On the morning following the defeat of Maxwell and Vernon, it became necessary to make some disposition of the prisoners, so that the conquerors could attend to their daily duties.  Their number was too large to be left upon the island in the absence of its defenders.  A consultation between Dr. Vaudelier and the principals of the party took place.  There were so many difficulties in the way of bringing the invaders to justice, that it was finally decided to release them all.  The burden of the evidence was against the physician’s son.  The doctor, however much he deprecated the deed, was anxious to save his son from the publicity of a trial.  His friends, seeing the melancholy truth, relieved his mind by suggesting that all of them be released, which was accordingly done.

Vernon had entirely recovered from the effects of Hatchie’s blow, and was seated at the window of his apartment, contemplating the means of escape.  At his father’s request, two men had sat by him during the night, as much to prevent his escape as to minister to his wants.  The watchers were still in the room.  Vernon was not yet informed of the relation he sustained to the proprietor of the mansion in which he now involuntarily abode.  He thought that, considering the unequivocal circumstances under which he had been made a prisoner, he was treated with a great deal of gentleness; but to him the reason was not apparent.  He had been an alien from his father’s house for a long period, and was not acquainted with the history of the past three or four years of the doctor’s life.

His mind was now occupied in devising the means of escape; and just as he had struck upon a feasible project, he was interrupted by the entrance of Jerry Swinger, who had been sent by Dr. Vaudelier to ascertain the present frame of his son’s mind, and broach to him the tidings that he was beneath his father’s roof,—­a circumstance of which his watchers were also ignorant.

“Well, stranger, how do you feel yourself, this morning?” asked Jerry.

“Better.  That was a cursed hard rap which some one gave me, last night,” replied Vernon,—­as, from the force of habit, we must still call him.

“That are a fack, stranger; the man that gin you that blow has a moughty hard fist; and I advoise you to keep clear of him, or he will beat you into mince-meat.”

“I will try to do so.”

“You will larn to, if he mought have one more chance at that head of yours.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s an oncommon fine fellow, and made your cake dough once before.”

“Ah, was it Miss Dumont’s—­that is, the quadroon’s servant.”

“Quadroon, man!—­that’s all humbug.  But he’s the boy, and is bound to fotch his missus out straight, in the end.”

“Well, if she is his mistress, I hope he may.  I wish her no harm, however much appearances belie me.”

“Is that a fack, stranger?”

“Certainly; she never did me any harm.”