Fifteen years had elapsed since the occurrence of the incidents recorded in my last chapter, when a company of circus-riders took up their abode for the night in a village of one of our northern states. It was late in the autumn, and after having satisfactorily disposed of their baggage and horses, most of the travelers were glad to find refuge in the spacious bar-room of the village tavern, where the blaze that roared and crackled up the wide chimney, seemed in its cheerfulness almost a sufficient recompense for the day’s journey. Chilled by the evening air, wearied by their dreary march, and little inclined at any time to be regardful of ceremony, each of the party had chosen the position most conducive to his own comfort; and while some occupied the settees and arm-chairs dispersed around the apartment, their companions stretched themselves upon the floor and round the glowing hearth.

Apart from them, and reading, or affecting to read, for, although he had held the volume for many minutes, the page remained unturned, sat one who by word nor look took part in their merriment. With his arm resting on the little table beside him, and his eyes shaded by the hand, over which had fallen a profusion of dark silvered curls, he kept his eye immovably upon his book, and neither looked up nor stirred.

“Look at Clifdon,” said one of the company, to his companions, “he is in his dark mood to-night.”

“He is ever gloomy,” said the person addressed.

“True,” returned the first speaker, “he has never been the same since the death of his pretty wife. Let me see, that was fifteen years ago, soon after Mark Brendon was killed.”

“Ned was one of the same company?”

“Ay, ay. You should have seen us then. I was clown, with limbs a trifle lighter than now; and Clifdon—as I said, he has never been the same since her death.”

“She left but one child?”

“You mistake, she died in giving birth to pretty Lilia; but there was a son, who was sent to old Mordaunt. Little Phil; he must almost be of age now.”

The noise made by a vehicle dashing rapidly up to the tavern-door arrested their attention, and the conversation was suspended.

There was a sound of heavy boots ringing upon the stone pavements as the travelers sprung to the ground, a loud barking, and then a voice, whose deep bass was like the reverberation of distant thunder, was heard exclaiming, “Down, Pedro! Ho, there! Down close! Back to! Unbuckle the leash, Philip.”

Then the voice of the host, like the yelp of a puppy after the growl of a mastiff. “Fire, gentlemen? Yes, fire in the bar-room. This way, this way.”

The door was flung open, and a man advanced in life, but of almost gigantic height and proportions, entered the room. A heavy furred over-coat was tightly buttoned across his broad chest, and the black hunting-cap, which he had disdained to remove, shaded a brow, white and massive as a slab of marble. Upon his shoulder rested a superbly finished rifle, and from the flaps of his surcoat-pocket protruded the silver handle of his hunting-knife. He was followed by a handsome youth of about twenty, who, as he entered, shook the moisture from his over-coat, and lifting his cap, brushed off the snow that had powdered the shining sable of his hair. Two powerful hounds, of a rare and foreign breed, sprung before him and secured their places by the hearth, shaking vigorously as they passed, the water from their chilled limbs upon those around them.

“Room here!” said the elder stranger, imperiously; and they whom he addressed, intimidated, though resentful, moved back, while the new comers drew their chairs before the fire.

A dead silence had succeeded their boisterous mirth, and while the elder of the sportsmen sat wrapped in thought, his young companion, with a countenance expressive of the most extreme ennui, occupied himself alternately by pushing with his boot the logs that, when disturbed, sent a torrent of bright sparks crackling up the chimney, and by teasing the drowsy hounds stretched beside him.

Still apparently intent upon his book, but gazing earnestly upon the twain through his parted fingers, sat Edward Clifdon.

At last the elder stranger spoke, but in German, to his companion. “I have decided, Philip,” he said, abruptly. “You are young—too young; yet I leave you your own master. I give my consent to your marriage some few years hence, with the woman you have chosen, and chosen, I trust, wisely.”

“A thousand, thousand thanks, my dear father,” began the youth, with animation; but Mordaunt, for it was he, checked him.

“Thanks! yes, that I have decided in accordance with your wishes,” he said, bitterly; “but had it been otherwise—how then, Philip?”

His companion spoke not, but looked deeply hurt.

“I have seen enough of filial disobedience,” said Mordaunt, rising as he spoke, “to be doubtful with regard to the result; but we will let that pass. Nay, no thanks, if you please; I am weary, and you know how I detest a scene. Good night!” And striding hastily across the room, he retired.

His grandson, or, as Philip Clifdon had been taught to believe himself, his son, did not follow, but falling back in his chair, and planting his feet upon the broad hearth, abandoned himself to vague and delicious revery.

The constraint which the presence of Mordaunt had imposed, wore off with his disappearance, until Philip, disturbed by the loud voices and ringing laughter of those around, roused himself, and addressed a few words to him who has been announced as the former clown of the little company.

Clifdon had disappeared.

In the course of conversation with this man, young Clifdon, or rather Mordaunt, for he bore the name of his supposed parent, had occasion to draw forth and open his pen-knife. A singular dilation of the eye, a sudden flush upon the countenance of his companion, arrested his attention, but was forgotten, as the ex-clown, recovering his composure, quietly observed,

“That is a curious blade—will you let me examine it?”

Young Mordaunt resigned it carelessly into his hands, remarking, “It is a knife I seldom use, but having lost that I ordinarily carry, I have been obliged to bring it forward.”

“It is an old-fashioned piece of work,” said Garvin, for such was his name, earnestly examining it. “I think I have seen it before.”

“I value it as one that has been in my possession from my childhood,” returned Philip. “It has served me trustily.”

“Here is a broken point,” said Garvin, opening a second blade. “What a pity!”

“It has been broken ever since my remembrance,” returned the other.

As he spoke, his companion rising, either accidentally, or, as Philip afterward suspected, from design, managed to catch with his foot the leg of a table upon which a group of his companions had arranged their smoking glasses. It was overthrown; and after the confusion this created had in a measure subsided, Mordaunt looked in vain for the author of the mischief. He had vanished, and with him the borrowed knife.

“So much for my confounded carelessness,” said the youth, internally, as half vexed, half amused, he left the bar-room. “I will see to this to-morrow; but not to-night, not to-night.” And why “not to-night” might have been explained by the dreams that floated through his brain, as beneath the moon that shone brightly in the now cloudless sky, he paced to and fro upon the broad piazza of the inn.

——