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On a rock, beside the Wissahikon shore, where, in the summer-time,
it glides on without a ripple, wider and deeper in its tranquil flow, as it
nears the Schuylkill, stood Gilbert, the Hunter, bending upon his rifle,
with his eyes cast upon the waves, which looked black and dreary, as
they swept onward, amid white masses of ice, glittering in the rising
moon.

It was sailing there, in the pure winter sky, its cold light shining over
a broad hill, which sank to the shore, mantled with frozen snow, and
sparkling like a sheet of undulating silver, as the dark forests girdled it
on every side.

This hill rose before him to the south, ascending from the ice-cumbered
Wissahikon to the dreary woods, over whose leafless branches shone the
transparent sky.

Behind him was a wall of brushwood, and a precipitous mass of forest
trees, which towered suddenly into the heavens, with the forms of gigantic
rocks thrust here and there from the dark branches.

And from the gloom in the east, the Wissahikon comes glittering as
she flows by the snow-mantled hills; and into the gloom in the west she
passes as suddenly, her echo breaking in a low, monotonous murmur,
far along the woods—redoubled by the craggy rocks — and rising, in softened
music, into the sky.

There is a ray gleaming from the pine trees on the southern hill; it is
the light from the Wizard's tower.

From the gloom at the hunter's back—he stands facing the south,—an
answering ray trembles forth, and dies upon the waters. It is the light
stealing from the closed shutters of the deserted house.

O, it is beautiful to stand thus alone, at dead of night, on the Wissahikon
shore; beneath your feet a rock which, thousands of years ago,
was lightly pressed by the footsteps of some dark-cheeked Indian maid,
or swept by the white robes of the Sacrificial Priest, who raised his
hands to yonder sky, to yonder moon, and, in the deep silence of a mid-night
universe, uttered a Prayer to God, in a tongue, now lost in the
chaos of the centuries.

It is beautiful, in the summer-time, when the broad hill wears a garmenture
of tufted grass, and the world of foliage bends its leaves and
blossoms into the calm waters, while the distant cry of a night-bird mingles
with the unceasing chirp of the katy-did, and the soft voice of Wissahikon.

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But now, in Winter, and at midnight too, when the breathless stillness—
deepened rather than broken by the monotonous murmur of the waves
dashing against the ice—awes every throb of your heart into a solemnity
which is Religion, while the eye beholds only that great vault of transparent
azure, arching over the leafless woods, with the moon gliding away
in cloudless light, and flinging a blessing on your forehead as she glides—
it is in winter, at midnight, that the glen of Wissahikon is a holy
place, to which the Angels might come as to a temple, and breathe their
pity for the Crimes of Man, and raise their hymns of thankfulness to God.

Are you sick of the World? Do the crimes of the Great City wear
like an iron fang into your soul? Does the great panorama of wealth,
that is drunken with its boundless sensuality, and Poverty, that is ferocious
with its sullen endurance, seem to your heart but a curse to Man,
a blasphemy to God?

Then, from the crowded streets of the Great City, come forth. Come,
from that clouded atmosphere, in whose foul bosom, the Plagues of Moral
Death swelter into hideous birth,—come, and forget the world; forget
the anguish, the blood and tears of Man the Slave, and be full of Peace,
though but for an hour, by the Wissahikon Waters.

For, by the Wissahikon, at dead of Night, when there is snow upon
the ground, and ice upon the waves, and a clear moon in a cloudless sky,
you grow nearer to your God, and feel your heart reach out its arms to
grasp Eternity.

Then, filled with Peace that is unutterable, you even forget that there
is, in all the world, such a libel on the Universe as a Man, ground into
dust by the footstep of a Brother—

But hold; they tell me that I talk too much of suffering man, and
crowd my pages too full of his dumb anguish. Talk all night, if it please
you, of still waters and serene skies,—they say it—but never tell us that
there are Banks and Churches for the Rich, and only Graves and Gibbets
for the Poor.

Pardon me, my friends. Be merciful to me, O silken People. For
what I speak, I have learned in a bitter school. The world has not been
a very soft road, sprinkled with roses, to my feet. Will you forgive me,
if, now and then, I dare to fling back into my Teacher's face, the iron
lesson which it taught to me? And when the flint of the rough road cuts
my feet, will you sneer very bitterly, if I but dare to moan?

For myself, I will be silent. Not a word of orphanage, and wrongs
inflicted by godly hands; not a whisper.

But the wrongs of those who have suffered like me, and endured a thousand
pangs, where I felt one,—the anguish of those who suffer now, and
go, dragging their weary feet, to miserable graves—shall they be voiceless
too?

No. Not while the good God gives to me the strength to grasp this

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friend of mine—this well-worn pen, which has cut a way even through
the granite wall of poverty and orphanage—no! Not while the Father
of the Fatherless, the Redeemer of the Poor, permits one throb to pulsate
at my heart, one word to quiver from my tongue.

For I am ambitious. Ambitious with a wild, insane ambition. When
I am dead, I want one flower to bloom upon my grave; that flower
planted by the hand of some Poor Man, who can bless my ashes with a
word like this—

“Here moulders the hand that dared to write one brave word in the
name of Man.”

In my crude way of thinking, there is something more beautiful in
that solitary flower, planted by a Poor Man's hand, than in a marble
monument, built by a King, in Westminster Abbey, over some dead Conqueror,
whose hallowed epitaph bears words like these—

“He slew, in a hundred battles, at least one hundred thousand of his
Brothers.”

But this midnight scene of Wissahikon, hallowed by this stainless
snow and moonlit sky, has won me from the thread of my history.

Leaning on his rifle, Gilbert, the Hunter, gazed sadly into the dark
waters. The moonlight, glowing on his face, revealed the look of tender
sadness which, for a moment, softened its hardy features. He stood on
the rock, which jutted from the bank; one foot resting on its hard surface,
the other on a square box, secured by a brass padlock, and bound with
intricate cords. Beneath the lid of that box, the wealth, or rather a
wreck of the Wizard's wealth, was hidden.

“There's a turnin' pint in every man's life,” muttered Gilbert, with
his eyes fixed on the waves—“And jist as that ar' twig quivers in the
eddy, near that chunk of ice, as if unsartin which way to go, so my
life quivered this night.”

Associating his own destiny with the fate of the withered twig, which
trembled in the eddy created by the waves dashing against a block of ice, in
the middle of the stream, Gilbert watched its course with involuntary interest.

“It trimbles tow'rd the channel on the left, where the eddy grows into
a little whirlpool—so! By —! It turns to the right; it swims along
the quiet channel, it—curses on it! It goes to the left, after all—it
tosses in the whirlpool—there, it is safe!”

The hunter's face glowed with unfeigned pleasure, his breast heaved
with a deep respiration.

“That 'ill be the way with my life. Quiverin' for a moment, unsartin
which channel to take, and tossin' on the waves, only to go safely onward,
after all. But no! By —! the twig snaps in pieces, and scatters on
the waters, in broken fragments!”

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Do not smile, when you see the cold dew standing in beaded drops
from his forehead. For by a superstition, common to the humblest and
most exalted natures, he had associated the Future of his own life, with
the course of some trifling thing, and taken the fate of the twig as a Prophecy
of his destiny.

“So it 'ill be with me! Tossed on the waves only to be brunk to
pieces! Well—well! If I had married Mad'lin' all would have been
right, but now”—

An expression darkened over his brown face, which distorted every
bold line, tightened the lips, and drew the brows over the flashing eyes.

“Now!”

He raised his rifle to his shoulder, and took deliberate aim, as though
a mortal enemy was standing on the opposite shore.

“That's what my life 'ill be—” the rifle dropped by his side again—
“A bullet for every man who has gold, which I would like to have; a
bullet or a knife, a shot or a stab! And Mad'lin' might ha' turned the
wild life of one like me, into somethin' quiet and full of Peace. But it
is past, and I must go where I am led.”

Turning from the rock, with the box under one arm, and his good rifle
on his shoulder, Gilbert entered the shadows of the brushwood, and pursued
the windings of a foot-path, which led far into the gloom of the
dense forest, now passing through some open space, silvered by moon-light,
and again lost in the maze of giant trees.

At last, emerging from a thicket of briars and brushwood, interwoven
in one almost impassable wall, Gilbert beheld the old house, deep sunken
in the glen between two high hills.

It was a two-storied structure, built of dark grey stone, with four windows
on its front, whose shutters were closed. Before the door, on
whose dingy panels the moon shone brightly, a huge stone, worn smooth
by the pressure of many feet, supplied the place of a step. Around
it the prospect was wild and desolate. The stony ground was covered
with withered brushwood, even to the walls, and the front of the edifice
alone was visible, in that wilderness of giant trees.

The evergreen pine stretched its branches over the roof, mingled with
the leafless limbs of the chesnut and the oak. The scyamore, with its
white trunk, glared out in the light of the moon from the darkness of the
woods. Behind the deserted mansion, the hill rose suddenly, its summit
seen through the trees above the chimney, which sent a volume of smoke
into the sky.

Altogether, that house, rude and monotonous in its architecture, presented
a sight of some interest, from its very desolation, and its peculiar
position, in the hollow of the glen, encircled on every side by the great
trees of the forest, with brushwood spreading darkly between their
trunks.

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Gilbert advanced through the space in front of the edifice, where the
moonlight shone in clear radiance. On the stone before the door, he
paused for a moment, inclining his head toward the panels. All was
still, yet a confused sound, like the songs and shouts of a revel, drowned
by thick walls, came ever and again at sudden intervals to his ear.

“The folks of Wisseyhik'n little dream what kind o' ghosts haunt
this here old house!” he said, with a smile upon his sunburnt face.

Then, with his hand clenched, he knocked thrice upon the door,
and heard the echoes dying away within, as through the arches of a
corridor.

The door was opened, and Gilbert passed the threshold, and heard the
hinges grate, as the door was suddenly closed behind him. He stood in
utter darkness; not a ray of light shone into the intense night of the
place.

“The word?” said a rough voice.

“Death!” answered Gilbert, in his accustomed tone.

“What would you here?”

“I would enter the Lodge of the B. H. A. C.,” replied the Hunter.

“If you are a true B. H. A. C., you will know the way. Advance and
give the explanation to the Word!”

Through the midnight gloom, Gilbert advanced, counting his measured
footsteps. When he had measured ten paces from the door, he extended
his hand, and felt the panels of another door. He knocked four times,
each knock rising above the other, and a circle of light shone through
the darkness. It was a warm light, shining through a circular aperture
in the door, and flinging a faint glow over the place in which he
stood.

By that uncertain light, it might be ascertained that he had entered a
small apartment, the monotony of whose bare walls, and uncovered floor,
was only broken by a dimly-defined figure near Gilbert's side.

The Hunter applied his lips to the circular aperture in the door, and
whispered these words:

“— to the Rich!”

As he spoke, the door opened, and in a moment, Gilbert stood in a cell-like
room, lighted by a lamp which hung from the ceiling, and revealed
the dark hangings, the floor strown with sand. A single chair stood near
the door, and leaning on its high back, a veiled figure appeared, shrouded
from head to foot in a dark robe, with a cowl drooping over the face.
On that part of the cowl which concealed the face, two letters were inscribed
in golden embroidery—“B. H. A. C.”

“Your name?” a deep voice exclaimed, speaking from the folds of the
monkish cowl.

“Gilbert Morgan, a Brother of the Rifle Lodge, Number 256, of the
B. H. A. C.”

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“Give the Word and its explanation, so that I may know you for a
Brother.”

“Death—to the Rich!”

“It is well. Clothe yourself with appropriate Regalia, and work your
way into the Lodge. The door is before you.”

Placing his rifle on the floor, and with it the box, containing the Wizard's
gold, Gilbert lifted the dark curtain which concealed the walls, and
took from a recess, or closet, a collar of scarlet velvet, edged with gold
lace, and with a dagger emblazoned on one side, a skull and cross-bones
on the other.

He placed it around his neck, and then took from the closet an apron
of the same material, also edged with gold, but with the letters, B. H. A.
C., embroidered in the centre. He secured it round his waist by a cord,
ending in a tassel of gold, and thus arrayed in the Regalia of the Order,
advanced toward a door, whose narrow panels appeared among the sombre
hangings of the room. The box was under his left arm, the rifle on
his shoulder, as he knocked five times, with a pause between each sound.

“Who comes there?” a voice was heard speaking through a square
aperture in the centre of the door.

“`A Brother of the Knightly Degree,”' answered Gilbert, in the tone
of one who repeats some carefully remembered formula.

“The word of the Knightly Degree?”

“`Life'—” answered Gilbert.

“To whom?”

“`— To the Poor!”'

“Enter, Brother Knight of the B. H. A. C.,” exclaimed the voice,
which was heard through the circular aperture in the door.

And ere a moment had passed, Gilbert, passing the door, which closed
after him, found himself encircled by the details of a scene of peculiar
interest.

It was a large room, with a lofty ceiling, and a dim light quivering in
mid air. The high walls were hung with dark cloth, on which was emblazoned
various letters and symbols, some of the most grotesque, others
of the most impressive character.

At the eastern end of the room, rose a platform, attainable by three
wide steps, covered with dark cloth. On this platform was placed a
chair or throne, in which was seated a man of muscular form, attired in
almost regal splendor. There was a glittering crown upon his forehead—
a scarlet robe upon his form, drooping from his shoulders to his feet,
in luxurious folds—and on his breast a collar of dark purple velvet, emblazoned
on one side with the dagger, on the other with the skull and
cross-bones. The black veil which concealed his face bore the golden
letters, B. H. A. C.

This was the Worthy Master of the Rifle Lodge, No. 256, of the B.

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H. A. C. His purple collar indicated the Right Venerable or Priestly
degree.

Opposite this platform, in the western extremity of the Lodge, was a
smaller platform, rising two steps above the floor, with an oaken chair
upon its summit. Here was seated a figure, veiled in a light-blue robe,
with a scarlet collar, gleaming with emblems, on his breast, and a coronal
of silver leaves entwined about his brow. His face, covered by a veil
of black cloth, with spaces for the eyes, also bore the letters, B. H. A. C.

This was the Honorable Warden of the Lodge, clad in the regalia of
the Venerable or Knightly Degree.

And between the Warden and the Master, were seated some hundred
men, every face covered with a veil, every form bearing the regalia of
the order, either the white scarf of an Initiate, or the scarlet collar of a
Knight, or the purple insignia of a Priest. In the dim light, the effect of
this scene was at once solemn and dazzling.

The floor was of dark wood, polished like a mirror. In its centre,
appeared a large star, inserted in the polished wood, and glittering like
burnished gold.

To this star Gilbert advanced, and placed the box and the rifle at his
feet. Then, raising his clasped hands above his head, he bowed before
the Worthy Master, who slowly imitated the gesture, after which Gilbert
spread forth his arms, with the fingers of each hand extended and separate
from each other.

“Right, Brother!” a voice sounded from beneath the Master's veil.

The Hunter, turning on his heel, faced the Worthy Warden, and saluted
him with the same sign.

Then, lifting the box and the rifle from the floor, he took his seat
among the veiled brethren, covering his face with a veil similar to the
others, which was extended to him by a figure clad in a shapeless black
robe, with a dark plume waving from his shrouded forehead. This was
the Worthy Herald of the Lodge.

“Let the rite of Initiation begin!” said the Worthy Master, in a hollow
voice, which, evidently assumed, echoed through the spacious room,
with a strange and unnatural emphasis.

And from the dark hangings near the Warden's Platform, the Herald,
clad in black, with the plume waving over his veiled face, led forth a half-naked
man, whose eyes were covered by a white scarf, bound tightly
around the brows. His form, bare to the waist, was marked by a broad
chest, and arms of iron muscle. And yet, as, with his eyes blindfolded,
he followed the Herald, he trembled like a man seized with an ague-chill.
It could not have been with cold, for, either from the heat of a fire which
was invisible, or from the numbers gathered in the darkened room, the
air was hot and stifling.

Not a word was spoken for the space of ten minutes, but in that space,

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the senses of the Candidate were completely bewildered. He was led
to and fro, now crossing the room, now traversing its entire length, now
suddenly turned in his course, and forced on his knees, by the hands of
the Herald.

It was plainly to be seen, that the dead silence of the place awed the
senses of this strong man, while the manner in which the Herald led
him, gave him the idea of traversing winding corridors, long passages,
and a wide range of rooms. For as, in his blindfolded career, he approached
the eastern or western extremities of the Lodge, the doors appearing
amid the hangings were opened and closed, with a harsh, grating
sound. And every time he passed the golden star, glittering from the
centre of the floor, a figure robed in white advanced from the crowd of
brethren, and waved a burning flambeau in his face.

This impressed him with the idea of a fire, blazing in his path, and
about to envelop him with its flames.

Indeed, the silent ceremonial, altogether, was calculated to chill with
awe the firmest nerves; to weaken, with the rapid alternations of suspense
and fear, the stoutest heart. The ten minutes—which seemed an
eternity to the blindfolded man—were over at last. A deep bell, striking
one, and echoing like a knell, broke on his ear.

“Thou art here, in the hallowed circle of the Free Lodge of the B. H.
A. C.,” said the Herald, in a guttural tone.

Then chains were dashed upon the floor, and clanked at his back.
The harsh sound, breaking, in sudden violence, from the dead stillness,
seemed to complete the terror of the Initiate. His bared arms trembled;
his knees quivered, and shook against each other.

“Do not—do not—” he gasped—“I will obey—”

Still, no voice was heard in answer; an unbroken silence prevailed.

While the Herald bound the chains about his bared chest, and twined
their cold links around his naked arms, four figures clad in white, with
torches in their hands, bore from the shadows a bier, on which was
placed a motionless figure, in a sitting posture, with two hands extended
from the black pall which covered its outlines.

“It is the body of the Dead!” whispered the Herald—“It is beside
thee, on its bier. Its face is covered by a pall, but the cold, stiff hands
are extended, to clasp thee in the embrace of Death. Art thou ready
for the trial?”

And as he spoke, a chorus of hollow whispers echoed in the ear of
the Candidate—“It is the corse of one who betrayed his trust”—“He
died in the act of crime”—“The vengeance of the Lodge overtook
him at the altar, even as he heard the voice of his Bride”—

“The trial?” faltered the Candidate.

“Yes, the solemn ordeal of the dead hand!” spoke the Herald in his hollow
voice. “Give me thy hand. Press the hand of the dead—thus—”

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The Initiate shook like a reed, as he felt those cold fingers in his
grasp.

“Clasp it firmly, and repeat with me the obligation of a Free Brother
of the B. H. A. C. `If in my heart there is hidden one thought of
treachery to the Order, in whose Lodge I stand, may my hand become
like the hand which I grasp; and in witness of this my vow, I raise to
my lips the cold hand of the Dead.”'

The Candidate faltered the words, with a pause between each syllable,
as though his fears had choked his utterance.

“Raise the hand to your lips”—spoke the deep voice in his ear.

With his strong arm trembling in every nerve, he slowly lifted the
dead hand, and felt its fingers grow colder in his grasp. He pressed it
to his lips, and as the moist, clammy skin filled him with a sensation of
intolerable loathing, he let it fall, as though it was a hand of red-hot iron.

“Examine the hand, Honorable Herald”—spoke the Worthy Master
from his throne—“If there is a drop of blood upon the palm, this Candidate
will prove a Traitor!”

A dead silence ensued. The Initiate, shuddering with suspense,
awaited the result of this strange ordeal.

“There is!” shouted the Herald in tones of thunder—“There is a
drop of blood upon this dead hand.”

“Then,” exclaimed the Master, starting erect on his platform, with
his regalia glittering in the dim light—“Then have we a Traitor in our
midst. Brothers, arise—arise with daggers drawn, and hurl the wretch
to his doom!”

A confused sound, as of trampling feet, and rustling robes, and sharp
steel, clanking from the sheath, crashed on the Initiate's ear.

His knees sank beneath him; prostrate on the floor, with the bandage
still over his eyes, he faltered the incoherent prayer—

“Mercy! No Traitor, but a true man—do not”—

He felt the points of the drawn daggers touch his face, his breast, his
arms. He was encircled by a wall of deadly steel.

“Death to the Traitor—death!” arose from an hundred voices. “He
will betray us—he must not leave the Lodge alive—the drop of blood on
the hand of the dead, bears witness against him!”

Then a voice, deeper and bolder than all the others, was heard through
the uproar:

“Prepare, Brothers, prepare your daggers! When I raise my hand,
plunge them, one and all, and at the same moment, into the body of the
Traitor!”

There was a pause. A breathless silence reigned. The Initiate moved
his lips, but he could not speak. His head sunk upon his breast, and
his arms fell motionless in their chains.

At this moment, a whisper disturbed the breathless stillness—

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“Shall we spare him? He may repent! Even yet, Brothers, he may
be true!”

And in answer other whispers arose—

“No! we cannot spare him. He is doomed. Look! The Worthy
Master is about to lift his hand!”

A picture of terror more abject cannot be imagined, than was presented
in the prostrate figure of that strong man, bound in chains, and surrounded
by the crowd of veiled forms, flashing with regalia, a dagger glittering in
each uplifted hand.

The light suspended from the ceiling grew fainter, and a gloom more
impressive than intense darkness, sank on the scene, confounding the
forms of the brethren, in one vague mass of half-shadow, from which—
like flame-sparks from a cloud—their regalia glittered in tremulous points
of radiance.

“What wouldst thou do, to obtain light and liberty?” said a voice—it
was the disguised voice of the Herald.

The Initiate could not answer.

“Let the bandage be removed from his eyes. He shall behold the
doom that awaits him.”

There was a mingled sound as of whispering voices and steps hurrying
to and fro, with the sharp clang of steel encountering steel, heard through
the confusion.

The Initiate felt the bandage drop from his eyes. It was a moment
before he could recover the use of his sight, but when he gazed around,
he discovered that he was kneeling in the centre of a room not more than
ten feet square, with a lofty ceiling, and hangings of midnight darkness.

Before him stood a man, enveloped in a shapeless garment of coarse
cloth, grey in color, and with a veil of black crape over his face. In one
hand he held a glittering axe, in the other a flaming torch, whose red
light imparted a lurid glare to the terror-stricken face of the Initiate.
Beside this figure was an elevation, covered with black velvet. It was the
block of the scaffold.

“I am thy executioner!” said the figure—“Advance and lay thy head
upon the block!”

The face of the Initiate, changed from its ruddy hues, to a corse-like
pallor, was agitated in every nerve. He raised his chained hands, and
gasped—

“I am no Traitor!”

“Come! The moment of your death is here. Hark! That bell;
you hear it? It is your funeral knell.”

He tottered to his feet, entirely awed by the terrors which he had endured.
With one step he reached the block, and knelt and laid his
head upon it. He saw the axe flash in the air, in the red light of the
torch—

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He closed his eyes.

There was a pause. The axe did not fall. Tremblingly the Initiate
unclosed his eyes, and felt them blinded by a dazzling light.

The four curtains, which, descending from the ceiling of the Lodge,
had formed the cell-like apartment, were rolled aside, and the sight
which met the eyes of the affrighted man, was brilliant beyond the power
of language.

An hundred torches, each grasped in the arm of a Brother of the Order,
lighted up the spacious Lodge room, and shone on the stars and jewels,—
the symbols and robes—in one vivid flood of brightness.

High on his platform, his breast heaving under its purple collar, appeared
the Worthy Master, with lines of veiled forms, extending from his
side, down the steps of the platform, to the floor; and in every hand a
torch blazed brightly, and on every neck the gorgeous regalia glittered
with blinding radiance.

“Arise! Advance! We hail you as a Brother!” exclaimed the
Worthy Master, in a loud and ringing voice.

Trembling still, the Initiate rose; the chains fell from his breast and
arms; guided by the Herald's hand, he approached the Master's
platform.

And from his pale face the sweat started even yet in beaded drops.

He glanced from side to side, on the array of veiled figures, clad in
robes of linen and purple, and decked with symbols that shone like stars,
and then his eye was centred on the Master's form, who stood motionless
upon his platform, with a golden torch held in his extended arm.

“Thou hast passed the first ordeal. Another yet remains. Yet, ere
we try thy courage, and test thy faith, with the Ordeal of Blood, I have a
charge to impress upon thy soul.”

The Initiate beheld a Brother clad in white advance, holding in one
hand, a coarse garment, flaming red in hue, and in the other, a knife,
rusty and dim, as with the stain of blood.

“Endue the Candidate with the Blood-red robe. Place in his hand
the rusted knife.”

It was done. With the coarse garment on his broad chest, and the
knife in his hand, the Initiate awaited the commands of the Worthy
Master.

“Canst thou tell, O Candidate, whose blood it is, that dyes the sack-cloth
which now covers your form?”

The Initiate's grey eyes expanded in wonder.

“I cannot tell!” he faltered.

“It is the Blood of the Poor,” exclaimed the Master.

From a hundred voices broke the chorus:

“The sackcloth bears witness of the Wrongs of the Poor, slain for
ages by the axe, by the cord, by the iron hand of the Tyrant!”

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“The dagger in thy hand is dimmed by a dusky stain. Whose blood is
it, that gathers in blackness on its sharp point?”

“I cannot tell—”

“It is the blood of the Oppressor,” said the Master; and again the
voice of the Brothers joined in chorus:

“The Blood of the Tyrant! Sacred, in the sight of God, be the steel
which is crimsoned by that blood!”

“This sackcloth, stained with the blood of the Poor, this dagger, rusted
by the blood of the Tyrant's heart, have for thee a solemn lesson. That
lesson marks thy first step into the mysteries of our Order. Listen! So
long as the blood of the Poor dyes the sackcloth, so long will the blood
of the Tyrant stain the dagger. The day comes, when the sackcloth
shall be changed into a garment spotless as the snow, when the dagger
shall be transformed into a Cross of dazzling light. Then shall the blood
of the Poor no longer flow, then shall the earth be no longer polluted by
the Tyrant's step. But until that day comes, we have joined in solemn
covenant; wilt thou take the Oath of that covenant, and bind its motto to
thy heart?”

“I will!”

“Warden, administer the Oath.”

The Candidate, attired in the bloody sackcloth, with the rusted knife in
his hand, was led along the floor, through the dazzling array of the
crowded Lodge. In a few moments he stood at the western extremity of
the room, at the foot of the Warden's platform.

The Warden, gorgeous in his light-blue robe, varied by the scarlet
collar, and with a group of white plumes tossing about his veiled brow,
descended the steps, holding in his hand a goblet, filled to the brim with
a red liquid.

“Kneel, and repeat the oath! I do swear, in the name of * * *, to
obey forever the mandate of my superiors; to keep locked in my bosom
the secrets of this order; to yield them up, neither to the fear of man, the
love of woman, nor yet the terrors of the grave. I also swear * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * *. Furthermore, in case I prove recreant to my
oath, and refuse to obey the commands of my superiors, or reveal the
secrets of the B. H. A. C., or meet with any Lodge, not chartered by the
Grand Lodge of this order, may the dagger of the first brother whom I
encounter be planted in my heart; may the sun refuse me warmth,
water fail to quench my thirst, and earth deny me the shelter of a grave.”

“So mote it be! Amen and Amen!”

“And in witness of this oath, and of this invocation, I place to my lips
this goblet, filled with the blood of a Brother who betrayed his trust. So
may my blood be drunken, in case I imitate the perjury of the Traitor!”

He did not refuse the goblet nor fail to utter the words. With a frenzied
gesture, he raised it, and moistened his lips with the loathsome liquid.

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Once more, terror-stricken by this horrible formula of blasphemy,
which his lips had repeated, the candidate was led to the east, where the
Master's platform rose.

“Wouldst thou know the great watchword of our order? Then listen
and repeat with me—

“`Death to the Rich—Life to the Poor!”'

The Initiate's eyes flashed, as he uttered the words in a tone of violent
emphasis.

And through the Lodge, spoken slowly and in distinct utterance, it
floated—that fearful watchword,

—“Death to the Rich—Life to the Poor!”

“Prepare for the last trial. Now comes the ordeal of Blood. Fail
in this, and thou canst never leave these walls a living man.”

At this crisis, a door near the warden's platform was suddenly opened.
On the threshold appeared a figure, clad in an array whose splendor
shamed even the dazzling regalia of the Lodge.

Clad from head to foot in white velvet, sprinkled with innumerable
silver stars, with a dove and olive branch, of gold, emblazoned on his
breast, this figure bore in his hand a black wand, with a skull and cross
bones affixed to its upper extremity.

As the Worthy Master beheld this figure, he knocked four times in succession,
with the gavel or hammer, which lay on the pedestal arising in
front of his chair.

“Arise, my brethren, and greet the Grand Herald of the Grand Lodge
of the B. H. A. C.!”

With one movement they rose, and bending their heads, held their
torches high in the air with the left hand, while the right was clasped
upon the breast.

“Hail to the Grand Lodge of the B. H. A. C., and hail to its Messenger,
who deigns to walk in our midst.”

Descending from the platform, the Worthy Master knelt at its foot,
while the Grand Herald took the vacant chair, and, through the apertures
of his white veil, surveyed the dazzling array of the Lodge.

“Thy bidding, Most Honorable Herald? Does the Grand Lodge
communicate with its subordinate Lodge?”

“I come from the Grand Lodge, Worthy Master, and come to claim a
Brother who has betrayed our order, and broken his vows!”

Thus speaking, the Grand Herald advanced to the edge of the platform,
with his snow-white robe glittering in every star.

It was evident that his words produced a marked sensation. The
kneeling Master started, with the same feeling of surprise which thrilled
through an hundred breasts. Gilbert the hunter, with his face veiled—
the rifle and the casket resting at his feet—started forward, and listened with
great eagerness, his curiosity excited by the message of the Grand Herald

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“A Traitor in our Lodge, Right Honorable Herald?”

“In your Lodge, Worthy Master. Let him step forth, ere his name is
known. With his face covered by the veil, let him follow me to the
Hall of the Grand Lodge, and hear his doom pronounced without a
murmur.”

That voice, soronous and bold, pierced every ear.

There was a confused movement among the ranks of the Brethren; the
murmur of mingled voices; and all was still again.

“His Degree, Right Honorable Herald?”

“He wears the collar of Knighthood. At this moment I behold him.
Once more I extend to him the mercy of secresy. He shall be condemned
and suffer, without his name being revealed, in case he follows
me in silence to the Hall of the Grand Lodge.”

Still no answer was made; the Grand Herald might be seen, with his
veiled face turned toward a particular point of the room. Gilbert
Morgan, gazing through his veil, beheld him looking intently upon the
brethren among whom he stood, and awaited with a vague curiosity,
tinged with some awe, the utterance of the Traitor's name.

“A Knight,” he muttered, “and a traitor too! Hard to believe; for a
man who's taken the Oath of the Degree, knows too well the fate of a
Traitor, to think o' betrayin' his trust!”

And the stout huntsman smiled and shuddered at once, as he called to
mind the words of that fearful Oath. Smiled as if in scorn, at the elabo-rate
blasphemy of those words; shuddered as he remembered the doom
which had overtaken a recreant Brother.

The revery of the hunter was broken by the voice of the Grand
Herald.

“Once more I speak to him. His foot is on the box, and by his side
the rifle—”

Gilbert's torch shook with the same tremor which heaved his broad
chest, and quivered in every nerve of his iron arm.

“What! I can't a-heerd my ears! `His foot on the box!'—”

It seemed to him as if every veiled face was turned toward him, as by
an electric impulse; he saw the glittering forms and long lines of torches
go swimming round him, as if in a spectral dance.

“Stand forth, Traitor—” the Grand Herald pointed with his wand as
he spoke—“Stand forth, perjured Knight, and let the B. H. A. C. know
the Traitor who has betrayed the secrets of his Order. Gilbert Morgan,
Brother of the Knightly Degree, descend from your seat, and take your
place upon the star in the centre of the floor!”

Gilbert heard that voice, and seemed to behold the floor open in a
chasm at his feet. He obeyed without a word. Descending from his
seat—it was on the second range from the level of the floor—he slowly
strode toward the golden star.

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

He saw the fingers pointing at him; he heard the whispers, some of
pity, others of scorn.

“The Traitor!” “He false to our order!” “Let him be dealt with as
the law enjoins!”

And yet, tearing the veil from his face, he dashed it on the floor, and
with it his collar and his robe of Knighthood. Then folding his arms
over his blue hunting-shirt, he gazed towards the Master's platform with
an unfaltering eye, though his brown cheek was very pale, his nether lip
shaken by an involuntary motion.

“If I am a Traitor, let me have a dog's death!” he cried—
“That's all!”

“Worthy Master, in the name of the Grand Lodge, I demand from you
the body of Gilbert Morgan; and at the same time direct you to cover
his collar and his robe with the colors of mourning, and hang them on
the walls of the Lodge, so that all the brethren may know that he no
longer lives, but has gone to his reward!”

“I obey. It shall be done!”

And as the Grand Herald descended from the platform, the Worthy
Master led Gilbert toward the door, and paused on the threshold. At a
sign from the Messenger of the Grand Lodge, a brother bore the box and
the rifle over the floor, and placed them in the hands of the Hunter.

“Into your hands I deliver the Traitor. Work your will upon him,
and let the doom which he merits fall upon him alone; let his blood be
upon his own head!”

There was something very impressive in the scene. Thrice the
brothers waved their torches to and fro, thrice they bent their heads, and
thrice repeated the stern decree—

“Let his blood be upon his own head!”

And with his face reddened by the torch glare, Gilbert stood on the
threshold, and looked for the last time over the familiar array of his
Lodge—saw the Brothers of his own degree waving their torches with
the rest—heard their voices mingle in his death-chant.

“Come—I'm ready—” he choked down the agitation which was
mounting from his heart to his throat, and turned to the Grand Herald,
who stood beside him, pointing the way beyond the threshold with his
extended wand. Into the darkness they went forth together; the door
closed behind them, and the Worthy Master, with the torch flashing over
his robes, lifted the collar and the robe of the Doomed Man from the floor.

“Brother Scribe, you will strike from our roll the name of the Dead.
Honorable Herald, you will cover these with crape, and suspend them
behind my chair, as a token of the fate of the lost brother.”

It was done. The Scribe—who sat in one corner, before a desk, a
dark robe flowing round his form, with a dagger and pen emblazoned in
silver on the sleeve, erased the name from the book, which lay open in

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the glaring light. Ere a moment had passed, the craped collar and robe
fluttered from the hangings behind the Eastern Chair, and it was known
to all the brothers, that Gilbert Morgan was dead, from that hour.

“Now let the Candidate prepare for the last ordeal!”

This strange incident had not failed to make a strong impression on the
sense of the Candidate. While it passed, he had remained standing at
the foot of the platform —gazing in mute wonder upon every point, listening
to every word of the scene—and now, with his face manifesting in
every line a pitiable terror, he trembled as the voice of the Worthy
Master announced the Ordeal of Blood.

—We may, in future pages of this history, describe at length the appearance
and character of this Candidate, and reveal him in scenes of another
and far different nature.—

“I am faint”—he gasped, as the knife fell from his unclosing fingers:
“Do not—do not—urge me farther. This scene bewilders—it is too
much”—

Covered as he was with the blood-red sackcloth, he fell insensible to the
floor.

How long he remained unconscious, he knew not, but when he recovered
the use of his faculties, the dazzling light of the hundred torches
no longer illumined the hall. He rose to his feet, and by the dim lamp,
which swung from the high ceiling, beheld the floor crowded by kneeling
men, who bent their faces on their clasped hands. An unbroken silence
reigned. On his platform the Master knelt, his attitude as humble
as the humblest of the brethren. The other officers of the Lodge were
also on their knees; throughout that dimly lighted hall, nothing was seen
but prostrate forms, heads bowed, and hands clasped as if in silent Prayer.

And through the gloom, the symbols of the order gleamed, with a faint
and tremulous light.

Suddenly—while the Candidate, awed to the soul, was watching intently
for the slightest gesture, or the faintest sound—a flood of ruddy light
poured through an open doorway. It grew more vivid, it bathed the
room in sudden splendor.

And on the threshold appeared two figures, in robes which resembled
shrouds, slowly advancing with a measured step. They held lighted
torches over their heads.

As they passed the threshold and took their way through the kneeling
brethren, two forms appeared behind them, at the distance of some three
or four paces. Clad in the same shroud-like robes, they also bore
torches above their heads.

Slowly the four advanced, moving with the same measured step,
and it was seen that they bore a funeral bier, on which was placed a
coffin of unpainted pine wood. The torch-light glowing over their shroud-like
robes, shone in painful distinctness upon the closed lid of the coffin.

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They came slowly on. Still the brethren knelt. They reached the
star in the centre of the floor. Still no head was lifted; not a hand was
unclasped. They placed the bier upon the star, and stood around it,
waving their torches over the rude coffin.

The scene was wild and spectral. These four figures clad in white,
that coffin of rough pine wood, were seen in the centre of the dazzling
array of robes and symbols.

The figure who stood at the head of the coffin, on the right, suddenly
lowered his torch, and dashed it against the closed lid. The others, one
by one, imitated his action, and the extinguished torches rested upon the
lid of the coffin.

Through the gloom, the voice of the first figure echoed, like a knell—

“Worthy Master of the Rifle Lodge, No. 256, of the B. H. A. C., into
your hands I deliver the dead body of Gilbert Morgan.”