Joseph Holt Ingraham

The Green Huntsman; or, The Haunted Villa

A Christmas Legend of Louisiana

Rev. Joseph Holt Ingraham (1809-1860) was a prolific author from Maine; one critic cited in John Sutherland’s The Lives of the Novelists “estimated that in the early 1840s, 10 percent of the new novels produced in the U.S. were Ingraham’s.” His novel The Pillar of Fire was a source for Cecil B. DeMille’s The Ten Commandments. “The Green Huntsman” first appeared in the The Ladies’ Companion [N.Y.] of June 1841, an example of how a Christmas ghost story could be printed any time of the year. A reprint in the Huddersfield Chronicle and West Yorkshire Advertiser appeared on December 24, 1858, though: an American story getting an English stamp of approval.

——

“Is it a true and honest tale, fair master?”

“Nay—I vouch not. I give it thee as I had it.”

 

In the upper faubourg of New-Orleans and conspicuous from the river on which it fronts, stands a vast, square mansion, gray and ruinous through neglect rather than time. A few old moss-stained oaks of a century’s growth, rear their majestic heads above its rank lawn, and the hedges and walls that once enclosed it are broken down or utterly destroyed. Every where are the marks of its having been, in a better day, the abode of affluence and aristocratic pride. Lonely, in dilapidated grandeur, stately and imposing even in its ruin, it has for years attracted the eye of the curious stranger as he sailed past it. But vainly does the traveller seek to learn from those about him, the history of the spot. All that he can ascertain is, that it is called “The Haunted Villa.”

Less than half a mile above this dilapidated edifice on the estate adjacent also stands a mansion, which is no less striking for its beauty, adorned as it is with verandahs, porticos and latticed conservatories, and half-hid in the most luxuriant foliage, with well-appointed hedges of the rose-thorn interspersed with lemon, acacia and pomegranate trees enclosing a lawn of the softest green. It seems the abode of taste, refinement and graceful affluence—the home of domestic bliss and social happiness. Never two mansions or grounds presented stranger or more remarkable contrasts, made still more striking by their juxtaposition.

At the latter villa on the evening of our story, there was held a Christmas festival, of a gayer and more brilliant description than usual, for it was a bridal night also—and the bride and bridegroom with the joyous train mingled merrily in the holiday festivities. The bride! How shall her matchless beauty be given to the eye of the reader! She was of stately stature, and graceful as the swan in her movements. Her eyes were dark, and burning with the light of love. There was an unfathomable well of feeling in their dangerous depths, and though they could occasionally flash fire and sparkle, their usual aspect was soft and timid as the gazelle’s. She was called Ephèse, and men’s eyes have seldom looked on a more beautiful woman, or a bridegroom’s worshipping glance adored a fairer bride. She was wedded the night of our story, in the gorgeous rooms of the mansion just described. The owner of this mansion was a French gentleman, and had been a widower for many years. He called Ephèse his child. Some said she was his daughter, others that she was not. There was evidently a mystery about her. She was just eighteen the night of her bridal, which was as well both her birth-day and wedding-day, a Christmas eve. The bridegroom was a rich young creole of Orleans, handsome, chivalrous and well-born, and every way worthy to wear so bright a jewel as Ephèse in his bosom.

It was a happy and merry night. All the youthful cavaliers for many leagues around were gathered there to grace the nuptials, and three score maidens, with the dark eye and raven hair of that sunny clime, presented their rival charms in the presence of the incomparable bride. In the wanton waltz and stately dance, amid never ceasing strains of ravishing music, and with the numerous scenes and changes of a bridal festival conjoined with a Christmas merry-making, the silvery hours flew swiftly on. Midnight at length approached, and the blushing bride, half-reluctant, half-consenting, was borne from the hall by a group of laughing virgins, to the nuptial chamber. At the instant the door closed behind her, the festive halls were strangely illuminated by a sudden light of a pale-green cast that out-shone the brilliant candelabra in the rooms and threw over every face the ghastly pallor of death. At the same instant a loud, heavy, rumbling noise, like underground thunder, appalled every ear.

“Look! the Haunted Villa!” shouted several voices on the verandah.

In an instant the halls were deserted, and the verandah and lawn looking in the direction of the ruined mansion, were crowded with terrified gazers. Terrific spectacle! The whole interior of the ruin, towards which their eyes were turned, seemed to be on fire. Through every aperture of door and window and gaping crevice, the fire shone out as if from a furnace, with an intense glowing heat. Yet there ascended no smoke from it, nor could there be heard any sound of crackling flame. But what was most fearful was a tongue of green flame, which rising from the midst of the molten mass, flung itself, lapping and curling high into the air, like a serpent, and then contracted and coiled down upon the surface of the bed of fire, again to unfold and dart upward, and shed its baleful glare a wide league around. The most death-like silence pervaded the groups of banqueters as they looked upon this spectacle. To all the name of the Haunted Villa was familiar, and to every mind supernatural terror was associated with it. No one breathed. Expectation and alarm sat on every face. Gradually the intensity of the glowing interior lessened, and in a few minutes all became dark as before, save the tongue of flame which continued to curl and writhe above the central tower with fiercer strength. All at once it disappeared, like a lamp blown out, and in its place a small globe of green fire, that shone with a steady light, was alone visible upon the summit of the tower.

Awed and full of conjectures and trembling apprehensions, the company instantly broke up. In a few minutes, nearly all were on their way to their homes, anxious to place the widest distance between themselves and this spot of supernatural sounds and spectacles. Five or six young men alone remained in the deserted verandah. They were intimate friends of the bridegroom, who himself stood among them as they discoursed together on the event.

“Did you notice that it was just as the door closed behind the bride?” remarked Don Antonio Baradas, one of the group upon the colonnade.

“I did, signor,” replied Eugene Brissot, with animation, “for my eye was following her departure, surrounded by her bridesmaids, and methought I had never seen woman so lovely, and I mourned so bright a star should set to every eye but Henride’s.”

“You all noticed it was just as she left the room, signors?” repeated young Don Antonio, looking round with a marked manner and speaking in a solemn tone.

“We did,” all answered, “but has Ephèse any thing to do with—”

“Speak, Don Antonio! what evil threatens or is connected with my beloved bride?” demanded the young husband, earnestly grasping his friend’s hand.

“Listen, signor,” answered Don Antonio Baradas.

The young cavaliers, joined by one or two ladies, now grouped closer about the young Spaniard as he leaned gracefully against a column, his arms folded within his silk mantle across his breast. His attitude was striking and commanding. His age appeared not less than thirty, but care or deep and active thought had worn in his face strong lines, which, while they added to its intellect, took from his youth. He had been very handsome and was still striking for his manly appearance. His figure was tall and slender and finely shaped. His complexion was so dark as to approach a swarthy hue. His features were finely acquiline, and his large dark eyes beamed with the fire of intelligence. Sometimes there was in them a strangeness of expression terrible to look upon, while ere it could be commented on by those who observed it, passed away, instantly followed by the sweetest smile human lips ever wore. With the early history of Don Antonio, none were acquainted. He had come to New-Orleans on a Christmas eve, eight years before, a traveller and as the heir of a noble Cuban family. After a sojourn of a few weeks, he gave out that he had become so much pleased with the city as to determine to abide there permanently. His lodgings were magnificently furnished, and in his horses and equipage, he rivalled the wealthiest Creoles. He soon found friends, and the halls of the oldest and best families of the land were thrown open to him. He was admired for his wit, accomplishments, and manly graces, and every where courted for his wealth. Thus for seven years had Don Antonio lived among the hospitable and refined Orleanois. During all this while it was remarked that he never had drank wine nor spoken to a woman—though the loveliest in the world were alluring him with their smiles. Between him and Henride Claviere, the bridegroom, there had existed a long and close intimacy. He had now been invited to wait on him as a groomsman, but had singularly and strangely to his friend, declined, saying he could be present only as a guest.

“Listen, signor,” he said, in an impressive manner, as his friends gathered around him, their curiosity aroused by the tone and emphasis of his words. “It is twenty-one minutes yet to midnight! There will be full time ’till twelve for me to speak. Patience, Henride! thy bride hath not been gone ten minutes and thou must wait for the cathedral bell to toll midnight ere thou leave us.”

“The Cathedral bell! It was never heard this distance,” exclaimed several.

“It will be heard here to-night, as if swinging within the dome of this hall,” he answered, in a deep voice that with his words made each heart weigh heavier in the bosom against which it audibly throbbed. “Yonder mansion, my friends, was built by a Castilian noble, in whose veins flowed the best blood of Spain. His wealth was inexhaustible. He possessed also boundless ambition, and never did human life stand between him and his object. His passions were evil and indulged at any sacrifice. He lived solitary in a lonely castle amid the most fertile and lovely region of Castile. There he associated only with his gold, which he kept in coffers in his vaults, and with his horse and black hounds, with which he used to hunt every Christmas eve, from sunset to sunrise, in company, it is said, with the free spirits of the air, with whom, riding like the wind, they traversed the kingdom in its breadth and length ere the dawn. And what think you he hunted, my friends? A Castilian maid who should be both perfectly beautiful and perfectly blind!—for there is a tradition in Spain, that such a maiden shall become the mother of an Emperor who shall unite all the kingdoms of Europe into one Empire. But it was not for this he would possess this blind beauty. He was in person the ugliest and most hideous man in all Spain. Men looked upon him with disgust and women with fear. He wanted a wife and forsooth, one that was beautiful too, for next to his money and hounds he admired women. But no female could be found to marry him, so hideous was his visage, for all the gold in his coffers. He had heard of this tradition, and the idea of having a bride who should be perfectly beautiful and yet be blind, was highly gratifying to his vanity, for he could feast upon her charms while she would be ignorant of his ugliness.”

“And why should he seek her by night!” demanded Don Antonio’s listeners.

“It is said he had a talisman purchased by a mint of golden zecchino of Pius VI., by which he would be guided to the abode of such a maiden, who could be borne off, says the tradition, only at the midnight hour and while buried in deep sleep.

“At length, one Christmas eve, when this Castilian noble was thirty years of age, he sallied forth with hound and horse and horn to seek the blind and beautiful maiden for his bride. It was a few minutes before midnight, that the priests who were chaunting prayers in a monastery in the Pyrenees valley, heard the unusual sound of huntsmen and the hoarse bay of hounds approaching in full cry. The sounds came nearer and nearer, and grew louder and yet louder, and all at once the wide doors of the chapel were burst open, and this young Castilian noble rode in at top speed, followed by his pack, and galloped straight towards the altar. The horror-stricken priests seized the golden crucifix that stood upon it and held it up between the sacred place and the intruders, whom they believed to be the spirit of the “Wicked Huntsman” of the Pyrenees, and no mortal man.

“Without heeding the priests or their crucifix, Don Rolando Osormo—for that was his name—leaped from his coal-black steed and passed through a small wicket that led into the cloisters of the nunnery. With a rapid step he traversed the corridor and stopped before a cell, the door of which was closed. It flew open at his touch. On a low couch, her features faintly visible by a lamp burning beside it, slept a nun of the most perfect symmetry of limbs and features. Don Rolando knelt beside her and lifted the lamp so as to obtain a more perfect view of her face. It was transcendantly lovely. He smiled with satisfaction, and lifting her in his arms, bore her forth into the corridor.”

“How knew he that a maiden slept there?” asked one of the group.

“By the talisman on his whip, it is said.”

“What was that, Don Antonio?”

“A lock of the Virgin Mary’s hair braided in the snapper, says the legend. The pliant lash would straighten and point forward as he held it in his hand in the direction he should proceed. Its touch opened all barriers, and gave him ingress to the inmost closet of castle or cot. But the impious noble was soon to learn that he could not enter, even with such a talisman, a consecrated temple and bear off with impunity a bride of the church. His punishment, though long deferred, came. He returned into the chapel with his prize ere the terrified monks had recovered from their astonishment. Leaping upon his steed and followed by his hounds, he spurred down the echoing aisles again, and left the convent as the bell tolled midnight, the noise of his riding and the bay of his hounds breaking far and wide upon the stillness of the night, as he coursed homeward down the valley.

“Don Rolando soon reached his castle and laid his intended bride upon a gorgeous couch. Then sending for musicians, he placed them in a concealed alcove and bade them play the softest strains ’till she awoke.”

“How was he certain that she was blind as well as beautiful, Don Antonio?” asked one of the group.

“He believed in the faithfulness of his talisman.”

“And how could she be beautiful if she were blind, Don Antonio?” asked Eugene Brissot. “Methinks a lady’s beauty lieth mostly in her eye.”

“The tradition saith that the maiden in question is to be perfectly beautiful still perfectly blind. She must have, therefore, perfect eyes to the observer though useless to herself as instruments of vision.”

“Poor lady,” sighed the young cavalier.

“I prythee proceed with thy story, Signor Antonio,” said the impatient bridegroom.

“It indeed becomes me to hasten, for the midnight hour is near at hand. Don Rolando having arrayed himself magnificently and perfumed himself with the costliest essences of Persia, stood concealed behind the curtains of her couch to witness her awaking. At length the music stole into her senses, and slowly she began to open her eyes and throw off the deep sleep that had weighed upon the fringed lids. Don Rolando watched her with the most intense interest. He trembled lest he should have been deceived—for, already he passionately loved her. She rose in her couch and gazed around. Her eyes were blue as heaven, large, liquid and full of love and feeling. But whether they had vision he was unable to determine. He was about to show himself to make the trial, but restrained the impulse and remained still concealed, feeling assured that a few moments would decide it. She looked around her upon the damask hangings that on all sides enveloped her couch, but there was no individual object about her to arrest and fix the eye. She now threw back her golden hair from her forehead, as if perfectly awake, and gazed around with intelligent surprize, too visibly depicted on her features and in the enlargement of her dilating eye to be mistaken. Don Rolando’s heart began to sink within him. She looked each moment more bewildered and alarmed.

“ ‘Holy Virgin, where am I?’ she cried at length, in a voice which alarm had made most sweetly touching. ‘These silken hangings—this heavenly music—this gorgeous chamber—’ for she had now put aside the curtains. ‘Whither have I been borne in my sleep? It were heaven did not yonder lattice with a view of the distant stars through, tell me I am yet on earth.’

“ ‘She sees, and the talisman has played me false! Accursed be it and the head it grew upon!’ muttered Don Rolando through his clenched teeth.

“He was about to rush forward and bury his dagger in her heart, for his vanity and pride would not allow him to permit her to see his features, inasmuch as he already loved her, and the thought of seeing her shudder at their ugliness was madness to him. He had rather slay her with his own hand. This he was about to do, when suddenly his arm was arrested by a light touch. He turned and beheld a low black figure, with a body no higher than his knees, with a prodigious head, in the brow of which was set a single eye of green flame like a shining emerald, and with hands and arms of supernatural length.

“ ‘Avaunt, fiend!’ he cried, starting back with horror and affright.

“ ‘Fear me not, Don Rolando,’ said the dwarf in a hoarse low tone. ‘I know thy disappointment, ha, ha, ha! She has eyes brighter than stars.’

“ ‘By heaven she hath! How know you my thoughts and purposes?’ demanded he with surprize.

“ ‘It matters not. I can aid thy purpose!’

“ ‘How?’

“ ‘Destroy her vision!’

“ ‘Thou, hell-hound! would’st thou mar such glorious beauty? She shall die first by my own hand.’

“ ‘I will not mar it. I will take away her sight nor lay hand upon her.’

“ ‘Give me proof of it and thou shalt attempt it. I would give half my wealth could it be so. Give me proof.’

“The demon-dwarf fixed upon him his single eye for an instant with such a steady gaze, that Don Rolando’s eyes were irresistibly riveted upon it as if fascinated. In vain he tried to take them off. They were no longer subservient to his will. The demon’s eye grew larger and larger, brighter and brighter each moment, ’till the light of it became painfully intense, and seemed to Don Rolando’s eyes to fill the whole space before him and to pervade the whole room. By degrees it then faded away, lessening and growing dimmer and dimmer until it left the place to his vision dark as midnight.

“ ‘Where art thou, fiend, that thou hast charmed me thus and left me in darkness?’

“ ‘Ha, ha, ha! Don Rolando, dost thou find thyself in darkness?’ said the dwarf, speaking from the self same spot where Don Rolando had last seen him.

“ ‘Art thou here, demon? Who hath extinguished the lights?’

“ ‘No lights are extinguished, Don Rolando. The darkness is in thine own vision. Thou art stone blind.’

“ ‘Thou liest. Ho, lights, lights, knaves! bring lights!’

“ ‘Thou mayest call for lights ’till they rival in brightness the sun, and thou shalt not see their brilliancy.’

“ ‘Fiend, hast thou done this?’

“ ‘With a single glance of my eye. I have given thee but the proof thou didst seek. Look upon me once more.’

“ ‘I see thee not.’

“ ‘Be patient and I will restore thy vision.’ The demon then placed a finger upon each eyelid of Don Rolando, and pressing upon them asked him if he saw two golden rings.

“ ‘I do,’ answered Don Rolando.

“ ‘Fix thy inward gaze upon them as steadily as but now you fixed your external gaze upon my eye.’

“Don Rolando with an effort did so and by degrees the golden rings enlarged until he seemed to be in a universe of roseate light. The dwarf then removed his fingers and he opened his eyes. All around him then seemed an atmosphere of pale light but no object was visible. Gradually the light assumed a delicate blue shade, and then a green color, and seemed to gather itself into a circle opposite to him. This circle gradually lessened in size and increased in brilliancy. He kept his eyes steadily upon it as if by a supernatural energy, until it diminished to a small orb. That orb was the dwarf’s eye, whom he now beheld standing in his presence as before.

“ ‘It is enough! Thou shalt make use of thy power,’ said Don Rolando. ‘She is on yonder couch.’

“ ‘The terms are the souls of the children she may bring thee,’ said the dwarf, without moving.

“Don Rolando started. He saw that his visitor was resolute. ‘It is but a contingency at the best,’ thought he. ‘I consent,’ he said hesitatingly.

“ ‘Lay thy thumb and forefinger upon my eyelid and it shall be thy oath,’ said the demon.

“Don Rolando did so. The dwarf then placed himself at the foot of the couch in shadow, so that his bright green eye alone was visible from it. It instantly arrested the maiden’s eyes and her glance was fascinated. In a few moments her vision was for ever darkened.

“The demon departed as suddenly as he had appeared, and Don Rolando stood by the couch of the blind maiden. He watched her motions. Her gaze was vacant and her hands moved like one who is in the dark.

“ ‘Alas, alas! whither am I borne? To what fate am I doomed? A moment since all was bright and gorgeous, and now all is dark as midnight. Ay de mi! Hapless vestal!’

“ ‘Nay, sweet lady,’ said Don Rolando, in a gentle tone, for though his visage was hideous his voice was soft and harmonious; ‘you are brought from the damp cells of a cloister to the halls of luxury and affluence—to a noble castle that waits to hail you as its mistress, and to a true knight’s home, who is ready to lay his heart and honor at your feet.’

“Thus and in like manner spoke Don Rolando. His soothing voice and tender speech at length won her ear, and she listened to him with pleasure. But the story of his wooing and nuptials, and of her submission to her blindness, for which she could not account, and which, be it mentioned here, did nothing mar her beauty, must be passed over. Years rolled by and Don Rolando had become the father of seven beautiful daughters, every one of whom had been born on a Christmas eve. He loved his lovely and sightless wife each succeeding year more and more. Blessings seemed to flow in upon him on every side. The only desire he now had, to complete his happiness, was for a son, that he might have him heir to his name and vast estates. But this wish he was never destined to see fulfilled.

“At length his eldest daughter reached her eighteenth year, and a neighboring young noble who had won her heart was to lead her to the altar on her birth-day eve. The bridal party were assembled, the rites were performed, and the hours of festivity flew on with joy and hope. The bride, who was scarcely less lovely than Henride’s, was in the midst of a waltz, when the castle clock tolled twelve. Ere the last stroke had ceased vibrating upon the ears of the banqueters, there entered the hall a tall dark stranger, in a green velvet dress richly studded with emeralds. In his bonnet was a sable plume fastened by an emerald that glowed like fire, and at his belt was a hunting horn. His aspect was noble and his face intellectual. His entrance drew nearly all eyes upon him. But there was something about him that made Don Rolando’s heart shrink with ominous foreboding. He strode across the hall to the spot where Don Rolando was seated, and said in a low tone—

“ ‘Don Rolando, I have come for thy daughter.’

“Don Rolando started back and looked him in the face for an instant, and then with a shriek fell backward in the arms of his attendants.

“Leaving him, the stranger then approached the bride as she yet circled in the waltz, for while in its giddy mazes she had not yet noticed his entrance. He stood near her and sought to catch her eye. He succeeded! Instantly she stopped as if paralyzed, and then, without turning her glance aside from his steady gaze, approached him. He receded from her as she did so, still keeping upon her his riveted gaze, which seemed to fascinate her like a serpent’s, for as he moved across the hall she followed him as if irresistibly drawn along solely by the power of his eye. He now took his way through the hall in the direction of the outer gate of the castle, steadily looking back towards her over his shoulder, while like a hound she continued to follow, step for step. All arrayed in her bridal robes and sparkling with jewels, with a face like death’s and eyes supernaturally dilated, she went on after him, looking neither to the right nor to the left. Poor maiden—without once removing his glance from her terrified eyes, the stranger passed out of the hall, descended the marble steps to the court below and crossed the court to the outer gate; and through hall, corridor, and court-yard, the charmed bride followed him, keeping the same distance behind until she disappeared after him through the portal. Of the guests all were at first paralyzed, and followed them at a distance, the boldest, nor even the bridegroom himself, having power to attempt her rescue. Slowly behind her they followed, with silent amazement and horror, ’till the ill-fated bride had disappeared through the gate when the spell that seemed to have bound all present was broken.

“ ‘Ho! cavaliers and gentlemen! To the rescue!’ was the universal cry.

“Ere they reached the gate they heard the receding footsteps of a horseman and the full cry of hounds as if a huntsman was scouring the country at the head of his pack. The sounds soon died away in a distant glen, and from that night forward nothing was ever heard of the bride that had been so strangely charmed away.

“The next day Don Rolando, who alone could unravel this mystery, sent ten thousand golden pistoles to the convent from whence he had abducted his wife nineteen years before, praying that masses might be nightly offered for his daughter’s soul.

“Two years elapsed, and time, which heals all things, had in some degree thrown over this event its oblivious veil, when the second daughter, not less lovely than the eldest, attained her eighteenth year, and on her birth-night was led to the altar by a noble Arragonese cavalier. As before it was a night of mirth and festivity. Alas, for it! When the clock struck twelve, the bride was just entering her bridal chamber. On the threshold she looked back to receive Don Rolando’s blessing when her eye encountered the fixed glance of the swart stranger. With a shudder she turned back from the very threshold of the bridal chamber and followed him at a short distance behind, through hall, court and corridor, to the outer gate of the castle. Again were heard, a moment afterwards, the huntsman and his hounds coursing up the glen, again the cavaliers present, ’till now spell bound, rushed forth to the rescue. But never from that time forward was there intelligence of the fate of the second daughter of Don Rolando Osormo.

“By a strange fatality the bridal night was always on the birthday night, which happened ever on Christmas eve, the anniversary of the night on which Don Rolando committed the sacrilege of abducting the novice.”

“Doubtless Holy Church had something to do with his terrible punishment in the loss of his daughters,” said Eugene Brissot.

Don Antonio Baradas smiled coldly and significantly and without replying continued—

“That these nupitals should be suffered to take place a second and a third time, after such a horrible consummation of them, is no less strange, than that the parties should be so little affected by circumstances that ought to have made a lasting impression on every mind. It would seem that Don Rolando and his friends and his daughters’ wooers, were, one and all afflicted with a judicial blindness. A third, a fourth, and a fifth bridal took place, with two years interval between each, with precisely the same results—the nightly appearance, at the stroke of twelve, of the dark stranger—the fascination of the bride—her submissive following, and disappearance, with the retiring sound of horse and hounds winding up the glen. What is most remarkable connected with this affair, was, that at each visit of the dark stranger, the sightless mother recovered her vision during the time he was present, but immediately lost it on his departure. At the loss of her fifth daughter she died of a broken heart for her bereavements.

“At length Don Rolando roused himself at this series of judgments, and resolved to avert the fate of his two remaining daughters, one of whom was sixteen and the other and youngest of all but six years of age. For this purpose he secretly left his castle and his native land, and came hither, as if the wide sea were a wall between justice and the adjudged. He built yonder solitary and gloomy mansion, and defended its portals with iron gates. He consecrated every stone with holy water, and in every threshold sunk a silver cross. The two years elapsed as before, and strange infatuation, he suffered his daughter to be led to the altar on her eighteenth birthday. A wealthy and high-born young Creole had wooed and won her. Don Rolando gave his consent, believing the power he dreaded would not reach him here. He wished too, with a resistless curiosity, to relieve his mind by the trial. He incurred the risk, and sacrificed his daughter!”

“Did the green stranger appear?” asked every voice.

“True to the hour and stroke of midnight. The bride followed him from the drawing rooms and across the lawn, and a moment afterwards the sound of horse and horn resounded along the winding shore ’till lost in the dark cypress forests to the south. The guests fled from the fatal halls in terror. But none could afterwards tell the tale or describe the scene. A spell seemed to have been laid upon their memories. All was confused and indistinct when they would recall it, but the impression of a supernatural presence there on that night remained uneffaced. From that time the ‘Haunted Villa’ became the scene of mysteries no man could unravel. The morning after this supernatural event, M. Vergniaud, at present our noble host, was surprized at the entrance of Don Rolando leading in his youthful daughter, a beautiful child in her eighth year. To him Don Rolando consigned her, after telling him the strange story you have heard me relate. With him he left keys to coffers of gold in the vaults of his mansion, and then blessing his daughter, took his leave of her for ever! He is now, as a rigid and holy monk, doing penance day and night in the monastery which he had so sacriligiously violated. Where is M. Vergniaud? Methinks I have not seen him present among you.”

A low groan now arrested every ear. A figure lay upon the ground in a kneeling posture—it was M. Vergniaud. He had fainted there at the first sight of the spectacle the Haunted Villa had presented. Ephèse had been to him as an own child. He felt that the curse had not departed from her race, and had fallen forward insensible, with a cry for mercy, mercy! for her on his lips. They lifted him up and laid him upon an ottoman. Those who assisted him were scarce more alive than himself. Don Antonio’s tale had filled the soul of every one that listened to it with horror. Henride Claviere, the bridegroom, stood before Don Antonio like a statue of stone, and all eyes were fixed upon the young Spaniard in silence. They expected something, they knew not what—but something that would harrow their senses and chill their blood. The connection of the fearful tale with the bride, was too plain to be mistaken.

“Let us save her or die with her, good Don Antonio,” cried Eugene Brissot.

“Hark! it is twelve o’clock!” they cried, in the deep voice of fearful expectation.

“It is the Cathedral bell! The saints preserve us!” fell from every pallid lip.

At the last stroke Don Antonio cast aside his silken cloak from his tall figure and stood before them the Green Huntsman—the Swart Stranger of his tale. Without a word he left them, and entering the drawing room from the verandah, crossed it to the door through which Ephèse had gone with her bridesmaids. It opened ere he touched it. Passing on he traversed a suite of lighted rooms until he came to the door of the nuptial chamber. Disrobed of her rich bridal attire, Ephèse was standing among her bridesmaids in a robe de chambre­­­­ and cap of snowy white, that made her look, if possible, still more lovely than ever. The door swung open and Don Antonio instantly fixed his eye upon hers and turned to leave the chamber. She clasped her hands together in agony, as if instinctively she knew her fate, and followed him. He did not keep his eyes upon her constantly, but strode forward without looking behind, as if satisfied she followed. Twice she stopped and stood still, wringing her hands supplicatingly. He had only to glance back over his shoulder, at such times, and she came crouching along close to his feet. Thus he led the ill-fated bride into the hall and forth upon the verandah. Here stood Henride—here stood Eugene Brissot and their friends. They beheld him advancing and saw him pass by close to the spot where they stood. They saw—oh, horror! oh, Heavenly pity! they saw too, the poor Ephèse following him—now stopping and wringing her snowy hands as he took his eyes from her, now as he turned and fixed them upon hers crouching and moving on mournfully in his fatal footsteps. Yet they could move neither hand nor foot to save her. Henride’s eyes followed his bride with a glassy stare, and the brave Eugene Brissot seemed divested of every vital function and sense save the single sense of horror. Thrice she tried to turn and look upon her husband, but each time his eye arrested the movement of her head and drew her still on after him. From the verandah they traversed the lawn, reached the gate and passed through it. The next moment was heard the galloping of horse, the sound of hounds, and those on the verandah distinctly beheld the Green Huntsman riding like the wind in the direction of the Haunted Villa, bearing before him in his saddle the hapless victim bride. As he rode they saw his form change, (for he seemed to emit a horrid shining light that exhibited him as plainly as noon day to their vision) and assume the form of a hideous dwarf. On rode the demon and his victim, and on followed the pack of black hounds, baying in full cry. All at once the Haunted Villa became illuminated as before, with a red glare through window, portal and crevice, while again the writhing tongue of green flame lapped the air and shed a baleful light a league around.

The demon with his victim borne before him and followed by his whole sable pack, now turned into the lawn and rode towards the infernal mansion, at the wildest speed. Without pausing they all, rider, victim, horse and hound, dashed through the yawning portal and leaped into the midst of the glowing furnace. Shrieks and yells most piercing and appalling rent the air; the flames were suddenly extinguished, and in an instant darkness and terrible gloom shrouded the spot where a moment before seemed to yawn the sulphurous mouth of hell.

Such is the legend of the “Haunted Villa;” and such is the penalty of a parent’s crime, which sooner or later Heaven will punish, even to making wicked spirits the instruments of its just vengeance. This will be more apparent when the end of the wicked Don Rolando is seen, which will be narrated in a subsequent legend.