spoken have sealed your fate! Dog as I am, I have the power to work your ruin, and I will do it! I go from your presence a bitter and unrelenting foe! The love you have rejected has turned into bitterness, and the dregs of that bitterness you shall drink till your soul sickens unto death! I will never lose sight of you! Go where you may, I will follow you! Hide in what corner of the world you may, I will find you! When you meet me, remember I am an implacable enemy, seeking revenge!"

"Go, vile miscreant, from my presence! Think not to intimidate me. Better an 'open enemy than a secret foe.' I am glad you have unmasked yourself so fully. Now I know that I have escaped the worst fate on earth."

"Not the worst! To be the wife of even a villain is better than to be his victim!"

"Leave my presence, sir, or I will call a slave to put you out! Infamous wretch! The curse of God be upon you!"

He went, quailing under the flash of her indignant eye, which made his guilty soul cower in abasement.

When he was fairly gone, her high strung energies relaxed, and the reaction prostrated her strength. She sunk upon a lounge, and, giving way to her feelings, exclaimed:

"That man may yet work the ruin of my happiness! Oh, God, pity me, and let not the wicked triumph! In Thee I put my trust. Let thy watchful eye be over me, and thy power protect me. Oh, let me not fall into the hands of my enemy; but preserve me by thy right hand, and keep me lifted up!"

Prayer gave her strength, and renewed her courage. Relying, with firm faith, on the goodness and watchful care of her Father in heaven, she became cheerful and composed.

She very seldom saw or heard anything of Durant, but when she did, it always awakened fear. For a year she heard nothing of him, and, at last, the old dread had passed from her heart, when her father prepared to go to the West.

As for Durant, he went from her presence muttering curses and threatening vengeance, among which was distinguished by a slave, grated out between his clenched teeth, "I'll make her repent this day's work in 'sack-cloth and ashes!' aye, if all h—ll oppose!"

CHAPTER III.

THE VILLAIN AND HIS VICTIM.

The reader has, doubtless, arrived at the conclusion that Durant was planning the destruction of Ellen Walton when he so earnestly desired the assistance of Miss Fleming; and it will now be perceived how false were his statements in relation to the character of the expected guest. Though unseen himself, he had taken every precaution to make certain of the party at the Fleming Hotel; and just at the close of day he had the satisfaction of seeing his efforts crowned with success. General Walton, influenced by the tales his daughter's foe had whispered to him in confidence, passed by the more elegant houses, which, but for defaming reports, he would have preferred making his abode during his short stay in the place, and took lodgings at the "Fleming."

Eliza Fleming made the acquaintance of her young female guest, and every fresh insight into Miss Walton's character made her regret the hard necessity she was under of doing her an injury. She had a hard struggle in her mind, but at length her determination was fixed. To procure the ruin of the innocent guest, (for she had thoroughly satisfied herself that Miss Walton was innocent and virtuous,) whom every obligation of hospitality required her to protect, was indeed damnable; but to forfeit the hand of Durant under the circumstances was impossible, and not to be thought of. Poor Ellen! Heaven shield thee!

Durant was not seen by any of the Waltons, as it was his object to keep them in entire ignorance of his proximity until such time as he chose to reveal himself. Miss Fleming knew where to find him; and, according to agreement, met him during the evening, to arrange some matters connected with the plot.

"Louis, you have required too much at my hands in this affair. I fear I shall not be able to comply with the terms of agreement."

"Then return my written promise of marriage, and live to be despised and a by-word among men! I thought the matter was definitely settled, and that you had resolved to save your own honor and name at every hazard."

"But is this my only hope?"

"Yes, as true as there is a God in heaven, it is. I will forsake you forever unless you comply with my wishes in this affair."

"Then I must name some conditions, to which I shall demand the strictest compliance on your part."

"Name them."

"In the first place, then, to avoid the possibility of noise or mishap, I will give the lady a potion, which will stupefy her faculties, and cause a deep sleep to lock up all her senses for the space of three or four hours. I will so arrange it, that these hours shall be from eleven to three o'clock, and what is done must be accomplished between those periods of time. You shall, therefore, not enter number seventeen until after eleven o'clock, and you must positively leave it before three; and you shall not let your victim know what transpires at this house until after the Waltons have left the city. Do you consent to these terms?"

"I suppose I must."

"Then the matter is settled. Remember the hours; I shall know if my injunctions are disregarded, and you will fare the worse for it."

"Fear not. Come to reflect, I like your plan better than my own, as there is less danger in it every way."

"Enough. Good night."

"Hold a moment. Is there any fastening on the door between the rooms, on the side in number seventeen?"

"There is; but I will take care of that; and you know no one, unless well acquainted with the spot, could tell there was a door there."

"True, true—I had forgotten that fact."

"Oh, I forgot one prohibition. You must in no case let a ray of light into seventeen. It might render all our precautions abortive, and defeat their object."

"Very well. I will be careful."

"Do so, and all will be well. Of course, no noise, even as loud as a whisper, must be heard in the lady's room."

"I will be discreet; trust me for that. I am glad you have come to the rescue; I find there is nothing like a woman's wit."

"Take care, then, that you are never outwitted by them!"

"Not much fear of that while I have such an ingenious ally!"

"Take good care to keep her an ally; as an enemy, she might be equally ingenious."

And so they parted. As she left the room, she mentally exclaimed:

"'Come to the rescue!' Yes, I am truly glad I have!"

The guests retired to their beds, and all was still as the solemn silence of midnight. The old clock in the corner tolled the hour of eleven, and half an hour afterward, a stealthy tread might have been heard along the partition dividing the two rooms already named. Soon a door slowly opened on its rusty hinges, and in the rayless darkness Durant entered the number containing his victim. He reached the couch, and paused to assure himself that all was as he desired. His ear was saluted with a heavy breathing, as of one in deep sleep.

"All right!" he muttered within himself. "My hour has come. The vengeance of the 'dog' shall be complete! Oh, but how I will glory in my triumph, and the proud one's disgrace! I'll make her feel what it is to insult a nobleman by blood! Gods, how the memory burns my brain of that indignity! An unknown girl to scorn and cast contumely upon one of England's line of lords! This night be the stain wiped out!"

Lost! lost! lost! demon! from thy presence we turn away! Villain and victim, there is a God above!

The morning dawned, and the sun rose as cloudless as though no deeds of crime, needing the darkness to cover them, had been perpetrated on the earth. The Waltons left with the company they expected to join at Pittsburg on the succeeding