Well-nigh aroused to frenzy, Mr. Mordecai said fiercely, "Promise me, Rabbi Abrams, promise me, Rebecca, that you will lend me your aid in bringing this fugitive to justice; and I swear by Jerusalem, he shall be punished. I have gold, and that will insure me success.

Yes, I have gold he coveted, but-aha! that he has never received.

Pledge me, promise me, both of you, that good allies you will be!"

And they pledged him.

"But, tell me, Rebecca," said the rabbi, suddenly stopping in his agitated walk. "How did you come into possession of that book?"

"Indeed, Rabbi Abrams, that is a mystery. In packing and unpacking, preparatory to leaving the Queen City, I accidentally found this Journal in an old portmanteau that my husband sent up from his bank one day, among a lot of rubbish. It had lain there a long time, I judge. Can you clear up the mystery, my husband?" she said, turning to Mr. Mordecai.

"Let me see it," he replied; and taking the Journal from her hands, he held it in his grasp as though it were a deadly thing, while he eyed it strangely from side to side.

"I think, I think," he said slowly, as though abstracted and confused; "I think this is the book Mingo gave me the morning after--" Then he was silent. "Well, he found it in the lodge, I guess," he continued. "I remember his giving me a small book that morning, and I laid it away somewhere, to look at when my mind was less agitated. I had forgotten it."

"A kind fate has preserved it, husband, so that we might be avenged," said Rebecca.

"Keep it securely then, as it will be needed in the future. You are a wise, good woman, a wise little wife," added the husband, with all trace of displeasure toward her banished from his face.

Her mission accomplished, Rebecca, leaving the distressed family to find solace for their sorrow as best they could, returned home to gloat on the perfection of a scheme that would bring sorrow and desolation to the happy Cuban home.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE war still raged. The whole world, one might dare to say, was more or less agitated by this conflict. Vigilance, tightening its grasp here, redoubling its blows there, watching the inlets and outlets everywhere, had taught a once happy people that war was no holiday sport. But the great end must be reached, the end of the "War of the Rebellion" with the government intact. To accomplish this, every means was deemed fair and honorable. Blockading, starvation, destruction of property, the torch-yea, any and every appliance that would tend to subdue a hostile people, was brought into requisition to maintain the Union.

So, before the third year of the memorable civil war had run its bloody course, want almost stalked abroad in this fair Southern land. But for the successful, though occasional ventures of some friendly vessel, that succeeded in running the blockade, bringing stores necessary for the comfort of a war-worn people, dire want might have reigned supreme in many a household, where wealth and luxury once dwelt. So much for the good accomplished by those bold adventurers of the sea. And yet there were blockade-runners-a few, a very few, thank Heaven-who were but a set of human vultures, preying upon their fellow-beings, and who, for a sum of gold, would lend their hand to any deed of darkness. To this latter class belonged Joe Haralson, the well-known captain of the Tigress, the most successful blockade-runner on all the southern coast. Haralson himself was a native of one of the fertile cotton islands off the coast of the Palmetto State, and, in an hour of danger, had deserted his country, and fled to the West Indies. There he equipped a vessel for blockade-running, and being familiar with much of the southern coast, he was always successful in eluding the guns of the blockading fleets, and entering safely with his cargo. The supplies of merchandise, and the munitions of war that he occasionally landed, were exchanged for cotton, which he sold for gold at a fabulous profit.

It was the summer after the removal of Mr. Mordecai's family to Inglewood. In the month of June, Joe Haralson anchored the Tigress safely within the port of Havana. New Providence was his usual harbor of refuge; but now, other business than the successful disposal of his cargo of cotton had brought him thither. One soft, sweet morning, in this land where spring and summer alternate, Leah had been out driving with her husband, enjoying the early morning breeze, and hoping that it would benefit the delicate little Sarah, then in her second summer. They drew near the Plaza de la Mar, and Emile remarked, as he surveyed the endless rows of shipping:

"There, Leah, see the countless numbers of flags."

"Yes, all but the flag of our struggling country," she replied. "I wonder if that will ever become a recognized flag among nations?"

"I fear not," Emile replied gravely. "But there! our darling has fallen asleep! We must hasten home."

On reaching home, Emile kissed his wife, and softly kissed his sleeping baby too, before alighting from the light volante; and then, throwing the lines to Petro, the slave, who was awaiting their return, he said, "Take care of the pony, Petro;" and turning to his wife--"You take care of my wee lamb, Leah, till I come again," and left them.

An hour later, and a thick-set, rough-visaged man entered the banking-house of Gardner & Company, and asked, in faltering English, "Is Seor Le Grande in?"

"Yes," replied Mr. Gardner. "Here, Mr. Le Grande, this man wants to see you." Emile approached, and looking curiously at the stranger, observed that he was clad partly in sailor's, partly in citizen's clothes. "What will you have, sir?" demanded Emile.

"Seor," replied the strange man, whose broken English betrayed his Spanish tongue, "Dere is at da w'arf Blanco Plaza, a 'Merican vessel from da States. A seik frien' wish to see seor Le Grande, very quick, very quick, seor."

"From what State does the vessel come?" asked Emile in astonishment.

"From da Soutern State, seor, da Pa'metto State."

In a moment Emile conjectured that it was some blockade-runner, and supposed some friend or relative had arrived, and, being unable to come on shore, had indeed sent for him. Without waiting to consider, and without further explanation, he accompanied the strange guide, who led the way to the wharf. The flags were floating free and gay, yet as this nameless cicerone pointed out the Tigress, that lay before them with flag staff bare, Emile Le Grande thought, "The captain is afraid to show his colors; well he may be."

"Captain Haralson, Seor Le Grande," said the guide, in broken accents, as he entered the ship's cabin, where the captain awaited his return. "I told cap'n you I would bring him," he continued, with a savage grin upon his features.

"Who is it would see me?" demanded Emile. "Where is my sick friend?"

"You are a prisoner, sir," replied the captain fiercely, "a fugitive from justice, and your State calls for your return."

"By what authority do you utter those words, you scoundrel?" replied Emile, in bewildered indignation.

"By the authority of those you have injured, and who have sent me to bring you back."

"Who, and where are my accusers?" asked Emile angrily. "Let them dare confront me!"

"Then follow me," said the captain, as he passed along to a small apartment, a kind of saloon, at the end of the vessel. He gave three sharp, quick raps at the door, then turned the bolt and entered.

Emile followed. Seated before them upon a ship-lounge, with a book lying idly in her lap, was-Rebecca Mordecai!

"Aha! and you have come at last, captain," she said. Arising from her seat and turning her eyes upon Emile, she continued, "Mr. Le Grande, we meet again, securely as you deemed yourself beyond the reach of justice. You see oceans and shell-guns are no barriers in the way of the accomplishment of my ends. You fled from your country, thinking your foul crime would never come to light; but 'murder will out,' and now, you are my prisoner. Justice will yet be avenged."

"What do you mean, woman? your tongue contains the poison of asps.

If I did not know your face, I would swear you were some escaped inmate of a madhouse. Tell me your meaning, lunatic," replied Emile, in wrathful astonishment.

"Call me lunatic, if you dare, you miserable felon. Deny my words, if you please, but your own written confession is in my hands."

"Confession of what?" shouted Emile, stamping his foot in indignation. "Never, never, am I your prisoner! I'll leave this cursed place,--"

"Not so fast, my friend," said Joe Haralson menacingly, as Emile made an attempt to leave the room. "Not so fast! I am promised much gold, if I bring you alive to your native State; and that gold, my friend, I shall have."

"Release me! release me!" shouted Emile, "I am an innocent man. This woman--"

"Hush, my friend, or I'll stow you away where your cries will not reach any human ear. Be quiet, my lad."

Emile saw that resistance was useless; and he said calmly, turning again to Rebecca "Of what crime am I guilty, that you thus hunt me as you would a wild beast?"

"Would you know?" she replied, with a scornful, cruel laugh. "Would you know even half the crimes that are scored against you in your native State?"

"You can tell me of none," he replied sullenly, regretting that he had again spoken to this merciless woman, into whose snare he had so unwarily fallen.

"Perhaps you think we have not yet discovered who murdered Mark Abrams; but, sir, we have."

"Who was it?" indignantly inquired Emile.

"It was-Emile-Le-Grande," she replied slowly, her fierce eye marking every emotion of his face.

"Great Heavens. What an atrocity!"