Behind him appears the handsome face of Colonel Tarleton--the man of the world, whose form is shrouded in the curtains. A little apart, kneels the boy, Gulian, whose beautiful face is stamped with awe and bathed in tears. And near the head of the bed, seated on a chair, which touches the pillow upon which rests the head of the dying--behold the tall form and aquiline face of the minister, who listens to the moans of death, and subdues his conscience into an expression of calm serenity. The dying man is seized with a spasm, which throws his limbs into horrible contortions. He writhes, and struggles, with hands and feet, as though wrestling with a murderer: he utters horrible cries. At length, raising himself in a sitting posture, he projects his livid face into the light; he reaches forth his arm, and grasps the minister by the wrist,--the minister utters an involuntary cry of pain,--for that grasp is like the pressure of an iron vice. "Not a word about the camel,--hey, minister?" That was the last word of Evelyn Somers, Sen., the merchant prince. There, projecting from the bed-curtains his livid face,--there, with features distorted and eyes rolling, the last glance upon the evidences of wealth, which filled the chamber,--there, even as he clasped the minister by the wrist, he gasped his last breath, and was a dead man. It was with an effort that Herman Barnhurst disengaged his wrist from the gripe of the dead man's hand. As he tore the hand away, a golden eagle fell from it, and sparkled in the light, as it fell. The rich man couldn't take it with him, to the place where he was going,--not even one piece of gold. The Rev. Herman Barnhurst rose and left the room without once looking back. The doctor, also, rose and straightened the dead man's limbs, and closed his eyes. This done, he drew his broad-brimmed hat over his brow, and left the room without a word--yes, he spoke four words, as he left the place: "One out of seven!" he said. The Colonel emerged from the curtains; he was ashy pale, and he tottered as he walked. This time his agitation was not a sham. Once he looked back upon the dead man's face, and then directed his steps to the door. "Remember, Gulian," he whispered as he passed the kneeling boy: "to-morrow I will see you." Gulian, still on his knees in the center of the apartment, prayed God to be merciful to the dead,--to the dead son, whose corpse lay in the room above, and to the dead father, whose body was stretched before his eyes. Tarleton paused for a moment on the threshold, with his hand upon the knob of the door-- "If Cornelius Berman were alive, he would inherit this immense estate!" muttered the Colonel. "As it is, here is a palace with two dead bodies in it, and no heir to inherit the wealth of the corpse which only half an hour ago was the owner of half a million dollars. But it is no time to meditate. There's work for me at THE TEMPLE."