me aft unbidden, while he marched a few paces forward, and once more
bid them stand. They heeded him not, and the foremost one fell with a
bullet though his heart! Captain Ratlin instantly drew a fresh weapon
from his bosom and presented it at the other foremost man, "fall back,
fall back, you imps of darkness, fall back, I say, or you die!"

The crew had not counted on this summary treatment, they were beaten and
mastered; the culprit addressed sneaked back among the crew trembling
with fear.

Captain Ratlin returned to the quarter-deck, received fresh arms from
one of the mates, and then calmly began to issue orders for the sailing
of the vessel, as though nothing had occurred to interfere with the
business routine of the day. Those orders were promptly obeyed. The
master spirit there had asserted its control, and established it, too;
and a more orderly crew never moored a slave ship on the south side of
Cuba, than were soon busily engaged in that duty after the set of sun on
the day when this bold attempt at mutiny had occurred.

This little affair, which came very near to costing Charles Bramble his
life, was in one sense a fortunate one, since it put him on the best of
terms with the owners, who had entrusted him with the "Sea Witch," and
who now pressed a gratuity of $2000 upon him for his part of the present
voyage, and forwarded him safely without expense on his return voyage to
England. This additional amount of funds to his already handsome sum of
personal property, gave him some $10,000 dollars of ready money, which
he took with him to his homestead at Bramble Park. The money enabled him
not only to clear the estate of all encumbrances, but also to make his
mother, now aged and bed-ridden, comfortable.

But he was soon married, and with Helen Huntington, whose estates joined
those of Bramble Park, he obtained a large fortune; but best of all, he
took to his arms a sweet, intelligent and loving wife. She with whom he
had played in childhood amid these very scenes, she whom he had rescued
upon the waters of the ocean, she who had loved and reformed him.

THE END.

LA TARANTULA.

BY GIDDINGS H. BALLOU.

IT was scarce past the meridian of a warm summer's day, when from the inn
of old Gaspar Varni, underneath the heights of Sorento, might have been
heard the sound of viols, and the deep notes of the bassoon ringing
clear from amidst the clash of merry voices. Music and careless mirth,
the