he waving of its flexile head and long pale
leaves, shining with moonlight, were the motions we had seen--but where
was Ella? The decaying logs gave way beneath her, and she had fallen
into a vault or cellar beneath the building. Meanwhile those at the
house recovered their courage, and came towards us, bearing lights. We
entered the vault, and, on her knees before a figure, was Ella--the form
and dress were De Clairville's, such as we had seen him in last, but the
face, oh! heaven, the face showed but the white bones of a skeleton. The
rich brown curls still clung to the fleshless skull, and on the finger
glittered the ring with which Ella was to have been wed. The half of the
golden locket was clasped to his breast--the ribbon by which it hung
seemed to have been torn rudely from its place, but the hand had kept
its hold till the motion caused by our descent--it fell at Ella's feet,
a sad memento of other days, and recalled her to sensation. Horror paled
the brows of all, but to me was given a deeper woe, to think and know
what Ella must have felt.

Every feeling was deepened to intensity of agony in the passing of that
night--that dreary closing of my bridal day. How came the morning's
light I know not, but when it did, the fresh breeze blew on my brow, and
I saw the remains of De Clairville lying on the grass before me--they
had borne him from below, and it showed more plainly the crime which had
been among us. The deep blue of the dress was changed to a darker hue
where the red life blood had flowed, and from the back was drawn the
treacherous implement of death. The hearts of all readily whispered the
murderer's name, and fuller proof was given in that ancient dagger that
had long been an heir-loom in the family of Conrad--a relic of the old
Teutonic race from whence they sprung--well was it known, and we had
often wondered at its disappearance. He, Conrad, was the murderer--he
had slain De Clairville, and fired the building to conceal his crime.
God was the avenger of the dark deed--the mighty hand of conscience
struck him in his proudest hour--the humblest things of earth, brought
deathly terror to his soul. 'Twas evident the appearance of the mullen
plant, which drew us to the spot, had been the cause of his death. The
words of the old sailor seemed true. The lowly herb had brought the
crime to light, and in the hand of heaven had punished the murderer.

We buried De Clairville beneath a mossy mound, where the