Having informed the reader that Ellen Juvarna was mother of Nicholas, whom she bore unto Marston, we will now draw aside the veil, that he may know her real origin and be the better prepared to appreciate the fate of her child.  This name, then, was a fictitious one, which she had been compelled to take by Romescos, who stole her from her father, Neamathla, a Creek Indian.  In 1820, this brave warrior ruled chief of the Mickasookees, a tribe of brave Indians settled on the borders of the lake of that name, in Florida.  Old in deeds of valour, Neamathla sank into the grave in the happy belief that his daughter, the long-lost Nasarge, had been carried into captivity by chiefs of a hostile tribe, in whose chivalrous spirit she would find protection, and religious respect for her caste.  Could that proud spirit have condescended to suppose her languishing in the hands of mercenary slave-dealers, his tomahawk had been first dipped in the blood of the miscreant, to avenge the foul deed.  From Romescos, Nasarge, who had scarce seen her twelve summers, passed into the hands of one Silenus, who sold her to Marston, for that purpose a fair slave seems born to in our democratic world.

And now again must we beg the indulgence of the reader, while we turn to the counter-scene of this chapter.  The influence of that consternation which had spread throughout the city, was not long in finding its way to the citadel, a massive fort commanding the city from the east.  On the plat in front are three brass field-pieces, which a few artillery-men have wheeled out, loaded, and made ready to belch forth that awful signal, which the initiated translate thus:—­“Proceed to the massacre!  Dip deep your knives in the heart of every negro!”

Certain alarm bells are rung in case of an insurrection of the negroes, which, if accompanied by the firing of three guns at the citadel, is the signal for an onslaught of the whites.  The author, on asking a gentleman why he exhibited so much fear, or why he deemed it necessary to put to the sword his faithful servants, answered,—­“Slaves, no matter of what colour, sympathise with each other in their general condition of slavery.  I could not, then, leave my family to the caprice of their feelings, while I sought the scene of action to aid in suppressing the outbreak.”  At the alarm-bell’s first tap were the guns made ready-at the second peal were matchlocks lighted-and nervous men waited in breathless suspense the third and last signal peal from the Guard Tower.  But, in a moment that had nearly proved fatal to thousands, and as the crash of musketry echoed in the air, a confused gunner applied the match:  two vivid flashes issued from the cannon, their peals booming successively over the city.  It was at that moment, citizens who had sought in their domiciles the better protection of their families might be seen in the tragic attitude of holding savage pistols and glistening daggers at the breasts of their terrified