When they met at breakfast, Henry was more than ever struck and afflicted by the alteration in his brother's person and manner. All traces of the last night's excitement had disappeared with the cause, and pale, haggard and embarrassed, he seemed but the shadow of his former self, while the melancholy of his countenance had in it something wild and even fierce. As at their first meeting, his language was dry and reserved, and he seemed rather impatient of conversation, as though it interfered with the indulgence of some secret and all absorbing reflection, while, to Henry's affectionate questioning of his adventures since they first parted, he replied in the vague unsatisfactory manner of one who seeks to shun the subject altogether. At another moment, this apparent prostration of the physical man might have been ascribed to his long immersion of the preceding day, and the efforts that were necessary to rescue him from a watery grave; but, from the account Sambo had given him, Henry had but too much reason to fear that the disease of body and mind which had so completely encompassed his unfortunate brother, not only had its being in a different cause, but might be dated from an earlier period. Although burning with desire to share that confidence which it grieved him to the soul to find thus unkindly withheld, he made no effort to remove the cloak of reserve in which his brother had invested himself. That day they both dined at the garrison mess, and Henry saw with additional pain, that the warm felicitations of his brother officers on his return, were received by Gerald with the same reserve and indifference which had characterized his meeting with him, while he evinced the same disinclination to enter upon the solicited history of his captivity, as well as the causes which led to his bold venture, and consequent narrow escape, of the preceding day. Finding him thus incommunicative, and not comprehending the change in his manner, they rallied him; and, as the bottle circulated, he seemed more and more disposed to meet their raillery with a cheerfulness and good humor that brought even the color into his sunken cheeks; but when, finally, some of them proceeded to ask him, in their taunting manner, what he had done with his old flame and fascinating prisoner, Miss Montgomerie, a deadly paleness overspread his countenance, and he lost in the moment all power of disguising his feelings. His emotion was too sudden and too palpable, not to be observed by those who had unwillingly called it forth, and they at once, with considerate tact, changed the conversation. Hereupon Gerald again made an effort to rally, but no one returned to the subject. Piqued at this conduct, he had more frequent recourse to the bottle, and laughed and talked in a manner that proved him to be laboring under the influence of extraordinary excitement. When he took leave of his brother to retire to rest, he was silent, peevish, dissatisfied—almost angry.

Henry passed a night of extreme disquiet. It was evident from what had occurred at the mess-table in relation to the beautiful American, that to her was to be ascribed the wretchedness to which Gerald had become a victim, and he resolved on the following morning to waive all false delicacy, and throwing himself upon his affection, to solicit his confidence, and offer whatever counsel he conceived would best tend to promote his peace of mind.

At breakfast the conversation turned on the intended movement, which was to take place within three days, and on this subject Gerald evinced a vivacity that warmed into eagerness. He had risen early that morning, with a view to obtain the permission of the commodore to make one of the detachment of sailors who were to accompany the expedition, and, having succeeded in obtaining the command of one of the two gun-boats which were destined to ascend the Miami, and form part of the battering force, seemed highly pleased. This apparent return to himself might have led his brother into the belief that his feelings had undergone a reaction, had he not, unfortunately, but too much reason to know that the momentary gaiety was the result of the very melancholy which consumed him. However, it gave him a more favorable opportunity to open the subject next his heart, and, as a preparatory step, he dexterously contrived to turn the conversation into the channel most suited to his purpose.

The only ill effect arising from Gerald's recent immersion was a sense of pain in that part of his arm which had been bitten by the rattlesnake, on the day of the pic-nic to Hog Island, and it chanced that this morning especially it had a good deal annoyed him, evincing some slight predisposition to inflammation. To subdue this, Henry applied with his own hand a liniment which had been recommended, and took occasion, when he had finished, to remark on the devotedness and fearlessness Miss Montgomerie had manifested in coming so opportunely to his rescue—in all probability, thereby preserving his life.

At the sound of this name Gerald started, and evinced the same impatience of the subject he had manifested on the preceding day. Henry keenly remarked his emotion, and Gerald was sensible that he did.

Both sat for some minutes gazing at each other in expressive silence, the one as if waiting to hear, the other as if conscious that he was expected to afford, some explanation of the cause of so marked an emotion. At length Gerald said and in a tone of deep and touching despondency, "Henry, I fear you find me very unamiable and much altered, but indeed I am very unhappy."

Here was touched the first chord of their sympathies. Henry's, already on the Élan, flew to meet this demonstration of returning confidence, and he replied in a voice broken by the overflowing of his full heart.

"Oh, my beloved brother, changed must you indeed be, when even the admission that you are unhappy inspires me with a thankfulness such as I now feel. Gerald, I entreat, I implore you, by the love we have borne each other from infancy, to disguise nothing from me. Tell me what it is that weighs so heavily at your heart. Repose implicit confidence in me your brother, and let me assist and advise you in your extremity, as my poor ability will permit. Tell me, Gerald, wherefore are you thus altered—what dreadful disappointment has thus turned the milk of your nature into gall?"

Gerald gazed at him a moment intently. He was much affected, and a sudden and unbidden tear stole down his pallid cheek. "If you have found the milk of my nature turned into gall, then indeed am I even more wretched than I thought myself. But, Henry, you ask me what I cannot yield—my confidence—and, even were it not so, the yielding would advantage neither. I am unhappy, as I have said, but the cause of that unhappiness must ever remain buried here," and he pointed to his breast. This was said kindly, yet determinedly.

"Enough, Gerald," and his brother spoke in terms of deep reproach, "since you persist in withholding your confidence, I will no longer urge it; but you cannot wonder that I, who love but you alone on earth, should sorrow as one without hope, at beholding you subject to a grief so overwhelming as to have driven you to seek refuge from it in an unhallowed grave."

"I do not understand you—what mean you?" quickly interrupted Gerald, raising his head from the hand which supported it at the breakfast-table while he colored faintly.

"You cannot well be ignorant of my meaning," pursued Henry in the same tone, "if you but recur to the circumstances attending your arrival here."

"I am still in the dark," continued Gerald, with some degree of impatience.

"Because you know not that I am acquainted with all that took place on the melancholy occasion. Gerald," he pursued, "forgive the apparent harshness of what I am about to observe—but was it generous—was it kind in you to incur the risk you did, when you must have known that your death would have entailed upon me an eternal grief? Was it worthy of yourself, moreover, to make the devoted follower of your fortunes, a sharer in the danger you so eagerly and wantonly courted?"

"Nay, my good brother," and Gerald made an attempt at levity, "you are indeed an unsparing monitor; but suppose I should offer in reply, that a spirit of enterprize was upon me on the occasion to which you allude, and that, fired by a desire to astonish you all with a bold feat, I had resolved to do what no other had done before me, yet without apprehending the serious consequences which ensued—or even assuming the danger to have been so great."

"All this, Gerald, you might, yet would not say; because, in saying it, you would have to charge yourself with a gross insincerity; and although you do not deem me worthy to share your confidence, I still have pleasure in knowing that my affection will not be repaid with deceit—however plausible the motives for its adoption may appear—by the substitution, in short, of that which is not for that which is."

"A gross insincerity?" repeated Gerald, again slightly coloring.

"Yes, my brother—I say it not in anger, nor in reproach—but a gross insincerity it would certainly be. Alas, Gerald, your motives are but too well known to me. The danger you incurred was incurred wilfully, wantonly, and with a view to your own destruction."

Gerald started. The color had again fled from his sunken cheek, and he was ashy pale. "And how knew you this?" he asked with a trembling voice.

"Even, Gerald, as I know that you have been driven to seek in wine that upbearing against the secret grief which consumes you, which should be found alone in the fortitude of a strong mind and the consciousness of an untainted honor. Oh, Gerald, had these been your supporters, you never would have steeped your reason so far in forgetfulness, as to have dared what you did on that eventful day. Good Heaven! how little did I ever expect to see the brother of my love degenerated so far as to border on the character of the drunkard and the suicide."

The quick but sunken eyes of the sailor flashed fire; and he pressed his lips, and clenched his teeth together, as one strongly attempting to restrain his indignation. It was but the momentary flashing of the chafed and bruised spirit.

"You probe me deeply, Henry," he said, calmly and in a voice of much melancholy. "These are severe expressions for a brother to use; but you are right—I did seek oblivion of my wretchedness in that whirlpool, as the only means of destroying the worm that feeds incessantly upon my heart; but Providence has willed it otherwise—and, morever, I had not taken the danger of my faithful servant into the account. Had Sambo not saved me, I must have perished; for I made not the slightest effort to preserve myself. However, it matters but little, the mere manner of one's death," he pursued, with increased despondency. "It is easy for you, Henry, whose mind is at peace with itself and the world, to preach fortitude and resignation; but, felt you the burning flame which scorches my vitals, you would acknowledge the wide difference between theory and practice."

Henry rose deeply agitated; he went to the door and secured the bolt; then returning, knelt at his brother's feet. Gerald had one hand covering his eyes, from which, however, the tears forced themselves through his closed fingers. The other was seized and warmly pressed in his brother's grasp.

"Gerald," he said, in the most emphatic manner, "by the love you ever bore to our sainted parents, in whose chamber of death I now appeal to your better feelings—by the friendship that has united our hearts from youth to manhood—by all and every tie of affection, let me implore you once more to confide this dreadful grief to me, that I may share it with you, and counsel you for your good. Oh, my brother, on my bended knees do I solicit your confidence. Believe me, no mean curiosity prompts my prayer. I would soothe, console, assist you—aye, even to the very sacrifice of life."

The feelings of the sailor were evidently touched, yet he uttered not a word. His hand still covered his face, and the tears seemed to flow even faster than before.

"Gerald," pursued his brother, with bitterness; "I see, with pain, that I have not your confidence, and I desist—yet answer me one question. From the faithful Sambo, as you must perceive, I have learnt all connected with your absence, and from him I have gained that, during your captivity, you were much with Miss Montgomerie (he pronounced the name with an involuntary shuddering); all I ask, therefore, is, whether your wretchedness proceeds from the rejection of your suit, or from any levity or inconstancy you may have found in her?"

Gerald raised his head from his supporting hand, and turned upon his brother a look in which mortified pride predominated over an infinitude of conflicting emotions.

"Rejected, Henry, my suit rejected—oh, no! In supposing my grief to originate with her, you are correct; but imagine not it is because my suit is rejected—certainly not."

"Then," exclaimed Henry, with generous emphasis, while he pressed the thin hand which he held more closely between his own, "Why not marry her?"

Gerald started.

"Yes, marry her," continued Henry; "marry her and be at peace. Oh! Gerald, you know not what sad agency I attached to that insidious American from the first moment of her landing on this shore—you know not how much I have disliked, and still dislike her—but what are all these considerations when my brother's happiness is at stake? Gerald, marry her—and be happy."

"Impossible," returned the sailor, in a feeble voice, and again his heart sank upon the open palm of his hand.

"Do you no longer love her, then?" eagerly questioned the astonished youth.

Once more Gerald raised his head, and fixed his large, dim eyes full upon those of his brother. "To madness!" he said, in a voice and with a look that made Henry shudder. There was a moment of painful pause. The latter at length ventured to observe:

"You speak in riddles, Gerald. If you love this Miss Montgomerie to madness, and are, as you seem to intimate, loved by her in return, why not, as I have urged, marry her?"

"Because," replied the sailor, turning paler than before, and almost gasping for breath, "there is a condition attached to the possession of her hand."

"And that is?" pursued Henry, inquiringly, after another long and painful pause—

"My secret," and Gerald pointed significantly to his breast.

"True," returned Henry, slightly coloring; "I had forgotten—but what condition, Gerald (and here he spoke as if piqued at the abrupt manner in which his brother had concluded his half confidence), what condition, I ask, may a woman entitled to our respect, as well as to our love, propose, which should be held of more account than that severest of offences against the Divine will—self-murder? Nay, look not thus surprised; for have you not admitted that you had guiltily attempted to throw away your life—to commit suicide, in short—rather than comply with an earthly condition?"

"What if in this," returned Gerald, with a smile of bitterness, "I have preferred the lesser guilt to the greater?"

"I can understand no condition, my brother, a woman worthy of your esteem could impose, which should one moment weigh in the same scale against the inexpiable crime of self-destruction. But, really, all this mystery so startles and confounds me, that I know not what to think—what inference to draw."

"Henry," observed the sailor, with some show of impatience, "considering your promise not to urge it further, it seems to me you push the matter to an extremity."

The youth made no reply, but, raising himself from his knees, moved towards the door, which he again unbolted. He then walked to the window at the further end of the apartment.

Gerald saw that he was deeply pained; and, impatient and angry with himself, he also rose and paced the room with hurried steps. At length he stopped, and putting one hand upon the shoulder of his brother, who stood gazing vacantly from the window, pointed with the other towards that part of the apartment in which both their parents had breathed their last.

"Henry, my kind, good Henry," he said, with a voice faltering with emotion, "do you recollect the morning when, on our return from school, we found our young holiday joy changed into heart-breaking and mourning by the sight of our dying mother?"

"Remember it, Gerald! aye, even as though it had been yesterday. Oh, my brother, little did I think at the moment when, with hands closely clasped together, we sank, overcome with grief, upon our bended knees, to receive that mother's blessing, a day would ever arrive when the joy or sorrow of the one should form no portion of the joy or sorrow of the other."

"It was there," pursued Gerald, and without noticing the interruption, "that we solemnly pledged ourselves to do the will and bidding of our father in all things."

"Even so, Gerald, I remember it well."

"And it was there," continued the sailor, with the emphasis of strong emotion, "that, during my unfortunate absence from the death-bed of our yet surviving parent, you gave a pledge for both, that no action of our lives should reflect dishonor on his unsullied name."

"I did. Both in your name and in my own, I gave the pledge—well knowing that, in that, I merely anticipated your desire."

"Most assuredly; what then would be your sensations were you to know that I had violated that sacred obligation?"

"Deep, poignant, ceaseless regret, that my once noble and high-spirited brother should have been so lost to respect for his father's memory and for himself." This was uttered not without deep agitation.

"You are right, Henry," added Gerald, mournfully; "better, far better, is it to die than live on in the consciousness of having forfeited all claim to esteem."

The young soldier started as if a viper had stung him. "Gerald," he said, eagerly, "you have not dishonored yourself. Oh no—tell me, my brother, that you have not."

"No," was the cold, repulsive answer; "although my peace of mind is fled," he pursued, rather more mildly, "my honor, thank heaven, remains as pure as when you first pledged yourself for its preservation."

"Thanks, my brother, for that. But can it really be possible, that the mysterious condition attached to Miss Montgomerie's love involves the loss of honor?"

Gerald made no answer.

"And can you really be weak enough to entertain a passion for a woman, who would make the dishonoring of the fair fame of him she professes to love the fearful price at which her affection is to be purchased?"

Gerald seemed to wince at the word "weak," which was rather emphatically pronounced, and looked displeased at the concluding part of the sentence.

"I said not that the condition attached to her love," he remarked, with the piqued expression of a wounded vanity; "her affection is mine, I know, beyond her own power of control—the condition relates not to her heart, but to her hand."

"Alas, my poor infatuated brother. Blinding indeed must be the delusions of passion, when a nature so sensitive and so honorable shrinks not from such a connexion. My only surprise is, that, with such a perversion of judgment you have returned at all."

"No more of this Henry. It is not in man to control his destiny, and mine appears to be to love with a fervor that must bear me, ere long, to my grave. Of this, however, be assured—that, whatever my weakness, or infatuation, as you may be pleased to call it, that passion shall never be gratified at the expense of my honor. Deeply—madly as I doat upon her image, Miss Montgomerie and I have met for the last time."

Overcome by the emotion with which he had thus expressed himself, Gerald could not restrain a few burning tears that forced their way down his hollow cheeks. Henry caught eagerly at this indication of returning softness, and again essayed, in reference to the concluding declaration of his brother, to urge upon him the unworthiness of her who had thus cast her deadly spell upon his happiness. But Gerald could ill endure the slightest allusion to the subject.

"Henry," he said, "I have already told you that Miss Montgomerie and I have parted for ever; but not the less devotedly do I love her. If, therefore, you would not farther wring a heart already half broken with affliction, oblige me by never making the slightest mention of her name in my presence—or ever adverting again to our conversation of this morning. I am sure, Henry, you will not deny me this."

Henry offered no other reply than by throwing himself into the arms that were extended to receive him. The embrace of the brothers was long and fervent, and, although there was perhaps more of pain than pleasure, in their mutual sense of the causes which had led to it in the present instance—still was it productive of a luxury the most heartfelt. It seemed to both as if the spirits of their departed parents hovered over, and blessed them in this indication of their returning affection, hallowing, with their invisible presence, a scene connected with the last admonitions from their dying lips. When they had thus given vent to their feelings, although the sense of unhappiness continued undiminished, their hearts experienced a sensible relief; and when they separated for the morning, in pursuit of their respective avocations, it was with a subdued manner on the part of Gerald, and a vague hope with Henry, that his brother's disease would eventually yield to various influences, and that other and happier days were yet in store for both.