Macbeth.

The abductors of Amanda were no other than the three sons of AndrÉ Duchatel, along with the vindictive Narcisse acting as their guide. He and Alphonse Duchatel, at the branching of the road, had parted company with the others, and so drawn upon themselves the pursuer, Claude Montigny, who being magnificently mounted gained fast upon them, till fearing to be overtaken they leaped from their horses, and taking to their heels concealed themselves amongst the trees that covered the side of the mountain, and where no rider could follow. Claude then saw that he had been the dupe of a stratagem; and after galloping across the country, struck the road that he had been decoyed from following; then urging his horse in the direction which he supposed the principal abductors had pursued, he at length in despair left it, and again clearing fence and brook, held his course towards the city of Montreal, where he arrived betwixt midnight and dawn, and with the butt of his riding-whip knocked at the advocate's door.

The old man was dreaming of the apparently fair fortune of Amanda; of the ingenuous Claude, and of his father, the importunate and imperious Seigneur, when the clang rung through the mansion, and rudely dispelled his visions. At first he was doubtful as to the reality of the alarm, and was dropping again to sleep, when once more the riding-whip sent the startling summons, and leaping from his bed, he threw open the window, and putting his head out, gruffly demanded, who was there.

“Claude Montigny,” was answered from beneath.

“And what wants Claude Montigny at this hour?” asked the advocate, who now perceived the figures of steed and dismounted rider beneath him in the obscurity.

“Dress instantly, and quick come down,” was the reply. The window closed, and in a few minutes the advocate, with his morning gown thrown over him, opened the door.

“Why how is this?” he demanded in astonishment, as he beheld Claude on the footwalk, whip in one hand, and with the other holding his horse by the bridle.

Claude stood silent.

“How is this?” reiterated the advocate: “Out with it, man. Is your father wild? does he threaten to disinherit you?”

“Not that, but worse:” Claude answered; “worse than your worst suspicions, and it may be worse than the death of one you much regard.”

“Has any thing evil happened to my ward?” asked the advocate, exhibiting alarm. “Why do you pause? Inform me quickly.”

“Too quickly, perhaps, I shall inform you,” replied Claude, deprecatingly. “Something evil has happened to your ward. Arm yourself now with firmness, and be calm; be cool in judgment, prompt in execution; you who can counsel others, now prepare to be the best counsellor to yourself.”

“What act shall follow this preamble?” said the lawyer, raising his thick, white, shaggy eyebrows in enquiring wonder: “Go on, go on;” he commanded in a short, gasping utterance; “declare the pains and penalties. She lives? Amanda lives? Has she proved false? You have not lost her?”

“Lost her! oh!” exclaimed Claude, unable to curb his emotion.

“Nay, confess it; announce the worst; the broadest misfortune; my ears are open for it,” pursued the other.

“But I have no heart, no tongue to fill them with my dire news,” Claude stammered, and the advocate resumed, growing impatient:

“Of my ward what can you tell me that is untoward? Of myself say anything: foretell disaster, prophecy my death;—but what of her?—you say she lives?”

“She does.”

“Is well?”

Claude shook his head, and remained silent.

“Sir, let your lips pronounce my doom at once,” said the advocate, striving to be calm, yet alarmed and irritated; “Proceed:—I am ashamed to say it, but I tremble. What has befallen my ward, what trouble has alighted on my child?—for so I call her. Claude Montigny, what is it brings you here betwixt night and day, with tidings that you falter to deliver?”

“Calm yourself;” counselled Claude in a warning tone.

“I will;” answered the advocate; “I do;—resolve me quickly.”

“I fear to do so,” Montigny uttered pathetically, as if his resolution had suddenly given way.

“Let me hear it, torture me no longer:” cried the advocate imperatively: “Perfect knowledge, perhaps, may stun me; but far worse to bear than were a shower of vitriol poured on a green wound, are these distilled, dire drops of apprehension. Sir, are you guilty that you thus stand dumb? What have you done injurious towards my ward, that you so linger upon the street, and to my queries but gaze like one demented? Sir, I charge you, tell me without more reserve or hesitation, lest at last I listen to you with less of fear than of anger. You have been—”

“The innocent accessory, I fear, to others' villany,” Claude interrupted; “still, hear me,” he continued, “and forgive me if I bring you tidings that shall hang as heavy on your soul as lead; yet have given me the leaden bullet's swiftness, or that of the blast, to waft them hither, blasting, to yourself.—Sir, you have been robbed, bereaved; the star of Stillyside is set,—or, worse, plucked from its firmament; my life, my lady, oh, my new-made love, your peerless ward is stolen.”

“Stolen!” the advocate echoed.

“Stolen; even from my very arms is plucked,” continued Claude.

“Ill-freighted messenger,” groaned the old lawyer; “stolen! oh, Montigny, you have stolen half the strength from these old limbs, and strained the sinews that have never bent before, neither to man nor to misfortune. Stolen! How stolen? It is false; you jest, you mean that you yourself have stolen her,—have stolen her heart; you know I lately caught you in the act;—but, for her person, she would not, could not, give it you without my leave. Montigny, you have not stolen together to the church?—but this is in the street; come in.”

Claude tied his courser to a young maple that grew near the door; and, whilst he was doing so, the advocate retired within, murmuring: “Montigny, Seigneur Montigny, this is your work, and yet may prove the dearest piece of petty larceny that ever man committed; as dear as would have been to have furnished the dower you refused me. No;” he continued musing, “trouble does not spring from out of the ground. Then whence comes this? Who hates me?” he continued sharply; “Covets her? Whom would her absence serve? who, except the father of you boy, the Sieur Montigny?” and he had scarcely finished his soliloquy when he was rejoined by Claude, who, straightway in the obscurity of the library, related to him the adventure of the night.

The old man listened in silence, but his bosom heaved, and when Claude had ceased, he grasped him by the hand and exclaimed:

“Montigny, we are bound together in that girl, the outrage upon whom has made us rivals in the task to find and rescue her. Yet are you sure the voice you heard was her's? You did not see her carried off; you only heard, or thought you heard, her cry. You may have been deceived. Hasten back to Stillyside. She may be there now sleeping between the unruffled sheets, making them sweeter than the perfuming lavender;—if she be not—why then—alas! what then?” And he struck his palm against his brow, holding it there, perplexed, revolving.

“You say you heard your name pronounced?” he enquired at length.

“I did,” said Claude, unhesitatingly; and this seemed to satisfy the lawyer's doubts, and, rising, he said, shaking his companion by the hand: “Montigny, go. Beat up the bush at Stillyside; and if she be not there,—why all the country side shall be roused to find and bring her back. But, Claude, she is safe. Yet hie you thither; mount again your horse, and bring me word before the day breaks: begone.” And in a few moments Claude was scouring back to Stillyside, and the advocate ruminating alone amidst the shadows of his library.