Too much agitated by the scene which had just passed, Gerald, although following the example of his companion in stretching himself before the cheerful fire, was in no condition to enjoy repose. Indeed, whatever his inclination, the attempt would have been vain, for so dreadful were the denunciations of Desborough throughout the night, that sleep had no room to enter even into his thoughts. Deep and appalling were the curses and threats of vengeance which the enraged settler uttered upon all who bore the name of Grantham; and with these were mingled lamentations for his son, scarcely less revolting in their import than the curses themselves. Nor was the turbulence of the enraged man confined to mere excitement of language. His large and muscular form struggled in every direction to free himself from the cords that secured him to the logs, and finding these too firmly bound to admit of the accomplishment of his end, he kicked his brawny feet against the floor with all the fury and impatience of a spirit, quickened into a livelier sense of restraint by the stimulus of intoxication. At length, exhausted by the efforts he had made, his struggles and his imprecations became gradually less frequent and less vigorous, until finally towards dawn they ceased altogether, and his deep and heavy breathing announced that he slept. Accustomed to rise with the dawn, the Aide-de-camp was not long after its appearance in shaking off the slumber in which he had so profoundly indulged. The first object that met his eye as he raised himself up in a sitting posture from his rude bed, was Gerald stooping over the sleeping Desborough, one hand resting upon his chest, the other holding the knife already alluded to, while every feature of his face was kindled into loathing and abhorrence of his prostrate and sleeping enemy. Startled by the expression he read there, and with the occurrences of the last night rushing forcibly upon his memory, the Aide-de-camp called quickly out: "Hold, Liftenant Grantham. Well, as I'm a true Tennessee man, bred and born, may I be most especially d----d, if I'd a thought you'd do so foul a deed. What! assassinate a sleeping drunken man?" "Assassinate, Captain Jackson?" repeated Gerald, raising himself to his full height, while a crimson flush of indignation succeeded to the deadly paleness which had overspread his cheek. "Yes--assassinate!" returned the Aide-de-camp, fixing his eye upon that of his prisoner, yet without perceiving that it quailed under his penetrating glance; "It's an ugly word, I reckon, for you to hear, as it is for me to speak, but your quarrel last night--your fix just now--that knife--Liftenant Grantham," and he pointed to the blade which still remained in the hands of the accused--"surely these things speak for themselves; and though the fellow has swallowed off all my Wabash, and be d----d to him, still I shouldn't like to see him murdered in that sort of way."