“Alice!  Come hither, Alice!”

No sooner had he spoken than Alice Vane glided from her station, and, pressing one hand across her eyes, with the other snatched away the sable curtain that concealed the portrait.  An exclamation of surprise burst from every beholder, but the lieutenant-governor’s voice had a tone of horror.

“By Heaven!” said he, in a low inward murmur, speaking rather to himself than to those around him; “if the spirit of Edward Randolph were to appear among us from the place of torment, he could not wear more of the terrors of hell upon his face.”

“For some wise end,” said the aged selectman, solemnly, “hath Providence scattered away the mist of years that had so long hid this dreadful effigy.  Until this hour no living man hath seen what we behold.”

Within the antique frame which so recently had enclosed a sable waste of canvas now appeared a visible picture-still dark, indeed, in its hues and shadings, but thrown forward in strong relief.  It was a half-length figure of a gentleman in a rich but very old-fashioned dress of embroidered velvet, with a broad ruff and a beard, and wearing a hat the brim of which overshadowed his forehead.  Beneath this cloud the eyes had a peculiar glare which was almost lifelike.  The whole portrait started so distinctly out of the background that it had the effect of a person 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!”