A STRANDED SHIP

Auckland Star, Volume XXVI, Issue 4513, 15 November 1884, Page 3

A STRANDED SHIP

Br L. CLARKE DAVIS,

A STORY OF SEA AND SHORE.

" If tho red slayer think he slays. Or if tho Blain think ho la slain, Thoy know not woll the subtlo ways I keep, and pass, and turn again." Ralph Waldo Emerson,

PART 1,

OX DUN_,-Tll_'_ WHARF,

The old historic town of Cambridge, which was yet old when the.fight ot Concord was only a story of yesterday—old in its gigantic elms, in its collegc-halla, in its legends gt the Mayflower—was older yet as its streets and houses lay hushed and deserted under the June sun of its annual Commencement-day.

On none had that day's sun risen warmer or brighter than on the student Luke Connor, to whom had fallen the honours of hie class. On none would it go down more darkly, or the stormy night following descend more mercilessly.

Lifo had been bounteous to this boy in many ways. It liad given him wealth and energy and superb physical health. He was long ago an orphan ; yet his youth had lacked no love. To-day he stood surrounded by grave professors, trustees, and friends, like Saul among his brethren, taller and fairer than thoy. Ho rose to .peak the farewell of his class, seeing boforo him a crowd of .eager, expectant faces. They greeted him with long applause and encouraging smiles. Yet he was to go out from that old college hall, from among those who had loved and given him such honours, with the alien's curse upon him ; and while men's praiseH were loudest, and his lifo seemed to thorn to open up before him in a long vista of triumphs, the shadow of the curse came close and covered him ; and as men somotimes feol death suddenly touch them when they think death afar off, tho gloom of a great wrong embraced and took from him for an instant power of speech and strength of limb. He had advanced to the rostrum, patiently awaiting subsidence of the tumult hia name had arouaed, when suddenly he threw his hand up to his face, as if to shut out tho sight of something or to avoid-, a blow. When tho hand was again withdrawn, ho laid hold of a chair to keep himself from falling, and his face had lost it-ruddy colour. " Take time, Mr Connor," said one of the professors, leaning forward. "It will pass away in a moment; take time."

The boy looked over his shoulder, smiling back at the speaker. " It is gone now, thank you." Then the boy's will, which was great as a man's will, came to his rescue, and the words of his farewell followed. There were in them the fulness, grace, and charm of that oratory which is of nature ; and when he ceased speaking there was a long, painful silei>cc, and his audienco breathed heavily; for the sombro spell of the hour was upon them all, and it was as if the shadow that had touched the student had touched them too. He had felt and spoken greatly ; but no loud applause followed. It was noticed by a few in that fast-thinning multitude that when the other professors came forward to give him such moderate commendation as befitted those grave gentlemen, there was one, the youngest of them all, who stood indifferently aloof, and purposeljr avoided him. It was curious, they thought, that this boy should have a single enemy. Professors, trustees, seniors, and friends dropped off, one by one, but the student still lingered uncertainly on the platform, turning often to look furtively behind him, as if no felt some presence there which might he real, or oaly incorporeal air. But whatever was real iii that scene then was to him all dim and intangible, even to the departing audience ; hisown words had sounded strangely in his ears, and the language of others was unmeaning to him. It was all over at length, and, as he saw the last of the crowd leave the hall, he mechanically moved away ; if he had any thought at all, it was to bo quite alone. Directly he knew that he was in the long college walk, to his left rose up the granite shaft of Bunker Hill, and before him the glittering dome of Boaton SJtate-House. Some of his' classmates standing in hia way accosted him ; but he did not notice them, and passed on. It was not an idle fancy which "mode him feel that all the morning's sunshine had gone out of the air; he looked up at the sty, and saw that it was clouded over and threatened a storm. That was all ho remarked, until he found that he waa inthe Cambridge Road, entangled in a mass of horses, and vehicles, and that people were crying out to hjm to move aside. Extricating himself, he walked onalcng the boarded'path underhuge elma, dimly aware of his'name being called, and of people speaking cheerily to him ; but he did not stop to reply, pursuing his way, dogged, he fancied, by some devilof disaster. At the door of one of the moat ancient of Beacon-atreet houßes'he entered; but before oloaing: it after him, he turned quickly, looking'over his shoulder again, thinking the pursuing shadow must bo there. It was an idle fancy; and, thinking still, as he ascended the great uncarpeted stairway, how idle it was, he entered a large square room, 'wainecotted to the ceiling in black oarved w'alnufc, having a spacious tiled fireplace, 'over which hung the high mantelpiece, sombre with the smoke and ashes of a century, its carved griffins' heads throwing curious shadows on the floor. About him, lbosely strewn on tables, brackets,, shelves; and pedestals, all the ages of art seemed to have left some token. There were rare, pictures and marbles, curious bronzes and grotesque old carvings in ivory and wood, 61a weapons, and quaint furniture' of mahogany, velvet-cushioned and blackened" with age. An unwholesome room, ja. the sunniest of times ; unwholesomestpf all when the clouds were black, as they v/pre now, with an impending storm. A wood-fire blazed upon the hearth, for the north-east wind blew up chillingly from the bay. fie had only seated himself before it, in the.'luxurious depths of his cushioned chair, for a moment, when he was startled by a khdck at his door. He cried out impatiently, " Come in I" and a servant entered, handing him a letter. He took it from the man's hand, shut him out, closed and locked the door. Then he knew, by the subtle instinct that some men have, by which they feel disaster in the very air, that the persuing shadow had entered there, and that he would suddenly grapple with the substance. The student read the letter to the end, and did not cry out nor utter any word of hurt or pain; but the agony on his face was piteous to see. Then the shadow that had entered there fell atlaßt, and held the boy, never to leave him—never again to depart from him in all the coming yea™, until the sea should roll over him, and hide him from the eight of living men. Till then this day of grace was dead. , . • . The letter told him that his siater, for Whom/^e fancied, hia love was beyond all brother*s love, was lying dead in the home her life had made beautiful to him; had died confessing an awful wrong and shame. It was'written by bis guardian, a man who had supplied a father's place, no.t only >n duty, but in love to brother and sister, tie waa ah* old man now, and his story wos haltingly, incoherently told, yet it conveyed to the student a sense of loss and dishonour, by its , very indistinctness, deeper than the most studied expressions could:have dono. But that which was worse for guardian and worse for brother was, tfrat the roan who had wrought this wrong was the student's friend, his classmate hij.re, hia old school and playfellow at home,'.jo , . , The poor giH was dead in her sin anfl dishonour, dying with this man's name upon her'Jips, crying out to him in her agony and shame, to save her from the threatened ruin. ,'Dead in all her sweet and tender womanhood; dead in her charm and grace of youth; and the man that killed her , lived, 'and was the friend that be had set ahpve;aH other men to love and honour. That is-as the bitter part of it all-his

Stunned and made mad, the student lay back In his chair, the letter crumpled savagely in his hand, his physical strength gone, his."mind alert only in its unwholesome fancies. Then to this boy, whose life \ had been, singularly pure and gentle, came, tpedeyili'and tempted him. There were -r6ngs,.he thought, which nor word nor act •' couldever make right; there were wrongs whickcried out, with the clearness and fulness bf.lhe old Jewish law, for the requital of vengeance. There should be life lor ~ ."life. ;-?.'..'. , - •-. , '■■•'■ "-. Filled,, with temptation, the day wore i : BloWlyon. The blurred sun crept down |||$tedffie' gathering clouds, and up out '_\ the sea and \)ay cajije the, storm ana - dartness; the logs upop the hearth W • down *and buried their flames under the greyirlg ashes j uncanny and unwholesome 't shadows stole out from the recessesnt the Hptethe frescoed arabesques grew aim w

the wailing light; the statues and the quaintly-carved old furniture reflected themselves upon the floor and walls in distorted images, which, by times, mixed themselves curiously with the murderous fancies that filled tho student's mind, strangely distorting and warping all the good thero was in it, turning tho .gentle, loving nature of the man into unclean channels of morbid bitterness and hatred. Ho felt the influences at work upon him, and made no effort to cast them off, but yielded to them. Man is not stronger than destiny, he thought; why should he struggle? He knew the worst that would surely come—knew that life for him had changed, that tho promise .of all the years past, all the fruits of their toil and patient endeavour, were gone for over. In that hour he sank down, helpless under the weight of his wrong and shame, and putting away from him all chance or hope of honour, or men's love or happiness, bartering them all for his shallow thought of vengeance, he accepted the future and the work that he felt he had been called upon to do. With no weak regrets, no pity for the beautiful life to bo trampled under foot, he took up the crime and curse of Cain, and did not murmur nor look back. His wrong, the unwholesome day, the weird shadows, and his own sombre fancies, had conspired together and told him he must kill the man who wrought this evil. That was his work, and lie must about it speedily; and he would.

Yet, until tho evening had come, the boy had not moved toward the fulfilment of his purpose, though he knew the man whom he had doomed to die he could find whenever he sought him. He still lay back in hia chair, before-the dying embers of the fire, the crumpled letter iv his hand, quiet as a man dead or sleepiug, an awful pallor on his face, his white throat bared, his black hair hanging in damp, close curls about his forehead—a boy in years, with a stature like Saul, with a grand physical mould and strength of breast and limb.

Whon the dusk deepened, he took from the wall a curious old Spanish knife, its long,: thin blade tapering to an almost imperceptible point. Thero was a latent, devilish cruelty in the careful manner shown by him as ho ran his finger along tho edge pf the murderous toy; but he was evidently satisfied with his scrutiny, for he placed the knife carefully in his breast and went out.

The rain began to patter on the stones as ho turned into Tremont-street, but he rather welcomed that: it would cool tho fever of his blood. He went on down the street, down past tho houses of his friends, — of the men and women and little children whq had given him true love. There was not a single regret or tinge of bitterness in the thought that to-morrow they would all be closed against him—homes and hearts alike. Ho had woighed all his losses; and that was among them. From the open window of one mansion, a young girl, whom yesterday he had fancied he was fond of, spoke to him some pleasant, congratulatory words ; but he passed on without returning her salutation. Now, the girl was not quite certain she had done right to speak to any one in that manner, and when Luke Connor passed by without a word to her in reply, there came to her a sense of shame for what she had done, and a fear that ho thought her unwomanly; bo that she stood there at the window, looking after him a long while, with someunhappy tearswotting her cheeks. But he went on his way, blind and dumb to everything that lay outside of his ono ugly purpose. Presently no rang tho bell of a houso facing the Common, in Boylston Place.

" Tell Mr Lawrence I wish to see him," he said, when his summons was answered.

"Mr Lawrence has gone out. Will you come.in and wait?"

Hohesitated for a moment, brushed past the servant as he had often done before, leaped the stairs two at a time, and was in Lawrenco'a chambers. No signs of hurried flight there ; the rooms were undisturbed and Orderly. A pipe, still warm, lay en the table, an open book beside it; hia easy chair standing near. He took it all in at a glance—was at the door again, where the servant still lingered, looking out at the rain.

"It's a rough night, Mr Connor," he said. " Won. you wait a bit for Mr George!" „.. "No ; I will firia him," ho said,, and retraced hia atepa along Boylston-etreet, dropping in here and there at club-houaes and George Lawrenc.'a other well-known haunts; but he was at none of them.

At each place, almost the same qucs tion was asked, "will yoli come in and wait?" and the same invariable answer given, " No ; I will find him." Foiled in his search, he remembered that Lawrence frequented the editorial sanctums on Court and Washington-streets, and that he should probably find him in ono of them, iHe had begun hia pursuit cool and unhurried, but his failures excited and maddened him at last; the ugly fever in his blood had stolen,up ward to his head, and he was aware that his manner wa? atrango and nttracting attention. He tried to sober hi nself as he entered ono newspaper offi> c after the other ; but he noticed that .his \_iu6ky, voice, or something in hi- face, startled for a moment the men he questioned. He had at length exhausted all the likely places of finding the man ; then he thought of the unlikely ones. He began, too, to think that Lawrence hod heard, in some way, of the girl's death, and was avoiding him; but that did not matter, he said, under hia breath, he would find him all the same. - .'■'•'•■

Aware now that he had lost all clue to his intended victim, he walked on, quite aimlessly, from one street to another, until; after an hour of ' such searching as had been, after all, only an eager! scrutiny of the faces of the few pedestrians he met, he"' found himself 'standing under the black shadow of the Old Soutlf Cnui;c_; thinking of its grim legend ; from; there he was in Hanover-street again, under Faheuil Hall, looking up with a new interest at its ugly historic front j then on again, his brain whirling curiously, his stop.unsteady, and scarcely knowing how he had got there, be stood on Dunlethe's Wharf, gazing out at the black, silent bay gliding along to the sea, strangely fascinated by its rippling I tide and the lights dangling from the yard-arms of. ships! A California steamer, going to sail that night, waiting for the turn of tide, lay half a mile oflVshore/with steam _p and a hundred lights blazing 'aboard of her.' Below him there .was a shipping office, the windows of which a boy was hurriedly closing for the night. As the last shutter was fastened the door was thrown open, and, in the flood of light streaming out, George Lawrence stood revealed for a moment, but as if undecided whether he should return to the shelter of the office or fulfil his first intention of going out. The boy came out after him and closed the door, deciding the matter for him. Drawing the collar of his coat about his ears, he walked on down the wharf, shading his eyes with his hand, and looking out over the bay to the steamer. The student saw him there—had seen himbefore, when the office lights were full upon him; but he failed to recognise his enemy in the oddly disguised figure now coming rapidly toward him. A single lamp glimmered dimly at the end of the wharf, and the rain, coming down in torrents, had driven the officers of the watch to shelter, so that the two men were quickly closing in upon each other, in a spot seemingly eet apart on this foul night for a foul deed. A boat, lowered away from the steamer, was being rowed slowly "gainst the tide, towards the end of the long wharf, a lamp swinging from the bow showing dimly a single rower. Luke Connor had forgotten the man he hunted altogether, but stood watching the crawling light on the bay with a strange interest in a thing so trifling, when he-was rudely jostled; the next instant he held George Lawrence by the throit, and, by an effort of his powerful strength, bore him to his knees. - The boat wa.3 coming nearer; the rower hailed his expected passenger, rested on his oars for a second, then hailed again; but there was no answer. The two men were on the verge of the pier, against which the black tide rippled hungrily. Luke Connor had said to others and to himself a hundred times that night that lie would find the man. He had found him— found him, too, in a lonely, secluded spot, where no help could come if he but did his work quickly. He was not surprised, not moved in any way. that the man had been dolivered, as he thought, into his hands. It was Fate or Providence, as his death 1 would be—all Fate. Ab quietly and undisturbed as he would have spoken to his friend in that oariier, happier time, ho spoke to his enemy now ; "This coward's disguise," he said, " means flight; and that tolls me you know your crime, and expected me. If you have a prayer to say, cay, it now, and quickly ; for I mean to kill you." , . George Lawrence heard the splash of the oars in the coming boat; a moments time gained or a loud cry for help might save Etm yet, he thought. He struggled up. ward, and tried to; cry out; but the hand clutching at his throat was as firm as a band of steel, pressing the life out of him Luke Connor's hand went quickly to his breast, and when ; it came out again aU the devil that possessed fe man clutched at the Spanisllknife; and nerved him against any lompunctibn or faltering in his purpose. The dip of the oars in the approaching boat

Hounded fatally near, whon tho cowering wretch at his feet sprang up and struggled with him for his life. Thero was only a short, dull cry, as Connor plunged the knife homo; then he swayed his victim to and fro for a moment, and, exerting hia great power of limb, flung him headlong into the rising tido, that splashed mid licked the spectral pier. An hour later, when it ebbed, it would have grown tired of beating something against the muddy piles, and would hurry another burden, beside the California steamer, out to sea. Then the boy, whose work was done, but whose boyhood had slipped for over away from him within an hour or two, quietly looked at the bloody knife in his hand—flungit into thetide—stood irrosolute for a moment, debating within himself whether he should go then and surrender himself to justice, or wait until morning. From where he stood he could hear the slow laboured " heavo-ho " of the sailors on the steamer, as they weighed anchor; the approaching boat, he thought, could put him aboard, and escape would be certain and easy. Captains of outgoing vessels were not disposed to be too suspicious of the character of their passengera, or to inquire too closely into their motives for leaving the States, no matfer how or whon they came on board; for California had not yet ceased to be a sort of free commonwealth whero adventurers, thieves, and worse, went abroad in the open day, unqueationed and unmolested, But he had no intension of flight. He had, from the first moment of hia resolve, calmly weighed all the consequences of its fulfilment; and he was now quite ready to meet them. It mattered nothing to him that one of them wos the chance of an ignominious death, or lingering imprisonment ; neither hod any terrors for him now. Tho sister was at rest, and sho was tho last of his kin ; so thero could be no one else to bo hurt or tainted by hia crime or its punishment. But he would wait until morning to give himself up to tho lave, he said ; then, it might do with him what it would. He had a fancy that he would like to go back to his old rooms, and say goodbye to them, before going to prison or death. Itwasapleasantold streot, ho thought. Nowhere else in Boston was the air so sweot and strong, blowing in to him from tho. bay, over the city gardens. From his window he could look across tho Common, and fancy that nowhere else was the grass: so green, nor the viow down the serpentine walk so fine; and the trees, waving in the morning wind, were aa old friends, whoso every leaf and bough he seemed to know. Even the plash of the fountains had something loving and friendly in it. It waa all pleasant and friendly there; and the fancy of the moment beforo now became an eager desire to go back thero and see it all in tho sweet hush and light of another morning. He started back, making his way slowly among the rubbish of tho long wharf, stepping deep in muddy pools, or slipping in the eoft clay, hearing no longer the plash of oars nor roar of wind nor boat of rain nor Bwasb of tido, nor remembering for a moment the something it was beating against the piles or bearing out to sea ; but, as be went on through the deserted streets, he grew conscious that he walked unsteadily, and that, despite the chilling winds and rain, he was burning with fever, and that his head pained him. He put hiu hand up to his face, and, coming then under a lamp, found his finger dripping blood.

"lam glad tho dovil struck back," ho said, quietly, and went on.

But he lost hie way presently in tho tortuous areots of tho locality, and, seeing a light ahead, followed it, and saw that it came from the travellers' room of the old Stackpolo Inn, which was an inn of tho better sort, as it now is, one hundred yoars ago. As ho entosod tho cleanly room, tho clork, with his chair tipped back against tho wall, was sleoping soundly ; and he passed on to tho travellers' room beyond, tho door of which, standing open, revealed an inviting fire, and lights. As he crossed the threshold, a dog started up and disputed his pass ago; when a man, soutod at tho table roading, looked up, and recognising the student, and seeing blood upon his face and hands, started to his feet.

" My God I Connor, you are hurt," he said, coming forward. Tho speaker waa tho professor, who had been noticed by a few.poople that morning to stand aloof from tho boy at the close of his address. They had never liked each other, and Connor thought that it would have pleased him better to have met any other man than Professor Daunton that night. Yet it did not greatly matter ; it might bo hotter that an enemy and not a friend should give him up to justice. The boy staggered forward, laying his hand, on the other's arm impatiently, and motioning back to the man asleep in the outer room.

"It is nothing," he said, "Are wo alono hero ?"

" Yea, quite alone. I was caught in the storm, and have sent for a carriage. It will be hero presently," the professor replied. " Will you give me a chair ? lam dizzy, and this sudden light has blinded mo." The professor drew a chair to tho fire, and, Beating him in it, stood waiting for a moment. Luke Connor's head fell forward on the table, and there was a miserable silence .in the room, only disturbed by the dog coming forward and snarling savagely at the odour of something on the students hand. When Connor looked up again, his eyee wandered about the walls and furniture, dazed and stupid. " Will you tell me what it was I asked you a moment ago ? I have lost myself altof ether, and have forgotten something that wished to say to yon." • . . The student had risen, and the professor kindly put out hiß hand to save him from falling; when he had seated him again, he said, "You asked me if we were alono here, and I answered, 'Yes, quite alone.' Can you recall whalj it was you wished to say to me?"

"JYes I I killed the man to-night who did this"—pointing to a cut reaching across the temple to the ear. " You must give me up; but will you let me rest until morning, and send an officer to my rdoma then ?" "Yes, I will do what you wish,"—an expression of incredulity in his eyes, and secretly douotine Connor's sanity. "Is there anything that I can do for you?" he asked. - ■.* "~

"Will you get me some brandy, and— close that door after you?—l would rather that man did not see me."

When the liquor was brought, Luke Connor drank it eagerly. As the professor turned his back to put down the glass, he naked, "Do you core to tell me! about this matter?"

"No; I will not tell you, I never liked you, nor you me; and that ia why lam not Borry you will give me up. Not that I think it will be a pleasant thine for you to do, professor 5 but I would rather you did it than a man I cared for."

" You are right; it will not be ploasant for me to send the first of the class to a jail or beyond. But a man's duty may lie even there."

"Yon are right; it is you duty. Tonight I rely on your generosity to leave me undisturbed. Will your carriage be here soon ?"

"It is here now," the profoseor said, hearing the sound of wheels outside. "If you are ready, I will throw this cloak about you as you pass through the next room." " You are considerate, professor;" and the man put out his hand frankly, but the other did not take it.

'When they entered the outer room, the drowsy clerk had again tilted his.chair back against the wall, and growled goodnight without looking up. When they arrived at the Beacon-streejt house, the professor carefully led the student to the door of his rooms, then courteously said good-night. But Connor stopped him with a question. " You bear me no ill-will, professor ?" "No. Why should I?" " Will you shake hands, then ? I have a fancy we will not meet again." " No; I prefer not. Good-night." "Good-night, Professor Daunton," the student answered back; and he grimly smiled as her thought of the professor's prejudice, closing the door after him. Then he went into the inner room, and stood with his handa resting on the dressingtable, looking into the mirror, coolly surveying the face he had seen under all phases but that of crime. He had fancied that it would be altered; that when he saw it next the demon of murder would have set his seal upon it, changing and defiling it. When he had satisfied himself, he said, "It is not different from my face of yesterday, only that it is gashed and bloody. I am glad he struck me. He washed the blood carefully from his face and hands, throwing the water into the street when he had done, not wishing to see the atain in it again in the morning. A wound,'- running- -across the temple to the ear, showed itself when the matted hair was brushed aside, which began to bleed attain as he washed away the clots about it. He' bound it up with his handkerchief, changed hier clothing, selecting, piece after . piece with curious care, packed a small trunk with such things as he thought he would need in wison", and then threw -himself- into bis chair by the-j-e-, plenished fire, to wait for the morning.' After a while fie slept, quietly and calmly

i as lie had ever done, disturbed by no dreams of the dead man drifting out on the tido. The swcot Juno morning camo in with tho songs of tho birds in the Public Gardens ; and tho sunshine, falling warmly across the bright colours of tho carpet and hangings, touched into wondrous radiance, hero and there, a pictured face or landscape. A bust of Psycho, at the base of which some white flowers grew, attracted him with tho sunlight lingering on it. A face full of beauty, purity, and pain, he fancied ; then stoopod to kiss the forehead. When he raised his head, there was a bloodstain on the marble.

Then he somehow knew, as nothing else had told him, the full and perfect meaning of the thing he had done. He had smiled last night at the professor's refusal to take his hand, as unmeaning prejudice ; but the spot upon the forehead of the pure Soul, Psyche, told him that he was never again to touch tho hand of man, or tho lip of woman, without leaving a stain behind. Believing that, the prison or death would be altogether best, he thought. The officer came awhile later, and found the man impatiently awaiting him, " Now," said the officer, " it's uncommon plucky in you to give yourself up in thiß way; and while I don't want you to say anything that can bo used against you, I would like to know who tho man was, and how you came to do it." " I think your duty lies another way, my man. Suppose you follow it. I am quite ready," Connor said, shortly. "Oh, as for that, I know my duty ; but, naturally, I am not without curiosity,"

When tho day was gone, Luko Connor had been committed to prison, thora to await, as best ho might, his day of trial. It seemed a long way off at first; but, like all far-off events, it came, if slowly, none the less surely. He felt, when ho was called upon to enter his plea, that ho was among friendly people, and that in no man's faco amoni? them all was there a single craving look for his life. Then ho placed his hands firmly on the wooden railing before him, and, in clear, unfaltering accents said: "A man deserved death at my hands, and I killed him ; but in tho manner and form in which I stand indicted, I am not guilty." The prosecution, in their opening address to the court and jury, in support of the indictment, alleged: That a murdor had been committed by the prisoner at the bar. That in proof thereof they would offer two separate and distinct admissions of the prisoner, made on the night of the -2nd day of June, 1855; and that whilo neither of theso admissions included the name or a description of the murdered man, yet they belioved and expected to prove that he was a former friend of the prisoner, viz., one George Lawronce. That, in addition to said admissions of the prisonor.tboy would offor.insupportoftheindictment, the evidence of a learned and eminent citizen, who had accidentally encountered the prisoner while his hands wero yot wet with his victim's blood, and also the piisoner's bloody garments worn at tho time of the perpetration of the murder. That, moreover, they relied upon tho following facts, which they would establish, to support the theory of tho prosecution that tho said George Lawrence was slain in cold blood by tho prisoner at the bar.

1. The aaid Goorgo Lawronce had suddenly disappeared from hia domicile and all his othor usual places of resort without any previous preparation, notico, or warning. 2. That he disappeared on the night of that fatal 22nd of June, and had never sinco been seen nor heard of.

3. That an'cxamination of hia domicile had established that ho had not intended flight nor concealment.

4. That the widost and most untiring inquiry of friends, relatives, and officers of the law, failed to supply any clue to his whoreabouta, or to assign him a place among living men. 5. That ho had loft his rooms but a few minutes previous to the prisonei . having inquired for him there, leaving a message with the servant that ho would return soon.

6. That, on that 22nd of June night, the prisoner had sought the said George Lawrence in all likely andin ■ omo unlikely places, until a late hour, under the the peculiar circumstances ot a violent |storm raging, and repeated failures. 7. That the prisoner's manner during the time of this search was eager, violent and oxcited.

8. That the aaid George Lawronco had, in some manner unknown to the prosecution, wronged the prisoner, and that the prisoner belioved the said Lawrence had deserved doath at his hands, and that the prisoner, being instigated by the devil, did murdor the said Lawronco.

Tho prosecution in support of tho indictment, called their witnesses, who testified to Goorgo Lawrence's disappearance on the night of the 22nd of June ; tho subsequent search for and failure to find any traco of him ; to tho excited, angry manner of the Crieoner on that night; the finding of his loody clothing ; his admissions before the magistrate. Beyond that they could not go ; and when the name of Albert Daunton was called, there waa a aonaution in the court —men and women rising up and pressing forward, looking over each other's heads, to see the learned professor, whose evidence, it had boon said, would destroy the prisoner's chance of life.

The professor was requested to narrate the circumstances of the interview in the travellers' room of the old Stackpole Inn ; which 'he did, very slowly and carefully, evidently considering that a man'a life might hang on the proper plaoing of each word ho uttered. Occasionally he glanced uneasily toward the prisoner, as if to convince him of hia sympathy or to let him understand that, though it was his duty to say that which might consign him to death, it waa, nevertheless, an unpleasant thing to do. He told the story simply and [truly, and not without some feeling, too. "We have closed. Cross-examine," said the prosecuting attorney. And then this dialogue occurred between the counsel for tho prisonor and the witness: Counsel: Did the prisoner mention tho name of the man he said he had killed ? ! w

Witness: He did not. He said; '"I killed the man to-night-who did this," pointing to a wound on his temple. Counsel: Did you ask him the man's, name, or why he had killed him ? Witness : I did not. I asked him if ho cared to tell me about the matter, and he declined.

Counsel: Will you describe the prisoner's manner, nearly as you can, at that time, and say whether 'you thought him to be in full and perfect control of his faculties ? Witness: Hie mannor was excited and feverish; he was physically very weak, and would have fallen once or twioe if I had not seated him. I think hia mind wandered a little at times. He asked me a simple question one moment, and forgot it the next. I thought, at the time, that he waa not in full poe-, session of his mental faculties during all portions of the interview, at others that hie mind was never clearer.

Counsel: Did you notice, in the morning of that day, at' any time during the Commencement exercises, anything peculiar in tho prisoner's manner t

Witness: I did. At the moment he stepped forward to deliver his address to the class, he seemed to grow dizzy, threw his hand up to his face, and would have fallen, I fancied, but that he laid hold of something. I afterwards walked after him, along the Cambridge Road, into the city, and; I remarked that he frequently looked furtively over his shoulder, as if under the impression he was being pursued; his face was very pale, and his dazed, uncertain manner was especially peculiar, as his success as a student and speaker had been very assured on that day. Counsel: That will do, Professor.

Albert Daunton sat down then to wait for the end, with a larger stake in. the trial than he knew.

The Commonwealth having closed, the counsel for the defence alleged in support of the prisoner's plea of not guilty. That no murder had been committed by the prisoner at the bar. That the one essential element in the case of the prosecution which could onable them to maintain the indictment was abaent, inasmuch aa the body of tho alleged murdered man had not been found nor recognised. That, aa regarded the disappearance of the said George Lawrence, the defence would show to the court and jury that the said Lawrence had ample and sufficient cause for flight and subsequent concealment. .

That there was no reason whatever to Buppose that the said Lawrence had been murdered or made away with at all. That the prisoner's admissions amounted to nothing, as the prisoner was non compos mentis at the time of making such admissions and for some hours previous thereto ;- all which they believed, and much of it had been, already, proved by the Commonwealth's own witness, the learned and eminent citizen already produced,by: the prosecution. ; ~ Counsel. With the permission of the oCqort we will now call witnesses to prove that George Lawrence had sufficient reasons for flight and concealment.

At this moment the prisoner beckoned to his counsel, whispered something briefly in his ear, and insisted on it against the other's continued protest. "May it please the Court," said the counsel, "wo are reluctantly compelled, by the express wishes of tho prisoner, to rest our case here. He will not permit us to call ,tho witnesses, who wo aro assured, would satisfy this court and lury that Georgo Lawrence had meditated night, ond that he had good reasons for keeping a long and enforced concealment. Our hands are tied, we can do no more. We must, therefore, submit the caae to the jury on its present merits." The Judge delivered his charge, the jury retired, deliberated, and came into Court with their verdict. " Not Guilty," the foreman said. When the verdict wbb rendered, the people there pressed forward, straining to see how it would affect the prisoner ; but they saw no change nor emotion in the man's face. He had then, as before, the same subdued, quiet manner; and later he received the congratulations of his counsel, calmly and almost listlessly. Instead of being, as was natural, tho most interested person there, in the result of the trial, he appeared to bo tho least so. The impassive face and manner revealed nothing; but if the man just escaped from peril of death had told thorn what he felt, he would only have eaid, " I am tired, and glad it is all over,"

Ashe stepped out of the provided room into the radiance and warmth of the fair summer day, a free man again—free to go and to come as ho willed—there was only his counsel by his side. Some of his old college-chums stood at the door, waiting for him to come out; but they did not speak to him as he _«ssed. It hurt him more than he cared to say ; but he was silent.

He parted from bis counsel at the next street, and went back to his old rooms, there to think it all out and to resolve what to do next. He found a dozen notes lying on his table, of old dates. Some enclosed' tradesmen's bills, and several others notified him of his expulsion from his college societies and his club. The harvest he had sowed, he began early to reap. Ho know that when institutions closed their doors against him, no pure homes would open theirs, at his summons.

He sat reading the last of these notes, -when a boy ran past outside, crying, " Evening paper." He raised the window, and called to him. When the paper was brought in, the first paragraph that caught his eye had referenco, to his -.trial. The sharp fellow who preparod the court reports said, in rogard to tho verdict, " If the laws of Scotland prevailed here, the verdict would have been not proven, instead of not guilty." "So I that would have been the verdict, would it?" he thought, (hen flung the paper from him. All this made his way dearer, easior. He determined to go away somewhere; it did not greatly matter where, but as far from civilization as possible, Then a curious fanoy seized bold of Luke Connor, and held him; he resolved to go out into the world and to make his hands earn the bread he ate; to übo the mighty strength of trams he boro, and turn it to account. Ho meant to go where his crime was unknown, and where, under a new name, maybe, he could remain unquestioned, and trusted by honest men ; for men's good word and regard wore something essential to his being. But in taking up his resolve, he novor once thought of the old scriptural ourao, " A fugitive and a vagabond shaft thou bo in tho earth," He yet lacked a yehr of hia majority; until then, or longer, bo would live among strangers. When he came into his own, he fancied ho could buy friends and love and forgotfulnosa; and until then ho would labour liko a menial: that would help him to forgot. Then bo closed up the beautiful old rooms ; and from among the men who had known him, and who knew tho ugly history ot his crime, he suddenly disappeared ; and as timo went by, he was lost so completely from their sight that at last his name became only a fireside legend which sent children shivering to their beds, and in which they were told the history of a man cruelly murdered and drifted far out to sea on the stormy tido of a June night.

(To be Continued.)