Finding that no satisfaction was to be obtained of Jupiter, whose whole intellect seemed to be absorbed by “de bug,” I now stepped into the boat and made sail.  With a fair and strong breeze we soon ran into the little cove to the northward of Fort Moultrie, and a walk of some two miles brought us to the hut.  It was about three in the afternoon when we arrived.  Legrand had been awaiting us in eager expectation.  He grasped my hand with a nervous empressement, which alarmed me and strengthened the suspicions already entertained.  His countenance was pale even to ghastliness, and his deep-set eyes glared with unnatural lustre.  After some inquiries respecting his health, I asked him, not knowing what better to say, if he had yet obtained the scarabaeus from Lieutenant G——.

“Oh, yes,” he replied, coloring violently, “I got it from him the next morning.  Nothing should tempt me to part with that scarabaeus.  Do you know that Jupiter is quite right about it?”

“In what way?” I asked, with a sad foreboding at heart.

“In supposing it to be a bug of real gold.”  He said this with an air of profound seriousness, and I felt inexpressibly shocked.

“This bug is to make my fortune,” he continued, with a triumphant smile, “to reinstate me in my family possessions.  Is it any wonder, then, that I prize it?  Since Fortune has thought fit to bestow it upon me, I have only to use it properly and I shall arrive at the gold of which it is the index.  Jupiter, bring me that scarabaeus!”

“What! de bug, massa?  I’d rudder not go fer trubble dat bug—­you mus git him for your own self.”  Hereupon Legrand arose, with a grave and stately air, and brought me the beetle from a glass case in which it was enclosed.  It was a beautiful scarabaeus, and, at that time, unknown to naturalists—­of course a great prize in a scientific point of view.  There were two round, black spots near one extremity of the back, and a long one near the other.  The scales were exceedingly hard and glossy, with all the appearance of burnished gold.  The weight of the insect was very remarkable, and, taking all things into consideration, I could hardly blame Jupiter for his opinion respecting it; but what to make of Legrand’s agreement with that opinion, I could not, for the life of me, tell.

“I sent for you,” said he, in a grandiloquent tone, when I had completed my examination of the beetle, “I sent for you that I might have your counsel and assistance in furthering the views of Fate and of the bug—­”

“My dear Legrand,” I cried, interrupting him, “you are certainly unwell, and had better use some little precautions.  You shall go to bed, and I will remain with you a few days, until you get over this.  You are feverish and—­”

“Feel my pulse,” said he.

I felt it, and, to say the truth, found not the slightest indication of fever.

“But you may be ill, and yet have no fever.  Allow me this once to prescribe for you.  In the first place, go to bed.  In the next—­”