"Take your weapon, Gilbert," said Mortimer, placing the carbine in Margrave's hand. "Augustus Horton is my cousin--you are my friend. I dare not pray for the safety of either, at the cost of the other's death. The moonlit heavens are shining down upon us, and the eye of Providence watches the struggle. Farewell!" They clasped each other's hands once more in silence. Then Gilbert Margrave dashed forward through the brushwood, and disappeared in the dell below. Mortimer Percy paced up and down the dewy turf, listening for the report of their guns. "What is this?" he exclaimed as he laid his hand upon his beating heart. "For which of these two men do I tremble? This, then, is America, of whose freedom her citizens so proudly boast! Here are two men met together to shed each other's blood, because one of them has dared to uphold the cause of a daughter of the despised race. Hark!" It was for the report of the fire-arms that he listened, but the sound which met his ear was of altogether a different nature. It was the evening chorus of the negroes, floating upon the tranquil air. A sweet harmonious strain of melody, which breathed of peace and repose: "Day is dying, day is gone, Weary niggers, rest; Work all day, and toil and moan, Quiet night is best!" "Poor fellows," said Mortimer, "they are Craig's negroes, returning to their cabins after the day's labor. They sing, poor simple creatures. The overseer's lash cannot destroy the quiet content of their honest hearts. How easily might a good master make them happy." Again the voices rise upon the balmy air: "Far from home, and child, and wife, Weary niggers, weep, Day goes by in toil and strife, Night brings peace and sleep." The voices slowly died away in the distance, echoing mournfully through the woodland glades, as the negroes passed out of hearing. Mortimer Percy still listened--eagerly, breathlessly--for that other awful sound which would announce the commencement of the combat. "Nothing yet!" he exclaimed; "If I turn the corner of yon group of trees I run the chance of being struck by a random bullet; but come the worse, I must risk it; I can endure this suspense no longer." He sprang through the forest growth in the same direction as that taken by Gilbert Margrave. He had not disappeared above three minutes when from the opposite side of the wood two figures slowly approached, casting long shadows on the moonlit grass. The first was a man, the second a woman. It was the mulatto slave, Toby, who came hither to lead the Octoroon to her mother's grave. "That song which you heard just now, Miss Cora, has been sung many a night above your cradle to lull you to sleep." "My mother sang it?" exclaimed Cora. "She did, she did! The sound of that song, my lady, will bring tears to Toby's eyes until the hour when they close in death." "Faithful friend!"