way home, pondering on what they had seen, and wondering why the Carib should break up his encampment, and betake himself to the cave in the side of the hill.

CHAPTER VI.

LENOX. The night has been unruly; where we lay
Our chimneys were blown down.

MACBETH.-'Twas a rough night.

LENOX.-My young remembrance cannot parallel

A fellow to it.

Macbeth.

LITTLE did Walter Langley and his companions suspect, what the Carib-the wild, savage, but observant native of the tropics—had foreseen, and had provided himself for! They had found him essaying to propitiate the vengeance of the demon of evil; while his experience in the changes of the weather incidental to his own. clime, taught him to expect the coming storm, and to seek refuge and a secure retreat from its violence. Heavy drops of rain even now pelted the leafy glades through which the hunters

walked in returning to the hamlet; and the distant but rolling thunder gave notice of some approaching change in the weather. A few hours only had elapsed after they had reached their respective dwellings, when the wind began to sigh heavily and to moan through the forest trees in the neighbourhood of the hamlet. It then increased every minute after, veering about with awful suddenness, and blowing in gusts from quarters opposed to those from whence it had come but a moment before. Vivid and forked lightnings, accompanied with deafening peals of thunder, darted through the gloomy heavens; while the surcharged clouds passing with frightful rapidity, poured forth ever and anon their contents, which, cold, slanting, and driven with a violence indescribable, rattled on the houses like hail-stones, and pierced with chilliness every living thing they beat against. A lull succeeded this commencement of the storm; but it was delusive and only momentary, for the wind again burst with renovated fury from the north-west, and lifting into mountains, in its passage across the ocean, the waves of the mighty deep, flung them warring and chafing against the shore, with a noise that

commingled with the occasional bursts of thunder, and the crashing of the falling limbs of the trees, infused terror and dismay in every bosom of the hamlet. Nothing stood uninjured from the violence of the blast; the roofs of the houses were blown off, and many of the dwellings them selves (fortunately being built of light materials) fell in upon their inmates, and inflicted injuries, which, however, owing to the construction of the houses, were of a slight nature only. To add to the distresses of the hamlet, night had some time set in, and the only source of light was the occasional and vivid flash of the lightning which gleamed brightly through the darkness for a moment, and realizing every fear,

"Served only to discover sights of woe."

But what has become of those who chiefly figure in our tale during this jarring commotion of the troubled elements? Walter Langley, after having refreshed himself on his return from the woods, had gone, as was his usual custom, to Master Arnold's house, and there, in common with its other terrified inmates, awaited in dread suspense the termination of the hurricane. More than once, the doors and windows of the house

I

had been shut and fastened, in the hopes of preventing the ingress of the rain and wind; but vain and fruitless were the attempts to exclude the latter boisterous element. A howling the forerunner of its coming violence-a loud crash-one general bursting of the unavailing impediments to its admission—and then in rushed the whirlwind, which filling the house, and having no free and immediate egress, tore the roof from the under-structure, and bearing it along with the gale, wafted its disjointed fragments, found on the morning after, to distances almost incredible. In another hour, the rage of the hurricane began to subside; when it was discovered that a shelter existed in one of the out-houses: it had not been entirely unroofed, its preservation having been owing to the screen from the wind, which the main building had afforded. Here the family, cold, drenched with rain and awe-struck, betook themselves, and remained until morning dawned and shewed the sad devastation which the hurricane had committed. Dispirited, yet thankful, for the provident mercies of Him—

"Who rides on the whirlwind, and directs the storm,"

in having preserved their lives, William Arnold contemplated for some minutes the wreck and waste around him. At once, however, apprehension of famine flashed on his mind; for the store of provisions was no doubt spoiled, and almost useless, and the plantations he saw were levelled with the earth. Losing his self-command, and horror-struck at the thought, the old man glared on those near him with an almost frantic and despairing look; and overwhelmed with the horrid impression, he sunk on the trunk of a prostrate tree behind him, and hiding his face in his hands sobbed audibly. Women are susceptible of grief at all times; but under the present circumstances grief became doubly catching, and tears flowed freely from the eyes of those who were witnesses to Arnold's emotion. The whole scene was a thrilling one; and unwilling to yield to the painful sensations that it awakened, Tremano gently disengaged himself from his weeping daughter, who had clung to his arm, and, with Walter Langley, withdrew himself from the place: both thinking that it was better to leave the rest to feelings which it would have been mockery in them to have attempted to assuage, so acutely were