The second offender burrowed so remotely that the mob could not drag him from his covert. They struck at him with knives, and hired dogs to creep beneath the logs and rend him, but in vain. At length one of the ringleaders obtained a torch, and the cabin was fired in several places. The flames spouted into the night, bursting from the small windows, and the roof fell in with a crash, scattering ashes and red-hot coals. They could hear the shriek of the victim now, and he was seen dancing among the fire-brands, for the blaze encircled him like an impassable wall. He made a desperate rush at length to overleap the fire, and his figure, magnified by the red light, looked gigantic as he sprang high in the air. A dozen pistols clattered together--the man fell heavily forward, tossing up his scorched hands, and the frizzing, cracking timbers closed darkly above him to the thunder of his executioners' huzzas. Paul did not reveal himself. He left the village stealthily, and journeyed northward. Years afterwards a name was added to the tablet in the old church: "Here lie also the Remains of the REV. PAUL BATES. 'He went about doing good.'" THE JUDGE'S LAST TUNE. The Judge took down his fiddle, And put his feet on the stove, And heaved a sigh from his middle That might have been fat, or love; He leaned his head on the mantel, And bent his ear to the strings, And the tender chords awakened The echoes of many things. The Bar had enjoyed the measure, The Bench and Senate had been Amused at the simple pleasure He drew from his violin; But weary of power and duty, He had laid them down with a sigh, Exhausted of life the beauty, And he fiddled he knew not why. In the days when passion budded, And she in the churchyard lain Came over his books as he studied With an exquisite pang of pain, He played to his sons their mother's Old favorites ere she wed; Those tunes, like hundreds of others, Were requiems of the dead. They lay in the kirk's inclosure: All three, in the shadows dim, In a cenotaph's cynosure That waited for only him, Who sat with his fiddle tuning On the spot where his fame was won, On the empty world communing, Without a wife or a son. And he drew his bow so plaintive And loud, like a human cry, That the light of the shutter darkened From somebody passing by. A young man peeped at the pensive Great man, so familiar known; His features, if inoffensive, Were like to the judge's own. "Come in," cried the politician-- "Come not," his soul would have said-- "Thou bringest to me a vision Of a sin ere thy mother wed, When I, wild boy from college, Her humble desert o'ercame, And we hid the guilty knowledge Beneath thy father's name."