"You are always sure of making a good haul, you | a few additional preparations, thus causing a second are," said the landlord, casting a glance of admiration delay, to the great annoyance of Clinton. at the heavy game-bag. "If I should hunt a week, I'm sure I couldn't kill a dozen such fat chickens as you have got to-day." "And not only to-day," returned Clinton, "but during just too hours time this afternoon. But it is nothing; I have killed twice the number before now in half the time." Lucky fellow!" sighed the landlord. Lucky? Why, every man has his gifts, as my grandfather used to say. I have the good fortune of being a tolerable good shot, while you, old fellow, are blessed with the faculty which enables you to get up the most tempting supper in the world. By the way, I am a little faint in the regions of the stomach, and the memory of the fat venison steaks I've had the honour of eating at your table before now, makes me impatient; so serve me a dish as soon as possible, and in addition to the usual fee, you shall take your choice of the chickens in my bag." "Good!" exclaimed the landlord; "and if you've no objections, I will take the rest at the usual price." "Impossible," replied Grover, "I have killed them expressly to give to my neighbours. But the supper." "In eleven minutes and a quarter," said Boniface, looking at his watch. Left to himself, Clinton Grover took his dog's head upon his knees, and stroking his neck mechanically, was soon lost in meditation. He had remained but a short time in this position, when two travellers arrived at the door of the inn. The waiter hastened to take care of their horse and carriage; and to invite them to enter. "Water him in half an hour, and give him four quarts of oats," said the elder of the two, who was apparently one of those who, at that time, in case of necessity, helped travellers on their way by private conveyance. "Do not unharness him," he continued, for although he has been driven from Chicago today, he has got some half dozen miles farther to go to-night." "Is it not more than half-a-dozen miles ?" asked the younger traveller. "It is not more than eight, at the farthest," replied his companion. Then it seems to me, it is scarcely worth the while to-stop." "You can do as you like about it," said the elder traveller, somewhat sharply; " but as for my horse, he shall go no farther until he has been fed." "I beg your pardon," returned the other, "I had forgotten the horse in my impatience to get along." The two now entered the tavern, and Clinton Grover had a fair view of the countenance and figure of each. The younger alone attracted his attention. He was a year or two younger than himself, and possessed of a fine dark eye, a lofty brow, and a slight but well proportioned frame. He entered, and sat down at a short distance from the huntsman. Clinton, who was somewhat vexed to think that his supper was delayed, continued to pat the neck of his dog without appearing to notice the strangers. As is often the case, when we least wish for company, two additional travellers arrived just at the time when the landlord was coming to announce that supper for three was ready. As it was his custom to make all his guests sup together, he hastened to order The new-comers advanced in the bar-room, and seemed greatly rejoiced at beholding the young traveller who sat opposite Clinton. It appeared that they had become acquainted at Juliet, or on the road between that place and Chicago. Clinton, who was of a taciturn disposition, remained silent while the four new-comers engaged in a lively conversation. At length the supper was announced. The table was plentifully spread, but five excellent appetites served greatly to relieve it of its load. The repast ended, the company returned to the bar-room, in which the horse-boy had, in the meantime, been regaling Fido, Clinton's dog, with scraps of venison and poultry. CHAPTER III. THE COMBAT. "Dogs are curious animals," said the young traveller whom we have described, regarding Fido, and at the same time lighting his cigar. Fido, as if conscious of being the subject of conversation, crept to his master's side and slunk behind his chair, Clinton paid no attention to the remark, but began to make preparations for continuing his journey homeward. "Curious animals," continued the young man, who was evidently anxious of saying or doing something to gain the approbation of his companions. "By the way, did you ever see a dog smoke?" "Never!" "It is a pity; they are the finest smokers in the world. If you would like to see the operation, I promise to make that cur smoke my cigar down to nothing." "Good!" exclaimed his companions. Clinton said nothing. The young man began to call Fido, who remained obstinately behind his master's chair; at last he advanced, and took the dog by the ears, and in spite of his resistance dragged him to the centre of the room. Clinton's eyes flashed fire, but he said not a word. As for the young traveller, he had promised his companions a treat, and could not easily retreat. "He may not like the taste at first," said he, proceeding to place his cigar between Fido's lips," but I promise you he will soon get used to it." A cry from Fido-a long, pitiful cry-told that in the struggle he was burned. "Fido come here," said the hunter in a half-suppressed but decided tone. The poor dog struggled to get free, but the young man, who had evidently been piqued by Clinton's silence, still held the animal by the ears. "Young man," said the hunter, pale with suppressed passion, "let my dog come to me-I have called him." The traveller answered with a sneer. His companions shrunk back, for they saw the storm about to burst. "Do you hear?" cried Clinton, starting to his feet. "And what if I do?" "Then obey!" Be it so !" In half an hour, all things were arranged. It being the evening, and the use of pistols inconvenient, one of the travellers, who was from the south, suggested the utility of swords. Clinton appeared indifferent his antagonist, who had learned the use of that weapon, was delighted; and accordingly, a pair of short rapiers was produced from one of the traveller's trunks. The landlord, pale with excited fear, would have ran out to give the alarm, but one of the travellers took his station at the door to prevent both egress and entrance. Fido, who appeared to understand the whole affair, stood behind his master whining most piteously. The weapons were placed in the hands of the two antogonists, and the word was given to commence. For half a minute their swords played about each other carelessly, but to no effect, except that the first few passes indicated that both were masters of the weapon. "It is nothing-a mere scratch-" "Only a foretaste of what's to come," interrupted "I think you will never teach dogs to smoke any more. By the way, if you have any thing to say to these gentlemen-any last request to make— speak, for I am getting impatient." The traveller was exasperated by the coolness of his antagonist. He made furious thrusts, which Clinton parried with all imaginably ease. 'Speak," repeated the hunter, "for it is now near eight o'clock-when the clock strikes it will be too late!" The traveller said not a word, but the foam of rage stood upon his ashy lips, and the sweat of agony started from his brow. A fearful silence ensued, broken only by the sharp report of steel clashing upon steel. The spectators became excited: the pointers of the clock were near the hour, and they felt that the hunter would keep his word. The clock struck! CHAPTER IV. THE INTERVIEW AND THE FATAL MESSENGER. In an hour the hunter was in the presence of Ellen Austin. The two went forth and wandered along the banks of the Des Plaines. "Ellen," said Clinton, " do you know why I wished to speak with you-why I have led you hither?" "No-but you are pale-very pale !" "Well might I be pale, for this night I have committed a horrible deed! Ellen, I have had a quarrel -a foolish quarrel, and I have slain a man !" "Clinton!" shrieked the poor girl, fainting in his arms "Heavens! what do you say?" "I fear I have killed him, and I am come to bid you farewell. You know the penalty." And Clinton stooped to bathe the brow of the fainting Ellen in the water. Ellen's father appeared at the door. forgave his former antagonist, regretted exceedingly "Does Mr. Austin live hear?" cried the horseman. that he had fled where none pursued. " I am he!" "Mr. Austin, I am come to inform you that a young man at the White Rabbit Inn, calling himself your son, has fought a duel and is now lying at the point of death!" "God of mercy!" exclaimed the old man, rushing into the house. "Clinton, Clinton!" sobbed Ellen; " you have killed my brother!" The girl fainted; the hunter clasped her in his arms, bore her into the house, imprinted a last kiss upon her ashy lips, and rushed wildly from the presence of her astonished parents. At midnight, when the stars looked coldly down upon the earth, and no sound was heard save the hum of insects and the howl of the prairie-wolf, Clinton was wandering alone over the earth, a fugitive, crushed with remorse and vain regrets. CHAPTER V. THE RECOVERY. Mr. Austin hastened to the inn where lay his wounded son; wounded we say, for Frederick was not dead. Stretched out upon a bed of agony, the anxious father found him, and thanked heaven that he was still alive. You are severely hurt?" said Mr. Austin, pressing his hand while tears gathered in his eyes. "A slight wound-a mere trifle," replied Frederick; and a faint smile played upon his lips. The surgeon arrived; the wound was pronounced exceedingly dangerous, but not mortal. The old man wept for joy! On the following morning, Mrs. Austin and Ellen went to visit Frederick. The poor girl had scarcely recovered from the shock of the preceding night, but anxiety for her brother bore her up. She had not yet dared to confess to her parents who was the antagonist of their son, nor could she realize the fearful truth herself. The travellers had left the inn, but the landlord gave a full relation of the duel, concealing only the name of Clinton. On the arrival of Ellen and her mother, however, he changed his resolution and revealed the whole. At the name of Clinton, Austin started. "Ah! that explains his conduct of last night," he cried. "He has fled !" said Ellen, covering her face with her hands. "And it is well!" exclaimed her father, sternly. For three weeks, Frederick Austin was unable to leave the inn; but at the end of that time, he was sufficiently recovered to be transported to his father's house. Still Ellen heard nothing of her absent lover. Her anxiety and grief for his absence, were equalled only by her joy to think that he was not the murderer of her brother. To him, Ellen told all her heart; and when she related many acts of generosity in Clinton, Frederick, who knew by experience that he was brave, openly approved of her choice, and while he Frederick was soon able to walk about; he and his sister then took short strolls upon the prairie and on the river banks, and ended by prolonging gradually their walks. When the young man had regained his strength, he either went forth alone with his dog and gun, or accompanied by his sister, made short excursions on horseback. It is needless to say that Ellen, like a true maid of the prairie, rode with the utmost grace and ease. Frederick, notwithstanding the arrogance of which we have seen him guilty, was naturally of a pleasing disposition, generous and obliging. His love of satire and fun sometimes carried him to extremes, and his self-will bordered on insolence; but he had changed somewhat since his recovery, which fact was owing perhaps to the lesson Clinton had taught him at the inn, and the fatal consequences of his presumption. * * * * * * Two months passed by, and still no news from Clinton Grover reached the ear of the anxious Ellen. Summer was gone, and autumn, with its chilling frosts, had robbed the prairie of its robe of green. The leaves of the forrest had fallen to the ground, and the prairie grass had become withered and sere. It was on one of those days when the melancholy of autumn is joined to the beauty of summer, that Frederick and his sister rode forth upon the prairie, and excited by the influence of the fresh prairie breeze, unconsciously proceeded several miles from home. They were upon the broad prairie, which extended far away on every side, undulating and beautiful, although covered with dry and withered grass. The sun went down before they thought to return; but as evening approached, and the silent prairie became clothed in gloom, they paused with one consent and turned their horses homeward. They now galloped on at a rapid pace; but night came and they were still far from home. Night, but not darkness! Behind them, far away on the prairie, a broad gleam of light appeared-quivering, intense! The prairie was on fire! "Heavens!" exclaimed Frederick-" look !" "Yes the prairie is burning! forward, or we are lost!" The steeds needed no urging, they bounded away as if conscious of the danger. The breeze freshened, and the dry grass was consumed like powder in the flames which swept along the earth. Onward, onward dashed the steeds, bearing their riders swifty over the prairie; but the flames were behind them, more swift, more furious than they! Onward, onward still they flew; but the deer bounded by them in his flight, and the fluttering of wings over their heads, told that the birds of the air were more swift than they. Trembling with fear, Ellen lashed her steed and kept close to her brother's side. Oh! that was a wild spectacle-the prairie illumined by the fierce glare of light, the raging flames, and the cloud of black and dismal smoke, which gave to the canopy of heaven a fearful tint of gloom! Onward dashed the steeds, but the winds were swifter than they; and the flames were on the wings of the wind. Already the hot breath of the confla- | him and Ellen's brother, supposing that Frederick was gration swept over them like the Simoon of the desert! All behind them was a fierce glare of light; all before them was darkness and gloom. Suddenly a faint light was seen upon a distant hill-like a torch held by the hand of man-and it approached, waving to and fro. At last the form of its bearer was indistinctly visible. "Faster!" cried Frederick," and we are saved! Heavens! the flames are gaining on us still-fasterfaster!" But to increase their speed was impossible. The crackling flames were already upon them, when the torch which they had seen approaching, was suddenly plunged into the grass a hundred rods before them. In a moment the flames shot upward, and the form of the stranger was seen, still holding the flaming torch. Frederick and Ellen were between two fires, but the one was fleeing before them, while the other was close-close upon their backs. They saw the form of the stranger already upon the black space which the foremost fire had left, and terrible was their struggle to reach it before overtaken by the flames behind. The smoke rolled over them-the swift flames were already beneath the hoofs of their steeds -they were blinded, suffocated, burned-but they were saved! dead, and fearing not only the law but also the hatred of Ellen, he had roamed for weeks over the prairie, spending but little of his time in the towns. At last he became tired of such a life, and resolved to return to the Des Plaines and learn whether he was really the object of hatred he supposed. For several days he lingered about his old house, not daring to discover ⚫himself to even his former friends. On the night in question, he sought refuge in the house of a squatter, who had taken up his abode far out upon the prairie. He saw the fire; he waited for it to approach, when he beheld the forms of two persons on horseback between him and the flames. The squatter's house was safe, for it was surrounded by furrowed ground that it was impossible for the fire to reach it; but Clinton remained not there. He seized a torch, and rushing into the midst of the danger, saved the lives of Frederick and his sister. This recital ended, the three returned to the squatter's hut, Frederick leading the horses, and Ellen leaning upon her lover's arm. On the following morning they returned to the Des Plaines, which was distant some half-dozen miles, and rejoiced the hearts of Mr. Austin and his wife, who had supposed them lost. Four weeks from that time, the population on the River Des Plaines, for several miles around, was gathered together at the village church, to witness an im and Ellen! The two antagonists of the White Rabbit became brothers; it is needless to state that their quarrel was never renewed. The fire before them swept onward-onward-posing ceremony. It was the marriage of Clinton 'leaving in its track the earth all charred and bare. The flames behind died away at the point where the stranger had plunged his torch into the grass, or swept around them in a broad circle-a circle of raging fire! "And now," said Ellen, "I beg to know your history, Clinton. I have never questioned you on that point before, but loved you for what you were, not what you might have been." "You shall be satisfied," returned her husband; "in a few words I will tell you my history." Arrived on the black space of ground, the jaded horses staggered and fell exhausted to the earth. Ellen uttered a cry of alarm as her animal reeled beneath her, but as she fell, the stranger-their saviour --caught her in his arms. Feeling herself thrown headlong to the ground, she had closed her eyes; but now she opened them, and they fell upon the coun-years ago my father died of grief! Would you know tenance of the stranger. "Clinton!" she exclaimed, and fainted in his arms. "Ellen! it is indeed you!" murmured the hunter, clasping her to his bosom. "Thank God! thank God!" "Thank God!" echoed Frederick, 66 you have saved our lives! CHAPTER VI. CONCLUSION. Upon hearing a voice behind him, Clinton looked around. By the glare of the flames, the two young men recognized each other! "I have no family. My mother died when I was very young. I then had a father and a sister left. Five the cause? It was my sister's dishonour! A vil- quence of her error. But her betrayer did not es- I left my property, which is considerable, in the hands of a friend, and fled with a little ready money to the west. Here I have lived ever since seifexiled from a place which shame, not the law, forced me to leave. Some have regarded me as a mysterious being some have shunned me-others, and you are among the number, I trust, have dared to love. Is it not so, dear Ellen ?" The young wife twined her arms about her husband's neck: her eyes, which swam in tenderness, told "Heavens!" exclaimed the hunter, "what do I a tale of the holiest affection. She remembered that see?" "Your friend," cried Frederick, grasping him by the hand. "Whom I supposed dead-dead by my hand!" murmured Clinton. "Ah! what joy !" 66 Indeed, what joy!" echoed Ellen, a faint smile playing upon her lips. When the excitement and surprise were over, Clinton told his history since the fatal meeting between the blood upon his hands was excused by the sin that had provoked its shedding, and woman's natural horror of the destruction of life was overcome. "Then we can live contented and happy!" said the huntsman, clasping her to his bosom. And they have done so. Hard, however, was the early fate of him who, because the law would not punish the libertine, was induced, by society, to handle the weapon of the so-called "man of honour!" THIS famous seat was the gift of the British nation to the great Duke of Marlborough, as a testimony of gratitude for his public services; it was called Blenheim after his great battle, which has been rendered still more famous by the simple little ballad, by Southey, beginning thus: "It was a summer's evening, Old Gaspar's work was done, But a poem so well known as this beautiful ballad need not be quoted. The battle has long ceased to be a wonder, the wounds that it caused have long since ceased to give pain, the hearts that it broke have long since ceased to beat, and all the effects of the fight are apparently wiped away; but the house that was built for the conqueror still stands, and is inhabited by a mean-spirited man who bears his name, but is in no manner related to him. The house is one of the finest in England, and the grounds are of unequalled beauty. The park is about eight miles from Oxford, and you enter it by a grand triumphal arch erected by the famous Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, in honour of her illustrious husband, after his death. Nothing whatever is seen either of the house or | grounds till you pass through this gate, and the effect is very magnificent, as they burst at once upon you. Dr. Waagen says cf Blenheim: "If nothing were to be seen in England but this seat and its treasures of art, there would be no reason to complain of going to this country. The whole is on so grand a scale, that no prince in the world need to be ashamed of it for his summer residence; and at the same time it is a noble monument of gratitude of the English nation to the great Duke of Marlborough." The architect of Blenheim was Sir John Vanbrugh, the dramatist author, who was the first architect, according to Sir Joshua Reynolds, who made an architectural design with an eye to the pictorial effect of the whole building. However much he may have admired the exterior, the visitor will hardly have been prepared for the splendid effect of the hall, in which Vanbrugh has shown no small share of poetic genius. It is the most striking entrance hall in England. The impression of magnificence produced on entering the building is fully retained throughout it. The rooms are nobly proportioned, and admirably calculated for the display of princely pomp. The architectural grandeur of the various apartments is abundantly supported by the richness of the furniture and fittings, and the value and beauty of the works of art and vertû that adorn them. It is well known that the paintings at Blenheim are among the finest in England. |