CHAPTER XX.

"Oh! Clifford, how thy words revive my heart!"

King Henry VI.

"Villains!" cried a deep, powerful voice, as a huge form met them, in full career, staggering through the darkness; "villains! unhand this girl, or, by Heavens, you'll rue the hour you ever placed a finger on her."

"Help! help!"

"And who are you, I'd like to know, that dares to put his finger in our p-p-pie?" returned Quirk, trying to dash past the tall figure with his burden.

"I am one that dares to protect defenceless virtue, whenever I see it thus assailed. This girl is not what you take her for, or she would never cry for help; and I tell you to put her down, or I will make you,"

returned the other, lifting his strong arm, and still preventing them from passing.

The girl struggled in the grasp of her captors, and moaned.

The new comer sprang forward with a bound, and clasping his arms about her, strove to draw her from their hold.

"Not so fast, not so fast," said Clinton, placing one hand over the girl's mouth; "remember we're three to one here, and if you don't want your head broke, you'd better keep away."

"That's the kind," said Arthur, coming forward; "hold on to her, Clin--"

The words were no sooner spoken, than the speaker fell to the pavement, leveled by a heavy blow from the arm of the intruder, and a second blow sent Quirk, staggering, into the gutter, while at the same moment the girl was snatched from the now yielding arms of Clinton.

As she gained her feet, she flung back her hair from her eyes, and looked up in the face of her rescuer.

"Monsieur Wilkins!"

"Good Heavens! is this Blanche?"

At the mention of Wilkins' name, Arthur and Quirk sprang to their feet, and started on a run down the street, followed by Clinton.

"A devilish muss this," cried Quirk, as they paused on a corner, a few blocks from the scene of their discomfiture.

"It was too dark for him to recognize a soul of us," returned Clinton; "if it hadn't been for the lamp gleam coming suddenly through that window, she would not have known him."

"I hope he didn't know me," said Arthur, rubbing his forehead, which had struck the pavement as he fell, and feeling considerably sobered by his fall, and the recent flight. "I don't want this scrape to go back to Guly."

"Who's that? your young milk-and-water brother! Pshaw! what does he know about the fun of such things? If you want to enjoy yourself, I advise you to keep your sprees a secret from him; he has no soul to appreciate such affairs."

"You are more than half right there."

"He's the kind of character I can't bear to be near," said Quirk, emphatically.

"You couldn't pay him a higher compliment than to say that," returned Arthur, warmly.

"Well, well, don't get into a miff about a trifle now. Clint, where shall we go to?"

"I shall go home, I reckon; my head aches," said Arthur.

"No, you won't go home either," replied Clinton, pulling him along with him, good-naturedly. "Let's make a night of it, now we have begun. What do you say for the Globe ball-room? There's a high affair there to-night, and

'We'll dance all night till broad daylight, And go home with the gals in the morning.'"

"Agreed," said Quirk; "come along, Pratt. Your foot's in, and it'll be dirty, whether you pull it out first or last; you may as well have the good of it."

With a heart responding to this idea, Arthur suffered his companions each to take an arm, and went on with them to the Globe ball-room. The haggard ghost, the pale figure of warning and remorse, was gone for ever from Arthur's heart.

Wilkins, the moment he discovered who it was he had rescued, gave scarce a thought to the flight of those who had opposed him; but, with a gush of thankfulness in his heart, he drew Blanche's arm within his, and led her back toward her own house.

"How came you to be in the street at this hour, Miss? Do you know it is after midnight, and young girls like you are never safe in these streets at such hours?"

"Oh, sir," said Blanche, bursting into tears, "my grandpapa was taken very ill. I had no one to send, you know, and of course I had to go for assistance myself. I looked all up and down the street, and saw nobody, not even a watch-man; so I put on my cloak, and ran for the doctor. He wasn't home; so I went a little further to see old Elise, who always gives me medicine that helps grandpapa, and she detained me a little while preparing it; and when I came out, _they_ came behind me; I tried my very best to run away, but I fell down, and they caught me. Oh, Mon Dieu! Monsieur! what if you hadn't come just as you did!"

"You would have been a most miserable little girl, without doubt, Miss Blanche."

"I can never thank you enough, Monsieur."

"You can repay me by never going out at such a time again."

"And when another case comes just as extreme, Mr. Wilkins, what can I do? I couldn't let poor grandpapa die, could I?"

There was such an earnest intonation of voice in these words, and such a simple innocence of manner, that Wilkins couldn't repress a smile.

"If I furnish you with a tidy little black girl, will you take good care of her, Miss Blanche, and let _her_ do your errands?"

"Oh, Monsieur, that would be too much for you to do."

"No; I own a number of slaves, and the daughter of one of them is too young to be put out to a place, and is just old enough to work for you."

"You are so very kind!"

By this time they had reached Blanche's home, and as she tripped up the steps, she said:--

"Come and see grandpapa to-morrow, Mr. Wilkins; and let him thank you for his kindness to his little house-keeper."

"I will come, Miss Blanche."

"And, Monsieur," she added, coming out again after she had passed into the door, "bring Guly with you, won't you?"

"Oui, Mademoiselle."

The door closed, and Wilkins passed on, thoughtfully, towards Royal-street. In the excitement of the recent adventure, he had almost forgotten what had called him forth at that time of night, and now walked on, like one who wanders forth purposeless, into darkness and solitude. But suddenly, in passing a brilliantly lighted cafe, the thought of Arthur crossed his mind; and, for the first time, the idea flashed upon him, that he might have been one of those concerned in the capture of little Blanche.

He stopped short, and was about to turn back, to endeavor to trace the fugitives, when he remembered that Arthur had as yet but just commenced the downward path, and that he could not already have become so fallen as to commit so base an act as that which he had just witnessed. It had been too dark to recognize faces, and his own excitement had prevented him from thinking to notice the voices; and the more he thought of it, the more convinced was he that Arthur was not among them. He had sat with Guly by the fire until the midnight hour had passed, waiting for Arthur's return; but when the fire died out, and the lamp faded, and he still was absent, he persuaded Guly to go to bed, promising that he would seek his brother before he slept. Guly would fain have accompanied him, but Wilkins induced him to remain, not wishing to familiarize the pure heart of his boy-friend with the scenes in which he felt convinced he must look for the wanderer.

Wilkins faithfully kept his word, and left no place unsearched wherein he thought it possible to find Arthur. He believed he would find him in some one of the popular places of resort, standing ever open, with their false glitter and dangerous splendor, to lure their victims to destruction. But 'the wee small hour ayont the twal' found him still searching, and still unsuccessful.