It is not pleasant to go down, step after step, to the dark dungeon of vice.  We will not follow Walter to the revel, nor the gaming-table.  We will close our ears to the blasphemous oaths of his companions, to the imprecations on his own lips.  The career of folly and of sin was destined to be closed; and rather would we draw a veil over its every scene.  Step by step, he trod the path of sin, until at last, urged by worldly and false friends to a quarrel, commenced on the slightest grounds, he challenged one who had really never offended him; the challenge was accepted, and then—­Walter Lee was a murderer!  He gazed upon the youthful, noble countenance; he felt again and again the quiet pulse, weeping when he saw the useless efforts to bring back life.

He was a murderer, in the sight of God and man! for he had been taught that He who gave life, alone had the power to take it away.  He knew that God would require of him his brother’s blood.  He knew, too, that though the false code of honor in society would acquit him, yet he would be branded, even as Cain.  He could see the finger of scorn pointed towards him; he could hear men, good men, say, “There is Walter Lee, who killed a man in a duel!”

Ah!  Cousin Janet, not in vain were your earnest teachings.  Not in vain had you sung by his pillow, in boyhood, of Jesus, who loved all, even his enemies.  Not in vain had you planted the good seed in the ground, and watered it.  Not in vain are you now kneeling by your bedside, imploring God not to forsake forever the child of your prayers.  Go to your rest in peace, for God will yet bring him home, after all his wanderings; for Walter Lee, far away, is waking and restless; oppressed with horror at his crime, flying from law and justice, flying from the terrors of a burdened conscience—­he is a murderer!

Like Cain, he is a wanderer.  He gazes into the depths of the dark sea he is crossing; but there is no answering abyss in his heart, where he can lose the memory of his deed.  He cannot count the wretched nights of watching, and of thought.  Time brings no relief, change no solace.  When the soul in its flight to eternity turns away from God, how droop her wings!  She has no star to guide her upward course; but she wanders through a strange land, where all is darkness and grief.

He traversed many a beautiful country; he witnessed scenes of grandeur; he stood before the works of genius and of art; he listened to music, sweet like angels’ songs; but has he peace?  Young reader, there is no peace without God.  Now in this world, there is many a brow bending beneath the weight of its flowers.  Could we trace the stories written on many hearts, how would they tell of sorrow!  How many would say, in the crowded and noisy revel, “I have come here to forget; but memory will never die!”

CHAPTER XXIII.