“‘Marse Rooster!’ Will you ever give up that horrid nonsense.  Why, you old—!  Is my brother—­is your master a barn-door chicken-cock, that you call him ‘Rooster?’” asked the young man, snappishly.

“Well, Shrooster, den, ef you wants me to wring my tongue in two.  Ef people’s sponsors in baptism will gib der chillun such heathen names, how de debbil any Christian ‘oman gwine to twis’ her tongue roun’ it?  I thanks my ’Vine Marster dat my sponsors in baptism named me arter de bressed an’ holy S’int Jane—­who has ‘stained an’ s’ported me all my days; an’ ’ill detect now, dough you do try to break my poor ole heart long wid onkindness at my ole ages o’ life!  But what’s de use o’ talkin’—­Sam’s waystin’!” And so saying, Jenny gave the finishing touches to the arrangement of the table, and then seized the bell, and rang it with rather needless vigor and violence, to bring the scattered members of the family together.

They came, slowly and singly, and drew around the table more like ghosts than living persons, a few remarks upon the storm, and then they sunk into silence—­and as soon as the gloomy meal was over, one by one they dropped away from the room—­first went poor Fanny, then Mr. Willcoxen, then Miriam.

“Where are you going, Miriam?” asked Paul, as the latter was leaving the room.

“To my chamber.”

And before he could farther question, or longer detain her, she pressed his hand and went out.  And Paul, with a deep sigh and a strangely foreboding heart, sank back into his seat.

When Miriam reached her bedroom, she carefully closed and locked the door, went to her bureau, opened the top-drawer, and took from it a small oblong mahogany glove-box.  She unlocked the latter, and took out a small parcel, which she unwrapped and laid before her upon the bureau.

It was the xyphias poniard.

The weapon had come into her possession some time before in the following manner:  During the first winter of Paul Douglass’ absence from home, Mr. Willcoxen had emancipated several of his slaves and provided means for their emigration to Liberia.  They were to sail early in March.  Among the number was Melchisedek.  A few days previous to their departure, this man had come to the house, and sought the presence of his youthful mistress, when he knew her to be alone in the parlor, and with a good deal of mystery and hesitation had laid before her a dagger which he said he should rather have given to “Marster Paul,” if the latter had been at home.  He had picked it up near the water’s edge on the sands the night of Miss Mayfield’s death, which “Marster” had taken so to heart, that he was afraid to harrow up his feelings by bringing it to him a second time—­but that as it was an article of value, he did not like to take it away with him.  And he begged Miss Miriam to take charge of it.  And Miriam had taken it, and with surprise, but without the slightest suspicion, had read the name of “Thurston Willcoxen” carved upon its handle.  To all her questions, Melchisedek had given evasive answers, or remained obstinately silent, being determined not to betray his master’s confidence by revealing his share in the events of that fatal night.  Miriam had taken the little instrument, wrapped it carefully in paper, and locked it in her old-fashioned long glove-box.  And from that day to this she had not opened it.