The Turk, the Hindoo, the Arab-the eyes of the Peasant roved along the throng or perchance-the Black Man? By the chance or fatality of that mysterious lottery, the destiny of the Order and the World might be embodied in a Negro;-a Negro! one of that thrice degraded race, who have been ever doomed to drain the bitterest dregs of slavery, and wear its heaviest chain upon their lacerated souls.

Meanwhile the aged Swede sat apart, his white beard floating over his breast. His days were numbered; he was not a candidate for the great office; and more than this, he had been the last keeper of the sacred symbol of Brotherhood. He was therefore not a Candidate, but a Judge.

While the Peasant stood leaning against the veiled figure, the other brethren advanced one by one to the hollow in the rock, and turning their faces away, drew forth a single tablet from the darkness.

The Peasant was aroused from his reverie by the voice of the Swede. "Brother, it is now your turn," he said.

The Peasant looked around with a stare of amazement.

"Have all drawn but me?" he exclaimed.

Even as he spoke he beheld the brethren standing against the walls of the cavern with the tablets in their hands.

"Is not the tablet with the Cross yet drawn?" he ejaculated, while a tremor seized his limbs-" and have all the Brothers advanced to the rock-all but me?"

"No," answered the Swede. "There are three others beside you

The Peasant followed the extended hand of the Swede, and beheld standing near him, the Indian, the Colonist from New England, and the Black Man.

"On one of the four will fall the office of Supreme Chief!" exclaimed the Swede.

Then it was, that wild suspense seized every breast, and all eyes were turned upon the four. The Indian and the Black Man stood on the right of the veiled figure-the New England Colonist on his left. The Peasant, leaning upon the leaden image, trembled from head to foot, and veiled his face.

"Advance, Brother from the New World," he cried in a husky voice-"The tablet marked the Cross is yours!"

The Colonist advanced with a firm step, but his hand trembled, his face changed color, as he drew a single tablet from the hollow in the rock. He dared not look upon it, but stood with a vacant glance in the face of the Swede.

"Is it the tablet marked with the Cross ?" interrogated the Peasant as he raised his face-his voice, changed and hollow, resembled a prolonged groan.

The interest of the Chiefs became intense and painful.

"The tablet! the tablet!" was heard in murmurs, and in various tongues, on every side.

The Colonist at last gathered courage; he gazed upon the tablet

My own name!" he said, and turned away.

The stillness which succeeded was like the grave.

This contest was now between the Peasant, the Indian, and the Black Man.

The Indian next advanced. Stern and proudly erect, he wound his blanket over his broad chest, and his aquiline profile was described in bold shadow, on the wall of the cavern, as he drew near the hollow in the rock.

Extending his hand without a tremor, he also drew forth a solitary tablet and held it towards the light.

You could not hear the faintest echo of a sound. All was terribly still.

"The name of my Hindoo Brother," said the Indian, as he resumed his place.

The office of Supreme Chief now lay between the Peasant and the Black Man.

As for the Peasant, seized by an uncontrollable emotion, he bowed his tall form once more against the Leaden Image, and concealed his face from the light.

The Black Man advanced a step-hesitated-and returned to his place.

"Brother, it is your time," and as he spoke, he turned his harsh features toward the Peasant.

There was no reply. The Peasant, who but a moment ago had seemed a Prophet, inspired for a great work, now rested his arms upon the Leaden Image and hid his face, while his strong frame shook with agony.

"Advance, Brother," exclaimed the Swede to the Negro-"The office of Supreme Chief is within your grasp!"

The Peasant heard the words of the Swede, and a cold shudder pervaded his limbs. So near, so very near that Power, which held in its hand the Destiny of the human race, and yet it was about to glide from his touch. He heard the footsteps of the Black Man-he knew by the dead stillness that the Negro was standing near the hollow in the rock -he felt as he heard the universal ejaculation that the Negro had become the Supreme Chief of the Order.

Yet hush! The voice of the Black Man is heard

"I have drawn a tablet on which my Red Brother's name is written," he said, and all was still again.

The heart of the Peasant bounded within his breast. Possessed, in every nerve, by an intense Ambition, he had writhed with all the agonies of suspense, and now his blood became fire, with the pulsations of a boundless joy.

The Tablet on which the Cross was traced was his own with his form bowed and his face concealed, he awaited the salutations of his brethren. But suddenly his blood grew cold again, as the voice of the Swede fell on his ear:

"Brother, advance. You are the Last. Two tablets alone remain in the hollow of the rock. On one your name is written, for it has not been drawn by any of the brethren. On the other the cross is traced. In case you do not draw the Tablet with the Cross, a new election will be held."

The Peasant heard the last words and raised his head. Every eye' remarked the pallor of his face.

"Two tablets!" he echoed with a vacant stare-"I had forgotten

-"he paused, and turning his eyes upon the throng exclaimed"I am not worthy of this awful trust. I will not place my hand in the hollow of the rock. Let the tablets be cast into that hollow once more, and the great office will doubtless fall to the lot of some worthier Brother."

But they silenced him with their murmurs-every one, from the Swede to the Black Man, bade him advance.

It was a terrible moment for that rude Peasant, with the gray garb and sunburnt face, when, crossing the cavern floor, shading his agitated features from the light, he placed his knotted hand in the hollow of the rock. He felt the two tablets beneath his fingers. He knew not which to take. One moment he desired the great office with all his soul, the next he felt unworthy, and hoped that he might draw the tablet inscribed with his own name.

"It is an awful Power to be placed in the hands of one man," he murmured, as he raised his hand, and without daring to gaze upon the tablet, held it behind his back toward the light.

The Swede arose.

"You suffer, my brother," he whispered. "Your face is like the face of a dead man-I will read the tablet for you.'

The Peasant could not speak a word, but he listened to the footsteps of the Swede. There was a moment's pause-he could feel the intense interest of the Brotherhood, as he heard the sound of their deep-drawn breath.

"Brothers, behold !"—it was the voice of the Swede, and the Peasant with his face turned from the light heard the cry which filled the cavern. That cry echoed from the very hearts of the assembled brethren, as every eye beheld the tablet which the old man held toward the light. And yet the Peasant dared not turn and know his Destiny.

That murmur was so confused, so vague, he could not divine its true meaning, but he felt the hand of the Swede press his own, and felt himself urged gently to the light.

"Brothers! salute the Supreme Chief of our Brotherhood!" the voice of the Swede swelled through the cavern.

For a moment the Peasant tottered to and fro, while his sight grew dim, and the figures of the brethren flitted before him, like the confused shapes of a dream. But that moment over, his sight grew clear, his limbs were firm;-glancing around with unwavering eye, he beheld himself encircled by the Chiefs of the Brotherhood, he felt the Golden Medal in his hand.

"Now-" he said, while a deep rapture softened his bold features, and his form, clad in humble peasant attire, towered in the centre of that throng-"Now, indeed, my work is before me. It is for me to embody in the ritual of our Brotherhood the life of the Carpenter's Son!"

Joining hands they encircled him, and pronounced with one accord, in the unknown tongue, the ancient formula of the Order. The Swede laid his withered hands upon his brown hairs and blessed him-Hindoo,

Turk, Jesuit, Indian, Englishman and Spaniard, Dane and German, gathered around, a rampart of living hearts. The Negro, as the most degraded and down-trodden of all earth's children, pronounced the last words of the consecration

"It is from a Child of Toil that the Children of Toil must look for their redemption."

The Supreme Chief of the Brotherhood raised the Golden Medal toward the light, and examined its details with a careful scrutiny.

"On one side, the Globe, the Cross and the Rising Sun, with the inscription, 'VAYOMER ELOHEIM YEHEE AUR, VAYEHEE AUR' Then spoke God let there be light, and there was light.' The reverse of the Medal is blank. It bears no inscription. One day it will bear an inscription, a glorious inscription, but not until Earth is redeemed and all men are Brothers!

"Yes, long ages after we are dead, my brethren, some Chief of our Order will write upon the blank side of the Medal

"Earth redeemed by the Spirit of the Carpenter's Son, embodied in the Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross." "

The speaker took a sharp-pointed dagger from his breast, and resting the medal upon the rock, traced in rude characters two dates, beneath the Symbol of the Order. Those dates were "1777" and " 1848-84." Then turning to the silent Brotherhood, he exclaimed

"In the year 1777 another general convocation of the Chiefs of the Brotherhood will be held in the land of the New World. Then the Golden Medal will again be placed in the hands of a Supreme Chief, elected in accordance with the injunctions of the most aged Chief. Until that time-in case I die before it arrives-the office of Supreme Chief will remain vacant. And in the year 1848—or 84, a general convocation will be held, at a point to be designated by the Supreme Chief elected in the year 1777."

Glancing into the faces of the encircling Chiefs, the Peasant, now become the Supreme Power of the Order, beckoned with his hand to Seven Brethren, who separated themselves from the throng and took their places at his side.

"These are the Supreme Elders of the Brotherhood, appointed by me, to assist in the government of the Order, and to receive the Sacred Symbol, in case of my death. They are known in our traditions as THE SEVEN.—Brother," he continued, turning to the first of the Seven"Your name and Country?"

The First of the Seven was a man of commanding presence, with a face traced with the indications of a serene soul.

"I was born in England," he said, "but now that my native land is a home no longer for freemen, I have no country. I am about to depart to the New World. Not to New England, for it is accursed by the Demon of Persecution. But to a more Southern Clime. My name is Lawrence Washington."

The Peasant wrote that name upon the Tablet marked with the Cross, -"Washington!" he murmured, as though he had heard of it be

fore.

The Supreme Chief turned to the Second of the Seven-a man of

slender frame, sharp features, stamped with an iron resolution, and eyes full of enthusiasm.

"Your country, Brother, and your name?"

"I am of France," responded a shrill, discordant voice-" my name is Robenspierre.'

The Supreme Chief shuddered as he wrote that name, underneath the first.

"I have seen it," he murmured in a tone inaudible to the Brethren. "I have seen it in my dreams, written in red characters, upon the timbers of that unknown engine of Murder."

To the Third he turned. The harsh features of the Black Man met

his gaze..

"I have no name," cried the Negro-"I am called Isaac the Slave."

After he had written the designation of the African beneath the other names, he turned to the Fourth-the Indian standing alone, with his blanket falling over his broad chest.

"My country? Wherever the White Race leaves our people a wigwam or a hunting-ground. Write, Supreme Chief, that my name is Talondoga, and my country the Land of the Setting Sun."

"Thy children," murmured the Peasant, "shall yet sweep the white race with fire and sword."

The Fifth answered proudly, "I am a German. A tiller of the soil. Write John the Serf, and as for country, say that I have no Fatherland but the grave."

It was now the turn of the Sixth. A dark-visaged Hindoo clad in the garb of the lowest order of Hindoo priesthood.

"Buldarh of the far eastern land- -a Pariah, who has no lower caste beneath him."

"Thy country shall be given up awhile to Moloch, incarnate in the English Monarchy. But when the oppressor has trampled you for a hundred years, you will learn his cunning, and crush him with his own weapons."

Thus speaking, the Peasant Ruler wrote the name of the Pariah beneath that of German Serf.

The Seventh an Italian, whose face seemed oppressed with the Doom of his country.

“Giovanni Ferreti !" murmured the Supreme Chief as he wrote the name beneath the others. "Fear not, Italian! Humble artisan as you are, it is from your race that there will spring a high-souled Man, who will strike astonishment into the hearts of all men, for he will embody, in one person, the functions of Pope and Liberator!"

"There are the names of your Elders-of the Seven," exclaimed the Supreme after a pause-"Let us behold them, and write them in our hearts"

And he held the tablet before the eyes of the Brethren. These names were written underneath the cross: