Emmeline turned away, and hid her face in her hands.

While this conversation was passing in the chamber, Legree, overcome with his carouse, had sunk to sleep in the room below.  Legree was not an habitual drunkard.  His coarse, strong nature craved, and could endure, a continual stimulation, that would have utterly wrecked and crazed a finer one.  But a deep, underlying spirit of cautiousness prevented his often yielding to appetite in such measure as to lose control of himself.

This night, however, in his feverish efforts to banish from his mind those fearful elements of woe and remorse which woke within him, he had indulged more than common; so that, when he had discharged his sable attendants, he fell heavily on a settle in the room, and was sound asleep.

O! how dares the bad soul to enter the shadowy world of sleep?—­that land whose dim outlines lie so fearfully near to the mystic scene of retribution!  Legree dreamed.  In his heavy and feverish sleep, a veiled form stood beside him, and laid a cold, soft hand upon him.  He thought he knew who it was; and shuddered, with creeping horror, though the face was veiled.  Then he thought he felt that hair twining round his fingers; and then, that it slid smoothly round his neck, and tightened and tightened, and he could not draw his breath; and then he thought voices whispered to him,—­whispers that chilled him with horror.  Then it seemed to him he was on the edge of a frightful abyss, holding on and struggling in mortal fear, while dark hands stretched up, and were pulling him over; and Cassy came behind him laughing, and pushed him.  And then rose up that solemn veiled figure, and drew aside the veil.  It was his mother; and she turned away from him, and he fell down, down, down, amid a confused noise of shrieks, and groans, and shouts of demon laughter,—­and Legree awoke.

Calmly the rosy hue of dawn was stealing into the room.  The morning star stood, with its solemn, holy eye of light, looking down on the man of sin, from out the brightening sky.  O, with what freshness, what solemnity and beauty, is each new day born; as if to say to insensate man, “Behold! thou hast one more chance! Strive for immortal glory!” There is no speech nor language where this voice is not heard; but the bold, bad man heard it not.  He woke with an oath and a curse.  What to him was the gold and purple, the daily miracle of morning!  What to him the sanctity of the star which the Son of God has hallowed as his own emblem?  Brute-like, he saw without perceiving; and, stumbling forward, poured out a tumbler of brandy, and drank half of it.

“I’ve had a h—­l of a night!” he said to Cassy, who just then entered from an opposite door.

“You’ll get plenty of the same sort, by and by,” said she, dryly.

“What do you mean, you minx?”

“You’ll find out, one of these days,” returned Cassy, in the same tone.  “Now Simon, I’ve one piece of advice to give you.”