we eA OT ? » . PEARL PRR PARR PRR RAR PAARL LP PRP LRA A LOL ODL OPPO DOOYOO SE EMS WINES FX INS Le ae tS : oe ¢ i Of ye A ANS . SS \ All!) « > a - ‘ 5 —PDPLINA LADNER IRA LL DNR P LB LOL GLE LOL LO LO PP NP SONS AD POLO PL OI IOS PI IODA DODD LO DD OE SL ¥IBLIO IVF L BY DR. J. H. ROBINSON. ' PUBLISHED BY SAMUEL FRENCH, CORNER OF SPRUCE AND NASSAU STREETS, . . NEW YORK. WILLIAM V. SPENCER, 128 Washington Street, Boston—A. WINCH, 116 Chestnut. Street, Phila- delphia.—J. A. ROYS, 43 Woodward Avenue, Detroit—E. KMYOODWARD, corner of Fourth 2 ) " 2 -* DIBA AOA AAR RA AL ALALDRAALRA DN LAL IOS INS ™ and Chesnut Streets, St. Louis—-WILLIAM & HENRY TAYLOR, 111 Baltimore Street, Baltimore —A. C. BAGLEY, 169 Main Street, Cincinnati—W. W. DANENHOWER, 123 Lake Street, Chicago, Ill.—C. P. KIMBALL, Long Wharf, San Franciseo, Cal. KLAR ARARALS SABA ARR ADEN ALRARARLIIRA RA " § ; ae ; : 7 ? 4 : : V aS $ . . % f ’ THE ITE BR ROVER. —oR— =| TRE LOVRLY MAID OF LOUISIANA. A ROMANCE OF THE WILD FOREST. LPPPPALS BY Bie wv. CH. ROBINSON, LDL LWAMLLJLF GSLPGFIS SSFP LIS SNININS NE NINA NDVI Nb NEW YORK: PUBLISHED BY SAMUEL FRENCH, 151 NASSAU, CORNER OF SPRUCE STREET. PPPLP ILI PALDPAADIY PAV AANA, DP LP PP LLVLIVPPBDPLPPLPPLPA_L LIWVPPLPLP[[>P PLP LPL LLYIYWwwvJ Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, by F. Gizason, tn the Clerk's Office of the District Ceurt of Massachusetts. ’ a PusuisHEer’s Notz.—The following Novelette was originally published in the PICTORIAL Drawine-Room Companron, and is but a specimen of the many deeply-entertaining Tales, and gems of literary merit, which grace the columns of that elegant and highly-popalar journal. 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[iS One copy of the Frac or our Union, and one copy of the PicrorraL Drawine-Room Companion, one year, for $4 00 is- The Proror1aL Drawine-Room Companion may be obtained at any of the periodical — depots throughout the country, and of newsmen, at six cents per single copy. Published every Saturpay, corner of Bromfield and Tremont Streets, by F. GLEASON, Bosron, Mass. WHOLESALE AGENTS. S. FRENCH, 151 Nassau, corner of Spruce Street, New York. , A. WINCH, 116 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. W. & H. TAYLOR, 111 Baltimore and 5 South Streets, Baltimore. A. C. BAGLEY, 169 Main Street, Cincinnati. J. A. ROYS, 43 Woodward Avenue, Detroit. E. K. WOODWARD, corner of Fourth and Chesnut Streets, St. Louis S. S. DOTY, 236 Camp Street, New Orleans, La. W. W. DANENHOWER, 123 Lake Street, Chicago, IIl. te Subscriptions received at either of the above places. (ER WHITE ROVER.” PPP DLP LLL LDL LPP PD LPLLPPLLPYJLFO~r wv V9 b -QHAPTER I. THE TUNTER—CAPTAIN LESAGE=A LIBERAL OFFER. Tt was the year 172-. French colony. In 1718, by direction of de Bienville, fifty log huts had been erected on the west bank of the Mississippi river, to which “the name of New Orleans had been given in com- pliment to the Duke of Orleans. . Previous to that date, the site where the Crescent City now stands had been covered with a dense forest, in which the red man hunted his game and reared his lodge. A few years had not greatly changed the as- pect of the new settlement. It only numbered about two hundred cabins, although it had be- come the seat of government—it having been transferred thither from Biloxi after considera- ble discussion in regard to the propriety of the measure. The population of New Orleans at the time we have chosen for thé date of our story, was composed of all kinds of people; not a small part of them being convicts shipped from France te hasten the settlement of the country, and to free prisons already overflowing. Louisiana was then a | De Bienville, the governor, was a bold and humane man, much esteemed by those under his authority. With this brief Be set of the French set- tlement on the banks of the Mississippi, in 172-, we shall proceed at once to the opening scenes of our story. It was a mild evening in the latter part of June. The sunlight had fallen from the green leaves of the forest, and lingered no longer on the summits of the western hills. At that calm and delightful hour, the figure of a man might have been seen standing thoughtfully upon the margin of Lake Ponchar- trains—a beautiful sheet of water not far from the new settlement. In person he was tall and exceedingly muscular.. Judging from his ap- pearance, he had not seen less than thirty sum- mers—-summers that had written lines of care upon his brow, and whose suns had left-a deep brown upon his’ face. | He could not have been called handsome, or even good-lodking, for there was something sin- ister in his expression—the nether lip — with too much pride, the eyes were too mi : their glance, and the forehead es contrac “ ar ed into a perpetual frown. — ‘fe is curling be: Ps (one might suppose) had been left entirely to s He nature from the period: of its earliest ment ; and the same might be said, w show of plausibility, in regard to his hair, which reached quite to his shoulders. The individual’s dress, to whom the reader’s attention has been ealled, consisted of a hunting -frock of dressed deer skin, breeches of the same, Indian moccasins, and a common foraging cap, probably manufactured by himself from the skins of the musk-rat, or the coon. A powder-horn ornamented with various de- vices, and a ball-pouch, were suspended from his shoulders and hung at his side, where a hunt- ing knife of large size was also visible, thrust beneath the leathern thong which encircled his waist. ; In his right hand the hunter held a double- barrelled rifle, which few men of the present de- generate age would wish to carry, on account of its great weight. Suddenly the listless attitude of the hunter changed. He had heard the sound of footsteps in the forest near him. ‘* Moran, I have been seeking you,”’ said a voice ; and the next moment a man of middling stature, wearing the uniform of a French officer, stood beside the person we have been describing ‘What is your wish?’ asked Moran, coldly. ‘*Moran,’’ returned the other, playing care- lessly with the hilt of his sword, ‘‘ we have met before on several occasions.”’ ‘My memory is very good, Captain Lesage ; you might have spared yourself the trouble of making that remark,” replied Moran, gruffly. ‘‘T am something of a physiognomist, my good friend,’”’ continued Lesage. ‘I always make a study of the human face, in order to learn something of the character of its posses- sor.” ‘‘ And you have been studying me, captain ?”’ said Moran, with a singular curl of his nether lip, of which mention has already been made. ‘* You are right, Pierre Moran. I have stud- ied you, and you are the very man I wish for under existing circumstances.” ‘Go on, Lesage,”’ returned Moran. _»‘* You are a bold and daring fellow; blest with a determined will, a strong hand ‘ai stea- dy nerves, and love of adventures of all kinds.”’ ‘“aerell.”” ‘“‘Ifaman,’’ resumed Lesage, in an insinu- ating voice, ‘‘ desired to have a bold and some- what difficult piece of work executed in a quick and silent kind of way, you would be the man to do it, provided that your services were com- pensated in a liberal manner ; that is, in pro- portion to the risk incurred.” For a moment a deeper frown than usual was visible upon the forehead of Pierre Moran ; but when Lesage looked up into his face for an answer, it had passed away. ‘You are very shrewd, captain,” said the hunter, with asmile. “ But go on ; let me hear what you desire. Speak without reserve.” ‘I will do so,”’ returned Lesage. ‘‘It is sometimes the case, my worthy friend, that a person has an enemy ; one whom he utterly de- spises.”’ «That's very true, captain.” “«* Well; cannot you conceive that a man who has such an enemy might possibly wish to—’’ “* Get = out of sight,’? added Moran. ‘You comprehend me, exactly. I see that I have not mistaken my man. ‘To be plain with you, I have an enemy of this description, whom I wish to remove from my path. He is very dangerous ; he stands between me and my hopes and purposes. I have gold, Pierre Moran’; 3 you are a good shot !” Lesage paused and played nervously "with his sword hilt. | ‘‘T comprehend,’’ answered the hunter, bit- ing his lip. x ‘“Name your reward,’ added Lesage, in a voice less calm than that which he had at first assumed. | ‘«« You wear a sword, captain, why not avenge your own wrongs, and save your gold?” said Moran, looking contemptuously at Lesage. 9) ‘‘T do not choose to. sons that make me anxious to entrust my ven- geance to the hands of another ; and you are the man I have selected.” “You do me honor, Lesage,’”’ replied the hunter, calmly. ‘“‘ The young man whose existence endangers my happiness, is in the habit of hunting about the borders of this lake.”’ ‘‘His name, Lesage ?”’ ‘‘T will whisper it, lest these trees should have ears; it is ” and the captain whis- pered the name as he had promised. ‘“* Did you hear ?” ‘« Perfectly well, captain ; but how am I to know him ?”’ "© That will be the easiest thing in the world. I will describe him. He is six feet in height, well formed, straight as an arrow, lithe as an In- dian, and the ladies call him handsome.. He is poor as a beggar and proud as a prince. His complexion is dark, his eyes are black, his hair of the same color, and it is barely possible that a little native blood circulates in his veins. He mingles freely with the Indians, and seems to have some influence among them.” «You say he is fond of hunting ?”’ ‘It is his principal employment. He is quite as much at home in the woods as the ab- origines themselves. He is an excellent shot, and carries a rifle, which may, for aught I know, be twin brother to your own. Do you think you should know him, Moran ?”’ “Yes, captain.”’ ‘Well; that man stands in my way,”’ con- tinued Lesage, while his small gray eyes flashed with intense hatred. ‘‘ When you will assure ‘me—and bring proofs of what you affirm—that he is removed from my path, two hundred pounds will be subject to your order.”’ ‘“* Liberal, upon my word !’’ exclaimed Mo- ran, with another curl of that sinister nether lip. ‘Ts there more to say on this subject ?”’ ask- ed Lesage, anxiously. THE WHITE Wd 9 There are many rea-| ‘‘ No more, captain.” : ‘“«Then we understand each other.”’ »* Perfectly.” - _ ‘Two hundred pounds, Moran.” “*T comprehend.” ‘* Tt’s settled, then ?’’ ‘* Entirely.” **You know where I am to be found ?” ‘“‘T.do; good night.” ‘Au revoir. I hope we shall meet again, soon.”” And Lesage turned on his heel and walked away. gis. “ Senseless idiot!’ said the hunter to,him- self when the form of Lesage had disappeared among the trees. ‘‘A physiognomist indeed ! smooth-tongued dissembler! for once you have reckoned without your host. When Pierre Mo- ran imbrues his hands in the blood of bis fellow- man, save in self-defence, may he never live to y wash out the foul stain, but pass to judgment with all his sins upon his head. Go, Lesage, and find some other arm to slay one whom you dare not meet on equal terms. Pierre Moran can meet the red man two to one, and live through the fight ; he can bring down the pan- ther at two hundred yards, or he can battle suc- cessfully with the howling wolf, but a murder he cannot do ;” and then he added ina lower tone, ‘*it was well for him that he found Pierre Mo- ran in a calm and patient mood.’’ With these words the hunter shouldered his rifle and moved away along the margin of the lake. The moon had arisen, and her silvery rays were reflected softly upon the glassy waters. Tempted by the calm beauty of Ponchartrain, Pierre Moran paused occasionally in his solitary walk, to contemplate its sleeping depths. At length he turned from the lake and enter- ed adark dingle upon the right. Finding a spot suitable for the purpose, he gathered dry sticks and leaves, and by means of some powder and a flint set the heap on fire; soon a bright blaze lighted up the dingle. CHAPTER II. THE SURPRISE—-A PRISONER—-THE RESCUE—-THE WHITE ROVER. PrerrE Moran laid down his rifle, spread his blanket upon the ground, and lighted his pipe. Seating himself by the cheerful blaze, column after column of the fragrant smoke went curling upward, and he watched the fantastic wreaths as they dissolved and disappeared. Suddenly, a majestic figure seemed to rise up out of the earth and stand beside Pierre Moran. The latter sprang to his feet and grasped his hunting-knife, for the foot of the intruder was planted firmly upon his rifle. ‘‘ What does the pale face do here ?”’ asked the intruder in a stern yoice. ‘‘ Does he not know that these great forests, these fair lakes, and these broad rivers belong to the red man ?”’ ‘The red man and the white are brothers,”’ replied Moran, calmly. ‘* Tis false !’’ exclaimed the Indian, fiercely. ‘« They never were brothers, and they never can be. They are two distinct races of people, and the Great i? has ted eternal enmity be- tween them.” ‘‘That matters little tome,’”’ replied Pierre. ‘‘T ask no favors of white man or red. The forest is my home, and I will not be driven from it though every tree conceal an enemy thirsting for my blood. Ifyou come to intimidate me with great words, you will lose your labor ; for the heart of Pierre Moran never pulsated with fear.”’ The Indian drew up his majestic figure to its ’ greatest height; he raised his red hand and pointed his long fingers fixedly at Moran, while his eyes flashed like meteors. «Tis proudly spoken, bold ae face ; but it avails not—you are a prisoner.” ‘‘Who are you?” asked Moran, somewhat impatiently. ‘¢T am Onalaska, the leader of the allied na- tions,’’ replied the red man, with a kingly wave of the hand. ‘‘ The hatchet is dug up and will never be buried. The Chickasaws are burning to avenge their wrongs ; they have ¢ommunica- ted the same contagious fire to the Choctaws, the Natchez and the Mobilians. In a few months the white man will be swept from the great valley of the Mississippi. Their cabin- fires will be extinguished forever, and their THE WHITE ROVER. dwellings shall become heaps of ruins. fate of the Long Knives* is sealed.” ‘This is a new movement,” said Pierre, much wrought upon by the words of the proud chieftain. ‘‘ Onalaska has not been idle ; he has been successful. The time has come to strike a blow which shall send terror to the hearts of the French dogs.”’ ‘« Proud Indian, Pierre Moran is a French- man,’ said the hunter, sternly. «« And a prisoner,” added the chieftain, with a grim smile. «Ts not true. Ido not yield myself a pris- oner. ‘There is not a single arm that can con- quer Pierre Moran, in.a hand to hand encoun- -ter, to be found between the source of the great river and its mouth.” As the athletic hunter spoke, he drew his knife from its sheath, and struck his left foot fiercely upon the ground a little in advance of the right. | ‘‘ Haughty savage, Pierre Moran is ready ! Come on!” The Indian smiled scornfully. ‘" eontin- conquer I will be free.’’ ’ For reply the chief uttered the Chickasaw war-cry, and instantly a hundred painted war- riors. showed their grim faces about the fire which the hunter had kindled. ‘The white hunter is a captive ; what will my braves do with him?” said Onalaska. There was a hurried consultation among the warriors. At length a chief stepped forward and said : ‘* Let the pale face die according to the cus- tom of the red man.”’ ‘‘ He has a brave heart,’ said Onalaska. «¢ Then he will die like a man, and not likea squaw,’’ replied the chief who had spoken. ‘“‘ He has never fought against our people,” continued Onalaska. ‘‘ Let him perish then, before he slays any of our warriors, as other Frenchmen have done,”’ rejoined the chief. . Onalaska said no more ; he folded his arms and allowed his people to have their own way in regard to the captive. Preparations were in- stantly made to put him to death, He was bound. firmly +o a tree. Dry fagots were brought and heaped about him. A circle was formed about the condemned, and the death- dance celebrated. The dingle, so quiet an hour before, resounded with terrific shouts. [SEE ENGRAVING. | 12 Pierre Moran prayed silently for strength and courage, and resigned himself to his fate. Savage eyes flashed upon him, and sharp steel blades menaced him. The stout heart of Pierre Moran sank within him. He beheld all the avenues of hope closed forever. | * A tall savage stepped forward, waving a fiery brand that was to light the pile. He shook the blazing fagot on high, and laughed in fiendish triumph ; then he fired the combustible heap in several places, and the flames leaped upward. At that fearful ‘crisis, there was a sudden commotion among the warriors ; they gave way to the right and left, and a young white man quickly dashed through the broken circle, hurl- ed back the savage who held the burning brand, and scattered the blazing fagots like straw in all directions ; then drawing a hunting knife from his belt, he severed the bonds of Pierre Moran in an instant. The Chickasaws grasped their weapons and frowned angrily upon the white man. The deliverer of Pierre turned towards them, and waving his hand for silence and attention, addressed them as follows : ‘« This man is my friend. If you are resolvy- ed upon his destruction, you must first slay me ; for not one of you shall strike a blow at his life until you strike through my body. I appeal to your great chief. Onalaska, shalla man be slain because he protects his friend ?”’ “No!” thundered the voice of Onalaska. ‘‘ You say the captive is your friend; it is enough. It shall never be said that Onalaska put to death the friend of the White Rover. The bold hunter is free.”’ ‘*T thank you,” replied the daring youth, with a graceful wave of the hand; ‘‘and if the great Onalaska should need a friend in the hour of adversity, he will know where to find one.”’ Pierre Moran’s rifle was then’ restored, and his deliverer, taking him by the arm, hurried him away from the dangerous vicinage. - With the kind reader’s permission, we will briefly describe the young man who appeared so opportunely for the deliverance of the hunter. THE WHITE ROVER. In person he was about the size of the latter, having the same powerful muscular develop- ment—that unerring sign of physical strength. He was dressed in similar style, also, and car- ried a double-barrelled rifle of equal length and weight ; but farther than this, there was no re- semblance, for the face of Henri Deleroix was a model of manly beauty. His forehead was broad and high, his eyes dark and piercing, his lips finely chiselled, his teeth white and regular, his nose faultless, and his cheeks ruddy with ‘the blood of youth, though darkened from con- stant exposure or some other cause. Join to all these advantages, a commanding figure and a noble disposition, and some faint idea may be formed of our hero. ‘Those generous urea of heart and soul, those noble traits of character, ever desirable and ever to be coveted, we trust we shall be able to develop in the person of Henri Del- croix, in the course of our story, as time, space, and circumstances may require ; for from these flow all human acts, whether good or evil. ‘« You have rendered me an important ser- vice, young man,” said Pierre Moran, as they walked swiftly forward. ‘‘No more than common humanity demands,” replied Henri. ‘‘ Spoken like a true man,”’ said the hunter. ‘‘May I be permitted to ask if your home is — near the new settlement ?” ‘‘Sometimes it is near, at others afar off,”’ answered Delcroix, lightly. ‘‘ At present, my home is wherever night overtakes me. I ama free denizen of the forest ; a licensed wanderer among hills and Hib tSth st ‘‘ A bold heart, truly. Pardon me if I ask your name ?”’ “ T am called Henri Deleroix, by the French ; — but the red man, not unfrequently, styles me the ‘Wurre Rovzr.’ I can tell you but little of my history. I was born in the great valley of the Mississippi, about the time of the first settlement at Biloxi. My early youth was passed mostly among the Indians; but I was finally domiciled in the house of a good priest, who taught me to read and write. I remember THE WHITE ROVER. ° a French woman, also, who seemed very fond of me, and taught we much that was useful. The priest is still living. He has recently taken up his residence at the new settlement, which they call New Orleans, and I am allowed to follow my own inclinations. This is about all I am at liberty to tell you of my own history.” **In return for your frankness,”’ replied the other, ‘I will inform you that my name is Pierre Moran. Like you, my home is in the woods, for I am a hunter. Iam familiar with every acre of the country an hundred miles up the river. I-know where the deer goes down to drink ; where the fox seeks covert; where the wolf prowls at night ; and where the panther loves best to lie in wait for its prey. I know ‘something of the Indian tribes, also, and of the habits of that strange people. When you de- sire the-aid of a strong hand, and a hunter’s friendship, give the preference to Pierre Moran. The service you have rendered me this night, makes me your friend forever.’’ “‘T thank you for your manly proffers of friendship ; for in these troublous times, true friendships are rare,’ replied Deleroix, warmly. *‘ And real enemies too often found,’ re- joined Pierre. ‘Yes ; and how much it is to be regretted,”’ said Deleroix, sadly. 13 ‘** And now, while I think of it, permit me to svhisper a word, of warning in your ear: ‘* Beware or LesaceE!”’ Henri Deleroix started at the mention of Le- sage, as if a serpent had stung him. ‘You know that man, then?’ he replied, turning quite suddenly, and looking steadily at Moran. ‘‘Tdo. Ihave, by some fatality, met him several times.” “Ts he a friend of yours ?”’ ‘God forbid !”’ said Pierre Moran, earnestly. ‘‘Then you are not pleased with him, Mon- sieur Moran !” ‘7 am not ; and it is possible that the time is near when I will give you my reasons for dis- liking him. Bat now let us decide where we shall pass the rest of the night.” ‘Go with me to the settlement. Father Da- vion always has a spare bed for my friends.”’ '“T accept the kind offer. I can already see the fires of New Orleans.”’ In a few moments, Henri Deleroix and the swarthy hunter stood in the midst of the minia- ture city. They entered a cabin not far from the spot where the old Cathedral now stands, and in a short time were wrapped in a profound slumber, forgetful of the toils and perils of the. day. ’ CHAPTER IIL. HELEN LEROWE—ADELAIDE—THE DECLARATION. Tr was the morning following the events de- tailed in our last chapter. It was quite early, for the sun still lingered upon the eastern verge. At that hour a female figure might have been seen walking hurriedly up the street, now known as Chartres street. That portion of her face which was not concealed by a veil, was sufli- cient to assure any one who might have any curiosity in relation to the subject that she was quite youthful and exquisitely fair. She was well dressed, according to the style of that period ; but she was by no means in- debted to mere externals for that rare beauty of outline, that graceful development of person, which was hers, and which could not fail to ex- cite admiration in the most casual observer.— So far as stature was concerned, she compared very well with the models of female perfection, esteemed by classic minds in all ages. , Hers was that exalted and pure style of love- liness, pre- eminently calculated to please and bewilder all true admirers of beauty in woman. As she moved lightly onward, there was grace and poetry in every motion ; not that re- ceived from art, but that borrowed from nature herself. The fair girl turned to the left, and entered a cabin, near the present site of the St. Charles Theatre. : Ah, mademoiselle! you have come to see us again in the day of our afflictions,” said a pale and interesting looking woman, as our heroine crossed the humble threshold. ‘‘There are very few young and fair like yourself, who love to visit the poor and needy. God will reward you, Mademoiselle Lerowe,” added the woman. ‘‘ How is your husband ?”’ asked Mademoiselle Lerowe, kindly, and throwing back her veil. ‘‘ Louis is much better, thanks to your gentle ministration, but it was an ugly wound, Made- moiselle Helen,” replied the woman. ‘¢ And how is Adelaide ?”’ ‘‘She will answer for herself,’ said a soft voice, and a young girl of about seventeen years appeared from an adjoining room. ‘‘ You are looking rather pale this morning. You must go and walk in the openair. The air of a sick room does not agree with young blood like yours, Adelaide,”’ rejoined Helen, study- ing the features of her young friend attentively. THE WHITE ROVER. “*T have known young ladies to have pale cheeks without inhaling the air of a sick room,”’ returned Adelaide, playfully. Helen Lerowe blushed, and placed her white fingers on Adelaide’s lips. y ‘* For all your acts of kindness during my father’s severe illness, I thank you most sin- cerely, Mademoiselle Helen,”’? added Adelaide, in a more serious and earnest tone. ‘* You may leave off the Mademoiselle, Ade- laide, and as for thanks, you need not saya word aboutthem. Youknow that in future we are to be the best of friends,’ rejoined Helen. ‘“‘ You forget, Helen, that I am but a poor girl, occupying a different position in life,’’ said - Adelaide, meekly. « And you forget, Adelaide, that I am also but a poor girl, and nothing but the governor’s ward. There isa great difference between a ward and a daughter, my good friend,”’ replied Helen. “But you are an inmate of the governor’s house, and as kindly treated as if you were in- deed his daughter,’’ said Adelaide. ‘** Very true; and yet there are times when I feel but too painfully that Iam not his daugh- tor, but merely a dependant upon his bounty,”’ answered Helen, sadly. - “T am not certain that you ought to cherish such feelings, Mademoiselle Lerowe. -We all know that his Excellency, De Bienville, is very fond of you.” ‘** Heaven could not have confided me to the care of a better man than De Bienville,”’ re- plied Helen, earnestly ; ‘‘ but notwithstanding, there are moments when my heart feels the want of a mother’s love, and a father’s counsel.”’ While Mademoiselle Lerowe was speaking, the door was softly opened, and Henri Deleroix entered the apartment. His eyes rested upon the fair figure of Helen Lerowe. He recoiled a step, changed color, and seemed embarrassed. His confusion seemed contagious, for Helen blushed and was quite as much embarrassed. Henri bowed, and said with tolerable grace : “It gives me pleasure to meet you here, Mademoiselle Lerowe. The object of your 15 visit, I need not ask. It is a part of your na- ture to perforh acts of benevolence. I dare say that Madame Ridelle and Adelaide will bear witness to what I have taken the liberty to affirm.” ‘¢ And so will my husband,”’ said Madame Ridelle, warmly. ‘“‘Tsee you are leagued together to confuse and overwhelm me with useless compliments,” replied Helen, with a smile. ‘‘ Deserved praise is by no means useless, Mademoiselle Helen,” said Henri, respect- fully. And then he added quickly, in order to change the subject, which he perceived was real- ly annoying to Helen : ‘‘ How is Ridelle, this morning? May we soon expect to see him out again?” ‘“‘He is doing well, Monsieur Henri. His wounds are nearly healed. In a few days he says he shall be able to take the trail again, and punish the treacherous Chickasaws,’’ an- swered Madame Ridelle. Helen rose to depart. ‘« Stay,” said the kind matron, with a signifi- cant smile. ‘* Be seated; we cannot spare you yet.” ‘© Of course not,’ added Adelaide, and with gentle force, she compelled her to he seated. Madame Ridelle drew Delcroix aside, and whispered in his ear : ‘‘Improve your time, Henri. Don’t be faint hearted. We will endeavor to give you ample opportunity. Just speak to her, and my word for it, she will not be angry.” Henri made no reply, but gave her a grate- ful look. ‘* Adelaide, did not your father call?’’ added Madame Ridelle, after a moment’s pause. Adelaide hastened to the bedside of her father, begging Helen to remain until she re- turned. Very soon Madame Ridelle followed her daughter, who called to her. Mademoiselle Lerowe and Henri were left alone. An awkward silence ensued. ‘* Mademoiselle Helen,’’ said Henri, seating himself at her side, ‘‘condescend to listen to 16, me a single moment, and if in that moment I offend you, it will be the unhappiest of my whole life. I have never yet presumed to tell you with my lips what I am convinced your own penetration discovered long ago in my actions, viz., that I passionately loved you. than this ;—I worship—I adore you. Yes, more But, beautiful Helen, these terms but. imperfectly express my heart’s idolatry.”’ | Henri’s voice trembled ; he hesitated, and then ventured to take Helen’s hand. ‘« Have patience with me, dear mademoiselle ; hear what I have to say, and I will not soon trouble you with the story of my unhappy love again. 1 know that you are an angel of good- ness, and placed far above me in life. I can- not hope that you will ever become more to me than you are now; yet I have resolved to un. burden my heart, in order that I might have a portion of that gentle sympathy which .you are wont to bestow upon all the unfortunate.” Again Henri's emotions overpowered him. Helen’s eyes were full of tears, and she trem- bled excessively. ‘Cease to speak thus, I entreat of you,”’ she said, in a voice nearly inaudible. ‘‘T know it wounds your gentle nature to see me consumed with a hopeless passion,’ contin- ued Henri, ‘‘ and I will trespass but little far- ther upon your time and patience. In extenua- tion of my folly, I would entreat you to re- member, Helen, that I have known you from my boyhood ; that I was the companion of your earliest wanderings over the green hills of Biloxi; that Father Davion taught us to read from the same book ;-that he bade me love you as a sister ; that you were surpassingly beauti- ful, and a heart less susceptible than mine might have loved you. At length you became a ward or rather the adopted daughter of De Bienville. Thereafter you were gently nurtured, and a greater distance was placed between us in point of condition ; but the mischief was al- ready done. I had learned to adore you, "young as you were, and your dear image was engraved upon my heart, never to be effaced. — I still met you often, and you usually paused ‘ THE WHITE ROVER. for amoment to speak kindly to your former associate and companion, and thus unconsciously nurtured my passion. Helen, is my presump- tion to be wondered at? Is it not a natural consequence of our former companionship ?”’ ‘‘Q, Henri, why will you thus misapprehend Ido not reproach you—I do not blame you,” replied Helen, in a voice tremulous with emotion. ‘‘Then you are not angry, because. I have spoken freely ; you do not too severely condemn my presumption!’ exclaimed Henri, falling upon his knees, and pressing the hand of Helen to his lips. ‘Ah, Henri! how blind you have been,” she said, softly. A sudden and. almost overpowering light flashed in upon the mind of Henri Deleroix. His brain seemed to stagger with the weight of the truth, which his senses had received. The blood rushed tumultuously to his face ; his eyes sparkled with unnatural light ;—he was dizzy with happiness. | He bestowed upon Helen a thousand endear- ing epithets; he did not cease to kiss her hand until he heard the footsteps of Adelaide. He rose from his knees with a face radiant with joy. ‘‘T have been indeed blind,’ he said, in a low tone, ‘‘ for you love me.” Adelaide saw how matters were progressing, and hastily retreated to her father’s room. The happy lover drew the tearful and blush- ing maiden towards him, and ventured to press. his lips lightly to her crimson cheek. ‘*‘ Helen,” he added, ‘‘now am I indeed happy. The days of my boyhood seem. to be recalled. Henceforth I will live to make my- self worthy of Helen Lerowe. I will win a name that shall be worthy of her, or perish in the effort. Now Iam but an unknown lad, without money, and I might add, without parentage ; but I trust it will not always be thus, for now I have as great an incentive to ac- tion as ever mortal man had.”’ ‘ ‘‘Nay, Henri, you overvalue me. You for- get that I am as portionless as yourself, and me. THE WHITE ROVER. that my parentage is involved in an obscurity as dark as your own. I have no claims to gentle birth, and am but a dependant upon the bounty of the excellent governor,” replied Helen, egrnestly. “You lose sight of many advantages which you possess. You are known as the fairest of the daughters of Louisiana. There is not a man in the colony-but would be proud to lay his heart at your feet, were he sure the offering would be accepted.. It would be easy for Mad- emoiselle Lerowe to marry a fortune,” replied Henri. ‘‘Such an absurd idea never occurred to Mademoiselle Lerowe,”’ rejoined Helen, smiling. ‘* Helen,’ continued Henri, seriously ‘‘ are you willing to sacrifice ambition to love, and re- main as you are now until Dame Fortune shall enable me to claim you as my bride ?”’ “It will be no sacrifice, Henri; and as ™ ambition, I have little of the kind phn refer to,’ said Helen. “Your kind words render me unspeakably happy. And now, dear girl, allow me to meet you here as often as propriety will admit.” ‘‘T should be rather a poor judge of the last named commodity, I fear,’’ answered the maid- en, with a smile. - “*On the contrary, you are a model of pro- priety,’’ said Henri. ‘But there is another subject I must speak of before we part. I have often seen Captain Lesage enter the gov- ernor’s house. My heart told me that he had a motive in going there. Was I right ?”’ The sweet face of Helen was suffused with blushes. “You were not wrong in your 4uspicions. He has persecuted me for several months.”’ ‘* And you gave him no encouragement ?”’ ** Certainly not.” “Well, Helen?” ‘‘He grew impatient, and accused me of loving a nameless adventurer.”’ ‘The villain!” “T think, nay, Tam certain that you have much’to fear from him, for by some means he has discovered your secret, and mine too, per- 17 haps. He is a man that will not brook denial, and when once resolved upon a thin can change his purpose.”’ ‘You have not mistaken his character. He is indeed a dangerous man, and’capable of any act of villany. How does he stand with De Bienville ?” | “On very good terms, I believe.” ‘*Do you imagine that the governor favors his pretensions ?”’ ‘*On that subject Iam in doubt. I hope not for : a. heartily despise the ee of the man.’ ‘* There is still another subject upon which I must speak. , There is a prospect of a long and bloody war with the Indians. Already have the savages commenced their depredations, pro- g, nothing ‘voked, I have reason to believe, by some overt act on the part of Captain Lesage. Onalaska has gathered together his’ warriors, and sent ’ | deputations to all the neighboring nations ; to the Choctaws, the Natchez, the Mobilians, and the Yazoos. The slumbering desire for ven- geance has been awakened. The council-fires of the red men are burning on every hill, and in every valley, and upon every river; unless this rising is checked at once, every white man will be swept from the great valley of the Mississippi. The settlement at Mobile, at Dauphine Island, at Pensacola, and here at New Orleans, will perish simultaneously ; for, by a wonderful concert of action, all these in- fant colonies will be crushed in a day.” The face of Helen grew pale. ‘Merciful heaven !’’ she exclaimed. the danger indeed so imminent ?”’ ‘Tt is.. There is no child’s play about it. You know that I have been free to go among the Indian tribes, and that I have ever been called the Indian’s friend. I believe they have imbibed the idea that a goodly portion of their own red blood is mixed with the white currents that flow in my veins,”’ said Henri, with a slight change of color. ‘* But let that be as it may, I have acquired considerable influence over the minds of our red neighbors. No longer ago than last night, I dared to dash into their midst, 6< Is 18 THE WHITE ROVER. and snatch a victim from the jaws of death, | anticipated,’ said Moran, turning to Henri, ‘‘I even after the fires were lighted. And,”’ con- tinued Henri, with a flashing eye and a heay- ing chest, ‘‘ I escaped unharmed. Not one of the horribly painted warriors pointed a feather- ed arrow, or raised a tomahawk against me.— There is not another man in Louisiana that could have done it.”’ ‘‘T’ll answer for the truth of that assertion with my life,”’ said a voice. Henri and Helen turned toward the door, and their eyes rested upon the figure of Pierre Moran. , ‘‘There is not another man in the French colony that could have done it and lived to tell his sweetheart of it. Pierre Moran says it,” added the hunter. «« And he would be a bold man who would dare gainsay you,’’ replied Henri. ‘‘ Permit me to introduce you to Mademoiselle Lerowe.”’ Pierre bowed gallantly, and expressed the pleasure he experienced in making the acquain- tance of so fair a lady. «« As you stayed much longer than you had feared something unfortunate had befallen you, and came promptly to the rescue; but I per- ceive that you can dispense with my services.” Henri and Helen exchanged glances, and color. At that crisis Madame Ridelle and her inter- esting daughter appeared, and Pierre Moran was greeted as an old acquaintance. ‘‘T have hunted many a day, and camped many a night with Ridelle,” said the hunter. ‘* And [have fought the savages side by side, with him, and hope to again, for there will soon be warm work in the colony.’’ ‘* Do you think so ?”’ asked Madame Ridelle, anxiously. ‘« There can be no doubt of it, madame. | It’s a fact that might as well be known first as last. The red men are aroused to vengeance, and much blood will be shed.”’ Madame Ridelle sighed. Monsieur Moran looked furtively at Adelaide, and Adelaide looked down at the floor. ; CHAPTER IV. A CONFIDENTIAL INTERVIEW—=FATHER DAVION——THE ARREST. Tr was evening. De Bienville and Lesage were closeted together. *« Are you really in earttest,”’ said De Bien- ville, “when you assure me that this young man has incited all the Indian tribes against the French colonists ?”’ ‘“‘T never was more so, your excellency,”’ re- plied Lesage. ‘‘But what is the secret of his influence among them? Canyou tell me that?’ asked De Bienville, incredulously. ‘© The truth is he is not free from native blood, himself. He has associated with the Indians from his childhood, and having considerable natural shrewdness, has learned how to operate upon their impulsive natures. He is known also to be the intimate friend of Father Davion, and he possesses great influence among the sav- ages,” replied Lesage, with apparent sincerity. ‘Ts it possible that this boy has Indian blood enough to make him plan the destruction of all the French settlers upon the Mississippi?’ ex- claimed De Bienville, nervously. “It is too true,” replied Lesage, musingly. ‘One drop of Indian blood would be enough to contaminate the best man in the country.” “You do not like our red neighbors, cap- tain !”’ rejoined De Bienvyille, looking searck- ingly at Lesage. “T plead guilty to the charge. I hate the whole race ; and not without cause ; for is not every Frenchman on the Mississippi in danger ? It is not easy to guess what asingle day may bring forth. To-day we rest in coniparative security, to-morrow we may be tomahawked and scalped, and our infant city laid in ashes,”’ ‘‘ Lesage,’ said De Bienville, abruptly, ‘” 27 ‘‘The governor is in thatroom, and the wily serpent is with him. Here is a tree near the high fence, and another near the window. First we will climb into this, and let ourselves down into the yard by the branches; then we will climb softly into that, and listen to the words of the great father and chef menteur (lying chief).”’ This proposal was immediately put into exe- cution—for the indulgent reader will bear in mind that the females of that day could accom- plish any feat requiring dexterity and strength, with about the same facility as the other sex. The tree was low and its ascent easy. Glorieuse, more practised in the arts of forest life, and more agile than her companion, was the first to let herself down into the yard (which would doubtless be called a court at the present time). She assisted Mablois to alight safely upon the ground. Their next care was to attain a suita- ble position among the branches of the, willow growing by the window. This they succeeded in doing with much more silence and despatch than might have been anticipated. The tree proved most favorable to their purpose, for with their ears placed close to the window, they were enabled to hear the whole of the conversation between De Bienville and Lesage, as we have given it in another place. Having made themselves acquainted with the whole plan of ‘the captain’s villany, they de- scended from the place of their concealment, and after considerable exertion scaled sh high fence and left the vicinity. ‘Do you not see, sister, that cunning is bet- ter than strength ?”’ asked La Glorieuse. . Perhaps what we have done would not be called pardonable by many people,” replied Mablois. ‘