What an inexpressible feeling of terror smote her breast, when she passed the grave of the murdered man!—Her limbs trembled so violently that it is surprising how she was enabled to support herself, and she mentally offered up an involuntary prayer for the repose of his soul, and that his barbarous assassins might be brought to punishment for their inhuman violation of the laws. It was a second or two before she ventured to quit the place, but having listened at the door, which the ruffians had closed after them, and hearing no other sounds than those caused by the fury of the storm, she ventured to open it and look forth. The scene was awful enough, as a pitchy darkness obscured all around, save when, at intervals, the flashes of lightning succeeded the deafening thunder-peals. The rain also descended rapidly, and all around presented a scene of the most appalling horror. But, awful as it was, to Inez it presented not half the terrors of the old outhouse, which now contained the mangled remains of the poor old man, whom the monsters had buried. Inez, trembling in every limb, left the place where she had witnessed such horrors, and with difficulty made her way in what she judged to be the direction of her father’s house. This she would never have had strength to reach, had she not fortunately met with a party of her father’s herdsmen, who had been sent out in quest of her. She was soon after joined by her father, and being placed on a horse, arrived safely at home, suffering greatly, however, in both body and mind from the anguish she had experienced, and the terrible scenes that had been enacted before her young eyes. Leaving the maiden safely in the abode of her parent, we will now return to Monteagle. Day after day, he had called at the Post Office, but the same brief response ever met his inquiries,—‘None, sir.’ Disappointment was working a sad change in his appearances, and his broken fortunes were growing hourly more desperate. As he was one day leaving the Post Office, and strolling down Clay street, he overheard a person addressing another, thus: ‘Jake, you needn’t go to the Post Office, up here, any more for letters. A couple of cartloads have just been found down under Long Wharf; which it seems, the Postmaster uses as a place of general delivery.’ Monteagle stayed to hear no more, but hastened to the place indicated.—A great crowd was assembled, every member of which was justly indignant at this infamous betrayal of trust in the Post Office officials, and while some talked of carrying their complaints to Washington; others suggested the rather less mild but somewhat more effective action of tying the Postmaster up in one of his mail bags, and dumping him where he had deposited their letters—in the Bay.