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Cloud Computing
Concepts, Technology, Security, and Architecture

Second Edition

Thomas Erl
Eric Barcelo

Pearson
Contents at a Glance

Chapter 1 Introduction
Chapter 2 Case Study Background
Chapter 3 Understanding Cloud Computing
Part I Fundamental Cloud Computing
Chapter 4 Fundamental Concepts and Models
Chapter 5 Cloud-Enabling Technology
Chapter 6 Understanding Containerization
Chapter 7 Understanding Cloud Security and Cybersecurity
Part II Cloud Computing Mechanisms
Chapter 8 Cloud Infrastructure Mechanisms
Chapter 9 Specialized Cloud Mechanisms
Chapter 10 Cloud and Cybersecurity Access-Oriented
Mechanisms
Chapter 11 Cloud and Cyber Security Data-Oriented
Mechanisms
Chapter 12 Cloud Management Mechanisms
Part III Cloud Computing Architecture
Chapter 13 Fundamental Cloud Architectures
Chapter 14 Advanced Cloud Architectures
Chapter 15 Specialized Cloud Architectures
Part IV Working with Clouds
Chapter 16 Cloud Delivery Model Considerations
 Chapter 17 Cost Metrics and Pricing Models
Chapter 18 Service Quality Metrics and SLAs
Part V Appendices
Appendix A Case Study Conclusions
Appendix B Common Containerization Technologies
Table of Contents

Chapter 1 Introduction
1.1 Objectives of This Book
1.2 What This Book Does Not Cover
1.3 Who This Book Is For
1.4 How This Book Is Organized
1.5 Resources
Chapter 2 Case Study Background
2.1 Case Study #1: ATN
2.2 Case Study #2: DTGOV
2.3 Case Study #3: Innovartus Technologies Inc.
Chapter 3 Understanding Cloud Computing
3.1 Origins and Influences
3.2 Basic Concepts and Terminology
3.3 Goals and Benefits
3.4 Risks and Challenges
Part I Fundamental Cloud Computing
Chapter 4 Fundamental Concepts and Models
4.1 Roles and Boundaries
4.2 Cloud Characteristics
4.3 Cloud Delivery Models
4.4 Cloud Deployment Models
Chapter 5 Cloud-Enabling Technology
 5.1 Networks and Internet Architecture
5.2 Cloud Data Center Technology
5.3 Modern Virtualization
5.4 Multitenant Technology
5.5 Service Technology and Service APIs
5.6 Case Study Example
Chapter 6 Understanding Containerization
6.1 Origins and Influences
6.2 Fundamental Virtualization and Containerization
6.3 Understanding Containers
6.4 Understanding Container Images
6.5 Multi-Container Types
6.6 Case Study Example
Chapter 7 Understanding Cloud Security and Cybersecurity
7.1 Basic Security Terminology
7.2 Basic Threat Terminology
7.3 Threat Agents
7.4 Common Threats
7.5 Case Study Example
7.6 Additional Considerations
7.7 Case Study Example
Part II Cloud Computing Mechanisms
Chapter 8 Cloud Infrastructure Mechanisms
8.1 Logical Network Perimeter
 8.2 Virtual Server
8.3 Hypervisor
8.4 Cloud Storage Device
8.5 Cloud Usage Monitor
8.6 Resource Replication
8.7 Ready-Made Environment
8.8 Container
Chapter 9 Specialized Cloud Mechanisms
9.1 Automated Scaling Listener
9.2 Load Balancer
9.3 SLA Monitor
9.4 Pay-Per-Use Monitor
9.5 Audit Monitor
9.6 Failover System
9.7 Resource Cluster
9.8 Multi-Device Broker
9.9 State Management Database
Chapter 10 Cloud and Cybersecurity Access-Oriented
Mechanisms
10.1 Encryption
10.2 Hashing
10.3 Digital Signature
10.4 Cloud-Based Security Groups
10.5 Public Key Infrastructure (PKI) System
 10.6 Single Sign-On (SSO) System
10.7 Hardened Virtual Server Image
10.8 Firewall
10.9 Virtual Private Network (VPN)
10.10 Biometric Scanner
10.11 Multi-Factor Authentication (MFA) System
10.12 Identity and Access Management (IAM) System
10.13 Intrusion Detection System (IDS)
10.14 Penetration Testing Tool
10.15 User Behavior Analytics (UBA) System
10.16 Third-Party Software Update Utility
10.17 Network Intrusion Monitor
10.18 Authentication Log Monitor
10.19 VPN Monitor
10.20 Additional Cloud Security Access-Oriented Practices
and Technologies
Chapter 11 Cloud and Cyber Security Data-Oriented
Mechanisms
11.1 Digital Virus Scanning and Decryption System
11.2 Digital Immune System
11.3 Malicious Code Analysis System
11.4 Data Loss Prevention (DLP) System
11.5 Trusted Platform Module (TPM)
11.6 Data Backup and Recovery System
 11.7 Activity Log Monitor
11.8 Traffic Monitor
11.9 Data Loss Protection Monitor
Chapter 12 Cloud Management Mechanisms
12.1 Remote Administration System
12.2 Resource Management System
12.3 SLA Management System
12.4 Billing Management System
Part III Cloud Computing Architecture
Chapter 13 Fundamental Cloud Architectures
13.1 Workload Distribution Architecture
13.2 Resource Pooling Architecture
13.3 Dynamic Scalability Architecture
13.4 Elastic Resource Capacity Architecture
13.5 Service Load Balancing Architecture
13.6 Cloud Bursting Architecture
13.7 Elastic Disk Provisioning Architecture
13.8 Redundant Storage Architecture
13.9 Multi-Cloud Architecture
13.10 Case Study Example
Chapter 14 Advanced Cloud Architectures
14.1 Hypervisor Clustering Architecture
14.2 Virtual Server Clustering Architecture
14.3 Load Balanced Virtual Server Instances Architecture
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 14.4 Non-Disruptive Service Relocation Architecture
14.5 Zero Downtime Architecture
14.6 Cloud Balancing Architecture
14.7 Resilient Disaster Recovery Architecture
14.8 Distributed Data Sovereignty Architecture
14.9 Resource Reservation Architecture
14.10 Dynamic Failure Detection and Recovery
Architecture
14.11 Rapid Provisioning Architecture
14.12 Storage Workload Management Architecture
14.13 Virtual Private Cloud Architecture
14.14 Case Study Example
Chapter 15 Specialized Cloud Architectures
15.1 Direct I/O Access Architecture
15.2 Direct LUN Access Architecture
15.3 Dynamic Data Normalization Architecture
15.4 Elastic Network Capacity Architecture
15.5 Cross-Storage Device Vertical Tiering Architecture
15.6 Intra-Storage Device Vertical Data Tiering
Architecture
15.7 Load Balanced Virtual Switches Architecture
15.8 Multipath Resource Access Architecture
15.9 Persistent Virtual Network Configuration
Architecture
 15.10 Redundant Physical Connection for Virtual Servers
Architecture
15.11 Storage Maintenance Window Architecture
15.12 Edge Computing Architecture
15.13 Fog Computing Architecture
Part IV Working with Clouds
Chapter 16 Cloud Delivery Model Considerations
16.1 Cloud Delivery Models: The Cloud Provider
Perspective
16.2 Cloud Delivery Models: The Cloud Consumer
Perspective
16.3 Case Study Example
Chapter 17 Cost Metrics and Pricing Models
17.1 Business Cost Metrics
17.2 Cloud Usage Cost Metrics
17.3 Cost Management Considerations
Chapter 18 Service Quality Metrics and SLAs
18.1 Service Quality Metrics
18.2 Case Study Example
18.3 SLA Guidelines
18.4 Case Study Example
Part V Appendices
Appendix A Case Study Conclusions
A.1 ATN
 A.2 DTGOV
A.3 Innovartus
Appendix B Common Containerization Technologies
B.1 Docker
B.2 Kubernetes
Chapter 1

Introduction

1.1 Objectives of This Book

1.2 What This Book Does Not Cover

1.3 Who This Book Is For

1.4 How This Book Is Organized

1.5 Resources

Cloud computing is, at its essence, a form of service provisioning. As

with any type of service we intend to hire or outsource (IT-related or
otherwise), it is commonly understood that we will be confronted
with a marketplace comprised of service providers of varying quality
and reliability. Some may offer attractive rates and terms, but may
have unproven business histories or highly proprietary environments.
Others may have a solid business background, but may demand
higher rates and less flexible terms. Others yet, may simply be
insincere or temporary business ventures that unexpectedly
disappear or are acquired within a short period of time.
There is no greater danger to a business than approaching cloud
computing adoption with ignorance. The magnitude of a failed
adoption effort not only correspondingly impacts IT departments,
but can actually regress a business to a point where it finds itself
steps behind from where it was prior to the adoption—and, perhaps,
even more steps behind competitors that have been successful at
achieving their goals in the meantime.

Cloud computing has much to offer but its roadmap is riddled with
pitfalls, ambiguities, and mistruths. The best way to navigate this
landscape is to chart each part of the journey by making educated
decisions about how and to what extent your project should
proceed. The scope of an adoption is equally important to its
approach, and both of these aspects need to be determined by
business requirements. Not by a product vendor, not by a cloud
vendor, and not by self-proclaimed cloud experts. Your organization’s
business goals must be fulfilled in a concrete and measurable
manner with each completed phase of the adoption. This validates
your scope, your approach, and the overall direction of the project.
In other words, it keeps your project aligned.

Gaining a vendor-neutral understanding of cloud computing from an

industry perspective empowers you with the clarity necessary to
determine what is factually cloud-related and what is not, as well as
what is relevant to your business requirements and what is not. With
this information you can establish criteria that will allow you to filter
out the parts of the cloud computing product and service provider
marketplaces to focus on what has the most potential to help you
and your business to succeed. We developed this book to assist you
with this goal.

—Thomas Erl

1.1 Objectives of This Book

This book is the result of much research and analysis of the

commercial cloud computing industry, cloud computing vendor
platforms, and further innovation and contributions made by cloud
computing industry standards organizations and practitioners. The
purpose of this book is to break down proven and mature cloud
computing technologies and practices into a series of well-defined
concepts, models, and technology mechanisms and architectures.
The resulting chapters establish concrete, academic coverage of
fundamental aspects of cloud computing concepts and technologies.
The range of topics covered is documented using vendor-neutral
terms and descriptions, carefully defined to ensure full alignment
with the cloud computing industry as a whole.

1.2 What This Book Does Not Cover

 Due to the vendor-neutral basis of this book, it does not contain any
significant coverage of cloud computing vendor products, services,
or technologies. This book is complementary to other titles that
provide product-specific coverage and to vendor product literature
itself. If you are new to the commercial cloud computing landscape,
you are encouraged to use this book as a starting point before
proceeding to books and courses that are proprietary to vendor
product lines.

1.3 Who This Book Is For

This book is aimed at the following target audience:

• IT practitioners and professionals who require vendor-neutral

coverage of cloud computing technologies, concepts, mechanisms,
and models

• IT managers and decision-makers who seek clarity regarding the

business and technological implications of cloud computing

• professors and students and educational institutions that require

well-researched and well-defined academic coverage of fundamental
cloud computing topics

• business managers who need to assess the potential economic gains

and viability of adopting cloud computing resources
• technology architects and developers who want to understand the
different moving parts that comprise contemporary cloud platforms

1.4 How This Book Is Organized

The book begins with Chapters 1 and 2 providing introductory

content and background information for the case studies. All
subsequent chapters are organized into the following parts:

• Part I: Fundamental Cloud Computing

• Part II: Cloud Computing Mechanisms

• Part III: Cloud Computing Architecture

• Part IV: Working with Clouds

• Part V: Appendices

Part I: Fundamental Cloud Computing

The five chapters in this part cover introductory topics in preparation

for all subsequent chapters. Note that Chapters 3 and 4 do not
contain case study content.
Chapter 3: Understanding Cloud Computing

Following a brief history of cloud computing and a discussion of

business drivers and technology innovations, basic terminology and
concepts are introduced, along with descriptions of common benefits
and challenges of cloud computing adoption.

Chapter 4: Fundamental Concepts and Models

Cloud delivery and cloud deployment models are discussed in detail,

following sections that establish common cloud characteristics and
roles and boundaries.

Chapter 5: Cloud-Enabling Technology

Contemporary technologies that realize modern-day cloud computing

platforms and innovations are discussed, including data centers,
virtualization, containerization, and Web-based technologies.

Chapter 6: Understanding Containerization

A comparison of virtualization and containerization is provided, along

with in-depth coverage of containerization environments and
components.
Chapter 7: Understanding Cloud Security and Cybersecurity

Cloud security and cybersecurity topics and concepts relevant and

distinct to cloud computing are introduced, including descriptions of
common cloud security threats and attacks.

Part II: Cloud Computing Mechanisms

Technology mechanisms represent well-defined IT artifacts that are

established within an IT industry and commonly distinct to a certain
computing model or platform. The technology-centric nature of cloud
computing requires the establishment of a formal level of
mechanisms to be able to explore how solutions can be assembled
via different combinations of mechanism implementations.

This part formally documents over 50 technology mechanisms that

are used within cloud environments to enable generic and
specialized forms of functionality. Each mechanism description is
accompanied by a case study example that demonstrates its usage.
The utilization of select mechanisms is further explored throughout
the technology architectures covered in Part III.

Chapter 8: Cloud Infrastructure Mechanisms

Technology mechanisms foundational to cloud platforms are

covered, including Logical Network Perimeter, Virtual Server, Cloud
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Other documents randomly have
different content
defying giant, impotently melting away in fantastic dissolution. In
another they were a long cohort of crouching lions looking out of
their manes. Below the zenith, before him, a solitary cloud shaped
itself into a vapory hydra; beyond, another wore the semblance of
some mongrel dragon of the air; and all were sphinxine, monstrous,
dazzling, wonderful—a phantasmagoric rack of intervolved chimeras.
With such a pageant bright and wild above his head, and with a
feeling corresponsive to it all within his mind, he strode on through
the quiet streets of the neighborhood, and arrived at his house in
Chambers street. For some reason or other, the Captain had not yet
arrived, and, expecting him presently, after a minute’s kindly chat
with Hannah and Sophy, he went into his own apartment.
The afternoon sun lay bright and cheerful within the room where
he had spent so many sweet and studious hours, but the first thing
he saw on entering, brought night and winter on his heart. Below
the empty pedestal, the bust of the beloved Verulam lay shattered to
fragments on the floor. His head sunk upon his breast, and he stood
sadly gazing upon the ruin. He did not grieve for the loss of the
treasured statue; he did not even remember to think how the
accident could have occurred; all considerations were lost in the
feeling of mournful significance which swept over his burning brain,
as he brooded on the broken image of the majestic Lord of
Civilization.
A few moments he gazed upon the wreck with a face of marble;
then, suddenly, his features became convulsed, and his eyes filled
with tears.
“It is well, it is well!” he cried, in a transport of passionate sorrow.
“Oh image, why should you stand there when the shamed land has
lost her breed of noble blood, and civilization sleeps, and tyranny
darkens back upon the world! Well may you lie shattered, for all that
is human and holy is shattered too. Why should I keep you in this
base city, where all that is noble rests in the grave, or lives a dying
life in the forlorn grapple with hell! Fade, fade, large memories of
saints and martyrs—drop, statues of heroes—melt, phantoms of old
honor from the pictured wall—away, and yield your places to the
forms of clowns and knaves! Come, you artists,” he raved, in
passionate bitterness—“come, you dilettante bastards—come, you
anatomies, whom the ghost of Angelo mocks and scorns—here is
work for you. God! the serpentry and maggotry of Power are all
before you! Choose from them—choose from them—mould us
statues of slavers, paint us pictures of kidnappers, to fill the vacant
places! Down with the just and great—up with the small and vile!”
Quivering with the tempest of his agony, he tottered away, and
flinging himself into his chair, covered his face with his hands.
A few minutes trailed by in deep stillness. Gradually he became
calm, and his hands dropped from his white and sorrowful features.
“I waste my heart in grief,” he mournfully murmured. “It will pass,
it will pass. Oh, winter of Slavery you will pass, and the spring-time
of Freedom will emerge. It is but a season—only a season. Patience,
patience, patience.”
He sat for a little while, then rose, gathered up and laid out of
sight the fragments of the statue, bore the pedestal up-stairs, and
returning resumed his chair.
The minutes were wearing on in deep silence when a low knock
came to the door.
“Enter,” cried Harrington, looking up from his mournful musing.
The door opened and revealed the grotesque and sloven figure of
Bagasse. He had on an old swallow-tailed coat, and wore his usual
dingy cap, with the visor turned down, under which his swarthy,
upturned face, with the mustachioed, lion mouth open in a curious
smile, and the nose adorned with the horn-rimmed goggles, pointed
with suave inquiry at Harrington, while the hand performed a
military salute.
“Why, Bagasse!” cried Harrington, smiling, and rising from his
chair to cross over and shake hands—“how are you? Come in. I’m
glad to see you.”
 “Ah, Missr Harrington,” returned the old soldier, entering and
bowing low with a quick motion, over the hand he grasped in his, “I
am vair glad to see you. I haf not see you for so long. Zen I fancee
you are seek, and I call zoo be vair sure zat it is not zat keep you
from ze acadamee. How is you helt? Br-r-r! Sacrebleu! but you haf
been seek, eh?” he cried, with a sudden commiseration, expressed
by a shrug of his shoulders, a lift of his eyebrows, and a startled
grimace of his features, as he noticed the whiteness of Harrington’s
countenance. “Mon Dieu! you is vair pale wis you eye circle wis ze
dark color! O my fren’ Missr Harrington, was is ze mattair wis you?”
A little moisture gathered in Harrington’s eyes at the pathetic
anxiety of the old man’s look and voice, but he smiled cheerfully, and
shook his head.
“No, Bagasse,” he replied, “I am not sick. I am as well as I have
ever been. Come, take a seat.”
Bagasse removed his cap, and sitting on the sofa, kept his
upturned visage pointed in dubious inquiry at Harrington, who had
resumed his chair.
“You know I have been married,” said Harrington smilingly.
“Marry! No! Mon Dieu, no! I haf not hear zat!” exclaimed Bagasse,
with a start, and his bright eye glowing from a flushed visage.
“Yes,” replied Harrington. “To that beautiful rich lady Mr. Witherlee
told you of.”
Bagasse turned the color of heated iron, partly with joy at this
intelligence, partly with wonder at Harrington’s knowledge of what
had passed between himself and Witherlee.
“By dam!” he exclaimed suddenly, “I am so glad I haf ze desire
zoo dance like ze vair devail! But how you know what zat pup
Witterly—ex-cuse me, Missr Harrington, but zat is vair bad young
man—ah, vair bad!—how you know what he say zoo me?”
“No matter, Bagasse,” returned Harrington, smiling, “we won’t talk
of that. But my wife heard of what you said to him—you remember?
—what you said you would tell me if you were her—and she said
that to me. Yes, she did.”
Bagasse, with his grotesque ferruginous face all aglow with a
dozen emotions, sprang up with a stamp which shook the room,
dropped into his seat again, and slapped his heart with his hand.
“Hah!” he hoarsely cried, “it is superb! By dam! I sall fly. My heart
is too big for his box. And zat beautifool, rich, vair, fine ladee say
zat? Sublime! She is great, she is grand, she is more zan ze great
Empress Josephine of ze great Nap-oleon. Ah, Hypolite Bagasse my
frien’, you haf ze biggest compliment I sall evair hear!”
“You must see my wife, Bagasse,” continued Harrington. “She
feels very grateful to you, first for defending me from poor
Witherlee’s talk”—
“Sacre!” growled Bagasse, interrupting, “I catch zat pup Witterly in
my acadamee once more, and I break him in two pieces ovair my
knee!”
“No,” said Harrington, gently, “for my sake, don’t touch him. He
has been punished enough already. Say that you won’t touch him,
Bagasse.”
“Missr Harrington, I do evairysing you want,” replied the pacified
fencing-master. “You say let Witterly off, I let him off. I treat him wis
civilitee.”
“That’s right,” returned Harrington; “do. But as I was saying, my
wife feels especially grateful to you for having given her the
charming idea of making that speech to me, and she wants to see
you, and know you, and thank you herself. So the first opportunity I
get, I am going to take you to her house.”
Bagasse turned swarthy-red at this, and looked embarrassed.
“Pardon me, Missr Harrington—ex-cuse me, sir, please,” he said,
with suave shamefacedness, bowing low as he sat. “But it is too
mush honor—vair many too mush. You beautifool, vair, fine, ladee
wife, she is so high, she is so distingué, she is ze count-ess, ze duch-
ess, ze queen. She is so far up like ze beautifool sun. I am so low
down like ze paving-stone ze sun shine on. You zink now! I am ze
poor old fencing-mastair—ze man zat eat ze garleek and drink ze
brandee-bottel—ze ugly old devail Bagasse, so low down. Br-r-r-r! It
is not propair zat I make ze viseet zoo ze vair, fine, beautifool rich
ladee-wife—I, zee poor way low down child of ze people. Sacrebleu,
no!”
“Oh, Bagasse, Bagasse,” said Harrington, in a tone of good
natured chiding, “fie upon you to talk in that way! Suppose my wife
is the sun, as you say. Well, the sun is a democrat. The sun shines
as sweetly on you as on the emperor. Now my wife is like the sun in
that particular at least. Ah, Bagasse, she, too, is a child of the
people, and she will be proud to know a man who could make the
manly speech you made! She is not a lady who respects coats and
bank-stock, but heart, honor, manhood. Come, now, you fancy her a
bit of a Marie Antoinette. Not at all, Bagasse. Think of that dear child
of the people whom Frenchmen love—Josephine. That is a better
image of her. Don’t say a word—you shall visit her, and then you’ll
see how much at home she’ll make you feel.”
All which Harrington said in French that Bagasse might perfectly
understand him. The old man sat, with a touched face, looking at
the floor for some time after the young scholar had ceased to speak.
Looking up, at length, with an unsteady eye, he saw that the sad,
introverted expression had returned to the pallid features before
him. In fact, Harrington’s thoughts had dropped away to the trouble
on his mind, and he was wondering why the Captain did not come.
“Missr Harrington,” said Bagasse, in a voice, a little lower and
hoarser than usual, “you make me vair proud—you do me vair mush
honor. But ah, my joay haf mush melancolee wis him, for you look
so pale, so bad. Ex-cuse me, Missr Harrington—but was is ze mattair
wis you? Why, you look so white, so sorrowfool? Ah, tell you old
Bagasse zat he may say ze leetel word wis comfort in him! You
marry ze beautifool, dear ladee wife—mon Dieu! zat sall make you
so happy zan evairybody. Why zen you haf zat face? Zat is not ze
face for ze new husband—sacrebleu, no! Now why is zat?”
Harrington paused a moment before replying, struggling to
repress the agitation he felt not only at the rude tenderness of the
old Frenchman’s words and manner, but at the aching sense it
brought him of the grief that had clouded his sweet and perfect
happiness.
“Don’t ask me, Bagasse,” he faltered. “Kind old friend, I wish I
could tell you, but there are reasons”—
A low knock at the door made him break off in the midst of his
sentence.
“No, don’t go,” he said to the fencing-master, who had moved to
rise. “Come in,” he cried.
The door opened slowly, and to the astonishment of Harrington,
Driscoll the stevedore entered. Harrington smiled vaguely, and bent
his head with an absent and wondering air in reply to the abashed
and awkward bow the Irishman made as he came in.
“Why, Mr. Driscoll,” he said, slowly, “I didn’t expect to see you,
though I’m glad you came. Take a chair. How are you?”
“Purty well, thank ye kindly, Mr. Harrington,” replied Driscoll,
taking off his old straw hat, and wiping his forehead with his coat
sleeve, without looking at the young man.
Harrington, wondering at his curious air of awkward bashfulness,
and beginning to feel a rising perturbation, as he remembered that
he had seen the man in Atkins’ office not long before, blankly stared
at him. He was a strong, thick-set, stooping man, dressed in coarse
canvas trowsers, all stained with pitch and dirt; a soiled red flannel
shirt; and a short frowsy old coat with large horn buttons. He had
what is commonly called a thoroughly Irish face—which means not
the Irish face of Jeremy Taylor or Edmund Burke, but the face of an
Irish peasant after despotism, political, social, and religious, has
wrought on him and his ancestry for a certain period, giving him
some abjectness, some lawlessness, some clownishness, some
stupidity, some insensibility, an aspect of hard work and poor fare
and low condition, and degrading his forehead, clouding his eye,
lowering his nose, making his lips loose, his gums prominent, his
cheeks scrawny, his throat scraggy, and barbarizing the manhood of
him generally. Such, with the addition of tan and freckles got from
labor in the sun, and also the grime and sweat of that labor, was the
visage of Driscoll. The only other thing Harrington noticed about him
was that he kept his left hand tightly clenched while he wiped his
face with the rough sleeve of his right arm.
“Well,” continued Harrington, after a pause, “how goes it, Mr.
Driscoll? How is your wife? And the children? And how is the broken
leg? Won’t you sit down?”
“They’re all purty well, sur, thank ye kindly,” returned Driscoll,
ducking his head continuously as he spoke, and moving up to the
table. “And the leg’s sthrong as a post, glory be to God, sur. Sorra
the word o’ lie in it, but it’s yerself that it’s owin’ to, and divil a leg
I’d have to stand on this minit widout you, Mr. Harrington.”
“Oh, well,” said Harrington, smiling; “I’m glad you’re over that
trouble. But you came up to tell me something, I suppose. Did—did
Mr. Atkins send you?”
“Deed he did not, sur,” replied Driscoll. “I kem up to make bowld
to ask ye something, Mr. Harrington, if ye wouldn’t think it an
offince, sur,” he added, with a furtive sidelook at Bagasse, who sat
with an upturned face of curious interrogation levelled at him.
“Certainly not,” replied Harrington. “No offence at all. Ask away.
Never mind my friend, there.”
“Bad scran to me if I wor to mind a frind o’ yours, sur,” returned
Driscoll, coming close up to the edge of the table, and looking
uneasily at Harrington. “It’s a quistion I’ll make bowld to ask ye, sur.”
“Well, ask on,” said Harrington, blankly gazing at him, with a
mounting color, and his heart beating painfully with a blind
clairvoyant sense of what was coming.
 “Are ye,” confidentially asked the stevedore, with considerable burr
on the “are”—“are ye opposed, sur, to it’s bein’ done?”
Harrington started so violently, and turned so pale, that Bagasse
sprang to his feet, and Driscoll’s face grew stupid with surprise.
“To what being done?” gasped Harrington. “Speak quick. Tell me
what you mean?”
“Are ye opposed, sur, to ould Atkins sendin’ off the durty negur?
That’s what I mane,” said Driscoll.
“I am!” cried Harrington, with a lightning look at Bagasse, and a
wish that he was out of the room.
Driscoll looked at the table, and looking at it, slowly swung up his
clenched left fist like one pelting a pool, and hurled a twenty dollar
gold piece ringing on the cloth.
“Then I’m dommed if I’ll do it,” he exultingly howled, with a thump
of his fist on the money. “Hurroo for the bridge that carries us over,
and it’s you that wor the bridge of goold to me and the ould woman
and the childher in the black hour, Mr. Harrington. Ould Atkins and
his money to the divil, and bad scran to him and his for an ould
robber, for I’m dommed if I’ll do wan thing that ye are opposed to,
sur. Arrah, bad look to him, and may he niver know glory, for the
black thafe o’ the world that he is; but it’s yerself that dhressed him
down thremindous this blissed day, Mr. Harrington. Troth, but it’s the
good blood that’s in the Harringtons, and kings and imperors they
wor in the ould country wanst, and sorra the word o’ lie in it!”
With which highly apocryphal assertion, Driscoll’s excited outburst
ceased, and he fell to wiping his heated face, first with one coat-
sleeve and then with the other.
Harrington rose from his seat, white as death, his nostrils heaving
and his eyes aflame.
“Bagasse,” he said, “will you be kind enough to leave me”— He
stopped, touched by the look of tender sympathy on the grotesque
face of the fencing-master. “No,” he cried, “don’t go. Stay with me.
You shall know it—you shall know what it is that is killing me. But tell
me,” he pursued, speaking in French, “tell me, on the honor of a
soldier, that you will never breathe one word of this to any living
being, for it is a secret which must be kept close as the grave.”
Bagasse struck hands with him with passionate and martial
energy.
“I swear it,” he hoarsely cried in French. “Let me know it, for I
cannot bear to see you suffer, and if I can help you, I will!”
“Good!” exclaimed Harrington. “Driscoll, attend to me. Where is
that negro?”
“They’ve got him, sur, in the cuddy of a boat down on Spectacle
Island,” replied the stevedore, frightened into conciseness by the
stern voice and flaming eyes of Harrington.
“Who are they that have him? Men employed by Atkins?”
“Yes, sur. Siven o’ thim, sur. It’s me that wor to be eight.”
“Seven men paid by Atkins. Who are they? Stevedores?”
“Stevedores and sailors, sur. Twinty dollars apiece they get for it,
sur.”
“What are they doing with him there?”
“Howlding on to him, sur, till the Soliman sails. She’s to heave to,
and take him on board, sur.”
“When does the Soliman sail?”
“To-morrow morning at break o’ day, sur.”
“To-morrow morning? No—you mean Tuesday night.”
“’Deed I don’t, sur. She sails to-morrow morning, if there’s a
breath o’ wind.”
Harrington drew his breath. Lucky I found this out, he said to
himself; to-morrow I should have been too late.
“Driscoll,” he continued, “are those men armed?”
 “They’ve got their knives, sur.”
“No pistols?”
“Sorra the wan, sur.”
“Do they stay in the boat all the time?”
“’Deed they don’t, sur. Wan or two o’ thim stays in her turn and
turn about, and the rist o’ thim plays cards in the little room o’ the
house on the island.”
“The house? Oh, it’s a hotel. Does the owner of the house know
they have a negro in the boat?”
“’Deed he don’t, sur. The negur’s tied hand and fut, and kep’ in
the cuddy.”
“What does the owner of the house think those men are there
for?”
“I don’t know, sur. Captain Bangham paid him well for the room
they have, and he niver comes nigh thim at all.”
“How long were you there?”
“This morning early, I wint down with thim, sur.”
“How came you to be up in the city this noon?”
“I kem up, sur, with Captain Bangham. He wint down to the island
in a boat of his own, along wid us this morning early, and stayed wid
us a while, dhrinkin’ like a fish, till he got purty dhrunk. So I kem
back wid him to help him manage the boat lest he’d get dhrowned,
sur.”
“How came you to come up with him, and not a sailor?”
“We dhrew lots for it, sur, and I was the wan.”
“And you were going down to the island again?”
“Yis, sur. I was goin’ in the first boat that wint down the harbor. I
wint in to ould Atkins to take the pay, for the others had got theirs,
and there wasn’t enough in his pocket for me when he paid thim, so
he tould me to come in whin I kem up from the island, and begorra,
I tuk him at his word.”
“Did Atkins pay those men himself?”
“Deed he did, sur. Early in the mornin’ when they wint down, he
was there, and paid thim.”
“This Captain Bangham is the captain of the Soliman, I suppose?”
“Yis, sur.”
“Where does the boat lie that has the negro on board?”
“At the wharf o’ the island, sur.”
“This room in which the men stay—where is it?”
“It’s in the outbuilding, sur. A little room nixt to the kitchen, low
down, wid the doore openin’ on the ground, an’ wan step for the
stairs, sur.”
“Good. Now, Driscoll, you are not going to help these men any
more?”
“I’m dommed if I’ll do it, whin you’re opposed to me doin’ it, sur.
Troth, I heard ivery word ye said to the ould thafe, and says I to
meself, if I do wan thing that Mr. Harrington’s set aginst, and he the
gintleman that befrinded me and mine in the black throuble, may
the divil fly away wid me.”
“Driscoll, take that gold piece back to Mr. Atkins, and tell him
you’ve thought better of it. Don’t say another word to him but that.
Have no quarrel with him. Say that, put the money on his desk, and
leave his office. Do you understand?”
“Yis, sur. I’ll do it.”
“Good. You shall not lose by it. Take this from me.”
Harrington drew from his pocket the money he had received from
Muriel, and counted him out twenty-five dollars.
“Here, Driscoll,” he said, holding out the bills to him.
 “Oh, begorra, Mr. Harrington, but I’ll niver take it from you. Plaise
don’t offer it to me.”
“Driscoll, I insist upon your taking it. You shall.”
He seized the stevedore’s hand, and put the money into it.
“There. Don’t thank me, but attend to what I say. Driscoll, that
negro is a poor laboring man like you. He has as good a right to his
freedom as you have. When you joined those men to keep him in
that boat, you were guilty of a great sin. Never do such a thing
again! You say you are grateful to me. Then be kind to negroes for
my sake. Be kind to them for your own sake. You are a poor man,
and you ought to be kind to the poor.”
Driscoll looked abashed and touched. Perhaps the words moved
him less than the solemn and gentle voice which uttered them.
“Sorra the harm I’ll ever work wan o’ thim, sir,” he murmured.
“Deed, I didn’t know it was a sin.”
“And now, Driscoll,” pursued Harrington, “I have reasons for
wishing this matter kept secret, and I want you to swear to me that
you will never speak of this to any person whatever. Never tell
anybody that you were in that boat—that Mr. Atkins hired you—or
that you came here and told me. Never speak of this at all in any
way.”
“I’ll swear it, sur. Deed I will.”
Harrington turned to his shelves, and took down a Douai Bible, its
covers blazoned with a golden cross.
“Driscoll,” said he, “you are a Catholic. Here is the Catholic Bible.
It is opposed to slavery. There have been great men of your church
who hated slavery. The Pope himself has cursed slavery. See, here is
the cross of your church on the cover. Take this book in your hands,
and swear that you will never speak to any person, man or woman,
of what you have done, of what passed between Mr. Atkins and you,
of what has passed between us here. Swear it.”
 Driscoll reverently received the Bible in his hands, took the oath,
and kissed the cross.
“That is all,” said Harrington, receiving the Bible, and restoring it
to its place. “I am very grateful to you for having told me of this,
Driscoll. You have done me the greatest good that any man could do
me.”
Driscoll stood in silence, awed and wonder-stricken at what had
passed, and subdued by the majestic gentleness of Harrington’s
demeanor. In a moment he took the gold piece from the table, and
moved to the door.
“God save ye kindly, sur,” he faltered, ducking his head.
“Good bye, Driscoll. Shake hands.”
He awkwardly took the frank hand Harrington outstretched as he
came over to him, felt it grasp his own as never gentleman’s had
grasped it before, and with a wild and woful enthusiasm heaving
within him, and repressed by shame and awe, he turned away, and
stole out at the door the young man opened for him.
Harrington closed the door, and, all unmindful of Bagasse, turned
away with clasped hands, and a face of solemn ecstasy.
“Oh, bread cast upon the waters,” he murmured, “is it thus I find
you after many days? I helped him in his trouble, and he pays me
back with life!”
His head sunk upon his breast, and he stood with closed eyes,
rapt and still, his heart swelling with gratitude and thanksgiving.
Suddenly, from the barrel-organ in the street, a strain of martial
music arose and flowed in upon the dreaming silence. It was the
thrilling tonal glory of the Marseillaise. The thought of his heart
came like flame to the broad-nostrilled countenance of Harrington,
and he stood with kindled features and dilated form, while the proud
and mournful music swept like the march of an army around him.
On and on in burning measure, rolled the sad and conquering lilt of
liberty, and darkening down in fire and tears, voice of the passion of
mankind, voice of the wrongs and woes that redden earth while the
good cause lies bleeding, the weird strain arose and rang in the clear
cry for the sword, and wailed in the mournful glory of those final
tones whose melody is like a hymn for the dead who die for Man.
Harrington rushed from the room. The Frenchman, left alone,
stood with a dark glow on his iron visage, and the red light of battle
in his eye, thinking of the old days of military ardor, the old wars in
which he had stormed on Europe, the old Paris folding in her bosom
the ashes of the Emperor, the old France he himself would never see
again.
The flush of memory the music brought him was paling into
sadness, when Harrington returned from the street.
“I have paid him, and sent him away, Bagasse,” said the young
man. “After that air, I wanted to hear no more. Now sit down, and I
will tell you the meaning of all this.”
Bagasse took his seat on the sofa, and Harrington sitting beside
him, in a few words told him all.
“And now,” he joyfully said, in conclusion, “everything begins to
lighten, since I know where this poor Antony is to be found.”
“Ah, Missr Harrin’ton,” returned the old man, smilingly regarding
him over an upturned chin, “zat face you haf is now ze face of ze
new husband! Ze dear ladee wife will lof zat face so gay. Missr
Harrin’ton, you are ze most grand zhentilman I sall evair see. You
feel kind for ze vair old devail himself. You get white, you get ze dark
round you eye for zat neeger man so mush as he was you own self.
Nobody, not ze white man, not ze neeger man, not no man at all,
feel so bad for you like you feel for evairy ozzer man. Why is zat?”
Harrington’s maxillary muscles wrinkled, and his teeth flashed in
an amused laugh, while his face grew scarlet at this complimentary
recognition of the human kindness that was so mighty in him.
“Bagasse,” said he, “don’t praise me for having the feelings of a
man. If you could have seen the poor fellow when I found him in the
street, and if you could have heard his account of the life he had
been living, you would feel as badly as I did. But here’s Wentworth
and the Captain at last,” he added, catching sight of them from the
window near him, as they entered the garden gate.
They came in presently, and for a moment there was a confusion
of salutations. Then the Captain, having been introduced to Bagasse,
turned to Harrington.
“John,” said he, “I’m awful exercised about keepin’ you waitin’,
but”—
“Never mind,” interrupted Harrington. “I shan’t try to get the
habeas corpus writ now. Let me tell you what’s happened.”
“By Jupiter!” cried Wentworth, reddening at the sight of
Harrington’s kindled face. “Antony’s got off! Good! Hurrah!”
“Hold on. Not so fast, Richard,” returned Harrington. “Antony’s not
off yet, but he’s going to be. Now listen.”
And in a few words he gave them an account of the interview with
Driscoll.
“So Antony’s in the cuddy of a boat at Spectacle Island,” he
added, concluding. “And now, see here. Thank fortune Mrs.
Eastman’s feelings can be spared, Antony saved, and yet the whole
affair be kept strictly private. I shall wait, Captain, till the dead of
night, when those fellows will all be asleep, and I hope drunk—all
except the one in the boat—and then I shall run down in your craft,
land, and capture the captured.”
“Bravo!” shouted Wentworth. “By Jove! I shall laugh fit to kill
when we get hold of Antony.”
“We?” said Harrington, jestingly. “Why, are you going?”
“Am I going!” roared Wentworth. “Of course I am. Do you think I’d
let you go alone?”
Captain Fisher, who had been sitting in silence, with his winter
pippin face agrin, burst into hearty laughter.
 “By the spoon of horn!” he exclaimed, “but this is a leetle the
richest idee I ever heern tell on. But, John, look a-here. Siven of
them fellers, you know. Sposin you find them in the boat all
together, like Brown’s cows, when he had but one? What’ll you do
then?”
“It’s not likely,” replied Harrington. “Men love their ease too much
to be out in the night when it’s not necessary. For my own part, I
think Atkins has managed this matter like a fool. Two men would
have answered his purpose perfectly, and he puts eight there. I can’t
imagine what he was thinking of.”
Mr. Atkins was thinking of Harrington, if Harrington could but have
known it. The moment Mrs. Eastman had told him that Antony had
been sheltered in her house, a feeling had come to him that the
young scholar, whose dauntless temper he had some notion of,
might possibly attempt a rescue, and he took his measures
accordingly. This accounted, too, for Antony not being on board the
Soliman.
“But look a-here, John,” pursued the Captain. “Satan’s niver
onready to play ye a trick, an’ there’s no countin’ on what’s likely
with him. Now sposin you find them siven fellers in the boat when
you git down?”
“In that case,” replied Harrington, gravely, “there’s nothing for it
but a desperate fight. I shall tell them of the illegality of their
proceeding, and try to frighten them into giving up Antony. If they
refuse, I shall fall on them like a fury. Here’s Bagasse has been
training me for years, and I think I should do credit to his training
even with seven men.”
“Missr Harrin’ton,” said Bagasse, with a grimace, “you do me one
favor. No, pardieu, I take zat favor. Look. I go wis you. Zat is settle.
Zen if ze seven men wish zoo fight, zey sall fight wis you and me,
and zey find out, by dam, zat we is fourteen!”
“Bravo, you old Gascon!” cried Wentworth, slapping him on the
shoulder. “Let him go, Harrington. Don’t refuse.”
 “But, Bagasse,” said Harrington, “you have a wife, and I can’t
consent that you should put your life in danger on my affair.”
“Chut! poo, poo!” answered the fencing-master. “Ex-cuse me,
Missr Harrin’ton, but zat is feedelstick! You haf ze beautifool, dear
ladee wife, and I take care of you for her. Good. Zat is well. Now I
go wis you.”
“Don’t deny him, Harrington,” pleaded Wentworth. “Come, let’s
arrange the rest of this matter. Where do we start from?”
“Long Wharf, at about twelve o’clock,” replied Harrington.
“Whoever gets to the boat first will wait for the rest. Then about
landing. Faith, it won’t do to land at Long Wharf, if any of us gets
hurt. We shall have the night police asking questions if they see one
of us limp. Besides, the less seen of Antony the better. We must land
at South Boston, where it’s lonely as a desert.”
“And walk over to the city!” asked Wentworth, with a laugh.
“No, we must have a carriage,” replied Harrington. “Now who’s
going to drive the carriage out and wait there with it? I can’t, for I
must go in the boat.”
“And I must go wis you,” said Bagasse.
“So must I,” added Wentworth.
“It’s me then,” said the Captain, getting all awry. “Now, that’s a
pity, for I want to be with you. And sposin there’s a fight. Then
you’re one able-bodied man the less.”
“See,” put in Bagasse. “I tell you. We get John Todd for to drive.
You pay him money. Zen he go. Zat John Todd lof money.”
“Bravo!” cried Wentworth. “That’s an idea. I’ll give Johnny ten
dollars for the job.”
“I hardly like to have another party in a matter so private,”
demurred Harrington.
“But he needn’t know anything about it,” said Wentworth. “He
needn’t even see Antony. When we land, I’ll go up and get the
carriage, letting him stay behind, put Antony in, drive up again, take
Johnny on the box, drive in town, set him down, and go on to
Temple street.”
“Well,” said Harrington, “that may do. Now who’ll get the carriage?
We want a close carriage.”
“I’ll get it,” returned Wentworth. “I know a man who’ll let me have
one. I’ll attend to all that, and to engaging Johnny. Where shall we
have the carriage stand? Say Q street. Good. We’ll all go armed, of
course.”
“Certainly,” replied Harrington, “I will take my revolver.”
“And I my pistols,” said Wentworth.
“I sall carree ze good cavalree sabre wis my pistol,” said Bagasse.
“And I’ll take that hickory stick of mine with the lead knob, and
that’ll give any feller a headache that wants one,” said the Captain,
with his head ominously askew.
“Good, everything’s settled,” said Harrington. “Now, gentlemen,
to-night at twelve. We shall get there by two at the latest, if there’s
any breeze at all, and probably at one. You’d better all meet here,
and go down together. I will meet you at the boat.”
“Agreed,” said Wentworth. “Now, Bagasse, you and I will go after
Johnny.”
“And I home,” said Harrington. “I’ll meet you again at twelve.”
He lingered a few moments after they had gone, musing with a
kindled and exulting face, and then with a sudden yearning to pour
out his gladness to Muriel, he seized his hat and left the room. In
the yard he happened to think of the dog, and he went for a
moment to the kennel. The animal was lying on its side, apparently
asleep, and Harrington was just about to turn away, when he
chanced to notice that its eyes were partly open. Surprised a little,
he bent down, and laid his hand on the animal. It did not move. The
old dog was dead.
 He arose, and stood for a moment with a vacant and reeling brain;
then turned, and with a dazed feeling, went into the street and on
his way. The clouds were still bright and wild in the afternoon sky,
and tottering fantastically into ever mutable strange shapes, fierce,
dazzling, sphinxine, wonderful. He gazed at them for a little while as
he strode on, until oppressed by their instability, and with a dark
sense that they were like an untranslatable hieroglyphic of
something that had been, or was, or was to be, and that could not
be defined, he turned his eyes from them, his heart throbbing thick
and fast, and his burning brain giddy with a fullness of life which,
like the clouds, seemed to reel in dissolution, and yet, like them, did
not dissolve away.
 CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE OLD ACHAIAN HOUR.

A low and melancholy melody was dreaming from the organ

through the corridors, as Harrington entered the still and darkened
dwelling. He was about to ascend to the library, when the parlor
door opened, and Mrs. Eastman, severe and ashen, beckoned him,
with a ghostly motion, to come in. He entered at once. Closing the
door behind him, and folding her in his arms, he looked tenderly into
her still and grief-worn face, while the low music brooded above
them in aërial and solemn lamentation.
“John,” she whispered, “where have you been? John, an awful
feeling has been with me since you left the house—a feeling that
you are doing that which I cannot bring my heart to have done—that
you have already done it.”
She stopped to pore with a ghastly gaze into his countenance. In
the dead stillness, tranced into deeper stillness, as it seemed, by the
low creeping music, he came into rapport with the cold, dark terror
that froze her soul, and he felt his blood curdle and his hair stir.
“If you have done this,” she whispered in a tone that thrilled him,
“it will kill me. I cannot survive it. Tell me that you whom I love so
dearly—tell me that you have not been so cruel to me. Have you
done it?”
“Mother,” he said sadly, “be at ease. I have not, and I never will.
But, oh! my mother, you who dread this disgrace and dishonor, think
of the disgrace and dishonor it would be if that wretched fugitive
were sacrificed by us! How can you bear to think of that?”
She shuddered and clung to him, wildly agitated, but smiling
ghastlily with the joy she felt at the assurance of her brother’s safety
from public obloquy; and still the low, lamenting strain above them
dreamed sombrely in hollow murmurs through the darkened air.
“I know it; it is terrible,” she whispered. “But it must be. Yes, it
must be. Hate me—despise me—never look at me again; but it must
be so, and I am glad—very glad. Glad in my grief; full of grief, but
glad. I am weak, I am degraded, but it is for his sake, for my
brother’s sake. Oh, I bless you, I bless you that you have spared
him, and me through him; I bless you. Hate me, despise me, if you
must. But he is safe; the little child I played with once is safe; my
brother whose sins are many and grievous, he is safe, and I am glad
—I am glad!”
“Peace, peace, my mother! Let it go,” he cried. “Do not speak so
to me. Do not load yourself with reproach. Oh, I feel with you, and I
am not removed from you. There there—let it all be forgotten. Time
will efface these sad hours, and we will be happy again.”
She gently withdrew from his embrace, weeping, and turned
away; and gazing at her for a moment, full of mournful pity, he left
the room, and went slowly up-stairs, with the sad music deepening
around him.
It stopped as he entered the room, and Muriel rose from the
organ, and came swiftly toward him, clad all in white, and noble in
her beauty. He clasped her in his arms as if he had not seen her for
a year.
“Joy!” she cried, looking at him with brilliant eyes, and a faint
color mantling her face, “you come back to me with a changed look!
You have succeeded.”
“Not yet,” he replied, proudly smiling, “but we are going to
succeed. Come, let us sit together, and let me tell you what has
occurred, and my plan.”
They sat down, with their arms around each other, and he told her
all, and what he was going to do. She listened to the end in
dreamful silence, smiling faintly, and occasionally bending her
graceful head in assent to his designs.
 “Now, what do you think?” he asked in conclusion. “How does the
enterprise strike you?”
“I like it,” she replied, half gaily. “It is bold, simple, and I think you
cannot fail of success. Go manfully then to the little battle for the
good cause, and come back with your shield, or upon it. My soul
goes with you.”
He folded her to his heart, proudly smiling.
“Dear friend, brave wife,” he said, fondly. “Thank heaven that we
are wedded for life’s duties and life’s ends! Oh, blessed love that has
not shut us in a private luxury, careless of liberty and justice and the
tears of man! Yes—I will go on this enterprise of mercy, and I feel I
shall succeed.”
They sat in fervent communion till the twilight fell. Emily came in
as it began to darken, and they had just finished telling her what
was to be done, and were charging her to say nothing of it to Mrs.
Eastman, when Wentworth arrived in great spirits.
“All right,” he cried, upon entering. “The deed is done, and I feel
like Benvenuto Cellini when he drew his rapier, and fought the whole
gang of the Pope’s soldiers, single-handed, pinking a couple of dozen
of the rascals. Ha! that was an artist for you! Oh, Benvenuto was a
regular brick, he was.”
“Now, Richard! Slang again,” chided Emily.
“Slang? I deny it,” returned Wentworth, impudently. “Now what
did I say?”
“You said Cellini was a brick,” said Emily, laughing.
“So he was,” retorted Wentworth, gaily. “A regular brick. Call brick
slang? Why, it’s one of the finest epithets in the English language!
What other term could you use that is half as expressive? And what
was language made for but to express our ideas with adequacy,
propriety, and elegance? Oh, by Jupiter! but I’ll stick to brick like
mortar!”
 “So you have Johnny,” observed Harrington, laughing.
“Yes. He’s to start from the stable at about half-past twelve and
drive over to Q street to bring home a small fishing-party,” replied
Wentworth, with a satirical air. “A party that goes down the harbor to
catch black-fish.”
“I hope the party won’t catch a tartar,” said Emily, jestingly.
“Nor a cold,” added Muriel. “But there’s the tea-bell.”
They arose and went down to the tea-room, talking and laughing
gaily.
After tea they returned for a short time to the library. Presently,
Mrs. Eastman, feeling unwell, left them, and retired for the night,
attended by Muriel, who, filled with compassion for her poor mother,
went with her to her chamber and stayed till she was asleep.
She was gone about half an hour, and returning to the lighted
library at the expiration of that time, found the three chatting
together.
“Now, I am going to leave you two,” said Harrington, rising, and
addressing Wentworth and Emily. “Muriel, I feel weary with the
excitements of this day, and as I shall want all my freshness and
vigor for this adventure, I am going up-stairs to sleep an hour or
two. Richard, I’ll see you at the boat.”
“Good,” responded Wentworth. “Au revoir.”
Harrington bent his head smilingly to them both, and putting his
arm around Muriel’s waist, drew her with him from the room.
“Sleep will be twice sleep with you near me,” he tenderly
murmured, bending his face down to hers, as they went up the
stairs together.
“Ah,” she said, with pensive playfulness, “I was afraid you were
going to leave me in exile while you slept, and I do not wish to be
away from you now.”
 He did not answer, but clasped her a little closer to him, and they
ascended in silence to their chamber.
She silently lighted a sconce upon the wall, which shed through its
ground-glass globe a mellow moony light upon the pure and virginal
room, with its furniture of white and gold, and its cloudlike couch,
overhung with a drooping fall of filmy gauze. Then going to a closet,
she took from thence a slender crystal flask covered with golden
arabesques, and brought it to him.
“See,” she said, “My Greek friend, Kestor, made me a present of
this more than a year ago. It is Greek wine. Yes—the vine that gave
us this grew from the soil of the antique heroes. I have kept it for
some great occasion, and to-night before you go, you and I will
drink it.”
Smiling, he took the flask from her hand and held it to the light,
looking at the clear rosy-golden glow of the fine liquid.
“It is beautiful,” he said. “Too beautiful to drink. One might fancy
this such wine as Leonidas and the Three Hundred drank at the last
banquet before they sallied from the immortal pass and fell upon the
hosts of Xerxes. It looks fit for the veins of heroes.”
“And heroes’ wives,” she playfully added, with a charming smile.
“Therefore, you and I will drink it, pledging the enterprise. But we
must have some glasses.”
She rang, and presently one of the maids came up, went, and
returned again with half a dozen small goblets on a tray.
“Well,” said Muriel, laughing as she looked at the tray, “with six
glasses we can drink pledges. Good. Now let us sleep.”
Turning the light low, she unbound her tresses, and lying down
with him, kissed his eyelids with soft and dewy kisses.
“Sleep sweetly, my beloved,” she murmured. “It is the fourth
night. A very little night, but the fifth night will be sweet and long,
and full of rest.”
 He did not reply, but gently kissed her, and with their souls stilled
with ineffable tenderness they sank away together in a slumber,
innocent and sweet as that of childhood.
The room was dim around that tranquil rest, and the faint light
softly showed the forms of the reposing lovers. Locked in each
other’s arms, with the snowy films drooping from the golden ring in
the ceiling in long and flowing festoons around them, they lay like
some fair picture of immortal love and peace shadowed within the
clear depths of a magic mirror in a light of darkling dawn.
An hour melted slowly by, and during that hour, folded to her
bosom, and breathing the balm of her parted lips, the rest of
Harrington was sweet and deep. Then a strange dream outgrew
upon his brain from the oblivion of his slumber.
He was running cautiously along a vaulted archway of the rude
Saxon architecture, toward a flight of five or six stone steps, which
led up into the open air. It was in Saxon England, in some time of
trouble, and he was a young Saxon. He saw himself clothed in a
short, brown tunic, belted at the waist, and reaching nearly to the
knees, which were bare, and with leather buskins on his feet. As it
often happens in dreams, he both was that figure, and saw it. It was
himself, but utterly unlike himself both in aspect and character. The
head was uncovered, save by short, dark, curling hair; the face was
youthful, unbearded, mild and timid in expression, with the cheeks
rather wan; and the figure was that of a slight and strengthless
stripling. A sense of general carnage was in the air of the dream,
and it seemed as if in that form, he was seeking to escape from
enemies. Too gentle and weak in nature to feel violent fear, he had
only a timorous and innocent apprehension of his danger; and in this
mood, running on to the steps, and ascending, suddenly the opening
of the archway filled with armed warriors, and as he shrank on the
point of turning to flee, their long axes fell upon him, and he was
slain.
He awoke instantly, not with a start, but by simply unclosing his
eyes. The dream was vivid, but not frightful, and waking without
alarm, his first and only thought was that it was a memory of an old
avatar in which he had lived on earth in a different organization than
he had now, and had been killed young. For a moment this feeling
came clearly to him, and then sensible of where he was, and of the
sweet face breathing balm so near his own, his eyelids closed with
an irresistible drowsiness, and he slept on.
His sleep was undisturbed for about half an hour when another
strange dream slid upon his mind. He was sitting up awake in a bed
alone by himself, and though the bed was in a room, it was yet, by
some singular ubiquity, which still was not incongruous or wonderful,
on the sidewalk of some unfamiliar street. Sitting upright in it in his
night-clothes in a broad, grey daylight, and looking over his shoulder,
he saw far, far away an illimitable waste of snow, out of which
thousands upon thousands of piteous and imploring negro faces
looked toward him. He had the feeling that these were the faces of
the thirty thousand fugitives who at that period had fled to Canada.
While he gazed at them, he beheld coming down the street on the
pavement, a long procession of the Boston merchants, all familiar to
him, respectable and cosy citizens whom he often saw about town,
or on ’Change. They all wore their usual garb and aspect, but as
they passed by his bed they all changed, yet without seeming to
change, into medieval Jews, with long avaricious faces and drooping
beards and stooping shoulders, and eyes bent obliquely upon the
ground before them. Every hand clutched a money-bag, and every
form wore the conical hat and the long Jewish gaberdine of Shylock.
So they passed him, and when they had passed they were Boston
merchants again, while the rest coming on changed, yet did not
seem to change, into money-greedy Jews as they went by, and
resumed their previous forms, though without seeming to resume
them, when they had reached a certain vague limit. All this did not
in the least surprise him, or seem extraordinary, or unusual, but
wearying at last of the interminable and monotonous procession, he
sighed and awoke.
Her dreaming face was still near him, and the cool balm of her
breath touched his sense with sweet and sad ecstasy. There was a
moment of unutterable weary sorrow, in which the bitter symbolism
of his vision lingered with him, and then, with a feeling of
melancholy comfort, his heavy eyelids drooped, and he slept again.
He had a consciousness that he had slept long, and with this in his
mind, his sleeping soul awoke in a third dream. He had left his body
and was in the air of the chamber. Spiritually light and poised, with
the delicious sense of being able to float upward at will, he was
looking down upon the couch, with the quiet room around him. He
saw his body lying folded in her arms, the face sleeping close to her
own. He saw how that face looked to others, and felt a dim wonder
at its strangeness to his own eyes. His gaze dwelt with calm and
holy tenderness, undisturbed by any regret, upon the beautiful and
noble face of his beloved, sleeping in its shadowy tresses, its curved
lips slightly parted, and all its clear and graceful lines composed in
slumber. A thrill of silent blessing and farewell stole softly through
his being, and with the feeling that he must go, he slowly floated
backward through the wall, which made no more resistance than air.
A trance fell upon him as he passed through, and seemed to last,
though he had no sense of time, till he found himself alone in a rich
and holy garden. The strange flowers were thick and deep, and
wonderful in mystic beauty, and though of many rare and lovely
colors, the still and tender living glory that brooded on all, gave
them something of the rich pallor of flowers seen in some imaginary
pearl and purple moonlight stiller and fairer than melts from any
moon of ours. Or rather, they seemed pale with their own ecstasy of
heavenly odor, for they filled the soft, self-luminous air with a
fragrance which dissolved through all his being in ethereal and
tranquil rapture. Filled with celestial bliss, he wandered on through
the purpureal glory of the garden, under the holy shadow of strange
trees, and amidst the myriad blowing clusters of the flowers, while
the songs of birds sounded in liquid melody around him, and yet did
not break the divine silence of the solemn Paradise. And wandering
on, he turned a curve of the path, and came upon the gracious
presence of the man he loved. He knew the majestic front, the vast
brow, the sweet and piercing eye of Verulam, and like a younger
brother yearning with affection, he drew nigh and laid his head upon
his breast. The arms gently enfolded him; the regal face bent over
his with a tender and benignant smile; and thrilling with the slow
sweetness of an unutterable ecstasy, he seemed to sink into the
swoon of the soul, and the vision was gone.
Her arms had fallen away from him in her slumber, and noiselessly
rising as he awoke, he sat on the edge of the couch, and leaned his
damp brow on his hand, his brain light and clear, his frame drenched
in the renewing dew of sleep, and throbbing with the remembered
bliss of his dream, and one still solemn thought distinct in his mind.
He was to die! The meaning of that dream was death! A slow thrill
ran through his veins as he thought of it. Yes, that was its meaning.
He was to die!
He sat still for some minutes, with that thought in his mind.
Gradually the sweetness of the dream failed from him, merged in a
ghostly sense of the quietude around him. He looked up with a
feeling of awe. The dim lamplight faintly lit the pure and shadowy
chamber. All was vague, motionless, indefinite. Nothing seemed
distinct or living, but that strange and awful conviction, too strong
for any doubt, that he was to die.
Turning slowly, he gazed upon the face of Muriel. The last
lingering relic of the sweetness of his dream failed from him as he
looked upon her. His young wife. How could he bear to leave her!
Four days of heavenly joy with her—heavenly even in the sorrow
that had lain upon the last; four little days—the divine dawn of a
long life of happiness—only four, and this was to be the end! The
golden gates of a beautiful existence, affluent of use and influence
and fame, just opened to him with her, and now to close forever. To
lay down all the deliciousness, the joys, the hopes, the ambitions of
life, for the happiness of two poor negro brothers. For their poor
trampled rights to abandon life—oh, above all, to resign her! To die,
and leave her on earth alone, her bursting day-spring of happy and
noble love quenched in the black and blotting cloud of death. To die
—to die and leave her.
 Icy cold, yet with a burning brain, and slow thrills creeping
through the horror of his veins, he turned away, and sat still. Hark!
In the silence came the distant sound from a steeple striking the
hour. He counted the slow strokes. Eleven. He looked at his watch. It
was eleven o’clock. In one hour more he was to go.
He looked around the quiet room. Life never seemed to him so
sweet as then. In contrast to the stillness and seclusion, the peaceful
comfort and warm luxury of the restful chamber, came the vision of
the bare and open night upon the bleak waste of waters, and he in
the lonely boat with those rude men, thinking of the gentle being he
had left behind him. A sense as of one who shivers out under the
winter stars, and turns to the warm firelight and the cheerful faces
of friends in the cosy glow of home, came to him, and with it came
temptation like a voice. Turn from this purpose—turn to love and life!
You have been staunch and true in human kindness to its uttermost
demand, but your life belongs to her, and not to another. Well to
save this man from his doom, but not to fling away your life for a
single service, when ampler service needs you. Think of her
suffering, think of her mother’s grief for your loss, think, too, of the
friends you are leading into peril. Perhaps your warning includes
them—think of those who will mourn them, and for their sakes turn
from this hopeless purpose. Turn, for this is warning and not fate—
or go, still in safety, and plead with those men for the fugitive’s
release—threaten them, menace them with civil penalties, and
perchance they will yield him. But if they do not, all is done that you
are called to do, and life is more than you are called to give; so turn
away from them, and tell your friends you cannot risk their safety,
and come back here to long years of happiness with her.
Sitting in icy silence, the temptings rose within his brain, clear as if
a still and gentle voice had breathed them, and mingled with a siren
sense of honeyed music that seemed to circle round and round him
like an airy coil. Suddenly he sprang up with a spasm of heroic grief
and agony, and stood quivering with his eyes covered by his hands.
Her eyelids unclosed, and lying still, she looked at him. The next
instant, she leaped from the couch and clasped him in her arms.
 There was a long pause of awful silence, in which he stood with
head uplifted and his eyes covered with his hands, while she clung
to him, her face still between its thick length of waven tresses, and
gazed with dilated eyes into his half-hid features.
“My beloved! My own beloved, what is this? Was it a dream? Be
calm—be strong. I am with you. I hold you in my arms. No evil thing
can come to you when I am near. Love clasps you, my dear and
gentle lover, and nothing can harm you.”
At the full, tender silver of her voice, the shadows and the terrors
rushed from his soul. His hands fell from his still and pallid features,
and putting his arms around her, he gazed into her face.
“Hush!” he murmured. “A moment! I will tell you in a moment.”
They stood in silence gazing at each other.
Presently his arms fell from her, and swiftly gliding away she
turned up the light, which at once filled the room with mellow
radiance. Hurriedly, he bound on his shoes, put his pistol in his
breast, and sat on the couch beside her.
“Muriel,” said he, “you were right; I have had dreams. Listen.”
In a low, clear voice, he told her all. The narration occupied
several minutes, and during that time she listened with a still face
and lips parted. He ceased at length, and there was a long pause.
“What does this mean?” she murmured. “Do you take these
dreams as augury?”
“Muriel,” said he with solemn and passionate tenderness, “do you
remember what you said when we lay down to slumber? It comes
again to me now. You said: ‘It is the fourth night; a very little night;
but the fifth night will be sweet and long, and full of rest.’ Oh, my
beloved, sweet and long, and full of rest may it be to you! Sweet
and long, and full of rest, it will be to me. To-night I go from you.
Can you bear that I should go when I am not to return? For the
dream meant death, and I am going away to die.”
 One spasm of overmastering pain convulsed her features, and
vanished. The next instant her face was calm, between its fall of
shadowy tresses; her lips were lightly closed; her eyes were fixed on
his. But a torrent rush of memories overswept her—memories of
omens and presentiments that had mysteriously foreshadowed this;
and a mighty feeling rose within her, and told her that this was the
voice of the prescient soul. Not for an instant did she think he was
deceived, and the calmness that sank upon her spirit was the
shadow of eternity.
“To die!” she answered, in a slow, rapt voice. “Going away from
me to die.”
Her lips closed, and pressing one hand to her bosom, she lifted
her clear, still eyes to heaven, and her countenance became pale
and radiant as though it gazed upon the face of God.
There was a long interval of terrible silence.
“It is true,” she said at length, in low, abstracted tones, “he is to
leave me. Our happiness foreran the ages. The world could not
sustain it. The music was too divinely sweet to last, and it melts
back from earth! Well, well, I know it now. The days have been filled
with tokens and prophecies of this, and now I understand them. Yes
—he is to die!”
Slowly her eyes grew back to him. He sat motionless, his face
pallid in shadow, gazing with mournful awe upon her clear, pale
features.
“Have you had presentiments of this, Muriel?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered, in a hushed voice; “there have been many.
They crowd upon me now. You remember what I told you of that
morning when I thought you loved Emily—how strangely your face
smiled on me in my reverie from that immeasurable distance. I know
now what it meant. That was a veiled prevision. Oh, my beloved,
you smiled upon my soul from the depths of Eternity!”
 A slow, cold thrill went through him at the solemn tenderness of
her voice, and for a few moments his mind gathered blankness.
Gradually the prefigurations of this hour which had filled his life for
days past, came to him.
“I, too, have had spiritual warnings of this,” he murmured. “My
soul has told me much lately. You remember my sad fancy when I
left you on Sunday morning, that I was not to return. And on the
evening of that day the event occurred which separates us.”
“Yes,” she responded, “and that was the morning when I dreamed
that you were gone from earth, and were looking at me as I moved
through life alone.”
Again a long silence succeeded.
“To wake from our happy sleep thus,” she said, suddenly, “is it not
strange! Is it not awful! And yet I realize it all. I realize that these
are our last moments together. To deny these presentiments is
impossible. Yes—it is destiny. Is it not? Is there any escape for us?”
“It rests with my will, Muriel,” he answered. “I believe this dream
is only a warning. If I stay here with you I am safe. It rests with me
to decide whether I will go or stay.”
“Can nothing be done?” she hurriedly asked. “Is there no other
way of saving this man?”
“None,” he answered. “It is too late now. The ship sails in a few
hours. There is nothing but for me to go at midnight and rescue
Antony, or leave him to his fate, and Roux to death or madness. One
thing alone shakes me.”
“What?” she asked.
“The suffering my death will give your mother,” he answered. “It
may kill her.”
“And if you die her brother’s infamy will become known,” she
replied. “Public inquiry will follow, and all she wishes kept secret will
be exposed with the added guilt of your death upon it.”
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