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sinister eye of the man, and his haggard, repulsive face, which gave a momentary check to the conversation, and no one answered him, but he went

on,

"Go on, don't let me stop talk. On with you. I want to break in on no man's humor. I've an odd humor of my own; for I've heard that there's a man to be hanged to-morrow, and I've come fifty miles to see it. I was at the trial, and now I'm come to see if he'll wear the same bold face when he dies that he did then."

"

So you were at the trial?" said Caleb Grayson, who was leaning with his elbow on the table, and his cheek rest ing on the palm of his hand, and looking gloomily in the fire.

"Ay, I was, my man," said the stranger bluntly; "and I saw you there. You were the witness who swore that you saw him stab Wickliffe. I was at your elbow at the time. Your testimony did for him."

The old man half started from his seat, and turned exceedingly pale, at the same time pressing his hand across his eyes. At last he said, in a low agitated voice:

"What could a man do? I was forced to go, and my answer was on oath. I did see him stab him-I'm sure I did."

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Then, of course, it was all right. For my part, I'm glad he's to hang. I shall be glad when he is out of the way. Had I been on the jury, and known only what you stated, I would have brought in the same verdict."

The old man looked at him sharply, as he asked: "What do you mean? What else do you know?""

"Know!" repeated the stranger, looking carelessly up, and drumming with his whip upon his boot. "Nothing. What could I know? You saw him murder the man, didn't you? You swore to that. I should think there was little more to be discovered."

“True, true," replied the other. "Yet this is a strange story of Harry's, and even now he persists in it, and in asserting his innocence. Poor fellow! I always loved that boy as my own child. I, I who have brought him to this end. Poor little Mary Lincoln, too! it has killed her. Thank God, she is in her grave. It's better for her."

"Of course he'll insist to the last that he is not guilty," said the stranger. "There's always two ways of dy

ing. Some confess, and throw themselves on the mercy of the law. Others keep their mouths tight, and accuse it of injustice to the last. The first hope for pardon, through its clemency. The last hope it, through the fear which every man has of shedding innocent blood. He's one of the last. He bears it boldly, I'm told.”

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Harry Blake is no coward," replied Grayson. He says he's ready to die; but that he is innocent. The love of life must be strong in him, for until now I never thought that he woul lie, even to save his life. But he is not innocent-no-no, he is not; for I saw him do it-I saw him. The love of life is very strong. It must be, or Harry Blake would not lie."

A slight, sneering smile flitted across the face of the stranger, as he turned from the speaker, and looked among the dull embers of the fire, without speaking. It was a dim, dreary room, and its distant corners were lost in darkness; and the frame of the stranger, as he sat between the andirons, threw a gigantic, spectral shadow on the wall, that seemed to have something ominous about it, and taken in connection with the gloomy nature of the conversation, and the cold indifference of the stranger, and his wild, forbidding air, seemed to have thrown a chill on all about him. For as he sat there, buried in deep thought, with his eyebrows knit, and his lips working, as with suppressed emotion, those who had hitherto hugged the fire began slowly to widen the distance between themselves and their ill-omened visiter; to scan his person, as if there were more in it than met the eye, and to watch his tall shadow on the wall, as if there were something about it more than appertained to shadows in general. Still they spoke not, until the object of their solicitude, as if concluding a long mental discussion, drew a heavy breath, and rising, said:

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Well, let him die. It's as well. Others have died in the same way."

Turning to a sort of under-barkeeper, who officiated in the absence of Garret, he said: "See to my horse, will you? And now show me to my room, and wake me at sunrise. I shall not breakfast here."

Those collected about the fire watched him as he followed the attendant out of the room, and shut the door after them.

"What do you think of that man, Mr. Tompkins?" said one of them to a small man in an ample vest and contracted small-clothes.

"Come, come, none of that," said the small man, with an air of suspicious stubbornness. "Don't be trying to make me commit myself by asking questions." As he spoke he fixed his eyes obstinately on his own finger nails-not that they were particularly clean or ornamental.

"Can't you speak your own mind, man!" said the other pettishly.

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Still the small man ogled his nails. Well then," said his companion, "I'll tell you what I think. I think," said he, sinking his voice, and placing the back of his hand to the corner of his mouth, by way of indicating the extreme of confidence, "I think he won't be drowned."

"Ah!" said the small man, "if that's all, I think so myself."

And having settled this matter to their mutual satisfaction, they rose to go, a motion in which they were followed by all except Caleb Grayson, who, long after they were gone, and the room was silent and deserted, sat there, with a heavy heart, at the part which the law had forced him to take in the legal murder which was to take place on the morrow. At last he started up as if a sudden thought had struck him, and finding his way to the stable, saddled his horse and rode off.

It was a dark night. Black clouds were drifting across the sky, obscuring it, and together with the tall trees and forests which in places overhung the road, rendering it pitchy dark. In defiance of the threatening look of the sky and the obscurity of the road, the old man kept steadily on for several hours, neither pausing to rest his beast nor to refresh himself, until it was broad daylight, when he arrived at a large wooden building. Stopping for the first time, he fastened his horse to the gate, and crossing a small yard, ascended a flight of steps and entered the hall.

A guard was pacing up and down there; and near him, on a wooden bench, sat an old man reading a wornout Bible.

"Can I see Blake ?" demanded Grayson of the old man.

"Yes, yes, I suppose you can," replied he, putting aside his book; "I've orders to admit his friends-a sad busi

ness-a sad business-and he the flower of the country round. Ah, neighbor Grayson, who would have thought it!"

Caleb Grayson made no reply to the remarks in which the old man indulged, until he opened the door of the room or cell, and pointed to Blake, seated at a small wooden table within. Blake rose as the old man entered, and extended his hand to him.

"This is kind, Caleb," said he, "I was afraid that you alone, of all my friends, would not call to see me; for I know what you think of me."

"Ah! that's the reason, Harry, that I could not come," replied the other sadly. "I knew that I had brought you to this, and I could not bear to come and look at my work."

Well, well, it's all past, and God knows I've little to live for nowpoor Mary-she's gone-no matter, no matter; the worst is over-and you must'nt lay it to heart, Caleb-you acted for the best, and we'll not talk of it."

"But we must talk of it, we must," exclaimed the old man. "In spite of all that I felt, it's what I came for. If I would die easy, I must know the truth; and I have come here, Harry, to beg, to conjure you to tell it."

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You have heard it already," said Harry, sadly.

"No, no, Harry, I have not; I know I have not," said he, "but you will tell it to me now.

Harry Blake turned his head away, and was silent.

"Harry, my dear boy," said the old man, crouching at his feet, and pressing his forehead against his knees, "my own dear boy, do confess to me. It will render more happy a life that is nearly spent to have my statement confirmed from your own lips. Don't be afraid of me, Harry; for here I swear, in the presence of the God who made us both, that I will not reveal what you tell me. Indeed I will not. Come, Harry, come."

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Caleb," said Blake, passing his hand kindly over the old man's head, "from my soul I pity you; but I cannot lie."

"You pity me!" said the old man, rising. "Am I the one to be pitied? No, no, not quite so bad as that; not quite so bad as that. I'll not believe it, say what you will. With my own eyes, Harry, I saw you commit that

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Blake shook his head; "You think so, I know you think so; I'll do you that justice. But your eyes deceived you. It's useless to dwell on this now. You have done what the law made your duty, in telling what you believed to be truth. I should have had to do the same myself; and 1 freely forgive you,"

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'No, no, Harry," said Grayson, with childish querulousness, "this will not do. Why will you not tell the truth? You cannot be saved now. All hope is past. Come, there's a good fellow. You met--you quarrelled-words grew high-he attacked you,-and finally you-you-stabbed him. Ha ha! that was the way of it, wasn't it? A man will do many things when his blood's up, which he wouldn't at another time. Your hot blood couldn't bear all that he said. It was natural, and I think pardonable; indeed I do." He placed his hands on Blake's shoulders, and looking imploringly in his face, whilst his voice changed from its assumed tone of vivacity to one of the deepest sadness. "Harry, wasn't it so? Tell me, my own dear boy,

wasn't it so? You know you quarrelled with him at the tavern." "I did, indeed," said Harry, gloomily, "God forgive me for it."

"And you swore that you would have revenge if it cost you your life.” "It was an impious speech!" replied Blake in a grave tone, “ and fearfully has it been visited upon me."

"You left the tavern," continued Grayson eagerly, "took the same road which he had taken; came up with him-"

"And found him dead!" said Blake. "I'll not believe it! It's not true," exclaimed the old man, striding up and down the room with his hands clasped together. "It's not true. Oh! Harry, it's horrible to go to the grave persisting in a lie."

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CHAPTER VI.

By day-break the country around was astir; men singly, and squads of three or four-women and children, old and young, the hale, the sick, the decrepit, were all in motion, and drifting, like a sluggish current, towards the scene of execution.

It was a large field, in a retired, outof-the-way spot, hemmed in by trees; a place whose silence and solitude were rarely disturbed; yet now it hummed with life. Fences, rocks, and every little eminence of ground, were packed with people. The trees were crowded with masses of human beings, who hung like bees from their branches, and near the foot of the gallows, the earth was black with them, crammed and wedged together,--not foot-not an inch to spare. There was a great sea of faces, turned up at one time to the tall frame-work above them; at another, towards where the far distant road wound among the hills. Occasionally there was a scuffle, and the mass rocked to and fro, like a forest waving before the wind; and then came curses and execrations from the writhing multitude; but by

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degrees, the tumult subsided, and they were quiet again. Then they looked at the sun, and wondered how soon Harry would come-they were weary with waiting. Some spoke of him as of an old friend. He was a fine fellow-they had known him from childhood. Has he confessed yet?" inquired one, “No, no, not he," was the reply, "He'll not give up till the last; it's thought he'll do it then. I heard some one say, that old Caleb Grayson was all last night in his cell, trying to pump it out of him; but he was game. Caleb could get nothing from him."

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Come, I like that," said the other, rubbing his hands together. "That's so like Harry; I'll bet ten to one, he'll not show the white feather at the last. Ha! who's that?"

As he spoke, he pointed to a tall, swarthy man, who came forcing his way through the crowd, jostling them hither and thither, heeding not the grumblings and cursings which followed him, as he dragged himself on ; once or twice, as some fellow more sturdy than the rest withstood him, he turned and glanced at him, with a look

of such savage and bitter anger, that the man was glad to let him pass. Thus on he went, until he reached the very foot of the gallows; and there he fixed himself, taking notice of no one, and regardless that even in that dense crowd a small circle was formed around him, as if there were contamination in his touch. Above him, from the cross-piece of the gallows, the cord swung to and fro in the wind; and at times, as he raised his eye to it, a smile crossed his face, giving to it a strangely wild expression, that was long remembered by those who saw him there.

"There'll soon be something to tighten that string," said he, to a tall, burly man who stood nearest to him, with his good-natured eye running from the speaker to the cord, as if it struck him, that the weight most fitting for that purpose were nearer than he imagined. "Yes, there will, more's the pity,' said the man, in reply to the remark, after pausing for some time, as if in doubt whether it merited one, "I for one am sorry for it."

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"Would you have the murderer escape?" demanded the stranger,

"Let him hang when he's found, say I," replied the man, "but Harry Blake denies that he did it, and I believe him."

Again that strange smile passed across the stranger's face, as he said, "Twelve sworn men, all of whom knew and liked Blake, heard the testimony, and said he did it. What more would you want?"

"I want Harry Blake's own confession, and we would have it, if he was guilty. That's what I want. I wish to Heaven, I had found him with the murdered man, I would have soon known the truth. I went to the spot the next day, but it was too late."

"What do you mean?" inquired the stranger with some interest.

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The man moved a little aside, and showed the head of a large dog, who was seated near him, with his nose thrust forward, almost touching the stranger. I went with that dog to the spot, and I put his nose to the track. He went round and round, and over the ground for more than a quarter of a mile. In the woods he found an old hat, which he tore to rags. I believe it belonged to the true murderer,-(he was smelling that hat this very morning, for I took it with me,)

but he lost the scent. Then I carried him to Harry Blake; but he would not touch him."

"A strange dog."

"Damme, sir!" said the man earnestly. "Do you know that he's been snuffing about you for the last ten minutes. Curse me if I havn't my suspicions of you: d-d if I havn't.”

The stranger's eyes fairly glowed as he returned his look; and then he burst into a loud laugh, and turned to those around :

"Hear him! He says I murdered Wickliffe, because his dog smells at my knee. Ha! ha! ha! Why don't you arrest me ?" demanded he, turning to the man.

The man, evidently abashed at this abrupt question, shook his head, muttered something between his teeth, and remained silent; and the stranger, after eyeing him for several moments, seeing that he was not disposed for further conversation, and apparently not caring to be the object of attention to all eyes, as he evidently then was, moved off among the crowd, and stationed himself on the opposite side of the gallows.

The time lagged heavily. The crowd grew restless and uneasy; and here and there, one or two, irritated beyond their patience, commenced a quarrel, which came to blows. This created a temporary excitement, but it was soon over, and by degrees they grew wearied again. They stamped their feet on the ground, to keep them warm. The farmers talked of their harvest and of their stock. Some of them gaped and yawned, and fell sound asleep as they stood there. Young girls flirted with and ogled their sweethearts, and there was many a pretty face in that crowd, whose owner had been induced to come only for the sake of him who was to escort her there, and who was thinking more of the young fellow who stood at her side, in his best apparel, than of poor Harry Blake. These, and the troops of liberated schoolboys, to whom a holiday was a great thing, even though bought by the life of a fellow-being, were the only persons unwearied.

But the time came at last, and a loud cry arose in the distance, and swept along through that multitude, becoming louder and louder, until it reached the foot of the gallows; and the whole mass swayed backward and forward,

and rushed and crowded together, as in the distance the prisoner was seen approaching. With a slow, steady pace the soldiers which escorted him came, forcing open the throng, and keeping an open space around the cart which conveyed him. Harry Blake was exceedingly pale, but his manner was composed, and his eye calm and bright as in his best days; and many a lip as he passed, muttered a God bless him. He spoke to no one; although his face once or twice faintly lighted with a look of recognition as he saw a familiar face. When he reached the foot of the scaffold his eye for a moment rested on Caleb Grayson, looking imploringly toward him. The old man caught his glance, and exclaimed, as he ascended the steps:

"Now, Harry, now confess: do, Harry-for God's sake!"

Blake shook his head. " No, Caleb, I cannot, for I am innocent."

These were his last words; for in a few minutes the drop fell, and poor Blake's earthly career was ended.

"Ha ha!" exclaimed the same swarthy man who had stood during the whole time at the foot of the gal lows, and whom Grayson recognized as the person that he had met at the inn the night previous. “That business is over. That's law!" And, without noticing the startled looks of those about him, with the same recklessness which he had displayed in coming, he forced his way through the crowd, and disappeared.

CHAPTER VII.

ABOUT three months after the execution of Blake, the judge who presided at the trial received a note from a prisoner under sentence of death, requesting to see him without delay, as his sentence was to be carried into effect on the day following. On his way thither, he overtook an old man, walking slowly along the road, on accosting whom he recognized him to be Caleb Grayson, who had been a witness at Blake's trial. The old man had received a note similar to his own; and was going to the same place, though he was equally at a loss to know the meaning of the summons. They both entered the cell together.

The prisoner was seated at a wooden table, with a small lamp in front of him, his forehead leaning on his hand, which shaded his eyes from the light. He was a tall, gaunt man, with dark sunken eyes, and unshorn beard, and hollow cheeks. He looked like one worn down by suffering and disease; yet one whom neither disease nor suffering could conquer, and to whom remorse was unknown. He did not move when his visiters entered, other wise than to raise his head. As he did so Grayson recognized at a glance the stranger whom he had seen at the tavern the night before Blake's execution, and at the gallows.

“Well, judge,” said he, as soon as he saw who they were, "I sent for you, to see if you can't get me out of this scrape. Must I hang to-morrow?"

The judge shook his head. "It's

idle to hope," said he; "nothing can prevent your execution."

"An application might be made to the higher authorities," said the prisoner. "Pardons have come, you know, even on the scaffold."

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"None will come in your case," replied the magistrate. It is needless for me to dwell on your offence now; but it was one that had no palliation, and you may rest assured that whatever may have occurred in other cases, no pardon will come in yours. In fact, I understand that an application has been made for one, by your counsel, and has been refused."

The features of the prisoner underwent no change; nor did the expres sion of his face alter in the least. But after a moment's pause, he said: “Is this true, judge upon your honor?"

"It is," replied the judge.

"Then I know the worst," replied the criminal coldly, "and will now tell, what I have to communicate, which I would not have done, while there was a hope of escape. You," said he, turning to the judge, “presided at the trial of young Henry Blake, who was accused of murder, and sentenced him to death."

"I did."

"And you," said he, turning to Grayson, were one of the witnesses against him. You swore that you saw him stab Wickliffe. On your testimony, principally, he was hung."

"I was," replied the old man; “I saw him with my own eyes."

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