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Where
went
Cassius
Calhoun
?
Certainly
not
to
his
own
sleeping-room
.
There
was
no
sleep
for
a
spirit
suffering
like
his
.
He
went
not
there
;
but
to
the
chamber
of
his
cousin
.
Not
hers
--
now
untenanted
,
with
its
couch
unoccupied
,
its
coverlet
undisturbed
--
but
to
that
of
her
brother
,
young
Henry
Poindexter
.
He
went
direct
as
crooked
corridors
would
permit
him
--
in
haste
,
without
waiting
to
avail
himself
of
the
assistance
of
a
candle
.
It
was
not
needed
.
The
moonbeams
penetrating
through
the
open
bars
of
the
reja
,
filled
the
chamber
with
light
--
sufficient
for
his
purpose
.
They
disclosed
the
outlines
of
the
apartment
,
with
its
simple
furniture
--
a
washstand
,
a
dressing-table
,
a
couple
of
chairs
,
and
a
bed
with
"
mosquito
curtains
.
"
Under
those
last
was
the
youth
reclining
;
in
that
sweet
silent
slumber
experienced
only
by
the
innocent
.
His
finely
formed
head
rested
calmly
upon
the
pillow
,
over
which
lay
scattered
a
profusion
of
shining
curls
.
As
Calhoun
lifted
the
muslin
"
bar
,
"
the
moonbeams
fell
upon
his
face
,
displaying
its
outlines
of
the
manliest
aristocratic
type
.
What
a
contrast
between
those
two
sets
of
features
,
brought
into
such
close
proximity
!
Both
physically
handsome
;
but
morally
,
as
Hyperion
to
the
Satyr
.
"
Awake
,
Harry
!
awake
!
"
was
the
abrupt
salutation
extended
to
the
sleeper
,
accompanied
by
a
violent
shaking
of
his
shoulder
.
"
Oh
!
ah
!
you
,
cousin
Cash
?
What
is
it
?
not
the
Indiana
,
I
hope
?
"
