A Deed of Darkness.—The Money-diggers.—The dim Forest and the Midnight Scene.—Incantation assisted by Caesar, the Latin Grammar, and Euclid.—Sudden, startling, and terrific Interruption.—Flight of the “B. O. W. C.”—They rally again.

MIDNIGHT came. Before that time the “B. O. W. C.” had prepared themselves for the task before them. They were arrayed in the well-worn and rather muddy clothes in which they had made their memorable expedition. Solomon was with them, dressed in his robes of office. The venerable Grand Panjandrum had gathered all the lanterns that he could collect; but as these were only five in number, and as they wanted twenty-one, there had been some difficulty. This had, at length, been remedied by means of baskets, pails, and tin kettles; for it was thought that by putting a candle in a pail, or something of that sort, it would be protected from the wind. Solomon also was provided with matches, so as to kindle the light at once if it should be blown out; and Bart tried, in the most solemn manner, to impress upon him the necessity of watchfulness. It was Solomon’s duty to watch the lights, and nothing else; the others were to dig. Besides the pails, pots, lanterns, candlesticks, and tin kettles, they carried a pickaxe, four spades, and the Bust,—which last was taken in order to add still more to the solemnity of the occasion,—and after distributing this miscellaneous load as equally as possible among the multitude, they at length set out.

The Academy was all silent, and all were hushed in the depths of slumber; so they were able to steal forth unobserved, and make their way to the “Old French Orchard.”

The night was quite dark, and as they walked up the hill, the scene was one of deep impressiveness. Overhead the sky was overcast, and a fresh breeze, which was blowing, carried the thick clouds onward fast through the sky. The moon was shining; but the dense clouds, as they drove past, obscured it at times; and the darkness that arose from this obscurity was succeeded by a brighter light as the moon now and then shone forth. Before them rose the solemn outline of the dark forest, gloomy and silent, and the stillness that reigned there was not broken by a single sound.

After walking some distance, they stopped, partly to rest, and partly to see if they were followed. As they turned, they beheld beneath them a scene equally solemn, and far grander. Immediately below lay the dark outline of the Academy, and beyond this the scenery of Grand Pré; on the right extended the wide plains, now almost lost to view in the gloom of night; on the left the Cornwallis River went winding afar, its bed full, its waters smooth and gleaming white amid the blackness that bordered it on either side. Overhead the sky arose, covered over with its wildly-drifting clouds, between which the moon seemed struggling to shine forth. Beneath lay the dark face of the Basin of Minas, which faded away into the dimness of the opposite shore, while immediately in front,—now, as always, the centre of the scene,—rose Blomidon, black, frowning, sombre, as though this were the very centre from which emanated all the shadows of the night.

At the top of the hill they met Captain Corbet, who had a spade on his shoulder.

“It’s rayther dark,” said he, in a pensive tone. “Ef I’d aknowed it was to be so dark, I’d postponed it.”

“Dark!” said Bart, cheerily; “not a bit of it. It’s just right. We want it just this way. It’s the proper thing. You see, if it were moonlight, we’d be discovered; but this darkness hides us, The moon peeps out now and then, just enough to make the darkness agreeable. This is just the way it ought to be.”

They moved on in silence towards the spot. Here, on three sides, the forest encircled them; below them was the deep, dark gully; and the shadows of the forest were so heavy, that nothing could be distinguished at a distance. Captain Corbet, usually talkative, was now silent and pensive, and uttered an occasional sigh. As for Solomon, he did not say one word. The whole party stood for a moment in silence, looking into the cellar.

“Come, boys,” said Bart, at length, “hurry up. The first thing we’ve got to do is to make the arrangements. We must arrange the lamps.”

Saying this, they all proceeded to put down their lanterns, pots, kettles, pails, and baskets, around the cellar, so as to encircle it. Inside each of the pots, kettles, pails, and baskets, a candle was put, while the Bust was placed at the end of the cellar nearest the wood.

“Now,” said Bart, “let’s all go into the cellar, and Solomon will light the candles.”

They went into the cellar; but Solomon showed so much clumsiness in lighting them, that Bart had to do it. This was soon accomplished. The surrounding forest sheltered them from the wind, and the lights did not flicker very much, except at times when an occasional puff stronger than usual would be felt. Once a light was blown out; but Bart lighted it again, and then they all burned very well.

So there they stood, in the cellar, with the circle of lights around them, under a dark sky, at the midnight hour.

“I feel solemn,” said Captain Corbet, after a long silence; “I feel deeply solemn.”

“Solemn!” said Bart; “of course you do; so say we all of us. Why shouldn’t we?”

“I feel,” said Captain Corbet, “a kind of pinin feelin—a longin and a hankerin after the babby.”

“O, well, all right,” said Bart; “never mind the baby just now.”

“But I feel,” said Captain Corbet, in a voice of exceeding mournfnlness—“I feel as though I’d orter jine the infant.”

“O, never mind your feelings,” said Bart. “Have you got your mineral rod?”

“I hev.”

“Very well; try it.”

“I’d rayther not. I—I—Couldn’t we postpone this here? It’s so solemn!”

“Postpone it! Why, man, what are you thinking of? Postpone it! Nonsense! Think of your baby. Postpone it! And you pretend to be a father!”

Captain Corbet drew a long sigh.

“I feel,” said he, “rayther uncomfortable here;” and he pressed his hand against his manly bosom.

“Never mind,” said Bart. “Come; try the mineral rod.”

Captain Corbet took the rod, and tried to balance it on his finger; but his hand trembled so that it at once fell to the ground.

The boys gave a cry of delight. He had been standing, as before, in the middle of the cellar, and the rod fell in the former place.

“Not a bit of doubt about it!” cried Phil. “There it goes again! Come, let’s go to work, boys.”

“But we must have some ceremonies,” said Bart. “It would never do to begin to dig without something.”

“So I say,” remarked Captain Corbet, feebly.

Meanwhile Solomon had been standing in his robes, a little apart, looking nervously around.

“Hallo, Solomon!” cried Bart.

Solomon gave a start.

“Ya—ya—yas, sr.”

“You’re not watching the lights.”

“Ya—yasr.”

“That basket has fallen.”

“Ya, yasr,” said Solomon, whose teeth seemed to be chattering, and who seemed quite out of his senses.

Bart walked up to him, and saw at a glance how it was.

“Why, old Solomon,” said he, gently, “you’re not frightened—are you? It’s only our nonsense. Come, Grand Panjandrum, don’t take it in earnest. It’s all humbug, you know,” he added, dropping his voice. “Between you and me, we none of us take it in earnest. Come, you keep the lamps burning, and be the Grand Panjandrum.”

At this a little of Solomon’s confidence was restored. He ventured to the edge of the cellar, and lifted up the basket in time to save it from burning up; but scarce had he done this than he retreated; the gloom, the darkness, the magic ceremonies, were too awful.

“Come,” said Tom, “let’s begin the ceremonies.”

Captain Corbet gave another sigh.

“I feel dreadful anxious,” said he, “about the infant; I’m afeard somethins happened; I feel as if I’d orter be to hum.”

“All right, captain,” said Bart; “we’ll all be home before long, and with the pot of gold, you know. Come, cheer up, for the ceremonies are going to begin.”

“See here, now,” said Captain Corbet. “This here’s a solemn occasion. I feel solemn. It’s awful dark. We don’t know what’s buried here, or what will happen; so let’s don’t have any heathen ceremonies.”

“O, the ceremonies are not heathen,” said Bart. “Each of us is going to make an incantation in the most solemn language that we can think of; so, boys, begin.”

“The most solemn thing that I can think of,” said Phil, “is English history; so here goes.” And stretching forth his hand solemnly, he said, in a whining voice, like a boy reciting a lesson:—

“Britain was very little known to the rest of the world before the time of the Romans. The coasts opposite Gaul were frequented by merchants, who traded thither for such commodities as the natives were able to produce.”

“The most solemn thing, to me,” said Tom, “is Euclid.” And then he added in the same tone, “The square described on the hypothenuse of a right-angled triangle is equal to the sum of the squares described on the other two sides of the same.”

“And I,” said Arthur, “find Arnold’s Latin Exercises the worst. The most solemn thing for an invocation is,—’

“In temporibus Ciceronis Galli retinuerunt barbaram consuetudinem excercend? virtutis omni occasione. Balbus odifcabat murum!”

“I,” said Bruce, “have something far more solemn.” And stretching out his hand, he said, in a loud, firm voice,—

“Dignus, indignus, content us, proditus, captus, and fretus, also natus, satus, ortus, editus, and the like, govern the—hem—nominative—no—the vocative—no—the ablative—all the same.”

“For my part,” said Bart, “the most solemn thing, to me, is C?sar. The way they teach it here makes it a concentration of all the worst horrors of the Grammar, and Arnold, and History, with the additional horrors of an exact translation. O, brethren of the ‘B. O. W. C.,’ won’t you join with me in saying,—

“Gallia est omnis divisa in partes très, quarum unam incolunt Belgo, aliam Aquitani, tertiam, qui ipsorum lingua Celto, nostra Galli appellantur. Hi omnes lingua, institutis, legibus, inter se differunt. Gallos ab Aquitanis Garumna”

“Here!” cried Captain Corbet, suddenly interrupting Bart; “I can’t stand this any longer. It’s downwright heathenism—all that outlandish heathen stuff! Do ye mean to temp fate? Bewar, young sirs! It’s dangerous! ’Tain’t safe to stand here, at midnight, over a Frenchman’s bones, and jabber French at him.”

“French?” said Bart. “It’s not French.”

“That ain’t the pint,” said Captain Corbet, who had worked himself up into considerable excitement. “The pint is air it English? No, sir. Does any Christian onderstand sich? No, sir. We hain’t got no business with sich.”

“But it’s Latin,” said Bart.

“Wuss and wuss,” said Captain Corbet. “I take my stand by the patriarchs, the prophets, and the postles. Did they jabber Latin? No, sir. They were satisfied with good honest English. It was a solemn time with them thar. English did for them. So, on this solemn occasion, let us talk English, or forever after hold our peaces.”

“Well, what shall we do?” asked Bart.

“Do?” said Captain Corbet; “why, do somethin solemn. I should like—” he added, mildly. “Ef you could, it would be kind o’ sewthin ef you could sing a hime.”

“A hymn,” said Bart; “certainly.” Now, Bart had a quick talent for making up jingling rhymes; so he immediately improvised the following, which he gave out, two lines at a time, to be sung by the “B. O. W. C.” It was sung to the mournful, the solemn, the venerable, and the very appropriate tune, known as “Rousseau’s Dream.”

"Why did we deprive the Frenchman
Of his lands against his will,
Take possession of his marshes,
Raise a school-house on the hill?

”’Twas a foolish self-deceiving
By such tricks to hope for gain;
All that ever comes by thieving
Turns to sorrow, care, and pain.

"Ours is now the retribution;
See the fate that falls on us—
Awful tasks in Greek and Latin,
Algebra, and Calculus!

"Yet for all the tribulation
Which the morrow must behold,
We may find alleviation
In the Frenchman’s pot of gold!”


The wailing notes of the tune rose up into the dark night, and the tones, as they were dolefully droned out by the “B. O. W. C.,” died away in the dim forest around.

Captain Corbet gave a long sigh as they ended. “Solemner and solemner!” he slowly ejaculated. “I wish the biz was over.”

“Well,” said Bart, “the way to have it over is to begin as soon as possible. But remember this, all of you: after the first stroke of spade or pickaxe, not a word must be spoken—not a word—not one; no matter what may happen; no matter how surprised, astonished, terrified, horrified, mystified, or scarified we may be. Mum’s the word; any other word will break the spell; and then, where are we? And you, Solomon, mind the lights! Don’t you dare to let one of them go out: as you value your life, keep them going. Above all, mind that tin kettle in the corner; the wick is bad, and it’s flaring away at a tremendous rate. And don’t let the baskets upset. Have you got your matches?”

“Ya—yasr,” said Solomon, whose teeth were now chattering again, and who looked with utter horror at the row of lights which he was ordered to watch.

“Will you take the pickaxe, captain?”

“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, in a faint voice, “I hardly know; perhaps you’d better dig, an I’ll go over to the fence, and see that no one comes.”

“Go over to the fence!” cried Bart. “What! go out through that row of lights? and after our incantations? Why, Captain Corbet! Don’t you think of anything of the kind. We are seven. It’s a mystic number. You must stay with us.” Captain Corbet heaved a sigh.

“Wal,” said he, “I’ll take one of the spades.”

“I’ll take the pickaxe,” said Bruce. “Very well,” said Bart; “you begin. Stir up the earth, and we’ll all dig. But after the first stroke, remember—not one word!”

Bruce then seized the pickaxe with nervous energy, and raising it, he hurled it into the ground. As it struck, Solomon shuddered, and clasped his hands. Captain Corbet stepped back, and looked wildly around. Again and again Bruce wielded the pickaxe, dashing it into the earth with powerful blows, and then wrenching it so as to pry up the sods. The others looked on in silence. At length he had loosened the earth all about, and to a considerable depth. After this he stood back, and the other boys went to work with their spades. Bruce waited for a little time, and then, dropping the pickaxe, he seized a spade, and plunged it into the ground, and rapidly threw up the soil, doing as much work as any two of the others.

For some time they worked thus. The silence was profound, being only broken by the clash of the spades against the stones, and the hard breathing of the boys. At last they hod dug up all the earth that had been loosened by Bruce, and the hard soil began to present an insuperable barrier to the progress of the spades. Seeing this, Bruce seized the pickaxe once more, and again hurled it with vigorous blows into the ground, loosening the earth all around. At last, as he flung it down with all his force, it struck against something which gave so peculiar a sound that the boys all started, and caught one another’s arms, and looked at one another in the dim moonlight, each trying to see the face of the other. Bruce stopped for an instant, and then, swinging the pickaxe again over his head, he dashed it down with all his force. Again it struck that hard substance under ground, and again there was that peculiar sound. It was a sound that could not be mistaken. It was not such a sound as would be given by a stone, or by a stick of timber; it was something very different. It was hard, ringing,—metallic! And as that sound struck upon the ears of the “B. O. W. C.” there was but one thought, a thought which came simultaneously to the minds of all—the thought that Bruce’s pickaxe had reached the buried treasure. But the pot of gold now became to their imaginations an iron chest filled with coin, and it was against this iron chest that the pickaxe had struck, and it was this iron chest which had given forth the sound.

Yet so schooled were they, so determined upon success, that even the immensity of such a sensation could not make them forget their self-imposed silence. Not one word was spoken. They felt, they thought, but they did not speak.

Suddenly Bruce flung down the pickaxe, and seized his spade. At once all the others rushed forward to join in the task. Bruce was first; his spade was plunged deep into the loosened earth. Bight and left it was flung. The spades of the others were plunged in also. All of them were digging wildly and furiously, and panting heavily with their exertion and their excitement. Each one had felt his spade strike and grate against that hard metallic substance which the pickaxe had struck, and which they now fully believed to be the pot of gold. Each one was in the full swing of eager expectation, when suddenly there came an awful interruption.

They might have been digging five minutes, or an hour; they could never tell exactly. Afterwards, when they talked it over, and compared one another’s impressions, they could not come to any decision, for all idea of time had been lost. Engaged in their work, they took no note of minutes or hours. But while they were working Captain Corbet had stood aloof; he held a spade in his listless hands, but he did not use it. He was looking on nervously, and with a pale face, and his thoughts were such as cannot be described. Solomon also stood, with trembling frame and chattering teeth, a prey to superstitious terror. To Solomon had been committed the care of the lights; yet he did not dare to venture near them. For that matter, he did not dare even look at them. His gaze was fixed on the boys, while at times his eyes would roll fearfully over the dark outline of those dim and sombre woods whose shadows lowered gloomily before him.

Such, then, was the situation,—the boys busy and excited; Captain Corbet nervous, and idle, and fearful; Solomon trembling from head to foot, and overcome with a thousand wild and superstitious fancies,—when suddenly, close beside them, outside of the row of lights, just as their spades struck the metallic substance before mentioned,—suddenly, instantaneously, and without the slightest warning, there arose a sharp, a fearful, a terrible uproar; something midway between a shriek and a peal of thunder; a roar, in fact, so hideous, so wild, so unparalleled in its horrid accompaniments, that it shook the boldest heart in that small but bold company. It rose on high; it seemed to fill all the air; and its awful echoes prolonged themselves afar through the darkness of the midnight scene.

The boys started back from the hole; their spades dropped from their hands. They saw about half of the lights extinguished, and amid the gloom they could perceive two figures rushing in mad haste away from the spot. A panic seized upon them. Before a panic the stoutest heart is as weak as water. Even the “B. O. W. C.” yielded to its influence. They shrank back, they retreated, they passed the line of flickering lights.

They fled!

Away, away! back from this terrible place, back towards the Academy. So fled the “B. O. W. C.”

First of all the fugitives was Solomon.

He had been nearly frightened out of his wits long before. These proceedings, half in joke, had been no joke to him. In spite of Bart’s assurances he had stood a trembling spectator, neglectful of his duty. The wind had blown out the lights one by one. Far from lighting them again, he had not even watched them. Every moment his fear had increased, until at last his limbs were almost paralyzed with terror. But at length, when that awful roar had arisen, his stupor was dispelled. An overmastering horror had seized him. He burst through the line of lights; he fled across the field; he ran, with his official robes streaming behind him, towards the Academy. Off went his hat: he heeded it not; he kept on his way. He reached the door of the house; he burst in. Up the stairs, and up another flight, and up another flight, and yet another—so he ran, until at last he reached his room. Arriving here, he banged to the door, and moved his bedstead against it, and heaped upon the bedstead his trunk, his chairs, his table, his looking-glass, his boots, his washstand, and every movable in the room. Then tearing off the bedclothes, he rolled himself up in them, and crouching down in a corner of the room, he lay there sleepless and trembling till daybreak.

Nor was Solomon the only fugitive. Scarcely had he bounded away in his headlong flight before Captain Corbet, with a cry of “O, my babby!” plunged after him, through the line of lights into the gloom that surrounded the ill-omened spot.

And there, over that track which saw the college gown of Solomon and the coat tails of Captain Corbet streaming in the wind, there, fast and far, in wild confusion, in headlong panic, fled the “B. O. W. C.” Who ran first, and who came last, matters not. I certainly will never tell. Enough is it for me to say that they RAN! Such is the power of Panic.

Great, however, as was that panic, it did not last long; and by the time they reached the edge of the playground on the crest of the hill, they all slackened their pace and stopped by mutual consent. There they stood in silence for some time, looking back at the place from which they had fled, and where now a few lights were still flickering.

And there was one great question in all their minds.

What was It?

But this none of them could tell, and so they all kept silent.

That silence was at last broken by Bart.

“Well, boys,” said he, “what are we going to do now? Our shovels and lights are there; and, worst of all, our palladium—-the bust. Solomon has gone, and Captain Corbet; but we still remain. We’ve rallied; and now what shall we do? Shall we retreat, or go back again to the hole?”

Bart spoke, and silence followed. Overhead the clouds swept wrathfully before the face of the moon, and all around’ rose the dim forest shades.

In front flickered and twinkled the feeble, fitful lights. And there, by those lights, was That, whatever it was, from which they had fled.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, at any rate,” said Bruce, in a harsh, constrained voice; “I’ll go back to that hole, if I die for it.”

“You!” cried Bart.

“Yes,” said Bruce, standing with his fists close clinched, and his brow darkly frowning; “yes, I; you fellows may come or stay, just as you like.”

A man’s courage must be measured from his own idea of danger. A couple of hundred years ago many acts were brave which to-day are commonplace. To defy the superstitions of the age may be a sign of transcendent courage. Now, of all these boys Bruce was by far the most superstitious; yet he was the first who offered to go back to face That from which they had all fled. It was an effort of pure pluck. It was a grand recoil from the superstitious timidity of his weaker self. Buoyed up by his lofty pride and sense of shame, he crushed down the fear that rose within him, and his very superstition made his act all the more courageous. And as he spoke those last words, before the others had time to say anything in reply, he turned abruptly, and strode back with firm steps towards the cellar. So he stalked off, steeling his shaking nerves and rousing up the resources of his lofty nature. By that victory over the flesh he grew calm, and walked steadily back into the dark, ready to encounter any danger that might be lingering there—an example of splendid courage and conquest over fear.

But he did not long walk alone. Before he had taken a dozen steps the others were with him, and in a short time they were all in the hole again. Bart proceeded to light the extinguished candles, while Bruce quietly picked up the spades, assisted by the other boys. Soon all the lights were burning, and Bart joined the little knot of boys who were standing in the centre of the cellar.

“Well,” said he, coolly, “the old question is before us—What are we to do now? Shall we stay here and dig, or shall we go home and go to bed? For my part, if you wish to dig I’ll dig; but at the same time I think we’d better retire, taking our things with us, and postpone our digging till another time.”

“I won’t say anything about it,” said Bruce. “I’ll do either. One thing, however, I promise not to do; whatever happens, I won’t run again.”

“The fact is,” said Arthur, “there’s no use talking about digging any more to-night. It was all very well while we were in the humor. It was all fun; but the fun has gone; we’ve disgraced ourselves. What That was I don’t pretend to know; but it may have been a trick. If so, we’re watched. And I don’t think any of us feel inclined to dig here with some of the other fellows giggling at us from among the trees.”

“It may have been the Gaspereaugians,” said Phil.

Suddenly a heavy sigh was heard, not far away.

“Hu-s-s-s-s-s-s-h!” said Bart; “what’s that?”

“That? One of the cows,” said Tom.

“I tell you what it is, boys,” said Phil; “some of the fellows have got wind of our plan, and have been playing this trick on us. If so, we’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I’d rather have our fellows do it than the Gas-pereaugians,” said Bart, solemnly. “What a pity we didn’t think of this before we began! We’d not have been taken so by surprise.”

“Well,” said Phil, “I believe it was some trick; but how any human beings could contrive to make such an unearthly noise, such a mixture of thunder, and howling, and screeching, I cannot for the life of me imagine.”

“Still,” said Bruce, “it may not have been a trick. It may have been something which ought to make us afraid.”

“I believe,” said Tom, “that we’ll find out all about it yet. Let us only keep dark, say nothing, and keep our eyes and ears open. We’ll find it out some time.”

“Well,” said Arthur, “I suppose we’re all out of the humor for digging. If so, suppose we smooth over this hole; and then we can take away our lights and spades. My only idea in coming back was to get the things and destroy all traces of our digging.”

“All right,” said Bruce, seizing a spade.

The other boys did the same, and soon the hole was filled up. They placed the sods over it as neatly as they could, and though the soil bore marks of disturbance, yet they were not conspicuous enough to excite particular attention.

Then they proceeded to gather up the things so as to carry them away. In the midst of this there came a voice out of the darkness, a long, loud, shrill voice,—a voice of painful, eager, anxious inquiry.

“B-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ys! O, b-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ys!”

“It’s Captain Corbet!” cried Bart. “Hallo-o-o-o-o!” he shouted. “All ri-i-i-i-i-i-ght! We-e-e-’re h-e-e-e-re! All sa-a-a-a-a-a-afe! Come alo-o-o-o-o-o-o-ong!”

He stopped shouting then, and they all listened attentively. Soon they heard footsteps approaching, and before long they saw emerging from the gloom the familiar form and the reverend features of Captain Corbet. He came down into the hole, and after giving a furtive look all around, he said,—“So you’ve ben a toughin of it out, hev you? Wal, wal, wal!”

“No, captain,” said Bart; “we all ran as fast as we could.”

“You did!” cried Captain Corbet, while a gleam of joy illuminated his venerable face. “You ran! What actilly? Not railly?”

“Yes, we all ran; and stopped at the edge of the hill, and then, seeing nothing, we came back to get the things.”

“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, “that’s more’n I’d hev done. I’m terewly rejiced to find that you clar’d out, sence it makes me not so ’shamed o’ myself; but I wonder at your comin back, I do railly. It was a vice,” he continued, solemnly, “a vice o’ warnin. Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound! But it’s all right now. Sence you’ve ben an stopped up the hole, I ain’t afeard any more. But, boys,”—and he regarded them with a face full of awe,—“boys, let that vice be a warnin. Don’t you ever go a diggin any more for a pot of gold. I give up that thar biz now, and forevermore. See here, and bar witness, all.”

Saying this Captain Corbet took his mineral rod with both hands, and snapped it across his knee; then, letting the fragments fall on the ground, he put his feet over them.

“Thar, that’s done! I got that thar rod from a demon in human form,” he said. “It was old Zeke; I bought it from him. He showed me how to use it. It was not myself, boys. Old Corbet don’t want money; it was the babby. That pereshus infant demanded my parential care. I wanted to heap up wealth for his sake. But it’s all over. That vice has been a warnin. While diggin here, I pined arter the babby; an when that vice come, a soundin like thunder in my ears, I fe-led. I cut like lightnin across the fields, an got to my own hum. But when I got thar I thought o’ youns. I couldn’t go in to see my babby, and leave you here in danger. So I come back; an here we air again, all safe, at last. An the infant’s safe to hum; an the rod’s broke forevermore; an my dreams of gold hev ben therrown like dumb idols to the moulds and tew the bats,—to delude me no more forever. That’s so; an thar you hev it; an I remain yours till death shall us part.”

After some further conversation, the money-diggers gathered up all their pots, and kettles, and pans, and spades, and pickaxes, and shovels, and hoes, and candles, and lanterns, and finally the Bust. These they bore away, and bidding an affectionate adieu to Captain Corbet, they went to the Academy, and succeeded in reaching their rooms unobserved.

And during all the time that they lingered in the cellar there was no repetition of that sound, nor was there any interruption whatever.