"Dat'll do," cried Aunt Chloe, rising authoritatively. "Lord a massy, how you can lie, ole nig." And as she spoke, the expression of her countenance, which had been one of incredulity almost from the first, settled into disgust. "I'll not stay," she continued, "to hear sich tales. I wonder you aint ashamed, and before Pomp too."

The abashed romancer could not utter a word. Dinah in vain interposed to persuade Aunt Chloe to remain. At last the offender, eager to purchase his peace, said that, if Aunt Chloe must go, at least she must permit Pomp to accompany her home. "Dar was nuffin so ungenteel," he said, "dan fur company, 'specially ladies, to be 'lowed to go home alone."

Pomp, whose ever active fears had been unpleasantly excited already, would fain have declined, but did not dare; and Aunt Chloe, somewhat mollified by this civility, set off with her attendant. The distance was about a mile, which was soon passed, too soon for Pomp, indeed, who, all the time, had been dreading the lonely walk back.

There was no help for it, however, and so, after leaving Aunt Chloe at her gate, the lad, whistling to keep his courage up, set his face homewards. As long as he remained within sight of the cabin, he managed to keep down his fears; but when he had fairly plunged into the forest, his teeth began to chatter, his knees to shake, and his heart to palpitate. The night was starless, as well as moonless, so that, even in the open country, it was quite dark, while in the narrow wood road the gloom seemed almost palpable. Pomp could not see a dozen feet ahead. He began to recall, not only the story his father had related, and which he firmly believed in spite of Aunt Chloe's skepticism, but all the supernatural narratives he had listened to during his whole lifetime. Tales of the Arch Enemy, assuming the shape of a wild beast, and pouncing on lonely travellers from some dark covert; tales of the dead coming forth;

tales of whole legions of devils carrying off benighted way farers; these, which he had often heard beside the kitchen fire, recurred to him now, till his hair stood on end, and he started at every sound.

His road lead near the grave-yard, and as he approached it, his terror redoubled.

All at once, and when at the very darkest part of the road, what seemed a groan made him come to a halt. He immediately rallied, however, and tried to persuade himself that it was only the wind in the tree-tops, which had again momentarily startled him. But as he listened, it came once more, an awful, unearthly sound, that chilled his very marrow. His limbs now refused to support him, and he sank nerveless and shaking to the ground. But when a moment had elapsed, and the sound was not repeated, he began to gather a little courage, thinking that, perhaps, it was only the distant hooting of an owl. Re-assured somewhat, by this idea, he rose feebly to his feet. But he had not advanced a step before the sound was heard again, and indisputably close at hand, so close indeed, that he seemed to feel the hot breath from the invisible presence that uttered it. He fell at once flat on his face, half dead with horror, and expecting the next instant to be clutched and borne off.

He was almost too frightened to pray, a duty in which, he now remembered, he had lately been remiss: but he managed, with rattling teeth, and nearly paralyzed jaws, to articulate at last.

"Oh! Marse Lord," he cried, "don't let de debbil git dis poor chile, not dis time anyhow. 'Twasn't Pomp, dat was in de watermelon patch dis mornin', when he ought to have been at meetin'. Dar's some mistake, deed dar is. It's Sam Jonsing dat you want, Marse Debbil. Tink what my ole mammy will do if you—"

But he never finished his adjuration, for at this crisis two

glowing eyes emerged out of the darkness, and stood staring over him, two enormous horns followed, a bellow was heard that seemed to shake the woods for miles, and Pomp felt himself lifted bodily from the sand. It was more than nature could endure. He fainted outright.

When he came to himself, he was lying at the side of the road, stiff with bruises. At first he could not believe that he was still alive. But gradually, though not till after he had pinched himself frequently, he became assured that he was yet in mortal guise; and that his unearthly enemy had disappeared. He now feebly struggled to his feet, and began to feel his limbs; but none were broken, though he found his breeches torn nearly off. Gathering courage, by degrees, he crept away, moving fearfully and cautiously, however, till he had fairly emerged from the woods and passed the grave-yard, when he broke into a run and fled homewards as fast as his limbs would carry him.

Here, to a gaping audience, he recounted breathlessly his narrow escape.

"You darn fool," said his sire, when Pomp had finished his narration, incredulous of others, because conscious of his own habit of romancing, "do you tink your ole farder'll believe dat pack of lies? You neber saw anything, but made it all up."

"De chile didn't," said Dinah. to dis?"

"Dar! What you say

She exposed to view, as she spoke, the damaged seat of Pomp's breeches, which afforded unmistakeable proof of his having come into contact with an enemy of some kind, even if not à supernatural one. But the sire was still incredulous.

"He's gone done tore it a purpose," was all the stubborn skeptic said.

But the next day he professed to solve the enigma. He

came in from the barn, where he had been giving Arab an early feed, and, laughing, said

66

De black bull was loose all night, and went way up de road, past de meetin'-house, 'zactly whar dis darn fool of a Pomp says he met de debbil. It's lucky his breeches tore, or de critter might have killed him, deed he might. I told you de chile was lyin'. Lor' Amighty, to get skeered dat way, at nuffin at all!" and he laughed till the the tears ran out of his eyes.

But Dinah as well as her son persisted in their original version of the story, and thereafter two distinct accounts of interviews with the Arch Enemy were told in the kitchen at Sweetwater, neither party, however, believing a word that the other said.

And many an old man's sigh, and many a widow's,

And many an orphan's water-standing eye

Men for their sons', wives for their husbands' fate,

And orphans for their parents' timeless death-

Shall rue the hour that ever thou wert born.-Shakspeare.

Infamous wretch!

So much beneath my scorn.-Dryden.

KATE came down to breakfast in her riding habit, and when the meal was concluded, mounted almost gayly; while Mrs. Warren, nearly weeping, awaited the departure of her and Aylesford.

She watched the equestrians till they reached the bend of the pond, when Aylesford, with a low bow and a wave of

the hand, parted from Kate; and immediately after both were lost to sight in the forest, he keeping on over the bridge, and she turning to the left.

Kate rode on, with a light heart, talking to Arab, in the exuberance of her feelings, as if he had been a human friend, patting him caressingly, with her right hand, as she spoke. The intelligent beast pricked up his ears, and looked around as if he actually understood her words.

"Let us have a gallop," she said. "Here is the road where you beat Selim. You remember it-don't you, old fellow?"

She gave her horse his head, at these words, striking him smartly, and away they went at full gallop.

Her fate hung, at that crisis, on a single thread. If Arab had maintained, for a quarter of an hour, the pace at which he was going, Kate would have passed the ambush prepared for her, at a speed which would have prevented her detection. Could but a warning voice have whispered to her the peril, could but one of those strange presentiments have come which often occur, she would have escaped the danger. But, suspecting no peril, she drew in her horse, as she approached the spring, where the road became rougher, and reduced his pace to a walk.

"Well done," she said, leaning over him and patting him again, "good Arab."

Suddenly she felt her bridle seized, and instantaneously the road was filled with strange faces, to the number of at least half a dozen. They were all alike coarse and ruffian-looking. The person who had seized her bridle was the only one who struck Kate as not unfamiliar; but his countenance was artificially blackened; and she could not, therefore, discover when or where she had seen him.

At first she had uttered a slight scream. But this had been occasioned rather by the startling suddenness of the attack, than by the assault itself. In an instant she had re