Sir Henry entertained not the least doubt of its being Ferrand who had taken Louise; nor, from his general character, but that he would endeavour to retain her, though in open defiance to the Governor's command. That he was devoid of principle or honour, he had given an indubitable proof, in his intended assassination of Harland; nor would the affair, Sir Henry apprehended, yet end without an effusion of blood. The courage of Sir Henry was cool but constant: an injury offered to himself, the benevolence of his disposition would induce him rather to pardon than resent; but this outrage to a sister he sincerely loved affected him more keenly; and he determined, should Ferrand prove the aggressor, to hazard, or even lose his life, to effect her liberation. With his mind absorbed in a labyrinth of conjectures, and plans for his procedure, he arrived at the Governor's country residence, and, on inquiring for Ferrand, was shown into a library.

The East-Indian received him with a constrained civility; which, however, ceased on learning the purport of his visit: and, in answer to Sir Henry's demand, if his sister were there? he haughtily replied, he was not answerable to any one for his conduct, nor would he be questioned like a school-boy, or dictated to!

"It is not my intention, Sir," said Sir Henry loftily, "to dictate to you; for my question, if you refuse to answer it, your servants, I doubt not, will give the information I want: if not, I shall proceed to the executive part of my commission."

Ferrand bit his lip, and, stamping with passion, exclaimed, "What farther insults am I to receive? I have been rejected by a proud menial; my love contemned; insulted by a rival; reproved for my just vengeance, and treated as a prisoner!—and now—on what authority is the finger of suspicion pointed at me? Search the fleet; you may, perhaps, find her with some of her gallant countrymen!"

As he uttered the last sentence, he flung from the room, leaving Sir Henry to proceed as he should think proper. Sir Henry was not long in determining: he summoned the attendants, and, showing the Governor's order, demanded to be admitted into every apartment. But Louise was not to be found; and Sir Henry at last was persuaded she was not in the power of Ferrand. The suspicion too that she might have been torn away by some of the French officers who daily visited the Marchioness, added to his perplexity. Had Ferrand, he thought, been guilty, he would rather have braved the action; but, on the contrary, he appeared wholly actuated by rage at his restriction.

Uncertain how to act, or where to proceed to recover Louise, he returned to the Marchioness's, where the impatient Harland had unwillingly remained. His countenance told the success of his commission; and scarcely could his tongue confirm it, ere Harland exclaimed—"I knew it—I knew it! Fool that I was to yield to the command of an interested dotard, and idly lose the moments which may have teemed with danger to her. But I will find her, though hell and earth combine to hide her from me!"

He rushed out of the house, followed by Sir Henry, who asked which way he proposed to direct his course?—"The island is before me," answered Harland distractedly, "nor will I leave a single spot unsearched!"

Sir Henry mentioned the suspicion to which Ferrand had given rise, and proposed requesting of the Governor that an inquiry might be made through the fleets. Harland eagerly agreed to the measure; to which the Governor as readily consented. Commissioners were accordingly deputed to the several vessels, whilst Harland and Sir Henry, after vainly searching the town, directed their course to the surrounding plantations: but disappointment still attended them; the lovely fugitive was no where to be discovered, though the most liberal rewards were offered to those who could give intelligence respecting her.

For four days they continued their search, scarcely allowing themselves the rest and refreshment nature required, when, to add to their distress, they were informed the fleet was ready to sail, and only waited for a favourable wind.

"God of Heaven prevent it!" exclaimed Harland, "for if Louise be not found, I can sooner forfeit my commission, my honour, nay my life, than lose her! What can be done, Sir Henry? Which way can we go?"

"Chance, or rather Providence, George," answered Sir Henry dejectedly, "must direct us. Though the unfortunate girl I am afraid is too well secreted to be discovered by any means we can use."

"Drive me not mad, Sir Henry, by the supposition," said Harland; "rather encourage me with hopes, though delusive ones, than tear my heart by such a truth."

"Alas, Harland," answered Sir Henry, "I would encourage hope in you, but it is dead in my own bosom. Louise, I am afraid, is irrecoverably lost."

"I must not, will not lose her," cried the frantic Harland. "Ferrand, the villain Ferrand, too surely has her in his power! But I will instantly go to the grove, despite of his uncle's prohibition, and force the truth from him."

He turned into a path which conducted to the Governor's seat, and Sir Henry, after a moment's hesitation, followed him. "I will go with you, Harland," he said; "if Louise be secreted at the Grove, my assistance may be requisite; and the Governor, in that respect, I doubt not, will pardon our transgressing the bounds he has prescribed. If she be not, my presence will be equally necessary, as your passion may otherwise hurry you into too great excesses."

They were here interrupted by the appearance of a skirmish in an adjoining enclosure; and, on their nearer approach, beheld an old negro defending himself with a stake against four others who were armed. The odds were too great to demand a moment's hesitation how to act: they hastened to his rescue, and, after a slight contest, compelled their opponents to retreat. Sir Henry then directed his attention to the old man, who had fallen to the ground apparently lifeless.

"The poor wretch, I believe, is dying," said Harland, as he assisted Sir Henry to raise him, "and here no assistance can be had." Sir Henry supported him against his knee. The negro faintly opened his eyes, and regarded them with a wild surprise, which, as recollection returned, gradually settled to a look of stern ferocity.

"How can we remove him?" said Sir Henry, "To leave him thus is impossible."

"To take him with us is equally impossible," answered Harland, impatiently, "and the day, Corbet, wears apace."

"Yet cannot I leave him to perish," said Sir Henry. "Try, my good fellow, if you can walk or stand."

"Let me die where I am," answered the negro sullenly.

"Leave him—leave him, Sir Henry," exclaimed Harland; "Louise is of more consequence than a worthless runaway slave, for such I am certain he is; and to her, I think, a brother's hand ought to be extended."

"And shall be, Harland," said Sir Henry, with emotion. "Yet, as a man, is this slave my brother, and to him shall my hand be extended also. I feel the weight of his afflictions, the misery of his life passed in slavery; and, with him, could curse the hand that first forged chains for a fellow-creature!—A few minutes, and he may be better; and we will then prosecute our search for my unfortunate Louise."

During this speech the old negro had raised himself from the knee of Sir Henry, and grasped his arm, with that anxious confidence the unhappy only can feel when relieved by the hand of benevolence; each word struck as a chord on his heart, and told him he was supported by a friend.—"Seek you Louise de St. Ursule?" he hesitatingly asked. The quick ear of Harland caught the sound, and, springing toward him, he demanded if he knew aught of Louise? "I do," answered the slave, with reserve, "and if this European seek her, will direct him to her."

"Tell me this instant," said Harland; "on your life I charge you!"

"You may take it, if you please," said the negro coolly, "and afterward find her if you can. I am a slave, and, as you said, a runaway! If I discover the European woman to you, in return, perhaps, you would deliver me to a merciless master, to expire beneath the whip."

Harland deserved not the supposition; cruelty formed no part of his character, though truly the child of pride. Unused to entreat, he had demanded the information he would not have regretted half his fortune to have obtained. The answer of the slave stung him to the heart; and, though Louise was at stake, he would have retorted with the wildest acrimony, had not Sir Henry prevented him, by saying to the slave—"If you be the means of restoring Louise to us, I promise to procure your pardon, if the interest of the Governor can effect it; and your liberty, if your owner will dispose of you."

The slave half rose, looked wistfully in the face of Sir Henry: the name of liberty sounded sweetly on his ear, and made his heart beat with unwonted velocity. Yet a momentary doubt shot across his brain. Mankind had ever been his enemy; could he then give credit to the flattering promise?—The countenance of Sir Henry beamed with philanthropy and truth; suspicion vanished; and, rising from the ground, he cried—"I will believe you.—Pursue the path you are in, and I will conduct you to her."

"You forget your late accident," said Sir Henry; "let me assist you."

"I am, I believe," said the old man, "more capable of walking than you. Slavery has inured me to fatigue. Neither am I materially hurt. I was exhausted when you came to my assistance, and stunned by the last blow I received. But your timely interposition saved my life, and freely now shall you command it."

He conducted them, by private paths, to a plantation near Ferrand Grove; in which, after some time, he pointed out a small cottage, so concealed by the foliage that it might have escaped the eyes of a casual observer.—"I can proceed no farther," he said, "without danger of being seen and retaken, which would inevitably bring me to a merciless death. There is the cottage I yester-evening fled from; and there is Louise de St. Ursule confined."

Harland heard no more, but rushed through a gateway which opened to the cottage. The soft voice of Louise, broken by a plaintive sob, reached his ear; and, a moment after, that of Ferrand, speaking in a threatening tone. With a resistless force, the maddened effort of the moment, he burst the door, and the next instant brought him to the presence of Louise and his rival.

Ferrand started at the unexpected apparition, but drew his sword, perceiving the point of Harland's already at his breast; whilst Louise, with a scream of mingled joy and terror, attempted to throw herself into the protecting arms of her lover; but was withheld by one of Ferrand's attendants, who, recalling to mind his master's assailant, endeavoured to force her to the interior part of the cottage. In this he was prevented by Sir Henry, who had followed Harland, and who now sprung to the rescue of his sister. A few minutes would have decided the conflict in favour of the adventurers, but the domestics, alarmed by the tumult and the screams of Louise, hastened to the assistance of their master. They were, therefore, obliged to act on the defensive; and, to add to their distress, Louise, after vainly struggling for emancipation, sunk senseless at the feet of Ferrand. Another moment and she had been torn from their sight; when Ferrand, thrown off his guard by her fall, received a wound from Harland: he staggered—and the servant, who was raising the fair cause of the contention, extended his arm to save his master. It was a moment granted by fortune. Quick as lightning Sir Henry tore her from him, and, defended by Harland, conveyed her out of the cottage. By the time they had passed the gate, Ferrand, however, was sufficiently recovered to order the servants, who had officiously attended to him, to pursue them, and force Louise back. They hastened to execute his commands, but the narrowness of the path prevented their passing to impede the flight of the fugitives. The sword of Harland was opposed to those who first presented themselves; but fearing they would force their way through the underwood, and thus surround them, he hastily bade Sir Henry—save Louise! Sir Henry, accordingly, after an anxious but vain look for the old negro, and desiring the Lieutenant to follow him, entered the nearly trackless path by which they had been conducted to the cottage.

Louise soon revived; and, after a few incoherent exclamations of joy, and thankfulness at her deliverance, anxiously inquired after Harland. "I hope in a few minutes he will join us," answered Sir Henry. But scarcely were the words pronounced when they heard a violent tumult, and immediately after distinguished the voice of Ferrand, commanding his people to pursue Louise. His anxiety for George was instantly absorbed in apprehension for the safety of his sister, and, supporting her on his arm, they again fled.

Night soon concealed them from farther danger, and the hapless Harland retook possession of their imaginations. The timid Louise, with tearful eyes, endeavoured to pierce through the gloom, or entreated Sir Henry to stop and listen if perchance his distant footfall, or voice, could be heard. But all was silent—and busy fancy quickly portrayed him as sinking beneath the vengeance of his furious rival. Sir Henry's thoughts did not present a more cheerful picture; he entertained not a doubt but Ferrand had overpowered the Lieutenant; and an idea of assassination presented itself to his imagination, which the ferocious character of the East-Indian but too justly authorised. Could he have left Louise, he would instantly have retraced his way to the cottage, but no friendly roof presented itself which might have afforded shelter for the lovely maid; he had therefore no alternative but to proceed, though every nerve trembling with anxiety to return and aid the unfortunate Lieutenant.

It was nearly the hour of midnight when they arrived at the Marchioness's, where Louise had again the satisfaction of being folded to the bosom of her generous benefactress. An inquiry after Harland followed the embrace. The tears of Louise informed her some accident had happened; and, on her applying to Sir Henry for an explanation, he gave a concise relation of the evening's adventures; at the same time declaring his intention of instantly returning. The Marchioness could not oppose his determination, but applied herself to console Louise, who appeared nearly overpowered by her emotions.

Sir Henry advanced to her, and tenderly taking her hand—"Indulge not this immoderate grief, my dear girl, which can only add to our present distress. Summon your fortitude. George may be wounded—he may be overpowered; or, which is most probable, he may have missed his way in the plantations. I yesterday, my dear girl, despaired of ever beholding you again; yet, when least expected, Providence conducted us to you. Hope, then, for the best. I will proceed, with the utmost expedition, to his assistance, if he need it: and if our fears are prophetic—but you must not indulge the idea.—Harland shall live, and live to bless my Louise!"

The enthusiasm with which Sir Henry pronounced the last sentence, imparted a hope to the heart of Louise, he dared not himself indulge. She faintly smiled through her tears: Sir Henry again repeated—"Hope for the best!" and was hastening out of the room, when a loud peal at the outward door arrested his steps, and, the minute after, Harland, with breathless impatience, rushed into the room, followed by the old Negro.

"My dearest, loveliest girl!" he exclaimed, clasping the delighted Louise to his bosom; "am I again so blessed as to behold you?—Nor will I part from you again, my Louise, till the Church's sanction has placed it beyond the power of aught but death to separate us!"

"But you are wounded, Harland," said the Marchioness anxiously; "let me procure you some assistance."

Harland, indeed, had forgotten his wounds, and the joy Louise at first experienced on seeing him, prevented her observing his pallid countenance, or the blood which had stained his clothes. She now with trembling lips joined in the Marchioness's request, that a surgeon might be sent for. Harland complied,—"though the hurts I have received," he continued, "are not such as to require a moment's consideration. But the dastardly villain, Sir Henry, who inflicted them, shall yet feel the power of my arm!"

The last words were uttered with a vehemence which declared Ferrand not only the man alluded to, but that he had been guilty of some atrocity they were as yet unacquainted with.

"Ah, Harland!" sighed Louise, "if you have any regard for my peace, resign all thoughts of revenge, in which perhaps yourself, not Ferrand, might become the victim!"

"In every other circumstance of my life," said Harland, "Louise shall be my monitor; but I cannot tamely pass by the injuries I have received. To Sir Henry I am indebted for your preservation—to yonder slave for my own!—Not two hours since he saved me from the assassin's hand!"

The countenance of Louise assumed a paler hue at this relation.—"Yonder slave!" she faintly repeated.—"It is the villain who forced me to the cottage of Ferrand."

The old slave, who had hitherto remained near the door, now advanced:—"I am, it is true, Madam," he said, "the man who, by the commands of an imperious master, took you from your friends: yet am I not deserving the name of villain! The slave—but not the man, was guilty of the action!—By preserving you from dishonour, I incurred the usage which drove me a naked fugitive from my ancient home. These Europeans saved me from a cruel death, and promised the richest reward a wretched slave could receive, if I would conduct them to you. I did more—and let the action prove a Negro's soul to be susceptible of gratitude!"

Louise blushed her recantation of the sentiments she had entertained respecting the slave. "You have raised my curiosity," said the Marchioness, "to the highest degree: but as I am certain my Louise, and you, my young friends, are greatly in need of repose; I will repress it till the morning, when I shall expect to have it gratified by an ample relation of every incident."

Louise thankfully acceded to the Marchioness's proposal of retiring, and again took possession of her former apartment; whither one of the Marchioness's daughters accompanied her, that no farther attempt might be made, without the knowledge of the family or the means of assistance. Harland likewise, after a surgeon had attended him, retired, as did Sir Henry, to the apartments which had been prepared for them, and where repose, the sweetest they had long experienced, rewarded them for the toils and anxieties of the day.

It was late in the morning when they assembled at the breakfast-table; where the Captain and Frederick, having been previously informed of the successful termination of Sir Henry and Harland's search, attended them. Mutual compliments and congratulations passed, and after breakfast the Marchioness reminded them of the last night's arrangement, and Louise began her relation, as follows:

"I had not, my dear Madam, retired many minutes to my apartment, on the night I was forced away, when Rachel, (who has chiefly attended on me since our arrival in St. Helena) after apologizing for the liberty she was going to take, with a well-counterfeited appearance of concern, began to relate a tale of a distressed family, highly deserving, she said, of compassion and relief, who wished to apply for your beneficence, but wanted a friend to speak for them: and, knowing my influence, she had given her word, she said, to ask my assistance.

"I inquired more particularly into the nature of their distress; and she so insensibly engaged my attention by her interesting but artful tale, that the time passed unheeded till long after the usual hour of repose. I was first recalled to a sense of my improper conduct, by a light footstep on the outside of my apartment. Unsuspicious of danger, I was hastening to see who it was, and to apologize, if by my heedlessness I had disturbed any part of the family; when two men entered the room, and before I could call for help, Rachel threw a handkerchief over my head, which she tied so securely across my mouth, that the power of speech was entirely prevented. My struggles were equally inefficacious: my hands and feet were bound, and I was then carried silently down the stairs, and conveyed to the cottage of Ferrand; where freeing me from my bonds, they left me to reflections painful in the highest degree. The idea that they designed to murder me, which had taken possession of my mind on our first entrance into the plantation, then gave place to fears far better founded, and I dreaded the moment which would bring Ferrand to my sight.

"An old female soon attended, to show me to a chamber: I endeavoured to interest her in my favour, and to prevail on her to aid me in returning to my friends. But she heard me with indifference, spoke in praise of Ferrand, who, she said, would visit me in the evening, and, advising me to seek repose, again left me. Thankful, and somewhat easier by hearing Ferrand was not under the same roof with me, I determined to take advantage of the respite allowed, and if possible effect my escape. I hastened to the window—it was secured by strong iron bars, and the door had been locked and bolted on the outside by my female gaoler. Disappointed in the faint hope I entertained of liberty, I yielded to a momentary despair, and, bursting into tears, threw myself on the bed. Reflection, however, soon showed me the inutility of my grief: many hours were to pass before Ferrand would come to the cottage; I therefore endeavoured to calm my agitation, that I might, if possible, meet him with firmness and resolution. Then again I dreaded the uncontrolled licence of his passions, or that Harland or my brother, learning who had taken me away, might be involved in a quarrel, which would terminate in the loss of their lives.

"It was noon when my attendant entered with refreshments; and a smile, I thought truly demoniacal, played on her features as she again launched out in praise of her master, and the happy life I might lead if I were but compliant with his wishes. I listened to her in silence, as my spirits were too dejected to permit my answering her; and she left me, I believe highly satisfied with her own eloquence. The afternoon passed comfortless; evening arrived; and I was forced from reflections on a more deserving lover, to the presence of Ferrand. He accosted me with an exultation and assurance that implied he thought the conquest over me completely gained, by the success of his stratagem: he did not, therefore, patiently listen to my reproaches and animadversions on his conduct; but, after a violent paroxysm of passion, reminded me he was then the master of my fate. He was willing, he said, to join his destiny with mine by a lawful union; but, if I rejected his offer, I must answer to myself for any measures he might pursue. I could not conceal the terror occasioned by this declaration; the courage I at first exerted forsook me, and tears and entreaties were my only defence. The next day, and the next, passed with little variation; Ferrand sometimes strove to soothe, but more often to terrify me to compliance. The third evening a violent bustle in the lower rooms raised my hopes that my brother and Harland had gained intelligence of my prison, and were come to my deliverance. With a throbbing heart I listened to catch the welcome sound of their voices; but the tumult gradually ceased; all became quiet; and I was obliged to resign myself to a state rendered more horrid by the short-lived but sanguine hope I had indulged of liberation.

"I did not see Ferrand again till late the next day; when he informed me the fleets had sailed, and that Harland and my friends had left the island. I cannot attempt to describe the agony of mind I endured on receiving this intelligence. He renewed his offer of immediate marriage, but I turned from him with horror. My sorrow renewed his anger; he repeated his threats—declared he would grant me only till the morning to determine whether I would accept his honourable proposal, or submit to a state of infamy; and was proceeding in his invectives, when the door was burst from its hinges, and the entrance of my Harland and Sir Henry proved the falsity of Ferrand's report, and changed my sorrow to joy."