Within the antique frame which so recently had enclosed a sable waste of canvas now appeared a visible picture-still dark, indeed, in its hues and shadings, but thrown forward in strong relief. It was a half-length figure of a gentleman in a rich but very old-fashioned dress of embroidered velvet, with a broad ruff and a beard, and wearing a hat the brim of which overshadowed his forehead. Beneath this cloud the eyes had a peculiar glare which was almost lifelike. The whole portrait started so distinctly out of the background that it had the effect of a person looking down from the wall at the astonished and awe-stricken spectators. The expression of the face, if any words can convey an idea of it, was that of a wretch detected in some hideous guilt and exposed to the bitter hatred and laughter and withering scorn of a vast surrounding multitude. There was the struggle of defiance, beaten down and overwhelmed by the crushing weight of ignominy. The torture of the soul had come forth upon the countenance. It seemed as if the picture, while hidden behind the cloud of immemorial years, had been all the time acquiring an intenser depth and darkness of expression, till now it gloomed forth again and threw its evil omen over the present hour. Such, if the wild legend may be credited, was the portrait of Edward Randolph as he appeared when a people’s curse had wrought its influence upon his nature. “’Twould drive me mad, that awful face,” said Hutchinson, who seemed fascinated by the contemplation of it. “Be warned, then,” whispered Alice. “He trampled on a people’s rights. Behold his punishment, and avoid a crime like his.” The lieutenant-governor actually trembled for an instant, but, exerting his energy—which was not, however, his most characteristic feature—he strove to shake off the spell of Randolph’s countenance. “Girl,” cried he, laughing bitterly, as he turned to Alice, “have you brought hither your painter’s art, your Italian spirit of intrigue, your tricks of stage-effect, and think to influence the councils of rulers and the affairs of nations by such shallow contrivances? See here!” “Stay yet a while,” said the selectman as Hutchinson again snatched the pen; “for if ever mortal man received a warning from a tormented soul, Your Honor is that man.” “Away!” answered Hutchinson, fiercely. “Though yonder senseless picture cried ‘Forbear!rsquo; it should not move me!” Casting a scowl of defiance at the pictured face—which seemed at that moment to intensify the horror of its miserable and wicked look—he scrawled on the paper, in characters that betokened it a deed of desperation, the name of Thomas Hutchinson. Then, it is said, he shuddered, as if that signature had granted away his salvation. “It is done,” said he, and placed his hand upon his brow. “May Heaven forgive the deed!” said the soft, sad accents of Alice Vane, like the voice of a good spirit flitting away.