ject. Krometz had not hesitated to receive the handsome sum that
one so beautiful as Komel could not fail to command.

Aphiz was almost too miserable to be able to find words to express
his feelings. A bitter tear stole down his sunburnt check as he saw
the mother's grief, but a stern flash of the eye was also visible in
the expression of his face. He sought at once the highest cliff
beyond the cottage, and in the distant, far-off horizon, could dimly
make out the white canvas of the slave cutter, no bigger than a
sea-bird, on the skirts of the horizon. He sat down in the
bitterness of his anguish, alone and heart-broken, and then he
remembered the scene of the previous evening, how they both together
had seen the hawk pounce down and carry off in its talons the poor
wood dove.

That scene, so suggestive to his mind, was not without its meaning.
It was the forerunner of the calamity under which his heart now
grieved so bitterly. Aphiz Adegah's life had been a bold one, he
knew no fear. The air of his native hills was not freer than his own
spirit and as he looked off once more at the tiny white speck in the
distance that marked the spot where Komel was, his resolution was
instantly made, and he swore to follow and rescue her.

It was but natural that the young mountaineer should desire to find
out the agency by which that evil business had been consummated. He
knew very well that such a plan as Komel's abduction could not have
been perpetrated without the aid of parties that knew her and her
home, but never for one moment did he suspect Krometz. He had ever
professed the warmest friendship for both him and Komel, and he was
deemed honest. But during the melee, when the honest mountaineer had
rushed to Komel's rescue, and had received the fatal blow, her
parents heard a voice that they recognized, and both exclaimed, "Can
that voice be Krometz's!"

This was afterwards made known to Aphiz, and with this clue, though
he could scarcely believe that there was the possibility of fact or
correctness in the surmise, he sought his pretended friend. He
charged him with the evidence and its inference, and bade him speak
and say if this was true.

"It matters not, friend Aphiz, since she is gone, how she came to
go."

"This answer," said the young mountaineer, "is but another evidence
against thee."

"Do you pretend to call me to an account, Aphiz? You are but a boy,
while I have already reached the full age of manhood. T