“And Edward Hansford! tell me what became of him?” “With the most diligent search I could hear nothing of him for years. At length I learned that he had come to Virginia, married a young lady of some fortune and family, and had at last been killed in a skirmish with the Indians, leaving an only son, an infant in arms, the only remaining comfort of his widowed mother.” “And that son,” cried Bernard, the perspiration bursting from his brow in the agony of the moment. “Is Thomas Hansford, who, I fear, this day meets his fate by a brother's and a rival's hand.” “I demand your proof,” almost shrieked the agitated fratricide. “The name first excited my suspicion,” returned Hutchinson, “and made me warn you from crossing his path, when I saw you the night of the ball at Jamestown. But confirmation was not wanting, for when this morning I visited his cell to administer the last consolations of religion to him, I saw him gazing upon the features in miniature of that very Edward, who was the author of Mary Howard's wrongs.” With a wild spring, Alfred Bernard bounded through the door, and as he rushed into the street, he heard the melancholy voice of the preacher, as he cried, “Too late, too late.” Regardless of that cry, the miserable fratricide rushed madly along the path which led to the place of execution, where the Governor and his staff in accordance with the custom of the times had assembled to witness the death of a traitor. The slow procession with the rude sledge on which the condemned man was dragged, was still seen in the distance, and the deep hollow sound of the muffled drum, told him too plainly that the brief space of time which remained, was drawing rapidly to a close. On, on, he sped, pushing aside the surprised populace who were themselves hastening to the gallows, to indulge the morbid passion to see the death and sufferings of a fellow man. The road seemed lengthening as he went, but urged forward by desperation, regardless of fatigue, he still ran swiftly toward the spot. He came to an angle of the road, where for a moment he lost sight of the gloomy spectacle, and in that moment he suffered the pangs of unutterable woe. Still the muffled drum, in its solemn tones assured him that there was yet a chance. But as he strained his eyes once more towards the fatal spot, the sound of merry music and the wild shouts of the populace fell like horrid mockery on his ear, for it announced that all was over. “Too late, too late,” he shrieked, in horror, as he fell prostrate and lifeless on the ground. And above that dense crowd, unheeding the wild shout of gratified vengeance that went up to heaven in that fearful moment, the soul of the generous and patriotic Hansford soared gladly on high with the spirits of the just, in the full enjoyment of perfect freedom. <tb>