Madame Ashley, having inherited of Madame Flamingo the value of a scrupulous regard for the good reputation of her house, must needs call in the watch to eject the assassin, whom she swears is concealed somewhere on the premises.  Mr. Sergeant Stubbs, a much respected detective, and reputed one of the very best officers of the guard, inasmuch as he never troubles his head about other people’s business, and is quite content to let every one fight their own battles,—­provided they give him a “nip” of whiskey when they are through, lights his lantern and goes bobbing into every room in the house.  We must here inform the reader that the cause of the emeute was kept a profound secret between the judicial gentry.  Madame Ashley, at the same time, is fully convinced the ball was intended for her, while Anna lays in a terrible fright in her chamber.

“Ho,” says Mr. Stubbs, starting back suddenly as he opened the door of the closet in which the two gentlemen had concealed themselves.  “I see!  I see!—­beg your pardon, gentlemen!” Mr. Stubbs whispers, and bows, and shuts the door quickly.

“An infernal affair this, Judge!  D-n me if I wouldn’t as soon be in the dock.  It will all get out tomorrow,” interposes Mr. Snivel, facetiously.

“Blast these improper associations!” the high functionary exclaims, fussily shrugging his shoulders, and wiping the sweat from his forehead.  “I love the girl, though, I confess it!”

“Nothing more natural.  A man without gallantry is like a pilgrim in the South-West Pass.  You can’t resist this charming creature.  In truth it’s a sort of longing weakness, which even the scales of justice fail to bring to a balance.”

Mr. Stubbs fails to find the assassin, and enters Madame Ashley’s chamber, the door of which leads into the hall.  Here Mr. Stubbs’s quick eye suddenly discerns a slight motion of the curtains that enclose the great, square bed, standing in one corner.  “I ax your pardon, Mam, but may I look in this ’ere bed?” Mr. Stubbs points to the bed, as Madame, having thrown herself into a great rocking chair, proceeds to sway her dignity backward and forward, and give out signs of making up her mind to faint.

Mr. Stubbs draws back the curtains, when, behold! but tell it not in the by-ways, there is revealed the stalworth figure of Simon Patterson, the plantation parson.  Our plantation parsons, be it known, are a singular species of depraved humanity, a sort of itinerant sermon-makers, holding forth here and there to the negroes of the rich planters, receiving a paltry pittance in return, and having in lieu of morals an excellent taste for whiskey, an article they invariably call to their aid when discoursing to the ignorant slave-telling him how content with his lot he ought to be, seeing that God intended him only for ignorance and servitude.  The parson did, indeed, cut a sorry figure before the gaze of this indescribable group, as it rushed into the room