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Nationalism and the Genealogical Imagination
Comparative Studies on Muslim Societies
General Editor, B A R B A R A D. M E T C A L F

1. Islam and the Political Economy of Meaning, edited by William R. Roff

2. Libyan Politics: Tribe and Revolution, by John Davis
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23. Nationalism and the Genealogical Imagination: Oral History
and Textual Authority in Tribal Jordan, by Andrew Shryock
Nationalism and the
Genealogical Imagination
Oral History and Textual Authority
in Tribal Jordan

ANDREW SHRYOCK

University of California Press

BERKELEY LOS ANGELES LONDON
University of California Press
Berkeley and Los Angeles, California
University of California Press, Ltd.
London, England

© 1997 by the Regents of the University of California

Parts of this book were published in earlier versions in:

"Tribes and the Print Trade: Notes from the Margins of Literate Culture
in Jordan,"American Anthropologist 98 (1996): 26-40.
"Tribaliser la nation, nationaliser la tribu: Politique de l'histoire chez
les bedouins de la Balqa, en Jordanie," Monde Arabe, Maghreb-
Machrek, no. 1 4 7 (Jan-Mar. 1995): 1 2 0 - 3 0 .
Writing Oral History in Tribal Jordan: Developments on the Margins
of Literate Culture," Anthropology Today 11 (1995): 3 - 5 .
"Popular Genealogical Nationalism: History Writing and Identity
among the Balqa Tribes of Jordan," Comparative Studies in Society
and History 37 (1995): 3 2 5 - 5 7 .

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Shryock, Andrew.
Nationalism and the genealogical imagination : oral history and
textual authority in tribal Jordan / Andrew Shryock.
p. cm. — (Comparative studies on Muslim societies; 23)
Includes bibliographical references (p. ) and index.
ISBN 0-520-20100-0 (alk. paper)—ISBN 0-520-20101-9 (pbk.: alk.
paper)
1 . Bedouins—Jordan. 2. Jordan—Genealogy. 3. Bedouins—
Jordan—Historiography 4. Oral tradition—Jordan. I. Title. II. Series.
DS153.55.B43S57 1997
956.95'oo4927—dc2o 95-39809
CIP

Printed in the United States of America

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of

American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of
Paper for Printed Library Materials, A N S I Z39.48-1984.
Contents

List of Illustrations vii

Acknowledgments ix

Introduction 1

1. WRITING ORAL HISTORIES 11

2. A CITY OF SHADOWY OUTLINES 38
3. REMEMBERING THE S W O R D A N D LANCE 76
4. DOCUMENTATION A N D THE WAR OF W O R D S 95
5. BORDER CROSSINGS 148
6. FROM HEARSAY TO REVELATION 213
7. PUBLICATION A N D THE REDISTRIBUTION OF POWER 262
8. POPULAR GENEALOGICAL NATIONALISM 311

Appendix A: Transliterations of Abbadi and Adwani Poems 329

Appendix B: The Parliamentary Elections of 1989 340

Bibliography 343

Index 353
Illustrations

Plates

î . Decoration on the gravestone of an Adwani shaykh 19

2. Men gather to eat mansaf at an 'Abbadi wedding 48
3- Adwanis convene for a ceremony of reconciliation 49
4- The house of Shaykh Sa'ud 53
5- The Bedouin half 54
6. The contemporary half 55
7- Haj Arif stands in front of his old house
c
56
8. The new order, 1923 93
9- Muhammad Hamdan tries to decipher the epitaph on
Nimr's grave 99
ÎO. A "domain of authority" at the moment of speech 151
i l . Ali Khlayf al-'Uwaydi 170
12. An escort and his proper source 175
1 3- Haj 'Isa al-Sharrab recites verse to the accompaniment

of the rababa 186

14. Shaykh Sultan al-Adwan 231
15- Shaykh Majid Sultan al-Adwan 232
16. Muhammad Hamdan al-Adwan, conservator and scribe 234
17- Dr. Ahmad receives congratulations after his 1989
election victory 238
18. Dr. Ahmad, the author, and the genealogist 286
19- Portrait of the three Adwani shaykhs 293
20. The recomplected shaykh 295
21. Muhammad's gallery 299
22. Muhammad Hamdan adds to his collection
of unpublished documents 301
Figures

1 . An abbreviated display of 'Abbadi clans 41

2. Genealogy of the prominent 'Adwani clans 41
3. The Zyudi narrators in relation to the clans and prominent
individuals they describe in their stories 113

Map

The Balga, "Land of 1,000 Tribes," circa 1923 44

Acknowledgments

M y research in Jordan was supported by a Fulbright-Hays Fellowship and

a grant from the National Science Foundation; it was sponsored by the In-
stitute for Archaeology and Anthropology at Yarmouk University; and it
was shaped, at every turn, by the patronage of Dr. Ahmad 'Uwaydi al-'Ab-
badi, a Jordanian anthropologist who introduced me to tribal life in the Balga
and invited me to settle in his home village of Swaysa. None of these per-
sons, institutions, or agencies would necessarily endorse the arguments I
make in this book, and none is responsible for errors found in the text. It is
customary to protect funding sources and sponsors by offering a disclaimer
of this sort. I am equally concerned, however, to establish a protective dis-
tance between my own analysis and the man who, by sheer force of per-
sonality, dominates much of this book.
Dr. Ahmad 'Uwaydi al-Abbadi has been known, at various points in his
career, as a screenwriter, public security officer, media pundit, and folklorist.
In 1989, shortly after my fieldwork began, he was elected to Parliament. Dr.
Ahmad was, for me, an inexhaustible source of information. M y conversa-
tions with him were always intriguing, if sometimes a bit perplexing as well,
and his willingness to speak frankly on matters of tribal and national poli-
tics gave my knowledge of Jordan a dimension it would not otherwise have
had. Dr. Ahmad insisted that I cast him as a leading character in this book.
Given his current notoriety among the Jordanian tribes, I believe he fully
deserves the attention. Dr. Ahmad is a public figure, admired by thousands
and despised by thousands more. He does not agree with all the things I say
about him in this study, but my decision to interpret his career critically
was part of an ethnographic bargain he eagerly struck. The portrait of Ah-
mad that emerges here will disturb his friends and enemies alike; even I am
unsettled by it. Dr. Ahmad is not an ordinary man. His involvement in my
work made a conventional ethnography impossible to write, and for this I
am especially grateful to him.
M y stay in Swaysa, Dr. Ahmad's home village, was among the most en-
joyable and challenging experiences of my life. I give my heartfelt thanks
to the Rashidat lineage, especially the family of 'Ali Khlayf al- c Uwaydi, who
educated me and my wife, Sally, with true affection. They taught us how to

ix
x / Acknowledgments

speak the Balgawi dialect of Arabic; they coached and corrected us in the
elaborate, taken-for-granted rituals of daily life, and they never subjected
us to embarrassment when we failed. Our "becoming Abbadi" was the ac-
complishment of Ali Khlayf and his family, and the ethnography I have writ-
ten is as much a product of their intellectual labor as it is my own.
The Adwan tribe received us with an equal measure of kindness. Dr.
Yasser Manna' al-Adwan graciously arranged our stay in his home village
of Salihi. I am especially indebted to Yasser's brothers, Abu Firas and Fayiz,
who accepted us into their own families, and to the rest of the Amamsha
clan, who never tired of feeding us, involving us in their personal affairs,
and telling us stories of the Adwani past and present. My one-month stay
among the Adwan of the Jordan Valley was, thanks to the energetic efforts
of Muhammad Hamdan al-Adwan, the most productive period of my re-
search. Muhammad shared his immense store of Adwani history with me,
introduced me to the elders from whom he had collected it, and read to me
aloud from the preparatory notes to his unpublished manuscript, The His-
tory of the 'Adwan. My collaboration with Muhammad was collegial and
exciting. He understood what I was trying to accomplish, and he did every-
thing in his power to help. Even with the completion of this book, which he
has anxiously awaited, my debt to Muhammad remains largely unpaid. I
also owe thanks to Faris Salih al-Nimr, who was a true friend in the valley
and a companion in research as valuable to me as his ancestor, the great
Shaykh Goblan al-Nimr, was to the European scholars who explored Ad-
wani territory over a century ago.
Several people gave large amounts of time to the onerous task of tran-
scribing and translating the oral testimony I gathered from tribal elders.
Husayn al-cUwaydi al-Abbadi wrote down hours of talk, and his commit-
ment to accuracy was strong even when the narratives in question were spo-
ken against his own tribe. Mishrif cIsa al-Shurrab, also of Abbad, put his
subtle knowledge of English and Arabic to the difficult task of translating
Bedouin poems: all of them marked by archaic phrasing and arcane vocab-
ulary; most of them recited by old men without a full set of teeth. My deep-
est appreciation, however, goes to Bahiyya Ali Khlayf and Shahiyya Ali
Khlayf, who dedicated the free time between their homework and house-
hold chores to the transcription of my tape-recordings. This meant writing
down page after page of testimony they considered bombastic, scandalous,
repetitive, silly, or excruciatingly dull. Despite my pleadings, they would not
accept financial remuneration—"Does one take money for helping her own
brother?"—and the acknowledgment I offer them here is meager compen-
sation for the immense respect they gave to all aspects of my work.
 Acknowledgments / xi

I would like to thank Ray Kelly, Nick Dirks, Paul Dresch, and Sherry
Ortner for their helpful readings of the dissertation that gradually became
this book. Paul Dresch, who coaxed each chapter through all its stages of
development, deserves special mention. His critiques of the ethnography
strengthened it immeasurably, and his ability to draw neglected insights
from my material was a constant source of encouragement (and amazement)
to me. I could not have wished for a more discerning critic than Dresch, and
I thank him for the careful attention he lavished on my work. I should also
thank Walter Armbrust, Dale Eickelman, Richard Antoun, Barbara Walker,
Aaron Shryock, Steve Caton, Lucine Taminian, Benjamin Orlove, Michael
Fahy, and Brinkley Messick, each of whom read and made useful comments
on early drafts of the manuscript.
To Sally Howell, my wife and companion in fieldwork, I owe the deep-
est gratitude. She brought to her many readings of the manuscript a per-
spective rooted in our shared experience, but her contributions have always
been more than intellectual. Her knowledge of Arabic, her openness to
Bedouin sensibilities, her eagerness to learn almost anything—how to em-
broider, spin wool, weave, milk, churn, harvest wheat, string tobacco, and
sing wedding songs—made her beloved among tribespeople, and insofar as
ethnography is susceptible to moods, my work benefited greatly from the
good feeling Sally generated. I thank her also for making the separation of
male and female worlds less extreme for me than it would have been had I
gone to Jordan alone. An unmarried male ethnographer cannot experience
Bedouin culture in all its richness. By rendering me less of a sexual threat
to our hosts, Sally allowed me to cross the gender divide with relative ease,
and my ability to develop friendships on either side of that boundary en-
hanced the quality of information I collected.
It is not without embarrassment, then, that I realize now how absent from
the text are the women I knew through Sally's intervention. Such is the
price of topical ethnography. The shift from oral to written history on which
this study focuses is undertaken and dominated by men. The relentless mas-
culinity of the historical universe I explore is not in the least bit imaginary.
It does, however, obscure other dimensions of social reality. It is meant to
do so. History making, after all, is a way of censoring and shaping the past,
and Bedouin women, who are themselves heavily invested in the proud an-
drocentrism of tribal history, would hardly expect me to pretend otherwise
on their behalf. In the tribal Balga, as in all human societies, there are hege-
monic structures that gratitude and affection, no matter how keenly felt,
can never overcome.
INTRODUCTION

Ethnography as a Shared Labor

of Objectification
A meaning only reveals its depths once it has encountered and come into contact
with another, foreign meaning: they engage in a kind of dialogue, which sur-
mounts the closedness and one-sidedness of these particular meanings, these
cultures. We raise new questions for a foreign culture, ones that it did not raise
itself; we seek answers to our own questions in it; and the foreign culture
responds to us by revealing its new aspects and new semantic depths. Without
one's own questions one cannot creatively understand anything other or foreign
(but, of course, the questions must be serious and sincere). Such a dialogic
encounter of two cultures does not result in merging or mixing. Each retains
its own unity and open totality, but they are mutually enriched.
Bakhtin, Speech Genres and Other Essays

T h i s book is a s t u d y of h i s t o r y m a k i n g in oral and w r i t t e n forms. It is based

on fieldwork done a m o n g the Balga tribes of central Jordan in 1 9 8 9 - 9 0 . D u r -
ing that time, I took part in local attempts (all of t h e m made b y Bedouin tribes-
men) to write d o w n and publish a b o d y of historical traditions that, until v e r y
recently, existed o n l y in speech. T h e s e first efforts at historiography, w h i c h
began in the 1970s, h a v e proved difficult f r o m the start. T h e publication of
tribal histories demands that a parochial and h i g h l y antagonistic d i s c o u r s e —
one composed of contested genealogies, tales of warfare, and heroic p o e t r y —
be adapted to a m o d e r n print culture that is public, nationalistic, and c o m -
mitted to t h e m e s of A r a b unity. M y i n v o l v e m e n t in this process b r o u g h t m e
face to face w i t h issues that are n o w of great interest to scholars w o r k i n g in
the subaltern quarters of complex societies. T h e s e include (1) the interplay
of oral and textual accounts of the past, (2) the political consequences of mass
literacy, (3) the reconfiguration (or loss) of spoken a u t h o r i t y in m o d e r n print
cultures, and (4) the relationship b e t w e e n nationalist ideologies and the pre-
colonial structures of historicity and identity t h e y n o w encapsulate.
In Jordan, these issues are w o r k i n g themselves out in fascinating and con-
troversial w a y s . A s the reader will soon discover, p u b l i s h i n g the "talk of the
elders" (sawalif al-kubar) is an act of c o m m e m o r a t i o n that, a l t h o u g h s e e m -
i n g l y i n n o c u o u s and folkloric, comes f r a u g h t w i t h political sensitivities. T h e

1
2 / Introduction

appropriateness of recording tribal histories—especially in a modern nation-

state where tribalism often stands for "backwardness"—has been called into
question by tribal and nontribal Jordanians alike, and the outcome of cur-
rent textualizing projects is by no means certain.
M y own analysis, not surprisingly, partakes in the same mood of bound-
ary testing and reconstruction. Like Bedouin historiographers, who describe
their work as a struggle against "old mentalities," I have found myself writ-
ing against (or around) well-established habits of thought and have framed
much of this study in opposition to analytical styles that are overly depen-
dent on documentary evidence and textual analogies. I have not, for exam-
ple, manufactured a conventional ethnohistory of the Balga tribes, nor have
I subjected Bedouin verbal arts to the latest devices of literary criticism. The
Bedouin already have their own highly nuanced ways of talking and writing
about the past; indeed, a careful examination of these indigenous hermeneu-
tic and historiographical practices lays bare many of the cultural assump-
tions that shape (and constrain) the methodology of ethnohistory. It also
forces literary theory out of its self-referential salon and into a world where
its terminologies and tropes can, at times, seem hopelessly impertinent.
The reader should not assume, however, that I intend merely to pick apart
analytical styles that are currently in vogue. The materials I examine in this
study, of their very nature, actually further the ends of historical anthro-
pology and critical theory. They do so by making the "constructedness" of
historical knowledge explicit in unusual ways. It is now widely assumed, for
instance, that identity, representation, and power are issues that manifest
themselves in the very form of anthropological writing itself and can, there-
fore, be problematized by means of literary experiment and the decon-
struction of familiar ethnographic genres. This reflexive stance, for all its
potential merits, has been plagued from the start by a debilitating tendency.
Instead of producing better ethnography, it leads all too easily to theoreti-
cal introversion, to writing about writing about culture, to a reluctance to
engage in representations of "the Other" that are not, at the same time, sub-
ordinated to representations of the ethnographer as self-conscious author
of the text. In the Balga of Jordan, this tendency toward analytical implo-
sion is held in check by a fortunate turn of events. In the Balga, it is tribes-
people themselves who are experimenting with writing; it is they who are
casting the authority of their own traditions in doubt; it is they who must
come to terms with their own "positionality" in relation to the identities
they create in print. The postmodernist, who wages war on received forms,
and the new historicist, who seeks to represent the past in novel ways, have
in every sense been beaten to the punch.
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
informed you that he had gone out with the young girl, but that he
would shortly return. You came and told me, and then went back to
his room to await his return, taking with you a letter from me—"
"I went back, and waited, and waited, havin' no company but the
dead man, until dark. Then I sallied out, and went to the house,
where we all was last night. I'd a hard time to get in, but git in I did,
—and jist too late—"
"Too late?—"
"The boy and the gal had been thar, and they'd jist gone. One of the
folks in livery show'd me which way,—'down the street toward the
river, and only five minutes ago,' says he. Down the street I put, and
by this time the snow was fallin' and the wind blowin' a harrycane.
Down the street I put, and when I came near the river, I heer'd a
woman cry out, 'help! murder!' Mind, I tell you, I lost no time, but
made straight for the pier, an' thar I find the gal, wringin' her hands
an' p'intin' to the river—"
"And the boy—the son of Gulian?—"
"Four fellers had come behind him, as he was about turnin' into the
street in which he lived,—they had dragged him from her,—she
follered them on to the pier, cryin', 'help! murder!' and they'd tied
him, and put him into a boat and made out into the river. As she told
me this story, I looked about me for a boat,—thar wasn't a boat to
be seen,—so I detarmined to jump in and swim arter 'em anyhow,
though the river was full of ice and the wind a-blowin' like Lucifer—"
"You leaped into the river?"
"No, I did not. For as the gal stood cryin', an' moanin', an' p'intin',
out into the dark thick night, the boat came back, and the four
gallus birds jumped on the wharf—"
"And the child,—O, my God! the son of Gulian?—"
"They'd hove him overboard!"
The old man uttered a heart-rending groan, and raised his hands to
heaven.
"Fatality!" he cried.
"I made at 'em at once,—and we j'ined in, four to one, teeth an' toe
nails. 'Don't give it up so easy!' I said, but what's the use o' talkin'? I
broke a jaw for one of 'em an' caved the crust in for another; but I
wa'n't a match for slung-shot behind the ear. They knocked me
stoopid. An' when I opened my eyes again, I found myself in their
hands, arrested on the charge o' havin' murdered young Somers, an'
o' robbin' Isr'el Yorke. They tied me, took me to a room up town,
whar they war j'ined by Blossom,—they tried to gouge money out o'
me, but as I hadn't any, it wa'n't so easy. When they got tired o'
that, I purtended to sleep, an' overheer'd their talk. The hansum
Colonel, Tarleton, my pertikler friend, had hired the four to waylay
the boy, and carry him out into the river. Blossom didn't know
anythin' about it; he swore like a fiery furnace when they told him of
it. Arter a while, as I found they were goin' to take me to the Tombs
if they couldn't git any money out o' me, I broke for the door, and
came away in a hurry, an' here I am."
"And the child of Gulian is gone! Fatality! Fatality!" groaned Ezekiel
Bogart.
"In the river,—tied and gagged,—in the river," sullenly replied Ninety-
One; and the next moment he uttered a wild cry and leaped to his
feet.
Ezekiel Bogart had removed the skullcap, the green glasses and the
huge cravat. In place of a countenance obscured by a grotesque
disguise, appeared a noble face, a broad forehead, rendered
venerable by masses of snow-white hair. His beard, also white as
snow, left bare the outlines of his massive chin and descended upon
his breast. And sunken deep beneath his white eyebrows, his large
eyes shone with the light of a great intellect, a generous heart. It
was indeed a noble head. True, his mouth was large, and the lips
severely set, his large nose bent to one side, his cheek-bones high
and prominent, but the calm steady light of his eyes, the bold
outlines of his forehead,—stamped with thought, with genius,—gave
character to his entire face, and made its very deviations from
regularity of feature, all the more impressive and commanding.
"It is the Doctor!" cried Ninety-One. "Yer ha'r is white and thar's
wrinkles about yer mouth an' eyes, but I know you, Doctor Martin
Fulmer."

CHAPTER II.

THE SEVEN ARE SUMMONED.

It was, in truth, that singular man, who in the course of our

narrative, has appeared as the Judge of the Court of Ten Millions as
the "man in the surtout, with manifold capes," as Ezekiel Bogart, the
General Agent; and who, at length, appears in his own character,—
Dr. Martin Fulmer, the trustee of the Van Huyden estate.
"Be silent, John,"—the Doctor rose and gently waved his hand,—his
bent form for a moment became straight and erect,—his attitude
was noble and impressive. "The child whom, twenty-one years ago,
Gulian Van Huyden intrusted to your care, has, this night,—even as
the misfortunes of long years were about to be succeeded by peace,
security, the possession of unbounded wealth,—met his death at the
instigation of Gulian's brother. Be silent, John, for the shadow of
almighty fate is passing over us! It was to be, and it was! Who shall
resist the decrees of Providence? Behold! the fabric which I have
spent twenty-one years to build, is dust and ruins at my feet!"
There was the dignity of despair in his tone, his look, his every
attitude.
He slowly moved toward the door.—"Remain here, John, until
morning. I may want the aid of your arm. The worst has fallen upon
me," he continued, as though speaking to himself, "and nothing now
remains but to fulfill the last conditions of my trust, and—to die."
He left the room, and in the darkness, along corridor, and up
stairway, pursued his way slowly to the banquet-room.
"To this estate I have offered up twenty-one years of my life,—of my
soul. For it I have denied myself the companionship of a wife, the
joy of hearing a child call me by the name of 'father!' I have
traversed the globe in its behalf; made myself a dweller in all lands;
have left the beautiful domain of that science which loses itself
among the stars, to make myself a student in the science of human
misery, in the dark philosophy of human despair. I have made myself
the very slave of this estate. Believing that one day, its enormous
wealth would be devoted to the amelioration of social misery, I have
made myself familiar with the entire anatomy of the social world;
have dwelt in the very heart of its most loathsome evils; have
probed to the quick the ulcer of its moral leprosy. But at all times,
and in every phase of my career, I did hope, that out of this son of
Gulian's, cast like a waif upon the voyage of life, and made the
subject of superhuman misfortune, Providence would at length mould
a good, strong man, with heart and intellect, to wield the Van
Huyden estate, for the social regeneration of his race. My hope is
ashes."
With words like these in his soul, only half-uttered on his tongue, he
opened a door and passed into the banquet-room.
It was brilliantly lighted by an antique chandelier which hung from
the lofty ceiling. It was arranged for the last scene.
In this banquet-room, twenty-one years ago, there was the sound of
merry voices, mingled with the clink of wine-glasses; there were
hearts mad with joy, and faces dressed in smiles; and there was one
face dressed in smiles, which masked a heart devoured by the
tortures of the damned.
Now the scene was changed. The doors, windows, the pictures of
the Van Huyden family which lined the lofty walls, were concealed by
hangings of bright scarlet. A round table, covered with a white cloth,
and surrounded by eight antique arm-chairs, alone broke the
monotony of that vast and brilliantly lighted banquet-hall. The
chandelier which shone upon the hangings, and lighted up every
part of the room, shone down upon the white cloth of the table, and
upon a single object which varied its surface,—a small portfolio,
bound in black leather.
In that portfolio were comprised the mysteries of the Van Huyden
estate.
Beneath the table, and shaded by it from the light, dimly appeared
an iron chest, and a coffin covered with black cloth,—both were half-
concealed beneath a pall of velvet, fringed with tarnished gold.
Martin Fulmer attentively surveyed this scene, and a sudden thought
seemed to strike him. "It will not do," he said, "let the old place, in
this hour, put on all its memories."
He rang the bell, and four servants, attired in gray liveries, appeared
from beneath the hangings. Martin whispered his commands in a
low voice, and they obeyed without a word. Moving to and fro,
without uproar, in the course of a few minutes they had completely
changed the appearance of the hall. Thus changed, the banquet-
room has, indeed, put on its old memories; it wears the look, it
breathes the air of the past.
The light of the chandelier, no longer dazzling, falls in subdued
radiance around a lofty hall, whose ceiling is supported by eight
pillars of cedar, grotesquely carved from base to capital, with the
faces of monks and nuns,—all of the round and oily stamp,—with
beasts, and birds, and fruits, and flowers. The glaring scarlet
hangings cluster in festoons around the capitals of the pillars; and
between the pillars appear, upon the panneled walls, portraits of the
Van Huyden family, in frames of oak, and walnut, and gilt, for seven
generations; beginning with the grim face of the ancestor, who
landed on Manhattan Island in the year 1620, and ending with the
youthful, artist-like face of Carl Raphael, painted in 1842. (This
portrait of Nameless, Martin Fulmer procured from the study of
Cornelius Berman.) The lofty windows on one side, were hidden by
curtains of dark purple. At one end of the spacious hall, was a broad
hearth, blazing with a cheerful wood-fire; at the other, on a dark
platform, arose a marble image of "the master," as large as life, and
thrown distinctly into view by the dark background.
There are two altars covered with black velvet, fringed with gold;
one on each side of the table. The altar on the right supports the
coffin; the one on the left, the iron chest; and around coffin and iron
chest, as for a funeral, tall wax candles are dimly burning.
The dark panneled walls,—the huge pillars, quaintly carved,—the
pictures, all save one, dim with age,—the hearth and its flame,—the
white image of the Savior,—the central table, with its eight arm-
chairs,—the dark altars, with wax candles burning around coffin and
iron chest,—all combined to present an effect which, deepened by
the dead stillness, is altogether impressive and ghost-like.
"The place looks like the old time," exclaims Martin Fulmer, slowly
surveying its every detail,—"and,—"
The sound of the old clock again! How it rings through the mansion,
—rings, and swells, and dies away! One,—two,—three,—four!
Martin Fulmer sinks into the arm-chair, at the head of the table, and
from beneath his waistcoat draws forth a parchment,—the last will
and testament of Gulian Van Huyden.
"There is no other way,—I must begin;" he casts his eyes toward a
narrow doorway, across which is stretched a curtain. Behind that
curtain wait the heirs of the Van Huyden estate. The old man, erect
in his chair, at the head of the table, passes his right hand
thoughtfully over his broad forehead, and through the masses of his
hair, as white as snow.
And then directing his gaze toward the doorway, he begins to call
the names of the Seven:
"Evelyn Somers!"
No answer,—the merchant prince now sleeps a corpse within his
palace.
"Beverly Barron!"—the name of the man of fashion resounds
through the still hall.
But Beverly will never fold in his arms again, the form of a tempted
and yielding maiden; never place his lips again to the lips of a
faithless wife, whom he has made false to her marriage vow,—never
press a father's kiss upon the brow of his motherless child. Beverly
also has gone to his account.
"Harry Royalton!" exclaimed Martin Fulmer, and again directed his
eyes toward the door.
Is that his step, the man of the racecourse, the hero of the cock-pit
and faro-bank? No. It was but a breath of air among the window-
curtains. But where, in this hour, of all others, is Harry Royalton of
Hill Royal? It cannot be told. He does not appear.
Martin Fulmer, with something of surprise upon his face, spoke the
fourth name,—
"Herman Barnhurst!"
Herman, the voluptuous, and the fair-cheeked, and eagle-eyed,—the
victim of beautiful Marion Merlin,—the husband of outraged Fanny
Lansdale,—the seducer of poor Alice Burney,—Herman does not
answer the summons.
A wild hope began to gleam in the deep eyes of Martin Fulmer,
—"Four of the seven absent,—why not all?" And he called the fifth
name; the name of one, whom, most of all others, he desired to be
present:—
"Arthur Dermoyne!"
Loud and deep it swelled, but there was no reply. Enthusiast and
mechanic, who, at your work-bench, have laid out plans of social
regeneration,—who, amid the clatter of hammers, and hum of toil,
have heard the words of the four gospels, and thought of wealth
only as the means of putting those words into deeds,—where do you
linger at this hour? Alas, Dermoyne is silent; he does not appear.
The light in Martin's eyes grew brighter, "Five of the Seven, why not
all!"
"Gabriel Godlike!" he pronounced the name, and paused in suspense
for the answer to the summons.
"Here!" cried a voice of thunder, and through the parted curtains,
the imposing form of the statesman emerged into light. His broad
chest was clad in a blue coat with bright metal buttons; a white
cravat made his bronzed face look yet darker; he advanced with a
heavy stride, his great forehead looming boldly in the light, his eyes
deep sunken beneath the brows, glaring like living coals. His cheek
was flushed,—with wine—or with the excitement of the hour?
Ponderous and gloomy and grand, as when he arose to scatter
thunderbolts through the thronged senate,—attired in the same
brown coat which he wore on state occasions,—he came to the
table, assumed a seat opposite Dr. Martin Fulmer, and said in his
deepest bass,—"I am here, and ready for the final settlement of the
Van Huyden estate."
It is no shame to Dr. Fulmer to say, that he had rather confronted
the entire Seven together, than to have to deal with this man alone.
"The estate decreed into those hands, which know neither remorse
or fear?"—he shuddered.
Then he called the seventh name,—
"Israel Yorke!"
No delay this time. With a hop and a spring,—spectacles on nose,
and sharp gray eyes glancing all about him,—the little financier came
through the curtain, and advancing to the table, seated himself
beside Godlike, like Mammon on right of Lucifer.
"And I am here," he said, pulling his whiskers, and then running his
hand over his bald head,—"Here and ready for the final settlement
of the Van Huyden estate."
"And is this all?" ejaculated Martin Fulmer; and once more he called
the names of the Seven. There was no response.

CHAPTER III.

"SAY, BETWEEN US THREE!"

Martin Fulmer uttered a deep sigh, and then gazing upon the
representatives of Satan and of Mammon he said: "Gentlemen, you
know the purpose for which you are here?"
"We do," they said, and each one laid his copy of the will on the
table.
"The first thing in order, is the reading of the Will," said Martin
Fulmer solemnly. And while a dead stillness pervaded, he read the
will; and afterward briefly recounted the circumstances connected
with the death of the testator.
When he had finished, the silence remained for some moments
unbroken. The lights flashed upon the smart concealed visage of the
financier,—the grand Satanic face of the statesman,—the calm face
of Martin Fulmer, with the bold brow, and hair as white as snow; and
as a breath of wind moved the lights, they flashed fitfully over the
coffin, and the iron chest, the cedar pillars, and the marble image.
"There is no son in existence?" asked Israel nervously.
"None," answered Martin in a low voice.
"He did not die in a cause pre-eminent for its sanctity?" asked
Gabriel in a deep voice.
"It cannot be said that he did," answered Martin, as though
questioning his own conscience.
"The disposition of this estate, depends then entirely upon your
integrity, and especially upon your fidelity to your oath?"—the
statesman, as though he knew the chord most sensitive, in the
strong honest nature of Martin Fulmer, watched him keenly, as he
awaited his answer.
Martin bowed his head.
"Under those circumstances, it is clear to you, is it not, that the
estate falls to those of the Seven Heirs, who are now present?"
"If I am faithful to my oath, such will be my disposition of the
estate."
"Faithful to your oath?" echoed Godlike.
"That would be highly immoral," said Israel Yorke.
It was in a slow and measured tone, and with his venerable head,
placed firmly on his shoulders, that Martin Fulmer said,—
"Sir, you know me," to Godlike,—"in the times of the Bank panic, I
met you in the vestibule of the senate, and had some interesting
conversation with you. You know that I would sooner die than break
my word, much less my oath, and of all others, the oath which I took
to Gulian Van Huyden. But may not circumstances arise in which the
breaking of that oath may be a lighter crime, than strict obedience
to it?"
Godlike started—Yorke half rose from his chair.
"Reflect for a moment. Circumstances have arisen, which the
testator could not have ever dreamed of, when he loaded me with
this trust, under the seal of that awful oath. It was doubtless his
wish that his estates, swelled by the accumulation of twenty-one
years, should descend into the hands of his son, who having been
reared in poverty and hardship, would know how to use this wealth
for the good of mankind,—or in the absence of his son, that it
should be dispersed for the good of the race, by the hands of seven
persons, selected from the descendants of the original Van Huyden,
and scattered throughout the Union. Such was doubtless his idea.
But behold how different the result. The son is dead. Only two of the
Seven are here. Shall I, adhering to the letter of the law, to the oath
in its strictest sense, divide this great estate between you two? Or,
fearful of the awful evil which you may work to the world, with this
untold wealth, shall I—in order to avoid this evil,—refuse to divide
the estate, and take upon myself the moral penalty of the broken
oath?"
"That is a question which you must settle with your own
conscience," said Godlike slowly, as he fixed his gaze upon Martin
Fulmer's face.
Was he aware of the one weak point in the strong, bold mind of Dr.
Martin Fulmer? Did he know of Dr. Martin Fulmer's fear and horror of
—the unpardonable sin?
Martin did not reply, but leaned his head upon his hand, and seemed
buried in thought.
"In order to understand my position, reflect,—twenty-one years ago,
the estate was but two millions; behold it now!" He unlocked the
portfolio, and drew forth two half sheets of foolscap, covered with
writing in a delicate but legible hand. "There is a brief statement of
the estate as it stands."
Israel eagerly grasped one half sheet; Godlike took the other. Martin
Fulmer intensely watched their faces as they read.
Rapidly Godlike's eagle eye, perused that index to the untold wealth
of the Van Huyden estate.
"It would purchase the Presidency of the United States!" he
muttered with a heaving chest,—"enthroned upon that pedestal, a
man might call kings his menials, the world his plaything."
"One hundred millions! Astor multiplied by Girard!" ejaculated Israel
Yorke,—"with such a capital, one might buy Rothschild, and keep
him too!"
Glorious and eloquent half sheet of foolscap! Talk of Milton,
Shakspeare, Homer,—your poetry is worth all theirs combined! What
flight of theirs, in their loftiest moods, can match in sublimity, the
simple and majestic march of this swelling line,—
"One hundred millions of dollars!"
"This is a dream," said Godlike,—and for once his voice was
tremulous.
"Enough to set one raving!" cried Israel Yorke.
"And yet, adhering to the strict letter of my oath,—" the voice and
look of Martin Fulmer was sad,—despairing,—"I am bound to divide
this incredible wealth between you two."
"Say, between us three!" cried a new voice, and as Martin Fulmer
raised his head, and the others started in their seats, the speaker
came with a rapid stride from the curtained doorway to the table.
It was Randolph Royalton, the white slave. Folding his arms upon
the breast of his frock coat,—made of dark blue cloth,—which was
buttoned to his throat, he stood beside the table, his face lividly
pale, and his dark hair floating wild and disheveled about his
forehead.
"You!—a negro!"—and Godlike's lip curled in sardonic scorn.
Trembling as with an excitement continued for long hours, Randolph
turned to Martin Fulmer, and said:
"I am the oldest child of John Augustine Royal ton, and his lawful
heir. And I am here! There is the proof that my father was married
to Herodia, my mother,—" he placed a paper in the hands of Martin
Fulmer,—"I am here in the name of my father, to claim my portion of
the Van Huyden estate."
Israel was very restless,—Godlike very gloomy and full of scorn, as
Martin Fulmer attentively perused the document.
"You have a copy of the Will, addressed to your father?" asked the
old man, raising his eyes to Randolph's colorless face.
Randolph drew a parchment from the breast of his coat,—"There is
my father's copy, superscribed with his name."
"I recognize you as the elder son of John Augustine Royalton," said
Dr. Fulmer, very calmly,—"These proofs are all sufficient. Be seated,
sir."
Randolph uttered a wild cry, and pressed his forehead with both
hands.
It was a moment before he recovered his composure. "You said
negro! just now!" he turned to Godlike, his blue eves flashing with
deadly hatred, "learn sir, that had yonder bit of paper failed to
establish my right, that this at least establishes my descent from
—— ——!"
Godlike repeated that great name, in a tone of mingled incredulity
and contempt.
"Ay, he was the father of Herodia,—I am his grandson. There is my
grandfather's handwriting," he placed the paper in the hands of
Martin Fulmer, "Read it, sir, for the information of this statesman. Let
him know that the few drops of negro blood which flow in my veins,
are lost and drowned in the blood of a man whose name is history,—
of —— ——!"
Martin Fulmer read the paper aloud, adding, "You perceive he
speaks the truth. He is the grandson of —— ——."
"Pardon me,—I was hasty," said the statesman, extending his hand.
Randolph did not seem to notice the extended hand, but dropping
into a chair, said, quietly,—"There are three of us now, I believe."
And he regarded the statesman with a look which was full of triumph
and scorn.
Martin Fulmer looked into the faces of the three, and then bent his
head in deep thought,—deep and harrowing thought, extending over
every instant of twenty-one years.
From the portfolio he drew forth two half sheets of paper, covered
with writing in his own hand. One bore the signature of Gabriel
Godlike, the other that of Israel Yorke.
"These papers, embracing an absolute renunciation of all their claims
upon the Van Huyden estate, they signed before the Court of Ten
Millions,—signed, without knowing their contents. Shall I produce
them?"
He hesitated.—"But no! no! I am not clear as to the right of any one
to dispose of his share."
Martin Fulmer, before the bar of his own conscience, was fanatically
just. He might use these papers, but before his own conscience he
dared not.
"I am decided," he exclaimed, despair impressed upon his face,—"I
must fulfill my oath. Gentlemen, I recognize you as the three heirs of
the Van Huyden estate, you having appeared at the appointed hour."
The same electric throb of joy—joy intense to madness,—ran
through the bosoms of the three, but manifested itself in different
ways. The diminutive financier bounded from his chair; Godlike
uttered an oath; Randolph muttered between his teeth, "The negro
is, indeed, then, one of the three."
"I will presently give to each of you a certificate, over my own hand,
stating that you appeared at the appointed hour, and pledging
myself, within a week, to apportion this vast estate among you."
Without taking time to notice the expression of their faces, he
continued,—
"But first, we must open this,"—he pointed to the iron chest,—"and
this,"—to the coffin, around which, as around the iron chest, tall wax
candles were dimly burning. "Whatever these may contain, they
cannot affect nor change my decision. But they must be opened,—so
the will directs."
 CHAPTER IV.

THE LEGATE OF HIS HOLINESS.

As he rose from his seat and advanced toward the iron chest, the
curtain of the doorway was thrust aside, and the light shone upon a
slender form, clad in black, and upon a pallid face, framed in masses
of jet-black hair.
"Gaspar Manuel! at last!" ejaculated Martin Fulmer.
"Pardon me for this intrusion," said Gaspar Manuel, in a tone of quiet
dignity,—"I would have seen you ere this, but unexpected events
prevented me. It is of the last importance that I should converse
with you without delay."
The entrance of the man, whose slender form was clad in a frock-
coat of black cloth, single-breasted, and reaching to the knees,—
whose face, unnaturally pale, was in strong contrast with the
blackness of his moustache and beard, and of the hair, which fell in
wavy masses to his shoulders,—created a singular and marked
impression.
With one impulse, Godlike, Yorke and Randolph rose to their feet.
For the first time, they remarked that the stranger wore on his right
breast a golden cross, and carried in his left hand a casket of dark
wood,—perchance ebony.
"I wish to see you in regard to the lands in California, near the
mission of San Luis," said Gaspar Manuel, his voice, touched with a
foreign accent, yet singularly sweet and emphatic in its intonation.
—"Lands claimed by yourself, on behalf of the Van Huyden estate,
and also by the Order of Jesus. Many acres of these lands are rich in
everything that can bless a climate soft as Italy, but there are one
thousand barren acres which abound in fruit like this."
He placed the casket upon the table, unlocked it, and displayed its
contents.
"Gold!" burst from every lip.
"Those thousand acres contain gold sufficient to change the
destinies of the world," said Gaspar Manuel, calmly, as he fixed his
dazzling eyes upon the face of Godlike.—"The contest for the
possession of this untold wealth lies between the Order of Jesus and
the Van Huyden estate."
"Have not the Mexican Government appointed a Commissioner to
decide upon their respective claims?" As he asked the question, Dr.
Martin Fulmer, (who, as Ezekiel Bogart, had seen Gaspar Manuel
dressed as a man of the world) gazed in surprise upon that costume
which indicated the Jesuit. There was suspicion as well as surprise in
his gaze.
"That Commissioner is one of the rulers of the Jesuits,—an especial
Legate of the Roman Pope," continued Martin, surveying Gaspar
Manuel with a look of deepening suspicion. "His name is——"
"Never mind his name," interrupted Gaspar Manuel,—"Let it satisfy
you that I am a Jesuit, perchance one of the rulers of that Order.
And I am the Legate of whom you speak."
"You!" echoed Martin Fulmer, and his ejaculation was repeated by
the others.
"I am that Commissioner," replied Gaspar Manuel, "and my decision
has been made. Allow me a few moments for reflection, and I will
make it known to you. While you converse with those gentlemen, I
will warm myself at yonder fire, for the climate is hard to bear, after
the bland atmosphere of Havana."
With a wave of the hand and a slight inclination of the head, he
retired from the table and bent his steps toward the fire-place.
Seating himself in an arm-chair, he now gazed into the flame with
his flashing eyes, and now,—over his shoulder,—surveyed the
banquet-hall. Then taking tablets and pencil from a side-pocket, he
seemed absorbed in the mazes of a profound arithmetical
calculation; but every now and then he raised his eyes, and with
that dazzling glance, took in every detail of the banquet-hall.
Meanwhile, the group around the table had not yet recovered from
the impression, produced by his presence.
"A singular man,—eh?" quoth Yorke.
"A man of rank. I think I have seen his face in Washington City,"
remarked Godlike.
"A dignitary of the Catholic Church," exclaimed Randolph.—"A man
of no common order."
As for Martin Fulmer, glancing by turns at the box, filled with golden
ore, and at the form of the Legate, who was seated quietly by the
fire-place, he said, with a sigh,—"More gold, more wealth!" and
thought of Carl Raphael, the son of Gulian Van Huyden.
"Let us open the iron chest," he said, and placed the key in the lock,
while Randolph, Godlike and Yorke, gathered round, in mute
suspense.
But ere the key turned in the lock, a new interruption took place.
The aged servant, Michael, entered, and placed a slip of paper, on
which a single line was written, in the hands of Martin Fulmer. The
old man read it at a glance, and at once his face glowed, his eyes
shone with new light.
"The person who wrote this, Michael,—where—where is he?" he
said, in a tremulous voice.
"In the reception-room," answered Michael.
"Show him here,—at once,—at once,—quick, I say!" and he seized
Michael by the arm, and pointed to the door, his face displaying
every sign of irrepressible agitation. Michael hurried from the room.
"Let us all thank God, for He has not failed us!" cried Martin Fulmer,
spreading forth his hands, as he walked wildly to and fro.—"The son
of Gulian Van Huyden is not dead!"
A thunderbolt crushing through the ceiling, would not have created
half the consternation caused by these words.
They dashed the hopes of Randolph, Godlike and Yorke to the dust.
"Not dead!" they echoed, in a breath.
"He is not dead. He is living, and in this house. In a moment he will
be here,—here, to claim his father's estate."
And in the wildness of his joy, Martin Fulmer hurried to and fro, now
wringing his hands, now spreading them forth in thankfulness to
heaven.
"I knew," said the old man, standing erect, the light shining full upon
his white hairs, "I knew that Providence would not desert me!"

CHAPTER V.
THE SON AT LAST.

The curtain moved again, and two persons came slowly into the
room; a man whose wounded arm was carried in a sling and whose
livid face was marked by recent wounds,—a boy, whose graceful
form was enveloped in a closely fitting frock-coat, while his young
face was shaded by locks of glossy hair.
"Martin Fulmer! behold the lost child of Gulian Van Huyden!" cried
Colonel Tarleton, urging the boy forward.
At sight of Tarleton, Martin Fulmer felt his whole being contract with
loathing, but rushing forward, he seized the boy by the arms, and
looked earnestly into his face,—a face touching in its expression,
with clear, deep eyes, that now seemed blue, now gray, and round
outlines, and framed in locks of flowing hair, of the richest chestnut
brown.
"This,—this, is not Carl Raphael!" ejaculated Martin Fulmer, turning
fiercely upon Tarleton,—
A smile crossed the bloodless lips of Tarleton.
"Not Carl Raphael, but still the son of Gulian. A word will explain all.
On the last night of her life, Alice Van Huyden gave birth to two
children: they were born within a half hour of each other. One was
taken from her bed, and borne away by her husband. The other I
bore to my home, educated as my own, and now he stands before
you, the lawful heir of his father's estate. Look at his face, and, if
you can, say that he is not Gulian's son."
This revelation was listened to with the most intense interest by
Randolph, Godlike, Yorke,—and Gaspar Manuel, attracted from the
fire-place by the sound of voices, looked over their shoulders at the
singular group,—the boy, with Tarleton on one hand, and Martin
Fulmer on the other.
Long and intently Martin Fulmer perused that youthful countenance,
which, with downcast eyes, seemed to avoid his gaze.
"Carl Raphael Van Huyden is lost," exclaimed Martin Fulmer, "but the
face, the look of Gulian Van Huyden lives again in this boy.
Gentlemen, behold the son of Gulian Van Huyden, the heir to his
estate!"
He urged the shrinking boy toward the light.
"I will not," cried the boy, raising his head and surveying the group
with flashing eyes,—"I will not submit to be made an accomplice in
this imposture—"
"Child!" said Tarleton, sternly.
"Nay, you shall not force me to it. Hear me one and all," and he tore
open his coat and vest, and laid bare his breast, "I am the child of
Gulian Van Huyden, but not his son."
It was a woman's bosom which the open vest bared to the light.
A dead stillness followed this revelation.
And the center of the group stood the beautiful girl in her male
attire, her bosom heaving in the light, while her eyes flashed
through their tears.
"I will not submit to be made the accomplice of this man's schemes,"
she pointed to Tarleton,—"As the daughter of Gulian Van Huyden, I
cannot inherit my father's estate."
At this point, Gaspar Manuel stepped forward,—"Yes you can, my
child," he said, and drew the disguised girl to his breast, "it is your
father himself who tells you so, daughter." And he kissed her on the
forehead, while his dark hair hid her face.
Then as he held her in his arms, he raised his face, and with one
hand, swept back the dark hair from his brow,—"Martin Fulmer, don't
you remember me?" and then to Colonel Tarleton,—"and you,
brother, you certainly don't forget me?"
That scene cannot be painted in words.
"Gulian!" was all that Tarleton or Charles Van Huyden could say, as
he shrank back appalled and blasted before his brother's smile.
As for Martin Fulmer, after one eager and intense look, he felt his
knees bend beneath him, and his head droop on his breast, as he
uttered his soul in the words,—"It is Gulian come back to life again."

CHAPTER VI.

A LONG ACCOUNT SETTLED.

Back from his brother's gaze, step by step, shrank Tarleton or

Charles Van Huyden, his eyes still chained to that face, which the
grave seemed to have yielded up, to blast his schemes in the very
moment of their triumph.
His own child dead,—the stain of Carl Raphael's blood upon his soul,
—he felt like a man who stands amid the ruins of a falling house,
when the last prop gives way.
With a cry that was scarcely human, in its awful anguish, he turned
and fled. Fled from the banquet-room, and through the adjoining
chamber, into the darkness of the corridor. His mind, strained to its
utmost tension by the perpetual excitement of the last twenty-four
hours, gave way all at once, like a bow that, drawn to its full power,
suddenly snaps, even as a withered reed. All was dark around him
as he rushed along the corridor, but that darkness was made
luminous by his soul. It was peopled with faces, that seemed to be
encircled by lurid light. The worst agony that can befall a mortal
man fell upon him. Nerves disordered, brain unstrung, his very
thoughts became living things, and chased him through the
darkness. The face of Evelyn Somers was before him, gazing upon
him with fixed eyeballs. And his steps were suddenly checked, by an
agonized countenance, which was sinking in wintery waves, that
seemed to roll about his very feet. He was touched on the shoulder,
—his dead daughter ran beside him in her shroud, linking her arm in
his, and bending forward her face, which looked up into his own,
with lips that had no blood in them, and eyes that had no life. And if
the darkness was full of faces, the air was full of voices; voices
whispering, shouting, yelling, all through each other, and yet, every
voice distinctly heard,—all the voices that he had heard in his
lifetime were speaking to him now. Well might he have exclaimed in
the words of Cain,—"My punishment is greater than I can bear."
If he could have only rid himself of Frank, who ran by his side, in her
shroud! But no,—there she was,—her arm in his,—her face bent
forward looking up into his own, with lips that had no blood, and
eyes that had no life.
He talked to those phantoms,—he bade them back,—he rushed on,
through the corridor, and ascended the dark stairs with horrid
shrieks. And the face of Carl Raphael, struggling in the waves, went
before him at every step.
He readied at length the narrow garret, in which years agone, Gulian
Van Huyden bid Martin Fulmer, farewell. Here, as he heard the storm
beat against the window panes, he for a moment recovered his
shattered senses.
"I'm nervous," he cried, "if I had been drinking, I would think I had
the mania. Let me recover myself. Where in the deuce am I?"
A heavy step was heard on the stairway, and a form plunged into
the room, bearing Tarleton against the wall. It was no phantom, but
the form of a stalwart man.
"Halloo! Who are you?" cried a hoarse voice,—it was the voice of
Ninety-One, and as he spoke, shouts came up the narrow stairway
from the passage below. "You set here to trap me,—speak?"
And the hand of Ninety-One, clutched the throat of Tarleton with an
iron grip.
"This way,—this way," cried a voice, and a gleam of light shooting up
the stairs, through the narrow doorway, fell upon the livid face of
Tarleton.
"O, we have met at last? Do you hear them shouts? Blossom follered
by the poleese are in the house, and on my track, for the murder of
young Somers. In a second they'll be here. Now I've got you, and
we'll settle that long account,—we will by G—d!"
"You are choking me,—A-h!" gasped Tarleton, as he was dragged
toward the window. The shouts from below grew more distinct, and
once more the light flashed up the stairs.
"Carl Raphael died by drownin' and that's very like chokin',"
whispered Ninety-One, as he bent his face near to the struggling
wretch. "I've no way of escape,—even old Fulmer can't save me.
And so we'll settle that long account."
"You are choking me,—do not,—do not—"
"You know all the items, so there's no use o' dwellin' on 'em," the
hoarse voice of Ninety-One was heard above the pelting of the
storm, "but the murder of that 'ar boy makes the docket full. Here
goes—"
Dragging Tarleton to the window, he struck the sash, with one hand,
and then kicked against it with all his strength. It yielded with a
crash, and the snow and sleet rushes through the aperture in a
blast.
"Spare me! Mercy! O do not—"
Ninety-One crept through the narrow aperture, out upon the roof,
and dragged Tarleton after him. Then there were two forms standing
erect for a moment, in the gloom, and then the blast bore away the
sound of voices, and a howl that was heard, far and long, through
the night.
"This way! We've caught the old fox," said a well known voice, and
the red face of Blossom, adorned with carbuncles, appeared in the
doorway, while the lantern which he held, filled the garret with light.
"This way," he sprang through the doorway, and followed by half a
dozen men in thick coats, and with maces in their hands, he ran
toward the window, "he's out upon the roof."
He held the lantern over his head, and looked without, while the
snow and sleet beat in his face. From the garret-window the roof fell
with a sudden slope, for the space of two yards, and there it ended.
By the lantern light, he saw some rude traces of footsteps in the
snow, and the print of a hand. A glance was sufficient. When he
turned to confront his comrades, his red face was white as a sheet—
"By G—d the old convic' has gone an' jumped from the roof,—four
storys high—as I'm a sinner!"

CHAPTER VII.

IN THE BANQUET-ROOM ONCE MORE.

Meanwhile in the banquet-room, the Legate of the Pope, with the
form of his daughter, in her male attire, nestling on his breast, raised
his head, and surveyed the faces of the spectators, who had not yet
recovered from their surprise. His face pale and worn, as with years
of consuming thought, his eyes bright as with the fire of a soul never
at rest, held every gaze enchained as he spoke,—
"Rise Martin Fulmer!" he extended his hand to the kneeling man,
"rise, and let me look upon the face of—an honest man."
As though disturbed in the midst of a dream, Martin Fulmer rose, his
head with his snow-white hair and protuberant brow, presenting a
strong contrast to the pallid face, dark hair and beard of the Legate.
"Look upon me, Martin Fulmer, and steadily. Do you recognize me."
"Gulian Van Huyden!" ejaculated the old man.
The Legate surveyed Randolph, Godlike, Yorke, who formed a group
behind the Doctor, while in the background, the lights burned faintly
around the iron chest and coffin. Even as the Legate looked around,
Randolph turned aside, and leaning against frame of yonder window,
pushed the curtains aside, and looked forth upon the cold, dark
night. Not so cold and dark as his own bitter fate! Well was it for
him, that his face was turned from the light! That face, terribly
distorted, now revealed the hell which was raging in his breast. His
soul stained with crime, his last hope blotted out, whither should he
turn? Grandson of —— —— it had been better for you, had you
never been born!
After his silent survey, the Legate spoke:
"Another place and another hour, will be needed, to repeat the full
details of my life, since twenty-one years ago, I left this house,—to
die," in an attitude of calm dignity, and with a voice and look, that
held every soul, the Legate spoke these words,—"I was rescued
from the waves, by a boat that chanced to be passing from the
shore to a ship in the bay. Upon that ship, I again unclosed my eyes
to life, and watched through the cabin windows, the last glimpse of
the American shore, growing faint and fainter over the waves. Thus
called back to life,—my name in my native land, only known as the
name of the Suicide, my estates in the hands of Martin Fulmer, left
to the chances or the providence of twenty-one years,—I resolved to
live. The ship (the captain and crew were foreigners,) bore me to an
Italian port. I sold the jewels which were about my person when I
plunged into the river, and found myself in possession of a
competence. Then, in search of peace, anxious to drown the past,
and still every emotion of other days, by a life of self-denial, I went
to Rome, I entered the Propaganda. In the course of time I became
a priest, and then,——well! twenty-one years passed in the service
of the church have left me as I am. Your hand, brave Martin Fulmer!
Think not that your course has been unknown to me! You have been
watched,—your every step marked,—your very thoughts recorded,—
and now it is the Legate of the Pope, who takes you by the hand,
and calls you by a title, which it is beyond the power of Pope or King
to create,—an honest man! Twenty times I have been near you in
the course of twenty-one years,—once in Paris, when you were there
on business of the estate,—once in Mexico,—once in China,—once
on the Ocean,—once in Rome! How my heart yearned to disclose
myself to you! But I left you go your way, and now at the end of
twenty-one years, we stand face to face. And thou, my child,—" he
gazed tenderly into the face of the girl, whose eyes were upraised to
meet his own,—"my beautiful! my own! Think not that the garment
of the priest, chills the heart of the father!"
"Father!" she whispered, putting her hands upon his shoulder,—"how
my heart yearned to you, when I first met you, in the dark streets,—
when friendless and homeless, I was flying to the river, as my only
friend!"
It was a touching picture,—the priest, who for twenty-one years,
had never permitted his heart to throb with one pulse that would
remind him of the word "Home," and the daughter, who, educated to
serve the dark purposes of Tarleton, had never before felt her heart
bound at the sight of her Father's face.
Martin Fulmer's face grew sad,—
"Do you regret my return?" said the Legate with a smile.
"I was thinking," said Martin, and his soul was in his eyes as he
spoke,—"I was thinking of—Rome!"
Godlike stepped forward, with a smile on his somber visage,
—"Rome!" he echoed,—"of course, now that the dead has returned
to life, the heirs need not think of dividing the estate. And you as
priest of the Roman Church, as one of her lords, can think of but
one disposition of your immense property It will go to the church,—
to Rome!"
"To Rome!" echoed Israel Yorke. Randolph, with his face from the
light, did not seem to hear a word that was spoken. And Martin
Fulmer, with his finger on his lips, awaited in evident suspense, the
answer of the Legate.
"To Rome!" echoed the Legate and disengaging himself from the
arms of his daughter, he stood erect. His entire face changed. His
nostrils quivered, his lips curled, there was a glow on his pale cheek,
and an intenser fire in his eyes. He passed his hand over his
forehead, and brushing back his dark hair, stood for a moment,
motionless as a statue, his eyes fixed, as though he saw passing
before his soul, a panorama of the future.
"Within that brutal Rome which plants its power upon human skulls,
there is a higher, mightier Rome! Within that order which uses and
profanes the name of Jesus, as the instrument of its frauds, there is
a higher, mightier Order of Jesus! I see this mightier church,—I see
this mightier Order moving onward, through the paths of the future,
combating the false Rome, and trampling under foot the false Order
of Jesus! Yes, in the future, I see armed for the last battle, those
friends of humanity, who have sworn to use the Roman Church as
the instrument of Human Progress, or to drive forward the
movement over her ruins."
The effect of these words, coupled with the look and the attitude of
the Legate, was electric. They were followed by a dead stillness. The
spectators gazed into each other's faces, but no one ventured to
break the silence.
The silence was interrupted, however, by a strange voice,—
"Lor bress you, massa, de nigga hab arribe!" It was Old Royal, who
emerged from the curtains, with a broad grin on his black face,
—"You know dis nigga war on de ribber in a boat, fetchin ober from
Jarsey shore, a brack gemman who didn' like to trabel by de ferry
boat—yah—whah! Well de nigga did it,—"
He advanced a step,—passed his hand through his white wool,—
surveyed his giant-like form clad in sleek broadcloth,—showed his
white teeth, and continued, with an accent and a gesticulation that
words cannot describe—
"Well, as we come across,—lor-a-massy how de storm did storm,
and de snow did snow! As we come across, dis nigga cotched by de
har ob his head, a young white gemman, who war a-drownin'. An'
dis same young white gemman, Massa Fulmer,—" he pointed over
his shoulder, "am out dar!"
"What mean you, Royal?" cried Martin Fulmer, and he shook with the
conflict of hope and suspense,—"whom did you rescue?"
"Dar's de white pusson," said Old Royal.
Leaning on the arm of Mary Berman, whose face was rosy with joy,
whose bonnet had fallen on her neck, while her hair, glittering with
snow-drops, strayed over her shoulders,—leaning on the arm of his
wife, Nameless, or Carl Raphael, came through the doorway, and
advanced toward the group.
He was clad in black, which threw his pale face, shaded by brown
hair, boldly into view. His eyes were clear and brilliant; his lip firm.
As he advanced, every eye remarked the resemblance between him
and the Legate; and also between him, and the disguised girl, who
stood by the Legate's side.
"Rescued from death by the hands of this good friend,—" his voice
was clear and bold, "I returned home, and found the note which
you,—" he looked at Martin Fulmer, "caused to be left there. And in
obedience to the request contained in that note, I am here."
At first completely thunderstruck, the venerable man had not power
to frame a word.
"Fatality!" he cried at last, "but a blessed fatality! I knew that
Providence would not desert us! Come to my heart, my child! Carl,
—" trembling with emotion, he took Nameless by the hand, "Carl,
behold your father, who, after a lapse of twenty-one years, has
appeared among us, like one risen from the grave! Behold your
sister, born like you, in your mother's death-agony,—separated from
you for twenty-one years,—she now rejoins you, in presence of your
father!"
It was now the turn of Nameless to stand spell-bound and
thunderstruck. He stood like one in a dream, until the voices of the
Legate and the young girl broke on his ear, voices so like his own.
"My son!"
"Brother!"
He was gathered to the Legate's breast, who kissed him on the
brow, and surveying every line of his face, felt his bosom swell with
pride as he called him, "my son!" Then his sister's arms were upon
his neck, and Nameless, as he saw her face, so touching, in its quiet
loveliness, felt his heart swell with a rapture, never felt before, as he
found himself encircled in that atmosphere which is most like
heaven,—the atmosphere of a sister's love.
"Listen to me, my son," said the Legate, as he took Nameless by the
hand, and his eyes lit up with a new fire, while in abrupt and broken
sentences, he poured forth the story of his life. His tone was
impassioned, his words electric. Carl Raphael listened, while the
emotions of his soul, were written in his changing features.
"And now, my son," concluded the Legate, as he put his arm about
the neck of Nameless, "twenty-one years are gone, and I appear
again. The estate, from two millions, has swelled into one hundred