ing through the list, from old Hemphill, that
was caught cheating at piquet, down to Watty Carew, with his wife won at
a game of Barocco?"

"Slanderer--scoundrel!" cried out my father, in a voice hoarse with
passion; and as the words were uttered, the balcony was suddenly
deserted, and the rushing sounds of many people descending the stairs
together were as quickly heard. For a few seconds my father stood
uncertain and undecided; but then, with a bold precipitancy, he seemed
to calculate every issue in an instant, and made up his mind how to
proceed. He dashed across the street towards the dark alley which
flanked the "Green," and along which ran a deep and stagnant ditch, of
some ten or twelve feet in width. Scarcely had he gained the shelter
of the trees, when a number of persons rushed from the house into the
street, and hurried hither and thither in pursuit. As they passed out,
my father was enabled to recognize several whom he knew; but for
one only had he any care; on him he fastened his eyes with the eager
steadfastness of hate, and tracked him as he went, regardless of all
others.

Without concert among themselves, or any clew to direct their search,
they separated in various directions. Still, my father held his place
unchanged, doubtless revolving in that brief interval the terrible
consequences of his act. Some fifteen or twenty minutes might have thus
elapsed, and now he saw one return to the house, speedily followed by
another, and then a third. At last Rutledge came alone; he walked along
slowly, and as if deep in meditation. As though revolving the late
incident in his mind, he stood for a moment looking up at the windows,
and probably speculating in his mind on the precise spot occupied by him
who had uttered the insult.

"Here, beneath the trees," said my father, in a low, but clear accent;
and Rutledge turned, and hastened across the street. It will, of course,
never be known whether he understood these words as coming from a
stranger, or from some one of his own friends, suggesting pursuit in a
particular direction.

My father only waited to see that the other was following, when he
turned and fled. The entrances to the park, or green, as it was called,
were by small pathways across the moat, closed by low wooden wickets.
Across one of these my father took his way, tearing down the gate with
noise sufficient to show the course he followed.

Rutledge was close at his heels, and already summoning