“My name is Monsel, an officer!  Not a word of disobedience,” returns the officer, in a peremptory voice.

Another suggests that he had better be throated at once.  But the chained victim of democracy’s rule warns them against advancing another step.  “Either must die if you advance.  I have counselled death, and will lay my prostrate body on the cold floor rather than be taken from this cell to the whipping-post.  It is far better to die defending my right, than to yield my life under the lash!  I appeal to you, officers of the state, protectors of the peace, men who love their right as life’s boons!” The men hesitate, whisper among themselves, seem at a loss as to what course to pursue.  “You are setting the laws of the state at defiance, my good fellow!” rejoins Monsel.

“I care not for the law of the state!  Its laws for me are founded in wrong, exercised with injustice!” Turning towards the door, Mr. Monsel despatches his fellow-officers for a reinforcement.  That there will be a desperate struggle he has no doubt.  The man’s gestures show him fully armed; and he is stark mad.  During the interim, Mr. Monsel will hold a parley with the boy.  He finds, however, that a few smooth words will not subdue him.  One of the officials has a rope in his hand, with which he would make a lasso, and, throwing it over his head, secure him an easy captive.  Mr. Monsel will not hear of such a cowardly process.  He is a wiry man, with stunted features, and has become enured to the perils of negro catching.  Hand to hand he has had many an encounter with the brutes, and always came off victor; never did he fail to serve the interests of the state, nor to protect the property of his client.  With a sort of bravado he makes another advance.  The city esteems him for the valuable services he has rendered its safety; why should he shrink in this emergency?

Our southern readers, in a certain state, will readily recognise the scene we here describe.  The chained man, drawing his shining steel from his bosom, says, “You take me not from here, alive.”  Mr. Monsel’s face becomes pale, while Nicholas’s flashes angry scowls; an irresistible nervousness seizes him,—­for a moment he hesitates, turns half round to see if his companions stand firm.  They are close behind, ready for the spring, like sharp-eyed catamounts; while around the door anxious visitors crowd their curious faces.  The officers second in command file off to the right and left, draw their revolvers, and present them in the attitude of firing.  “Use that knife, and you fall!” exclaims one, with a fearful imprecation.  At the next moment he fires, as Monsel rushes upon the chained man, followed by half a dozen officials.  An agonising shriek is heard, and Monsel, in guttural accents, mutters, “I am a murdered man-he has murdered me!  Oh, my God,—­he has murdered me!” Nicholas has plunged the knife into the fleshy part of Monsel’s right arm; and while the bloody weapon, wrested from his hand, lies on the