"Randolph," said Bernard Lynn,--and there was something so changed and singular in his tone, that Randolph started--"draw near to me. I wish to speak with you." Randolph looked up, and was astonished by the change which had passed over the face of the traveler. His eyes flashed wildly, his features were one moment fixed and rigid and the next, tremulous and quivering with strong emotion; the veins were swollen on his broad forehead. "Randolph," he said, in a low, agitated voice, "I am a Carolinian." "A Carolinian?" echoed Randolph. "The name of Bernard Lynn is not my real name. It is an assumed name, Randolph. Assumed, do you hear me?" his eyes flashed more wildly, and he seized Randolph's hand, and unconsciously wrung it with an almost frenzied clutch--"Assumed some seventeen years ago, when I forsook my home, my native soil, and became a miserable wanderer on the face of the earth. Do you know why I assumed that name,--do you know?--" He paused as if suffocated by his emotions. After a moment he resumed in a lower, deeper voice,-- "Did you ever hear the name of ---- ----?" "It is the name of one of the first and oldest families of Carolina," responded Randolph. "A name renowned in her history, but now extinct, I believe." "That is my name, my real name, which I have forsaken forever, for the one which I now bear," resumed Bernard Lynn. "I am the last male representative of the family. Seventeen years ago my name disappeared from Carolina. I left home--my native land--all the associations that make life dear, and became a miserable exile. And why?" He uttered an oath, which came sharp and hissing through his clenched teeth. Profoundly interested, Randolph, as if fascinated, gazed silently into the flashing eyes of Bernard Lynn. "I was young,--rich,--the inheritor of an honored name," continued Bernard Lynn, in hurried tones,--"and I was married, Randolph, married to a woman of whom Eleanor is the living picture,--a woman as noble in soul, and beautiful in form as ever trod God's earth. One year after our marriage, when Eleanor was a babe,--nearer to me, Randolph,--I left my plantation in the evening, and went on a short visit to Charleston. I came home the next day, and where I had left my wife living and beautiful, I found only a mangled and dishonored corpse." His head fell upon his breast,--he could not proceed. "This is too horrible!" ejaculated Randolph,--"too horrible to be real." Bernard raised his head, and clutching Randolph's hands-- "The sun was setting, and his beams shone warmly through the western windows as I entered the bedchamber. Oh! I can see it yet,--I can see it now,--the babe sleeping on the bed, while the mother is stretched upon the floor, lifeless and weltering in her blood. Murdered and dishonored--murdered and dishonored--" As though those words, "murdered and dishonored," had choked his utterance, he paused, and uttered a groan, and once more his head fell on his breast.