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\) m a atti THE S?MTKB WATCHMAN, Established April, 1850. lBe Just and Fear not-Let all the Ends thou Aims't at, be thy Country's, thy God's and Truth's." THE TRUE SOUTHRON, Established Jane, 1266 Consolidated Ah?:. 2,1881. SUMTER, S. C, WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 8, 1894. New Series?Y 1. XIV. So. 2. Published Every Wednesday, -by S?MTER, s. a 8 rms : Two Dollars per anoam?id advance. advertisement: One Square first insertion.......$1 00 Every subsequent insertion-. 50 Contracts for three months, or longer will be nj&de at reduced rates. AU communications which subserve private ioteresWP-wiU be charged foras ad vertisemen ts. Obituaries aad" tribales of respect will be charged for. ^^CT -..'? COPYRIGHT, ?YTMI AUTHOR. CHAPTER "VTEL thomas becomes bich. Fer many months we heard no more of De Garcia or of Isabella de Siguenza. Both bad vanished; leaving no sign, and we searched for them in vain. As for me, I fell back into my former way of life of assistant to Fonseca, posing before the world as his nephew. Bat it came about that from the night of my duel with the murderer my master's health declined steadily through the action of a wasting disease of the liver which baffled all skill, so that within eight months of that time he^iay almost bedridden and at the point of death. His mind indeed remained quite clear, and on occasions he would even receive those who came to consult him, reclining on a chair and wrapped in his embroidered robe. Bat the ?and of death lay on him, and he knew that it was so. As the weeks went by he grew more and more attached to me till at length, had I been his son; h?0%ld ndfcave treated me )n, w^k? for m v^part I.j At length wbWne h?a^grown very fee-1 ble he expressed a desire to see a notary., The nsan he named was sent for and re mained closeted with him for an hour or ? more, when he left for awhile to return! with several of his clerks, who accom-i panied him to my master's room, from whence I was excluded. Presently they air went away, bearing some HamhTitentw with them. That evening Fonseca sent torme. I found him very weak, but cheerful and full of talk. "Come,here, nephew," he said. "I have had a busy??.y-. I have been busy all my life through, and it would noi be well to grow idle at the last. Do you know what I have been doing this day?" I shook my head. "Iwill tell you. I have "been making my will?there is something-to leave--not so very much, but'still something." uDo not talk of wills," I said. "I trust that you may live for many years. *? He laughed. "You must think badly of my case, nephew, when you think that I can be dece^e^^us. I am about to die, as you ?how "w??;; ?n^v"Tao "not fear death. My life, has jbeen prosperous, but. not happy, for it was blighted m its spring' ?no matter lio^er. The-story is an old one e and not worth telling. Moreover, which ever way it bad read, it had all been one now in the hour of death. Nephew, lis ten. Except certain sums,that I have giv en to be spent in charities?not in masses, mind you?I have left you all I possess. " "You have left it to me!" I said,, as tonished. "Yes, nephew, to you. Why not? I have no relations living, and I have learn* ed to love you, I who thought that I could never again care for any man or woman or child, I ara grateful to you, who have proved to me that my heart is not dead. Take what I give you as a mark of my gratitude." Now I began to stammer my thanks, but he stopped me "The sum that you will inherit, nephew, amounts in all to about 5,000 gold pesos, or perhaps 12,000 of your English pounds,, enough for a young man to begin life on, even with a wife. Indeed there in England it may well be held a great fortune, and I think that your betrothed's. father will make no more objection t?you a? a ??n*in-law; also j there is this^ouse and all that it contain*. The library and the silver arc valuable, and you w l do well to keep them And now one word m?re.- If your conscience will let you, abandon the pursuit of De ^?ftjffiu Xft^f ' ymrr ?Qrtu^_and go with J it to England, wedtnat maid whom you desire, and follow after happiness in what ever way seems-best to you. , Who-are you that ' you should mete .out Vengeance on this knave De Garcia? Let him be, and he will avenge'himself upon himself. Oth erwise you may undergo: much toil and danger and m the end lose love and life and fortune at a blow." "But I have sworn to kill him," I an swered, "and how can I break so solemn an oath? How could I sit at home in peace beneath the borden of such shame?" *'I do not know. It is not for me to You must do as you wish, but 'it it may happen that you greater nhftmret than this. It ttefMB, *n& he:has es pili yoft ase wise. Now bend down and kiss me and bid me farewell. I do not desire that you should see me die, and my death is near. I can not ten if we shall meet again when in your turn you have laid as I lie now, or if we shape our course for different stars. If so, farewell forever." Then I leaned down and kissed him on th?1 forehead, and as I did so I wept, for not till this hoar did I learn how truly I had come to love him, so truly that it seemed to me as though my father lay there dying. 'Weep not, "he said, "for all our life is but a parting. Once I had a son like you, and ours was the bitterest of fare wells. Now I go to seek for him again who could not come back to me, so weep not because I die. Goodby, Thomas Wing field! May God prosper and protect youl Now gol' So I went weeping, and that night, be fore the dawn, all was over. J buried Andres de Fonseca, but with no pomp, for he had said that he wished as little money as possible spent upon his dead body, and returned to the house to meet the notaries. Then the seals were broken and the parchments read, and I was put in full possession of the dead man's wealth, and having deducted such sums as were payable for dues, legacies and fees the notaries left me, bowing humbly, for was I rich? Yes, I was rich. Wealth had come to me without ef fort, and I had reason to desire it, yet this was the saddest night that I had pass ed since I set foot in Spain, for my mind was filled w:th doubts and sorrow, and, moreover, my loneliness got a hold of me. But sad as it might be it was destined to seem yet more sorrowful before the morn ing, for as I sat making a pretense to eat, a servant came to me, saying that a woman waited in the outer room who had asked to see his late master. Guessing thai; this was some client who had not heard of Fonseca's death, was about to order that she . should be dismissed, then bethought methat I might be of service to her or a the least forget some of my own trouble in listening to hers. So I bade them bring her in. Presently she came, a tall woman wrapped in a dark cloak that hid her face. I bowed and mo tioned to her to be seated, when suddenly she started and spoke. "I asked to see Don Andres de Fonse ca, " she said in a low, quick voice. ''You are not he, senor. " 4-Andres de Fonseca was buried today," I answered. "I was his assistant in his business and am his heir. If I can serve yon in any way, I am at your disposal. " u You are young?very young, ' ' she mur mured confusedly, 4'and the matter is .o terrible and urgent. How can I trust you F ' ' "It is for you to judge, se?ora.'' She thought awhile, then drew off her cloak, displaying the robes of a nun. "'Listen," she said. "I must do many a penance for this night's work, and very She thought awhile,- then threw of her cloak. hardly have I won leave to come "hither upon an errand of mercy. Now, I cannot go back empty handed, so I must trust yon. But first swear by the blessed Motfcsr of God that you will not betray nie. 4iI giro you my word," I answered. "If that is not enough, let us end this talk. ' ' "Do not be angry with me, " sheplead ed. "I have not left my convent walls for many years, and I am distraught with 'grief. I seek a poison of the deadliest. I will pay well for it " "I am not the tool of murderers, " I an swered. "For what purpose do you wish the poison?" \ "Oh, I must tell you?yet how can I? In our convent there dies tonight a woman young and fair?almost a girl indeed? ' Whohas ;broken the vows she took. She dies tonight with her babe?thus, O God, fthus!?*y "being "built alive into the foun dations, of the house she has disgraced. It is the judgment that has been passed upon her?judgment without forgiveness or re prieved I am the abbess of this convent? ask not its name or mine?and I love this sinner as though she were my daughter. I have obtained this much of mercy for her because of my faithful services to the church and by secret influence?that when I give her the cup of water before the work is done I may mix poison with it and touch the lips of the babe with poison, so that their end is swift. I may do this and yet have no.sin upon my soul. . ! have my par don under seal. Help me,' then, to be an innocent murderess and tosavo this sin ner from her last agonies on earth. " I cannot set down the feelings with which I listened, to this tale of horror, for words could not carry them. I stood aghast, seeking an an s ver, and a dreadful thought entered my mind. -*Is this woman named Isabella de Sig nenza?" I asked. "That name was hers in the world," she answered, "though how you know it 1 cannot .cues?. "Wo "know many things m this house, mother. Say, now, can this Isabella bo saved by money or by interest?" "It is impossible. Her sentence has been confirmed by the tribunal of mercy. She must die and within two hours. Will you not give me the poison?" "I cannot give it unless I know its pur pose, mother. This may be a barren tale, and the medicine might be used in such a fashion that I should fall beneath the law. At one price only can I give it, and that is that I am there to see it used." She thought awhile and answered: "It maybe done, for as it chances the word ing of my absolution will cover it. But you must come cowled as a priest, that those who carry out the sentence may know ; nothing. Still others will know, and I warn you that should you speak of the matter you yourself will meet with misfortune. The church avenges itself on those who betray ita secrete, sen or. " "As one day its secrets will avenge themselves upon the churcli, ' ' I answered bitterly. -'And now let me seek a fitting drug?one that is swift, yet not too swift, lest your hounds should see themselves baffled of their prey before all their devil try is done. Here is something that will do the work," and I held upa vial that I drew from a case of such medicines. "Come, veil yourself, mother, and let us be gone upon this 'errand of mercy.' " She obeyed, and presently we left the house and walked swiftly through the crowded streets till we came to the ancient part of the city along the river's edge. Here the woman led me to a wharf wherv a boat was in waiting for her. We enter ed it and were rowed for a mile or more up the stream till the boat halted at a landing place beneath a high wall. Leav ing it, we came to a door in the wall on which my companion knocked thrice. Presently a shutter in the woodwork was drawn, and a white face peeped through the grating and spoke. My companion answered in a low voice, and after some delay the door was opened, and I found myself in a large walled garden planted with orange trees. Then the abbess spoke to me. "I have led you to our house." she said. "If you know where you arc and what its name may be, for our own sake, I pray you, forget it when you leave these doors. " I made no answer, but looked round in the dim and dewy garden. Here it was doubtless that De Garcia had met this unfortunate who must die this night. A walk of a. hundred paces brought us -to another door in the wall of a long, low building of Moorish style. Here the knocking and the questioning were repeated at more length. Then the door was opened, and I found myself in a passage, ill lighted, long- and narrow, in the depths of which I could see the figures of nuns flitting to and fro like bats in a ! tomb. The abbess walked down the pas sage till she came to a door on the right, which she opened. It led into a cell, and here she left me in the dark. For 10 min utes or more I staid there, a prey to thoughts that I had rather forget. At length the door opened again, and she came in, followed by a tall priest whose face I could not see, for he was dressed in the white robe and hood of the Dominicans, that left nothing visible except his eyes. "Greeting, my son," ho said when he had scanned me for awhile. "The mother abbess has told me of your errand. You are full young for such a task. " "Were I old I should not love it better, father. You know the case. I am asked to provide a deadly drug for a certain merciful purpose. I have provided that drug, but I must be there to see that it is put to proper use." 44You a;:e very cautious, my son. The church is no murderess. This woman must die because her sin is flagrant, and of late such wickedness has become com mon. Therefore after much thought and prayer and many searchings to find a means of mercy she is condemned to death by those whose names are too high to be spoken. I, alas, am here to see the sen tence carried out with a certain mitigation which has been allowed by the mercy of her chief judge. It eeems that your pr?s enee is needful to this act of love; there fore I suffer it. The mother abbess has warned you that evil dogs the feet of those who reveal the secrets of the church. For your own sake>, lepras? yoja to lay that warning^) best III ? | "I am no babbler, father, so the caution is not needed. One word more. This visit should be well feed;. the medicine is cost ly." -Fear not, physician," the monk an swered, with a note of scorn in his voice. "Name your sum; it shall be paid to you." "I ask no money, father. Indeed I would pay much to be far away tonight. I ask only that I may be allowed to speak 'with this girl before she dies." -'What!" he said, starting. "Surely you are not that wicked man? If so, you are bold indeed to risk the sharing of her fate. " "No, father, I am not that man. I nev er saw Isabella de Siguen za except once, and I have never spoken to her. I am not the man who tricked her, but I know him. He is named Juan do Garcia. "Ah," he said quickly, "she would never tell his real name, even under threat of torture. Poor erring soul, she could be faithful in her unfaith. Of what would you speak to her?" "I wish to ask her whither this man has gone. He is my enemy, and I would fol low him as I have already followed him far. He has done worse by me and mine than by this poor girl even. Grant my re quest, father, that I may be able to work j my vengeance on him, and with mine the church's also." ! " -Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord. "I will repay.' Yet it may be, son, that th? Lord will choose you as the instru ment of his wrath: An opportunity shall be given you to speak with her. Now put on this dress"?and he handed me a white Dominican hood and robe?"and follow me." "First," I said, "let me give this medi cine to the abbess, for I will have no hand in its administering. Take it, mother, and when the time comes pour the contents of the vial into a cup of water. Then, hav ing touched the mouth and tongue of the babe with the fluid, give it to the mother to drink, and be sure that she does drink it. Before the bricks arc built up about them both will sleep sound, never to wake again." "I~will do it,"-' murmured .fhe abbess. "Having absolution, I will be bold and do it for love and mercy's sake!" "Your heart is soo soft, sister. J us tice is mercy," said the monk, with a sigh. "Alas, for the frailty of tho flesh that wars against the spiriti" Then I clothed myself in* the ghastly looking dress, and they took lamps and motioned to me to follow them. CHAPTER IX. THE PASSIKCr.OF ISABELLA DE SIGUEXZA. Silently we went down the lonj passage, and as wo went I saw the eyes of. the'dwell ers in this Irving tomb watch us pass through tho gratings of the?r cell doors. Little wonder that the woman about to die had striven to escape from such a homo back to the world of life and love! Yet for that crime she must perish. Surely God will remember the doings of such men as these priests and the nation that fosters them. And indeed he does remember, for where is the splendor of Spain today, and where are the cruel rites she gloried in? Here in England their fetters are broken forever, and in striving to bind them fast upon us free Englishmen she is broken also, never to be whole again. At the far end of a passage we found a stair, down which we passed. At its foot was an iron bound door that the monk un locked and locked again upon the farther side. Then came another passage hol lowed in the thickness of the wall, and a second door, and we were in the place of death. It was a vault low and damp, and the waters of the river washed its outer wall, for I could hear their murmurings in the silence. Perhaps the place may have measured 10 paces in length by 8 broad. For the rest its roof was supported by mass ive columns, and on one side there was a second door that led to a prison cell. At the farther end of this gloomy den that was dimly lighted by torches and lamps two men with hooded heads and draped in coarse black gowns were at work silently mixing lime that sent up a hot stoam upon the stagnant air. By their sides were squares of dressed stone ranged neat ly against the end of the vault, and before them was a niche cut in the thickness of the wall itself, shaped like a large coffin set upon its smaller end. In front of this niche was placed a massive chair of chest nut wood. I noticed also that two other such coffin shaped niches had been cut in this same wall and filled in with similar blocks of whitish stone. On the face of each was a date graved in deep letters. One had been sealed up some 30 years be fore and one hard upon a hundred. These men were the only occupants of the vault when wc entered it, but present ly a sound of soft and solemn singing stole down the second passage. Then the door was opened, the mason monks ceased laboring at the heap of lime, and the sound of singing grew louder, so that I could catch the refrain. It was that of a Latin hymn for the dying. Next through the open door came the choir, eight veiled nuns walking two by two, and ranging themselves on either side of the vault they ceased their singing. After th^m follow ed the doomed woman, guarded by two more nuns, and last of all a priest bearing a crucifix. This man wore a black robe, and his thin, half frenzied face was un covered. All these and other things I no ticed and remembered, yet at the time it seemed to me that I saw nothing except the figure of the victim. I knew her again, although I had seen her but once in the moonlight. She was changed indeed; her lovely face was fuller, and the great, tor mented eyes shone like stars against its waxen pallor, relieved by the carmine of her lips alone. Still it was the same face that some months before I had seen lifted in entreaty to her false lover. Now her tall shape was wrapped about with gravo clothes, over which her black hair stream ed, and in her arms she bore a sleeping babe that from time to time she pressed convulsively to her breast On the threshold of her tomb Isabella de Siguenza paused and looked round wild ly as though for help, scanning each of the silent watchers to find a friend among them Then her eye fell upon the niche, and the heap of smoking lime, and the men who guarded it, and she shuddered and would havo fallen had not those who attended her led her to the chair and plac ed her in it?a living corpse. Now the dreadful rites began. The Do minican father stood before her and recit ed her offense and the sentence which had been passed upon her, which doomed her "to be left alone with God and the child of your sin, that he may deal with you as he sees fit." [Lest such cruelty should seem impossible and unprecedent ed, the writer may mention that in the mu seum of the city of Mexico he has seen the desiccated body of a young woman which was found immured in the walls of a reli gious building. With it is the body of an infant. Although the exact cause of her execution remains a matter of conjecture, there can be no doubt as to the manner of her death, for in addition to other evi dences the marks of the rope with which her limbs were bound in life are distinct ly visible. Such in those days were the mercies of religion!] To all of this she seemed to pay no heed nor to the exhortation that followed. At length he ceased, with a sigh, and turning to me said: "Draw nearer to this sinner, brother, and speak with her before it is too late. " Then he bade all present gather them selves at the far end of the vault that our talk might not be overheard, and they did so without wonder, thinking doubtless that I was a monk sent to confess the doomed woman. So I drew near, with a beating heart, and bending over her I spoke in her ear. "Listen to me, Isabella de Siguenza!" I said, and as I uttered the name she start ed wildly. "Where is that De Garcia who deceived and deserted you?" "How have you learned his true name?" she answered. *'Not even torture would have wrung it from me. as you know." "I am no monk, and ? know nothing. I am that man who fought with De Garcia on the night when you were taken, and who would have killed him had you not eeized me." "At the least I saved him?that is my comfort nowl" "Isabella de Siguenza," I said, "lam your friend, the best you ever had and the last, as you shall learn presently. Tell me where this man is, for there is that be tween us which must be settled." 44If you are my friend, weary me no more. I do not know where he is. Months ago he went whither you will scarcely fol low, to the farther Indies, but you will never find him there." "It may be that I shall, and if it should so chance, say, have you any message for this man?" 4'None?yes, this: Tell him how we died, his child and his wife. Tell him that I did my best to hide his name from the priests lest some like fate should befall him." 4'Is that all?" "Yes?no, it is not all. Tell him that I passed away loving and forgiving." "My time is short," I said. *'Awake and listen." For having spoken thus she seemed to be sinking into a lethargy. "I was the assistant of that Andres dc Fonse ca whose counsel you put aside to your ruin, and I have given a certain drug to the abbess yonder. When she offers you the cup of water, sec that you drink and drink deep, you and the child. If so. none shall ever die more happily. Do you un derstand?" 44 Yes, yes," she gasped, "and may bless ings rest upon you for the gift Now I am no more afraid, for I havo long desired to die?it was the way I feared. " 4 4 Then farewell, and God be with you, unhappy woman. " "Farewell," she answered softly, 44but call me not unhappy who am about to dio thus easily with that I love." Andeho glanced at the sleeping babe. Then I drew back and stood with bent head, speaking no word. Now the Domin ican motioned to all to take the places where they stood before and asked her, 4 'Erring sister, have you aught to say be fore you are silent forever?" "Yes," she answered in a clear, sweet voice that never even quavered, so bold had she become since she learned that her death would be swift and easy. "Yes, I have this to say?that I go to my end with a clean heart, for If I have sinned it is against custom and not against God. I broke the vows indeed, but I was forced to take those vows, and therefore they did not bind. I was a woman born for light and love, and yet I was thrust into the darkness of this cloister, there to wither dead in life. And so I broke the vows, and I am glad that I have broken them, though it has brought me to this. If I was de ceived and my marriage is no marriage be fore the law, as they tell me now, I knew nothing of it; therefore to me it is still valid and holy, and on my soul there rests no sin. At the least I have lived, and for some few hours I have been wife and mother, and it is as well to die swiftly in "Erring sister, have you aught to say be fore you are silent forevert" this cell that your mercy has prepared as more slowly in those above. And now for you?I tell you that your wickedness shall find you out, you who dare to say to God's children, 'Ye shall not love,' and to work murder on them because they will not listen; It shall find you out, I say, and not only you, but the church you serve. Both priest and church shall be broken to gether and shall be a scorn in the mouths of men to come." "She is distraught," said the Domini can as a sigh of fear and wonder went round the vault, "and blasphemes in her madness. Forget her words. Shrive her, brother, swiftly, ere she adds to them." Then the black robed, keen eyed priest came to her, and holding the cross before her face began to mutter I know not what. But she arose from the chair and thrust the crucifix aside. ''Peace!" she said. "I will not be shriv en by such as you. I take my sins to God and not to you?you who do murder in the name of Christ!" Tho fanatic heard, and a fury took him. "Then go unshriven down to hell, you -and he named her by ill names and struck her in the face with the ivory cru cifix. The Dominican bade him cease his re vilings angrily enough, but Isabella do Siguenza wiped her bruised, brow and laughed aloud a dreadful laugh to hear. "Now I see that you are a coward also, " she said. -'Priest, this is my last prayer, that you may also perish at the hands of fanatics and more terribly than I die to night." Then they hurried her into tho place prepared for her, and she spoke agaim "Give me to drink, for wo thirst, my babe and I!" Now I saw the abbess enter that passage whence the victim had been led. Presently she came back bearing a cup of water in her hand and with it a loaf of bread, and I knew by her mien that my draft was in the water. But of what befell afterward I cannot say certainly, for I prayed the Dominican to open the door by which we had entered the vault, and passing through it I stood dazed with horror at some dis tance. Awhile went by, I do not know how long, till at length I saw tho abbess standing before me, a lantern in her hand, and she was sobbing bitterly. "AU is done," she said. "Nay, have no fear, the draft worked well. Before ever a stone was laid mother and child slept sound. Alas for her soul who died unre pentant and unshriven!" "Alas for the souls of all who have shared in this night's work," I answered. "Now, mother, let me hence, and may we never meet again!" So soon as I could clear my mind some what of all that I had seen and heard in that dreadful vault I began to consider the circumstances in which I found myself. First, however, I inquired secretly and diligently as to the truth of the statement that De Garcia had sailed for the Indies, and to be brief, having the clew, I discov ered that two days after the date of the duel I had fought with him a man an swering to De Garcia's description, though bearing a different name, had shipped from Seville in a carak bound for the Ca nary islands, which carak was there to I await the arrival of the fleet sailing for Hispaniola. Indeed from various circum stances I had little doubt that the man was none other than De Garcia himself, which, although I had not thought of it before, was not strange, seeing that then, as now, the Indios were the refuge of half the desperadoes and villains who could no longer live in Spain. Thither then I made up my mind to follow him, consoling my self a little by the thought that at least I should see new and wonderful countries, J though how new and wonderful they were I did not guess. Now, it remained for me to dispose of the wealth which had come to me sudden ly. While I was wondering how I could place it in safety till my return I heard by chance that-the Adventuress of Dart mouth, the same ship in which I had come to Spain a year before, was again in the port of Cadiz, and I bethought me that the best thing I could do with the gold and other articles of value would bo to ship them to England, there to be held in trust for me. So, having dispatched a message to my friend, the captain of the Adventur ess, that I had freight of value for him, I made preparations to depart from Seville with such speed as I might, and to this ! end I sold my benefactor's house, with many of the effects, at a price much below their worth. The most of the books and plate, together with some other articles, I kept, and packing them in cases I caused them to be transported down the river to Cadiz, to the care of those same agents to j whom I had received letters from the Yar- * mouth merchante. This being done, I followed thither my self, taking the bulk of my fortune with me in gold, which I hid artfully in nu merous packages._1 I came to Cadiz in safety and without loss of any cf my goods or gold, and tak ing boat proceeded on board the Adven turess, where I found her captain, whose name was Bell, in good health and very glad to see me. What pleased me more, however, was that he had three letters for me, one from my father, one from my sis ter Mary and one from my betrothed, Lily Bozard, the only letter I ever received from her. The contents of these writings were ? not altogether pleasing, however, for I learned from them that my father was in broken health and almost bedridden, and indeed, though I did not know it for many years after, he died in Ditchingham church upon the very day I received his letter. It was short and sad, and in it he said he sorrowed much that he had allowed me to go upon my mission, since he should see me no more and could only commend me to the care of the Almighty and pray him for my safe return. As for Lily's let ter, which, hearing that the Adventuress was to sail for Cadiz, she had found means to dispatch secretly, though it was not short, it was sad also, and told me that so soon as my back was turned on homo my brother Geoffrey had asked her in mar riage from her father, and that they pushed the matter strongly, so that her life was made a misery to her, for my brother way laid her everywhere, and her father did not cease to revile her as an obstinate jade who would fling away her fortune for the sake of a penniless wanderer. "But," it went on, "be assured, sweet heart, that unless they marry me by force, as they have threatened to do, I will not budge from my promise. And, Thomas, should I be thus wedded against my will I shall not be a wife for long, for though I am strong I believe that I shall die of shame and sorrow. It is hard that I should be thus tormented, and* for one reason only, that you are not rich. Still I have good hope that things may better them selves, for I see that my brother Wilfred is much inclined toward your sister Mary, and though he also urges this marriage on me today she is a friend to both of us and may be in the way to make terms with him before she accepts his suit." Then the writing ended with many tender words and prayers for my safe return. Now, all this news gave me much cause for thought. Meanwhile I did this: Going to a nota ry, I caused him to prepare a deed which I translated into English. By this deed I vested all my fortune, except .200 pesos that I kept for my own use, in three per sons, to hold the same on my behalf till I came to claim it. These three persons were my old master, Dr. Grimstone of Bungay, whom I knew for the honestest of men; my sister, Mary Wingfield, and my betrothed, Lily Bozard. I directed them by this deed, which for greater validity I signed upon the ship and caused to be wit nessed by Captain Bell and two other Englishmen, to deal with the property ac cording to their discretion, investing not less than half of it in the purchase of lands and putting the rest out to interest, which interest, with the rent of the lands, was to be paid to the said Lily Bozard for her own use for so long as she remained un married. Also with the deed I executed a will by which I devised the most of my property to Lily Bozard, should she be unmarried at the date of my death, and the residuo to my sister Mary. In the event of the marriage or death of Lily, then the whole was to pass to Mary and her heirs. These two documents being signed and sealed, I delivered them, together with all my treasure and other goods, into the keep ing of Captain Bell, charging him solemn ly to hand them and my possessions to Dr. Grimstone of Bungay, by whom he would be liberally rewarded. This he promised to do, though not until he had urged me almost with tears to accompany them my self. With the gold and deeds 1 sent several letters, to my father, my sister, my broth er, Dr. Grimstone, Squire Bozard and last ly to Lily herself. In these letters I gave an account of my life and fortunes since I had come to Spain, for I gathered that others which I had sent had never reached England, and told them of my resolution to follow Garcia to the ends of the earth. ''Others," I wrote to Lily, "may think me a madman thus to postpone or per chance to lose a happiness which I desire above anything on earth, but you wh? un derstand my heart will net blame me. however much you may grieve for my de cision. I could never be happy even at your side if I abandoned my search now. First must come the toil and then the rest: first the sorrow and then the joy. Do not fear for me. I feel that I shall live to re turn again, and if I do not return at least I am able to provide for you in such fash ion that you need never be married again?* your will. While De Garcia lives I must follow him." And here I may state that those letters and everything else that I sent came safely to Yarmouth. And now Lily wept?first for joy be cause of my good fortune and then for sor row because I had not come with my treas ure, and when he had seen all and heard the deeds read by virtue of which Lily was a rich woman whether I lived or died the squire, her father, swore aloud and said that b .5 had always thought well of me and kissed his daughter, wishing her joy of her luck. In short, all were pleased except my brother, who left the house without a word and straightway took to evil courses. But all talked loudly of my madness because I would not abandon t he chase of my enemy, but chose to follow him to the far Indies, though Squire Bozard took comfort from the thought that whether I lived or died the money was still his daughter's. Only Lily spoke up for ine, saying:: "Thomas has sworn an oath, and he does well to keep it, for his honor is at stake. Now I go to wait until he comes to me in this world or the Dext. " [TO BE CONTINUED.] Tb?tt Tired Feeling which ie so common and so overpowering, ie entirely driven off by Hood's Sarsaparille, the best blood purifier. Hood's Sarsaparilla overcomes weakness. Highest of all in Leavening Power.?Latest U. S. Gov't Report ABSOLUTE!*' PURE