rson 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!' 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.

When morning came, there was a stifled whisper through the household, and
spreading