Old John was one of the leaders of every movement; one can imagine the excitement this announcement produced. All seemed paralyzed one moment, and all action the next. Cries of "Where is he?" arose on all sides, and a rush towards the door, when the voice of the officer rose above the roar of angry speeches and clatter of feet.

"Hold, hold! Attention! I deputize every one of you here to arrest Paul Macenas for the murder of Jacko Murat."

Another roar and threat-"To his house" -echoed this order, and the motley throng of hardy and sea-bronzed men rushed out at the door and rolled down the street towards Paul's house.

He had glided out of the court-room when he caught old John's eye riveted with astonishment and suspicion upon him when Dave Molette spoke to him. He had also seen the old gentleman leave the Belle Kate and hurry to the court-room, and divined with an animal instinct of danger that he had some clew to confirm his suspicion. If so, it were dangerous to remain; in fact, his only safety was in flight. He passed down an unfrequented alley-way and disappeared.

The crowd rolled furiously down the street, expecting to find Paul in his house. With a gathering fury, which broke out in wild gestures and shouts, they rushed on towards the house. They had never liked that gloomy, dark man. The sound of blows came up the street; the crowd were breaking in the doors of his house, and yelling to him to come out. The officer and old John, standing upon the porch of the court-house, saw away out on the bay towards the Sound the white gleam of a sail through the gathering haze. Those who came up from the wharf said the Belle Kate had gone out towards the Sound. the swiftest craft at the port.

She

was

Jacko Murat was buried in the cemetery that afternoon, and many mourned his untimely fall, for he was popular. The sharp claws of the cat's paw had never been

open, kind face, and oily tongue had made him friends. Kate Fisher had fainted when the secret of the tragedy dawned upon her, and it was many days before the fever that followed abated. She saw her own hand in the bloody story, and in her delirium muttered in a low, frightened tone, "Paul," "Jacko," "St. Vincent."

Day

As night fell upon the day of the inquest, a storm burst upon the gulf, and all night the winds moaned and roared, the waters bellowed, and all was dark as Erebus. dawned struggling, and the storm still raged. Old fishermen scoured the coast and islands with their glasses. They were looking for wrecks; but none came. Only driftwood and a hollow murmur, borne out in the wild elements of the gulf, came ashore. Towards noon the storm died, and in the late afternoon the sun came out.

Away to the east, on the coast near Tampa, several days after the storm, a passing schooner found a wrecked sloop upon the sands of a low bank, and a man tangled in the torn rigging, dead. A sea-bird sat upon him till frightened away. He lay with his head downward, and his black locks were in his face. A heavy pistol was hanging in a leathern belt about his waist. The upturned keel of the sloop was split and broken, the spar was shivered, and the sheets were in tatters. On the stem of the hull was the name, "Belle Kate," washed and bruised. In a pocket in the dead man's coat was found a paper, on which, written in a straggling hand in pencil, was the following:

G. OF MEXICO, Friday—, 18—. The rudder is broken, and the sloop leaks. No land in sight. My last hour has come, and I must speak. I killed him on St. Vincent, after buried treasures. Kate Fisher was the cause. We both loved her. I did not want him, but he forced himself into the trip. All we got was a bundle which is in my house at Apalach. Bury me at home. PAUL MACENAS.

He was buried in the same cemetery with Jacko, and from their graves the island of St. Vincent can be seen lying low on the horizon. Only the sexton and his attend

ants and the priest were present. The burial services of the Catholic church were read, but no mourners were comforted by the story of "dust to dust, and then the resurrection."

Kate Fisher was seen but little. One day she was gone, and no one knew where. They said she was fled from her conscience. Her mother died and was buried, but no daughter came to mourn over her pall. Months passed into years, and two years had wrought but little change in the quiet town, save adding a few more walls to decay and a few more white hairs to the temples. Old John Pompano went to New Orleans, and one day, while passing along a street to see after the final preparations before sailing, a

carriage dashed past him, and in it he caught a glimpse of a superb woman. It was Kate Fisher, but her face was flushed, her dark eyes were brighter, and she wore silk-this once simple girl of the crumbling town by the bay.

The old papers found in Paul's room were written in Spanish, and gave an account of one of Lafitte's cruises in the Indian Ocean. That was all.

Even to this day but few fishermen ever touch at St. Vincent, and it has become more than ever the home of the heavy, superstitious-looking birds of the sea; and when the surf murmurs loudest on the sands beyond the island, the name of Lafitte passes the lips of the fisherman only with a shudder.

Irene Hardy.

ASHEVILLE, the county seat of Buncombe, in the State of North Carolina, is our starting point. Its name is taken from "Colonel" Ashe, a wealthy gentleman of that region, who owned extensive tracts of land "before the war." The houses of Asheville are pretty, and fancifully designed; they are principally of the cottage style, and are set here and there on the hillsides and along the little valleys, where the streets follow them up and down, entirely regardless of law and order. The court-house towers gloomily in the midst of and over the roofs gathered about it. From every opening or hidden recess of the tower hundreds of martins fly forth each morning, chattering and whirring away into the woodlands beyond; about the hour of sunset back they fly with the same rush and rustle into their shadowy nooks; and this they do day after day as the year goes by, as faithfully as the poetic birds of which Longfellow tells usonly that he has made their songs to reach across the world to the lands of every clime. Beyond the town, afar off, stands a perpetual wall of blue, sharp-peaked mountains, clearly defined against the sky, which in all its changes is beautiful. Spanned by a small bridge sings the Swananoa, which in our harsher tongue means Nymph of Beauty. Take an opposite direction, if you please, over the hills, along the edges of corn-fields and small vegetable-gardens, and the famous French Broad River glides before you, widening as it passes from the view of the town into the wild solitude of rocky glens.

The morning is perfect with its glow of sunlight and its refreshing breeze. There are four of us in the carriage, a light-topped vehicle suited to our chosen mode of travel; lunch baskets and a small amount of baggage are in a mule-cart that follows us, in charge of George, whose dusky face gleams joyously out from under the brim of a new gray hat set jauntily on the side of his head.

Eight o'clock has not yet struck, and the town is lazy and heavy with sleep. At a turn in the road we are joined by a happy two-inone, seated in a buggy drawn by a white horse covered with freckles, whose name is Bill. We go along the green banks of the Swananoa, and the air blows refreshingly about us from the ruffled surface of the water. The dark beech trees are bound about by clinging vines of a lighter green. Long festoons of the wild grape dip into the softly gliding current, and hang in heavy curtains of scalloped leaves upon the grassy-bordered road. Above us on the opposite river-bank is the estate of a gentleman, which is known as McDowell's View. From a point near the house a lovely picture of the Blue Ridge Mountains, is presented to the vision; whilst in the foreground, across broad meadows, through a bordering of reeds, the Swananoa runs laughing and dimpling to meet the French Broad.

As we turn our backs on the river, the road loses its smooth character, and gains the usual characteristics of mountain roads, being rough with splintered rocks, and large, flat gray stones that send us jolting and thumping to the top of the hill. A broad gate bars the way; from a log cabin to the right springs a small negro, scarcely reaching above the hub of the wheel. The gate swings open, and a round woolly head thrust between the middle bars and a row of black toes on the lower slat go swinging back with it. We drive through, and this vestige of "The Irrepressible Conflict" flies into the dusty road to gather the nickels thrown from the carriage.

The mountains still rise before us, the broad, branching trees spread above us, and on every side are verdant meadows dotted and bordered with variously colored wild flowers. All along our way nature wears only an attractive mien; sometimes its grandeur approaches gloom, but the beauty is always the same.

sers.

Not far from the little wooly-head's gate we are met by a gentleman with a fine, sun-browned countenance; he is dressed in gray, and his boots are drawn over his trouThis brown gentleman lifts his hat, as with a pleasant smile he points towards a field of corn, telling us, "The rest of the party have gone on to the ferry." Soon we alight upon the rich dark earth that rises in little plowed furrows about the stately green stalks. In the mountain region of the Old North State the corn never seems to claim "the right of way." The route that suits the traveler is generally the proper one, and no person questions the justice of it. The mountain being in one direction or another the objective point that will not come to us, we must go to it.

At the ferry we join our friends. The ferryman is a tall mountaineer, broad-shouldered and sturdy-limbed. At the farther end of the boat, pole in hand, his thin, sharp, black visage turned towards us, is an old servant, who is known as "Time." His keen eye is fastened on us, his figure slightly bent forward, and as the water flows in rugged lines about our rude craft, I feel that the wily old Charon has us at last on the swift-flowing tide of the Styx.

On the other side we step out upon the green turf and enter the grand old forest. We rest a while beneath the trees. It is only a little while back; I can hear the birds singing overhead, the squirrel stirring in the close, shining leaves, and the water rippling not far off, below the mossy bank. The forest lands stretch away on every side, and in the shade, still dappled with sparklets of dew, are wild flowers. One of the most beautiful flowers growing naturally in this country is the tiger-lily, with yellow, velvety petals curving outward from its long, smooth, green stalk.

Once more our road becomes smooth, and so continues during the rest of our delightful journey. We pass by many cots or cabins standing in the shade of some large tree, or having a patch of corn or sugar-cane for a background. The house of the common countryman is usually built of logs, unplasVOL. I.-36.

tered within and without. There are no windows to these buildings, and the doorway alone serves as a means of lighting the one apartment of the household. During winter months the door remains open as in summer, while in one end of the apartment is a roaring fire.

The men, though hardy, are usually lean and lank. Six feet is a common height with them. Their skin is usually of a sallow tint, which gives them a melancholy and unhealthy look. These mountaineers are not the "clay-eaters" of whom we so often hear-they in fact are not so numerous nor so frequently met with as we have been led to believe. The mountain women have a much better appearance than the men; and the young girls and children are as a rule pretty, with dark eyes and flaxen hair. The mountaineer generally makes for himself a respectable living on his small farm of a few acres. They are industrious and law-abiding (save where the "moonshiner" element crops out), and are possessed of the intelligence common to the same class throughout our country. They are said to be endowed with a native shrewdness akin to that usually claimed for Connecticut, and have been known to outYankee a Yankee on more than one occasion. They are hospitable in their simple way, and show a rude form-if I may so designate it-of politeness, most particularly to strangers. Meeting them constantly on our road, we were saluted by the lifting of hats, and a "good morning" or "good day."

As we proceed on our journey, we leave behind us the picturesque French Broad curling away amid rocks and sand-drifts, until it becomes a dot of silver in the distance. Still onward we go, crossing again a bright stream of water known as Davidson's River. It is so clear that we see the smooth white sand at the bottom. Next after that we ford the Mills River, a pretty current of water flowing amid wavering shadows cast from overhanging trees along its banks. A little above the border of Mills River is the house of a Mr. Allen, just at the meeting of the cross-roads. On the long porch a table

No meal was ever more heartily relished than this one, consisting of sandwiches, fried chicken, Rhine wine, etc. Having finished our meal, we walked to the brink of the narrow, shallow stream, so limpid that we may almost count the pebbles on its sandy floor. Here we find lying an empty, idle dugout, into which scramble the younger people.

Some of us walk about gathering relics as mementos, whilst our nautical friends paddle back and forth, screaming and laughing at every turn of the rickety boat, like a pack of careless, happy children. The bridge spanning this little river is formed of rotten logs holding a few scattered planks; we cross it, gather our property, and start afresh on our journey. It is not possible to describe minutely a country so lovely and of such varied scenery. Rising like giant fortifications, mass upon mass, through the clear autumn light, the "inviolate hills" seem to stand as silent mentors of the past and the future, utterly severed from the present-so grand are they, so lofty, so sublime!

Through rich meadow-lands and fields of waving corn we pursued our journey. Our pathway lay along the right bank of the French Broad, which we could not see for the intertwining foliage; yet the pleasant, murmuring ripple of its waters came refreshingly to our ears. Half-way up the mountain side, and overshadowed by the great gray rocks, stood a picturesque dwelling, in the style of a Swiss chalet. No lovelier scene than this one, of the quiet home, from whose chimney curled the smoke towards the serene evening sky, met our gaze as we traveled. Over the smooth, hard roads we bowled joyously along, every step of the way bordered about by the perfect beauty of Nature's gardens and vales, velvety slopes and dusky nooks, that with but little exercise of the fancy might seem peopled with satyrs and wood-nymphs. Each mile brought us nearer to the blue, cloud-like mountains before us, that looked as though resting against the sky. The twilight soon folded

Crossing from bank to bank, ten or twelve feet above our heads was a log foot-bridge. Two men, distinctly outlined in the moonlight, were walking over, and we hailed them: "How far is it to Brevard?"

The customary reply to such questions (no matter how far or near the point might be) came to us:

"Two miles ahead." The sound went echoing away amongst the hills, "-iles ahead !”

Trotting briskly on, we were soon greeted by the twinkling lights of the village. Halting before the cottage-door of the village doctor, we inquired the way to the hotel. We were directed to cross the hill, and just out of town we should come to the hotel kept by the Widow Lee-Gash. Our party now formed in line (we had been straggling before this), and as we came to a turn in the road a negro hurried by, heard but unseen in the darkness.

"Hello! I say! Are we on the right road to the hotel?"

"Turn and run back," called Mr. Dawson; "we want hot coffee, corn bread, and beefsteak."

With a bound out of the road into an open field, our dusky acquaintance ran before to announce our coming, crying in a high key as he went over the fence: "Yes, sah! Yes, sah!"

At the doorway of this cottage-hotel, we were met by the manager, who told us he would try to make us as comfortable as he could. We were provided with quarters— two rooms to seven ladies. We were tired, however, and the balmiest of sleep visited us, and remained with us until day dawned. By the bright morning light we beheld a pretty scene of village and rural life combined. The grass and foliage were freshened by a light mountain shower, which soon