Transferred Identity.

Cromwell Argus, Volume XXVII, Issue 1360, 14 May 1895, Page 2

Transferred Identity.

BY EDITH SESSIONS TUPPER

Continued. As I entered the drawing room thqvis Itor rose quickly and came forward t( p-eet me. What most impressed me ir Ibis first meeting with Maurice Raymond was the atmosphere of lateni power which seemed to emanate from hit personality. He was not a handsome man, though his face was good, his deep Bet eyes keen, his nose straight. Hie lips were not hidden by heard or mustache, and in their firm lines I read the positive character of the man. He carried himself like a prince, with grace and hauteur. His general appearance was impressive and commanding. “You are not Mrs, Marchmont?” he said half in inquiry as he took my hand. “No, indeed,” I replied—“ Mrs, March- . mont’s friend, Prudence Mason. Mrs. Marchmont is not feeling well and hopes you will excuse her for a little while.” “And the colonel?” asked the visitor. “Ho is somewhere about the plantation, but will soon he in for luncheon.” “I have arrived a few days ahead of time,” said Mr. Raymond, “but I finished my business in Atlanta sooner than 1 had anticipated and so hurried on. 1 was so anxious to see the country in ' 'which I passed my boyhood, and above all to see my dear cousin again, whom I remember as the idol of my youth—a beautiful and lovely girl.” “Mrs. Marchmont is a very beautiful woman,” I said gravely. “There is a child, I believe,” said Mr. . Raymond. I called Daphne from the library, glad of an excuse to have her once more in my sight. She came running in, delighted to see a stranger, and was soon on very good terms with the visitor. Presently Colonel Marchmont entered, profuse with apologies and extending a genuine southern welcome to his guest. where.is Portia?” hedemanded, looking about after the first greetings , wore exchanged. ' As diplomatically as possible I ex- ' plained heir absence. But a dark look crossed her husband’s face, and ringing for a maid he ordered her to tell her mistress that Colonel Marchmont desired her presence at once in the drawing room. In a few minutes the soft swish of Portia’s silken skirts was heard. She came in with bowed head and toying nervously with a dainty fan she held. . She did not look her cousin in the eyes as she extended her limp hand and turned coldly away as quickly as possible after her little speech of welcome uttered in perfunctory fashion. I could see that Mr. Raymond was both puzzled and disappointed with his reception. He watched his cousin curiously, though he did not address much

of his conversation to her,-but chatted with the colonel on various topics, occasionally turning to me with a swift, rare smile which brightened his rather severe face. Portia -preserved her attitude of constrained defiance. When questions were directed to her, she answered them briefly, but kept her eyes fixed upon the floor. Colonel Marchmont was greatly annoyed, but did his best to cover his wife’s delinquencies in entertaining. We were all relieved when luncheon was announced. At the table the constraint was not quite so marked. Once or twice Portia lifted her heavy lids and shot scrutinizing glances at her cousin. But Mr. Raymond’s face was inscrutable and sphinxlike. He had lost the puzzled air he at first wore, and no one could possibly have read what was passing in his mind. He complimented Portia upon the preservation of her beauty; he petted Daphne; he charmed the colonel. How did he affect me? Maurice Raymond fascinated me. I had never met a man at once so brilliant and kindly. A beautiful, strong soul looked out of his keen gray eyes. His conversation was intellectual and refreshing. 1 studied him constantly, always recalling the words I had heard at the gate the night before, “Dangeh comin from de souf—awful.” If the prophecy of old Jezebel should come to pass—if indeed the danger which threatened Portia were coming through her cousin—she -svell had need to tremble, for in this keen, observant, brainy man she would meet an adversary worthy of her skill. CHAPTER XI. A SLIGHT ENCOUNTER. After luncheon the colonel took his guest out to view the plantation, and we did not see them again until dinner. Portia was absolutely dazzling when she swept in and took her seat at the head of the table. She w 7 as dressed in scarlet from head to foot. Her superb shoulders rose from folds of fiery silk, and the little feet that wandered in and out beneath her skirts were shod in the same lurid hue. She looked a veritable daughter of Mephisto. Her eyes sparkled dangerously, and on her face was an expression of audacity. Evidently

she had nerved herself for the oncominj i contest which was in the air. When Maurice saw her, he coolly an< deliberately ran his eyes over her cos tume and then said nonchalantly as hi shook out his napkin, “Evidently yoi have overcome that intense dislike o scarlet which was one of your market traits as a girl, belle cousine.” Portia did not answer, but lookec straight at him. “It was most extraordinary,” contin ued Maurice. “I never knew any one tc bate a particular color as you hated red Do you remember what you used tc call it?” “No,” said Portia. “A nigger color,” replied Maurice, “and declared it only fit for the quad roon girls." A great pallor overspread Portia’s face, but she laughed and lifted her glass oi sherry to her lips, “How absurd!” she said. “Well, othei times, other manners.” “Yes,” said Raymond as he lifted his glass to her, “I myself adore scarlet. II is vibrant with life and action.” “Do you remember, cousin,” he went on as he set down his glass, “do you remember the day your pony ran away and threw you? I can see you now lying white and cold on the moss and—and—why, what the deuce was your pony’s name? —the one your father brought from Atlanta and to whom you were so devoted. Astonishing that I can’t remember —I know the name of that particular nag as well as I do my own. Surely, cousin, you can help me.” “No, I do not remember,” said Portia in a low voice. “The chestnut with the white mane and tail. Jacko—no—ah! was it not Jacqueline?” “Oh, yes!” cried Portia, as if greatly relieved. “No, no, cousin,’’said Maurice. “Why, no; Jacqueline was the pony your father got after the runaway—a black one. But the chestnut —how amazing that neither one of us can recall her name!” “I have such a wretched memory,” began Portia. “There, too, you have changed,” rattled on Maurice. “Why, Portia, I used to boast of your remarkable memory. The dates, the names, the numbers, you would dash off were astounding. I remember it was rather a trial to mo that your memory should be so superior to mine.” I could see that Portia was worried, and also that for some reason Mr. Raymond was trying to trap her. But to what purpose? Was this his revenge for the frigid reception she had given him? All through dinner ho was constantly reminding her of some of their youthful experiences. Occasionally, she answered him understandingly, but as a rule her replies were wide of the mark. One would have said that so far as that period of her life was concerned Mrs. Marchmont’s memory was a blank. When we entered the drawing room, Maurice opened the grand piano, and turning to Portia said with great amiability; “Dear cousin, I am longing to hear your sweet voice again. Sing some of those dear old songs.” I looked at Portia. Would she sing at his bidding? Again and again during my stay had I asked her to sing for mo, but she had always refused on one pretext or another. “You will excuse me, cousin,” she said coldly. “I gave up singing long since. I found my voice was growing thin and metallic and could not endure its sound,” “That is absurd,” said Colonel Marchmont, suddenly rising and coming over to us. “She sang just as well as she ever did before I went to England. On my return she refused to sing and has persisted in that determination ever since. One of her many caprices.” “How long were you in England, Marchmont?” asked Mr. Raymond quietly. “A year,” replied the colonel, “I was detained on business, I was sent for as the heir to property near Nottingham, and after I got there a pretender turned up. Well, you know the law’s delay, especially in that slow going country, rhe result was, I was away from Swamplands for over a twelvemonth.” “And during that time you were lady >f the manor,” said Mr. Raymond to Portia, “What an interminable absence!” ae continued, fumbling the music, “but ;hen the reunion—how delightful!” Colonel Marchmont looked embarrassed, while Portia was very pale. What nanuer of man was this who appeared :o play upon their heart strings? It was lot possible that so observant a student >f human nature could have failed to •emark the cool relations existing be;ween the husband and wife. No. Mr. Raymond was simply drawing them

Out, The situation was becoming ( strained, when I broke the ice by sitting down at the piano and playing a few selections in my amateur fashion. I was conscious that Colonel March- v mont left the room after a few minutes e and that Portia and her guest werealone. Just over the piano hung a huge old r fashioned mirror, and glancing in it I j saw an extraordinary scene. I saw our v Dolished, courtly visitor suddenly ag-

proachhis hostess, who shrank back wit' > a look of absolute terror on her face, saw him roughly seize her arm and pus' * back the loosely flowing sleeve and in tently scrutinize the lovely bare flesh 5 In vain she silently struggled to free her J self. He held her firmly and examine* • her arm as a scientist might study an in 1 sect under a microscope. Suddenly hj raised his eyes from her arm to her fac ■ and smiled so tauntingly, so malevolent ly, that Portia gave a faint little moai and fell hack in her chair. 1 “Miss Mason,” said Mr. Raymond, “ fear Mrs. Marchmont is ill.” 1 I sprang to her side and lifted her head Portia had fainted! CHAPTER XII. A BATTLE ROYAL. In reading over what I have written ] find I appear more or less in the role o: an accidental eavesdropper. I am now about to describe a scene to which I was an intentional listener. Let me excuse myself. I had become firmly convinced that Portia was plotting harm to Daphne; that she was visiting the old hag of Dead Man’s svvamj to urge her to hasten the destruction ol the child, for whom, through some unaccountable madness, she had conceived a violent hatred. I felt myself, then, quite justified in frustrating her wicked schemes. I constituted myself a detective and watched Portia unceasingly. I determined that at the first suspicious movement I would report everything to Colonel Marchmont and leave him to act. But Maurice Raymond! He was almost as great a mystery to me as his cousin. And my instinct warned me that he, too, was studying and watching Portia. His puzzled air at first sight of her, his quizzing and leading questions, and above all that inexplicable examination of her arm in so rude and masterly a fashion were all mystifying and vexing. How I wished to penetrate his thoughts, to read what was passing behind the impassive face! At times I was prompted to seek him and confide all the details which were so troubling me, but my natural timidity and reticence forbade this step. Portia was like a caged tigress these days. She fumed and stormed and lashed herself into tempests of rage. She feared and hated this cool, calm, inscrutible man. who was for some reason dissecting and analyzing her. She tried to avoid him, but it was useless. He was ever at her side. Did she lounge in one of the great bamboo piazza chairs, Mr. Raymond took the one next her. If she snatched a shawl and fled down one of the garden paths, Maurice at once lighted a cigar and followed, keeping at a respectful distance enough, but allowing her to see she was under his constant surveillance. His manner, too, when he addressed her was peculiar. It was a combination of authority and mocking courtesy. She winced perceptibly when he spoke to her and seemed relieved when his utterance was not a question concerning the past. I marveled greatly that Colonel Marchmont did not mark the comedy—or was it a tragedy?—that was being enacted under his eyes. But he appeared to live apart, wrapped in sorrowful and gloomy thoughts, and rousing only when his child sprang upon his knee and cuddled closely to his heart. But to return to the scene of which 1 was at first an involuntary, then intentional listener. One dreary, rainy afternoon I was sitting in the window seat of the library, the heavy curtains shutting me in and completely concealing me from view. I knew Daphne was asleep in the nursery with Sophie watching her. The colonel had driven to the neighboring town. Portia had shut herself in her rooms after luncheon and refused to admit me when I knocked. I supposed Mr. Raymond to be in the smoking room at the eud of the hall. Presently, however, I heard a man’s tread, and peering between the curtains saw him come in the library, throw himself down in a big easy chair in the corner by the fire and fall to studying the glowing coals. I reflected whether I should speak to him, but decided not. “Ho will go soon,” I thought, “and in any event he would not care to talk to me.” The door softly opened, and Portia came in. She wore a long white dressing gown, and her heavy braids of hair wore tumbling down. She appeared half asleep and did not see her cousin. Crossing to tho bookshelves, she selected a novel, and turning prepared to leave I the room, but with the quick, stealthy I spring of a tiger Maurice was before | tier. He locked tho door, and turning | jave her a terrible smile. “How dare you?” she panted. “Tho stereotyped question of a woman | when she is vanquished,” sneered he. ‘Dear cousin, why do you not go in for something original?” “Open that door,” she fumed, “and et me go.” “1 will not,” ho retorted. “Do you ,hink after all the skirmishing between is since my arrival now that it has some to battle that you are to escape ne? That may be your mode of fightng—to run away; I think it very likely j —but it does not please me. ” She turned toward the bell rope, evi- i lently with the intention of summoning I lelp. With a cruel laugh, he whipped i rat his knife and cut the rope and | ossed it contemptuously at her feet. “Ring for your servants, do.” he said I auntingly. I began to be frightened. Ought I to | uake my presence known? While I hes- 1 tated Portia spoke: “1 am not afraid of you, you coward.” i “Oh, yes, yon are,” he retorted lightly. I ‘You have been afraid of me ever since came—before I came. I do not won[er—you—you” “Maurice, Maurice,” she cried wildly, “Don’t dare to call me Maurice when 70 are alone,” he said, “you may keep p the farce before others a little long- ( r” “Farce!” she cried, “Enough. Twill i ot be insulted any longer. Open that i oor, Mr. Raymond, and let me go, or I ! dll rouse tho whole house,” 1 i

He simply burst out into a fit of the most mocking laughter I have ever heard. It maddened Portia, and she flew at him like a fury. He caught her hands and pushed her way. “Sit down,” he said sternly, “and listen to me. You have not imposed upon me. I have recognized your infamy. You have deluded everybody but me, though I think the little northern girl suspects you. She is not a fool. You are clever and cunning, but .you have gone too far. Your inhumanity to that poor innocent child shall be avenged. I

“Open that door,” she fumed, “and Ic me go.’ 1 know more than you suspect. I knov the key you carry which will only un lock one door. I know of your midnigh walks. I know your friends in Deac Man’s swamp.” Portia staggered to her feet. “Have mercyl Have pity !”sho moaned “The mercy you have shown to the in nocent shall be yours," he said, witl flashing eyes. “You are not a woman but a vampire. Go now,” and he unlocked the door. “Go, but do not foi one moment think you can escape me. You are as much ray prisoner as thougl: chained in a cell. Go to your rooom and stay there until I send for you.” Moaning, shivering and cowed, Portia rushed by this terrible man. I heard her lagging footsteps ascend the stairs and the sound of her moaning die along the corridor. Then I parted the curtains and stepped out, CHAPTER XIII. NORTH AND SOUTH. I think for once in his life Mr. Maurice Raymond was nonplused. However, he speedily recovered. “Ah!” he cried, “you sly little Puritan, eavesdropping were you? Do you think that is a nice trick for good little girls?” “Sir 1” I said stiffly, “I am neither a Puritan nor a good little girl” “No?” he asked good humoredly, “are you then a pagan and a bad little girl?” “Please remember 1 am not on the witness stand,” I retorted, “and do not try to muddle me with vain questions.” j At this he shouted with laughter. “I am glad you find me amusing,” I said, with considerable severity. “I do,” he cried; “You are delicious with your prim- little ways, and your stiff little speeches, and your dear little face” “Sirl” I exploded. “Pardon me, my child. I have no right to speak of j r ou in that way. But come,” catching my hands in his and drawing me away from the window, “tell me, how came you to be spying and eavesdropping?” “I was not spying,” I sputtered indignantly. “1 was reading there when you came in. I wish now 1 had made my presence known, and that I had not been a witness of your unpardonable severity to that poor, wretched, half mad woman.” “Ohl She is half mad, is she?” he asked, assuming his puzzled and questioning air, “Why, cannot you see her condition for yourself?” I asked, “And I must say that while it is just as well she should know that you have remarked her cruelty toward Daphne 1 think you might have been less harsh with her. Poor Portia is not to blame. She is the victim of some dreadful spell cast over her by those vile creatures, those voodoos in Dead Man’s swamp.” Mr. Raymond caught me by the shoulders and bent his head to scrutinize my face. “What do you know, child,” he muttered, “of Dead Man’s swamp and the people there? You couldn’t have been in that ghastly place.” “No,” I replied, “I havenot been there, | but I know enough about it and the bale- ! ful influence it has exerted on my poor j friend’s life. My desire is to save Portia, to see her restored to her right mind and bring her once more to her husband and child." “Why, so is mine,” he answered, with a curious expression. “Well, this is no way to go about it,” I said, “to fly at a crazy woman, call her a vampire, taunt her, alarm her, talk about chaining her in a cell and all that. To be sure, it’s just like a man. You are not to blame, I suppose, for your brusquerie, which amounts almost to—to”— I hesitated. “Well, well, out with itt Let’s hear the dreadful word,” he cried. “Brutality I” 1 said. “So I was brutal, was I?” he asked. “Indeed you were. I had no idea that j i courteous gentleman could behave so | villainously to a suffering woman.” “Well, now, tell me,” said Mr. Raymond quite solicitously I fancied, “how should I have approached Portia?” “It is quite right to be firm and deeded with her,” I answered. “I think myself she needs a strong hand. You :an see for yourself how little attention mr husband pays to her, and I blame Jolonel Marchmont greatly for this defforable state of affairs. He neglects iis wife, treats her with contempt and :oldness. What can a man expect? tVhy, I heard him say a dreadful thing o her one evening. She was dancing in he hall—somewhat boisterously, to be v#e” —the blood rushed to my face as 1 ecalled that abandoned dance—“and he ,

3 told her that her dancing was more suitr able to the orgies of Dead Man’s swamp 3 than to a gentleman’s house.” r “Quite right, too,” interposed Mr. Raymond. . | “Oh, you are as bad as he,” I said, and i ! it suddenly occurring to me that Maurice was still holding my hands 1 tried to , draw they away, but he only tightened I his grasp. i ! “Don’t, Prudence,” he said very quiet- ) ly, “don’t take your hands away. Poor ; 1 little fragile claws,” looking down on them, “I could easily crush them, but they are good hands.” He suddenly bent Uis head and kissed them. It was the first caress I had ever received from any one save Portia and Daphne. I trembled, and with an effort released myself and left him, going over to the fire. Mr. Raymond followed, but did not attempt to touch me. He took up his station opposite mo on the rug, and leaning his arm on the mantel said: “Possibly I was too severe with her; but, as you say, she needs a strong hand. Sho must not bo allowed to harm little Daphne, must she?” “On no account,” I replied quickly. “Since that night 1 have watched and guarded the child constantly.” “Since what night?” he asked carelessly. I hesitated. 1 was conscious that he was trying to draw me out. Should i tell him? He knew of the closed gate, he knew of Portia’s visit to the swamp, why should he not know of this? I studied his face before speaking. Candor and honesty were written there. He might be severe, but he was just. Yes, i would tell him. I then as briefly as possible recited the story of that night. When I spoke of the knife she carried, and which she held so long as if in invocation toward the moon, he gave a perceptible start. And when I repeated the conversation with old Jezebel at the gate he was again visibly affected. Once he ground his teeth and stamped his foot in rage, and more than once the strong white fingers . clinched as if they ached to throttle somebody. Then, growing more confidential, 1 told him of my first night in the house ! and of Portia’s stealthy survey of me through the window: the experience in the arbor; her anger when 1 tried the

“They are good hands.”

closed gate, and at last of that awfn cry in the night which had welled n{ from the interior of Dead Man’s swamp His face grew tense and white will suppressed passion, and the veins stooc out on his neck like cords. “Oh, Portia, Portial” he cried as 1 fin ished, “my poor tortured girl. It if time for me to act. Yes, it is time foi me to act.” “Can we save her?” I asked tremulously. “Can we?” he said, rousing from the study in which he was plunged. “Yes, we will.” Then once more, taking my not too unwilling hands in his, he said gently and almost tenderly: “Little woman, I believe you to be of the stuff of which fighters are made. There must-be a drop of Bunker Hill blood in your veins. I believe yon to be loyal, honest and brave. You are courageous? Yes, I know yon are. 1 want you to trust yourself to me, to go through a terrible experience. To what end? you will ask. To this: We will save Portia. Will you help me?” “With all my heart.” "Very well. Say nothing to a soul, but prepare to go with me at midnight to Dead Man’s swamp.” CHAPTER XIV. A MIDNIGHT MISSION. I started. To Dead Man’s swamp! To enter that uncanny, mysterious place at midnight was a prospect which might well daunt the most courageous of women. What could be Maurice’s motive in visiting that spot? How was Portia to be benefited by such an adventure? As if he read ray thoughts, Mr. Raymond said; “Yes, little woman, you hesitate. 1 expected that, but you need have no ’ear. You will be amply protected, and . want your assistance and presence. 1 iced you. Will yon come?” A thrill shot through me at these vords. I raised my eyes and saw in us only the kindest and teuderest exiression. “Come,” he sai l again, holding out ds hand. I would have followed him to the nds of the earth had he so bidden me. put my hand in his. “I will go,” I said. At nightfall the rain ceased, but the ky was black and overcast. 1 shudderd as I drew back the curtains and lookd out and thought of the dense tangles ud thickets of the gloomy swamp. How dack, how awful, how impenetrable, eemed those dusky recesses 1 rememeredl What was 1 to see—to hear on his wild midnight quest? I scarcely ared ask myself. But I resolved there should be no misivings, no faint hearted ness. 1 had put ly hand to the plow, and 1 would not urn back. To save Portia, Maurice ad said. Ah, yes! if by any sacrifice f creature comfort I could exorcise tha vil influences surrounding my poor ’’end, how gladly would I make that anial!

But what did it mean? Had Maurice in any way discovered that Portia intended to pay one of her nocturnal visits to the swamp? Was it his plan to follow her and plead, threaten or command her to give over forever her association with the half human devotees of that hellish cult? But of what avail were questionings? I found no answers to the many riddles puzzling my mind. I trusted Maurice with the blind, unreasoning trust which every woman gives to the man she loves. For I had acknowledged the fact to say lonely heart that I loved this brilliant, intellectual, masterful man. Though my superior in every way, I yet lifted my eyes to him as a weed clings to the base of a- mighty tree. Did he love me? It seemed absolute folly to think so, and yet I could not banish the look in his ej’es, the ring in his voice nor the magnetic pressure of his lips upon my hands. “Good little hands,” he had said, looking down on them. And now as I looked down on them, too, and remembered his words I was thankful they had never been stained with evil, and that though small they were strong and could help him on his mission, whatever it might be. Portia did not appear at dinner, sending down a message that she was not well. I knocked at the door, but she would not admit me. Colonel Marchmont appeared to be plunged in deeper gloom than ever. He

9r “Oh, God!” self. Daphne only could rouse him from the lethargy which surrounded and enveloped him. It was painful to see him so depressed, so unhappy. When spoken to, his gaze wandered, and his answers were incoherent.” “You are not well, dear, fellow,” said Maurice as we left the dining room, “I cannot sleep. I have not slept for two nights,” returned the colonel. “When I close my eyes, I see her as she used to he, not as she is now—oh, God!” wildly breaking off. “Listen, Jermyn,” said Maurice in a low voice. “Your troubles are nearly at an end. No, do not ask one question now. Before another day dawns your doubts, your sorrows, will be dispelled. All I ask of you is to go to the library and remain there until I come. Do not leave the room or house. Wait therefor me if you wait until daybreak. Do you promise?” Colonel Marcbmont stared at Ray-

mond in a dazed fashion. “Trust me, Jermyn,” said Maurice, “and promise me.” “I promise,” said the colonel in a strange voice. Overhearing this, I marveled more than ever. Was it possible that Maurice intended, after bringing Portia from her rendezvous with the voodoos, to lead her into her husband’s presence and oblige her to beg his forgiveness? I grew more and more mystified. The evening dragged away. Daphne was sent to bed, Sophie receiving orders from Maurice, who seemed to have assumed command of everything, not to leave the child for one moment during the night. Eleven o’clock. I sat in the drawing room waiting for Maurice, aa we had agreed to meet there. The great house was still. There were lights in the library, where the unlTappy husband kept his vigil. But everywhere else darkness brooded over the mansion. The silence, the hour, the nervous expectancy possessing me grew almost unbearable. “Where is he? Why does he not come?” I cried to myself. Suddenly I heard stealthy footsteps in the hall above, on the stairs, then the rustle of a woman’s dress. Stepping softly to the drawing room door, I looked ont. A figure wrapped in black was descending the stairs. It was Portia. Clinging to the stair rail with j one hand, with the other she was drawj ing a long black lace scarf over her face, which in the dim light was ghastly and terrible to see. Just as she reached the lower stairs a man stepped quickly out from the corner of the hall. Maurice! Without a word he confronted her. She stared at him for an instant with dilating eyes; then, evidently realizing her helplessness, with a gasp fell forward, He caught her in his arms and carried her up the stairs. I heard the door of the room open and in another moment shut. Then a key softly clicked in a lock, and presently Maurice came ! down the stairs again. He came into the drawing room. “Prudence,” he said in a low voice, “are you here?” “Yes,” I responded, going toward him “Are you ready?” “Yes.” “Give mo your hand. Alii Pulse all right, nerves steady. Good. Come.” “But Portia” “Well, what of her?” “She is ill. I ought to go to her.” “She will soon be better. It is nothing serious. You can help her more by going 1 to the swamp than in any other way.” | He drew me out upon the piazza, I wrapped mj 7 shawl closer about me, and tucking my band under his arm led the way down the path toward the swamp. There was no conversation. We walked in utter silence. Once or twice he turned and looked back. I had a fancy that he was looking to see if we were followed. Just as we came to the wall and the

closed gate a dark figure rose suddenly up, it seemed to me, from the earth. I suppressed a faint-shriek. “Don’t he alarmed,” said Maurice. “Jake, is that you?” “Yes,” answered the big overseer. “You have your rifle?” “Yes, sir.” “Are the hoys at hand?” “Yes, sir; here they are,” as two brawny negroes stepped out of the darkness. “That’s all right. How, I don’t apprehend any trouble; still there may be some. I wish the lady to be protected in any event. You remain here close by the gate. If you hear my pistol, come; otherwise wait for us.” “All right, sir,” replied Jake. Mr. Raymond drew a key from his pocket and opened the gate. He held out his hand. “Come, Prudence,” he said. We stepped through the gate. He did not lock it behind us. “Remember, Jake,” he said in a low tone, “if you hear my pistol, lose no time.” “Yes, sir.” Black, slimy and filthy stretched the morass about us. We were in Dead Man’s swamp. CHAPTER XV. THE FRIGHTFUL TRUTH. The path was so narrow we were obliged to go in Indian file for a part of the way, but as the forest grew thicker and denser about ns the path broadened. Huge cypresses barred our way; long, drifting moss dangled in our faces; brack- • ish pools wet our feet, hut on, on we ; went. Through clusters of huge fern, over logs rising like reptiles from the water, our road lay. Around us stretched those sullen solitudes, oppressive and hideous. To my excited fancy . it seemed that ghostly hands were reaching out to impede our progress or to trip us as we walked. Closer I clung to Maurice’s side, and tighter his hand gripped mine. And now, as on the first night I had

seen this desolate place, I was conscious of a strange impulse urging me on. Who was it calling me? What was it that beckoned me? I could not go fast enough, but longed fo* wings to fly. “Oh, what is it?” I whispered to Maurice. “Whatdoes it mean? Wearelos- . ing time. Let ns hasten.” “Hush!” he gently said. “Yes, time has been lost, but we are not too late.” Suddenly a mournful sound was borne : through the forest—a monotonous droning wail, horrid, harsh and threatening. And then at a quick turn in the path a bright light glowed through a rift in the black foliage, and I saw a sight I can never forget. In a little clearing was a bonfire. Round about this fire circled slowly, with lugubrious cries, a ring of half naked black men and women. Back of > the circle on a rough throne built of boxes and logs sat the horrible old negress Jezebel. Her rags fluttered in the night wind; her scanty locks were tossed over her bare, skinny shoulders. In one hand she held a forked stick, and in the other, dreadful to relate, a writhing,. wriggling snake. As we looked, rising from her throne she held the serpent aloft and waved her forked scepter slowly three times. It was the signal for a wild, unlicensed dance, an abandoned, lascivious measure, in which I was horrified to trace resemblances to Portia’s audacious outburst in the hall a few nights before. “Those are Portia’s friends,” whispered my guide. “What do you think of them?” ' “Oh, is it not terrible?” I murmured. “We must —we must save her!” Old Jezebel shook her serpent. The negroes leaped and bounded in frenzy. Many fell exhausted ,on the ground, foaming at the mouth and clutching at the fire. It was the most awful sight I had ever seen. “Oh, let us go back!” I moaned. “What can we do here?” “Our work is only begun;” said Maurice. “Nerve yourself now, little Bunker Hill, for what is coming.” By this time the negroes had fallen down and lay insensible here and there.

The old woman sank back upon her throne in a stupor. She held the snake pressed to her withered breast. I was sickened, terrified, faint. “Do you see that wretched hut yonder?” said Maurice. “That is old Jezebel’s home. We must enter it.” “Oh, why?” I asked in a terrified whisper. “Because there onty is the talisman which will save Portia,” he answered. Creeping stealthily forward, we passed the stupid voodoos, worn out with their disgusting orgies. The hut, quite overgrown with trailing vines, was scarcely fit for swine to inhabit. Through the half open door the red gleam of the fire darted, lighting up the miserable room. In one corner was a wretched pallet of straw and rags, and on it something lay. “Come here,” said Maurice solemnly, taking off his hat as if in the presence of death; “come here, Prudence. I looked—and, oh, God{ Oh, God{ What was this? Worn and wasted to a skeleton, clad in filthy rags, pale as marble, insensible, dead perhaps, lay—Portial Yes, the real Portia—not the handsome, bold pretender up at the great house yonder, but my Portia—my Por-