The days slid on—­November had passed through that exquisite phase of existence (which almost redeems it from the reproach cast upon it through all time, of being par excellence the gloomy month of the year), the sweet and balmy influences of which had reached us, even through the walls of our prison-house, in the shape of smoky sunshine, and balmy, odorous, and lingering blossoms, and was now asserting its traditional character with much angry bluster of sleet, and storm, and cutting wind.  It was Herod lamenting his Mariamne slain by his own hand, and making others suffer the consequences of his regretted cruelty, his remorseful anguish.  It was the fierce Viking making wild wail over his dead Oriana.

No more to come until another year had done its work of resurrection and decay, the lovely Indian Summer slumbered under her mound of withered flowers and heaps of gorgeous leaves, unheeding all, or unconscious of the grief of her stern bridegroom.

Cold and bitter and bleak howled the November blast, and ruthlessly drove the sleet against the shivering panes, exposed without, though shielded within by Venetian folding shutters, on that gray morning, when a passing whisper from most unlovely and altogether unfaithful lips nerved me paradoxically to sudden resolution.

False as I knew old Dinah to be—­almost on principle—­still, I could not disregard the possible truth of her passing warning, given in broken whisper first as she poured out my tea and afterward prepared my bath.

“Honey, don’t you touch no tea nor coffee dis evening after Dinah goes out ob here an’ de bolt am fetched home; jus’ make ’tence to drene it down, like, but don’t swaller one mortal drop, for dey is gwine to give you a dose of laudamy”—­nodding sagaciously and peering into the teapot as she interpolated aloud; “sure enough, it is full ob grounds, honey!  (I heerd ’um say dat wid my own two blessed yers), for de purpose of movin’ you soun’ asleep up to dat bell-tower (belfry, b’leves dey call it sometimes)—­he! he! he! next door, in dat big house, war de res’ on ’em libs, de little angel gal too.  You see, honey, der was an ossifer to sarve a process writ about somebody here dis mornin’, but dar was something wrong about it, so dey all said, an’ he is comin’ to sarch de house for you, I spec’, to-morrow; for de hue an’ cry is out somehow—­or mebbe it’s me—­he! he! he! (very faintly) an’ dey is gwine to move you, so dey says, to keep all dark, after you gets soun’ asleep.  But de ossifer is ‘bleeged to wait till mornin’ (court-time, as I heerd ’em say) comes roun’ agin to git de haby-corpy fixed up right, an’ dat’s how he spounded hisself.  Wat does dat mean, honey?”

“I can scarcely make you understand now, Dinah” (aside).  “Don’t ask me—­just go on, low, very low; how did you hear all this?” (Aloud) “More cream, Dinah.”

“Wid my ear to de key-hole, in de study, war dey axed de ossifer.  My ’spicions was roused by de words he ’dressed to me wen I opened de front do’, for you see, dat ole nigger watch-dog ob dern, dat has nebber a good word for nobody, was gone to market, an’ Madame Raymond she hel’ de watch, an’ she sont me from de kitchen to mine de front-do’ bell.