment by a passing
thought; this luxurious chamber, whose very atmosphere seems hallowed
by the sacred Marriage Bed, while its curtains move to and fro, to the
impulse of a breeze that comes ladened with Marriage Melody. Is it not
a beautiful scene?

And here, in the centre of the place, stand the Bridegroom and the
Bride, looking into each other's eyes, with glances that seem to speak of
Love, as pure as that which trembled from the gaze of Adam into the
heart of spotless Eve, and—and after all, this Bridegroom and Bride
are only a Rich Man and his Purchase.

The Marriage Bed—ah! What words spoken from a book, what
Priest ordained by a Bishop, what vows uttered in the sight of God and
man, can render holy that Marriage Couch?

“This night has beheld many dark and troubled scenes,” whispered
Leola, as her eyes wore a vague and dreamy light.

“But, Leola,” whispered Reginald, as his passionate breath fanned her
cheek, while his eye, gazing over her snowy shoulder, beheld the Marriage
Bed—“But, Leola, after all it is our Marriage Night.”

At this moment, what scenes are passing yonder, within the Block-House
of Wissahikon? And Paul Ardenheim—does he live?