THE HAWKS OF HAWK-HOLLOW.

A TRADITION OF PENNSYLVANIA.


BY THE AUTHOR OF "CALAVAR," AND "THE INFIDEL."




  Where dwellest thou?----
  Under the canopy,--i' the city of kites and crows.
                                              _Coriolanus_.




IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.




_Philadelphia_:

CAREY, LEA, & BLANCHARD.

1835.




Entered according to the act of Congress, in the year 1835, by CAREY, 
LEA, & BLANCHARD, in the clerk's office of the district court for the 
eastern district of Pennsylvania.




_I. Ashmead & Co. Printers_.




INTRODUCTION.

  "Escúchame, y no me creas
   Despues de haberme escuchado"--


"Hear me, but don't believe me, after you have heard"--says Calderon, 
the Spanish dramatic poet, with a droll spirit of honesty, only 
equalled by the English Burton, who concludes the tale of the 
Prebend, in his Anatomy of Melancholy, by exclaiming, "You have heard 
my tale; but, alas! it is but a tale,--a mere fiction: 'twas never 
so, never like to be,--and so let it rest." We might imitate the 
frankness of these ancient worthies, in regard to the degree of 
credit which should be accorded to our tradition; but it would be at 
an expense of greater space and tediousness than we care to bestow 
upon the reader. We could not declare, in the same wholesale way, 
that the following narrative is a mere fabrication, for such it is 
not; while to let the reader into the secret, and point out the 
different facts (for facts there are) that are interwoven with the 
long gossamer web of fiction, would be a work of both time and 
labour.

We have always held the Delaware to be the finest and noblest river 
in the world,--not, indeed, that it _is_ so, but because that was a 
cardinal item in our creed of childhood; and to all such points of 
belief we hold as strongly as we can, philosophy and experience to 
the contrary notwithstanding. They are holy and useful, though 
flimsy, ties--little pieces of rose-coloured pack-thread that keep 
sorted together whole bundles of pleasant reminiscences, and 
therefore as precious in our esteem as shreds of gold and silver. In 
consequence of this persuasion, we have learned to attach importance 
to every little legend of adventure, in any way associated with the 
Ganga of our affections; and of such it has been our custom, time out 
of mind, to construct, at least in imagination, little fairy 
edifices, in which golden blocks of truth were united with a cement 
of fancy. A novel is, at best, a piece of Mosaic-work, of which the 
materials have been scraped up here and there, sometimes in an 
un-chronicled corner of the world itself, sometimes from the 
forgotten tablets of a predecessor, sometimes from the decaying 
pillars of history, sometimes from the little mine of precious stones 
that is found in the human brain--at least as often as the pearl in 
the toad's head, of which John Bunyan discourses so poetically, in 
the Apology for his Pilgrim's Progress. Of some of the pebbles that 
we have picked up along the banks of the Delaware, the following 
story has been constructed; but at what precise place they were 
gathered we do not think it needful to say. The torrent of 
fashionable summer rustication has already sent off a few little 
rills of visitation towards different corners of Pennsylvania, and 
one has begun to flow up the channel of the Delaware. In a few 
years----_Eheu! fugaces, Posthume, Posthume!_----this one will 
increase to a flood, all of men, women, and children, rolling on 
towards the Water-Gap; and _then_ some curious individual will 
discover the nook into which we have been prying; and perhaps, if he 
chooses, come off with prizes still more valuable. At all events, he 
will discover--and that we hold to be something worth recording--that 
his eyes have seldom looked upon a more enchanting series of 
landscapes than stretches along this river, in one long and varied 
line of beauty, from New Hope and the Nockamixon Rocks, almost to its 
sources.

The story, such as it is, is rather a domestic tale, treating of 
incidents and characters common to the whole world, than one of which 
these components can be considered _peculiarly_ American. This is, 
perhaps, unfortunate,--the tendency of the public taste seeming to 
require of American authors that they should confine themselves to 
what is, in subject, event, and character, indigenous to their own 
hemisphere; although such a requisition would end in reducing their 
materials to such a stock as might be carried about in a nut-shell. 
America is a part of the great world, and, like other parts, has 
little (that is, suited to the purposes of fiction) which it can call 
exclusively its own; and how far that little has been already _used 
up_, any one may tell, who is conversant with our domestic 
literature. Some little, however, of that little yet remains; and, by 
and by, we will perhaps ourselves join in the general scramble after 
it.

To conclude our Prolegomena--we recommend to all Philadelphians, who 
thirst for the breath of the mountains, and are willing to breathe it 
within the limits of their own noble State, to repair to the Delaware 
Water-Gap, sit them down in the porch of our friend Snyder, (or 
Schneider--we forget whether he yet sticks to the _Vaterländisch_ 
orthography or not,) discourse with him concerning trout, deer, and 
rattlesnakes, and make themselves at home with him for a week. They 
will find themselves in one of the boldest mountain-passes in the 
United States, in the heart of a scene comprising crags, forests, and 
a river sprinkled with numerous islands, all striking, harmonious, 
and romantic. There, indeed, is neither a Round-Top nor a Mount 
Washington, with ladders on which to climb to heaven; but there are 
certain mountain ridges hard by, from whose tops he who is hardy 
enough to mount them, can well believe he _looks down_ on heaven, so 
broad, so fair, so elysian are the prospects that stretch below. 
There, also, our friends will find such lime-trees as will cause them 
to rejoice that they have planted scions of the same noble and 
fragrant race at their own doors; and such a glorious display of 
rosebays, or _rhododendrons_, the noblest of American flowering 
shrubs, as may perhaps teach them the wisdom of transferring a few to 
their own gardens.

But we have not space to mention one-half the charms that await them 
in the Gap. If they have eyes to distinguish between the flutter of 
wings and loose hanging mosses, they may behold, at evening, the 
national bald-eagle soaring among his native cliffs, and winging to 
his perch on the far-up old hemlock, where they may see his reverend 
white head gleaming like a snow-flake among the leaves, until the 
wail of the whippoorwill calls the shadows of night over the whole 
mountain. Besides all this, and the other charms too tedious to 
mention, if they commend themselves to the favour of mine host, they 
will be roused up in the morning by the roar of a waterfall under 
their very pillows, and then, leaping into a boat, and rowing into 
the river, they may survey it at their ease,--as lovely a sheet of 
foam, rushing over a cliff an hundred and forty feet high, as was 
ever stolen from its bed of beauty to drive----_'Eheu! eheu 
conditionem hujus temporis!'_----the machinery of--a saw-mill.




THE HAWKS OF HAWK-HOLLOW.




CHAPTER I.

  What man that sees the ever-whirling wheele
    Of Change, the which all mortall thing doth sway,
  But that thereby doth find, and plainly feele,
    How Mutability in them doth play
    Her cruel sports to many men's decay.
                              SPENSER--_Faerie Queene_.


America is especially the land of change. From the moment of 
discovery, its history has been a record of convulsions, such as 
necessarily attend a transition from barbarism to civilization; and 
to the end of time, it will witness those revolutions in society, 
which arise in a community unshackled by the restraints of 
prerogative. As no law of primogeniture can ever entail the 
distinctions meritoriously won, or the wealth painfully amassed, by a 
single individual, upon a line of descendants, the mutations in the 
condition of families will be perpetual. The Dives of to-day will be 
the Diogenes of to-morrow; and the 'man of the tub' will often live 
to see his children change place with those of the palace-builder. As 
it has been, so will it be,--

  "Now up, now doun, as boket in a well;"

and the honoured and admired of one generation will be forgotten 
among the moth-lived luminaries of the next.

That American labours under a melancholy infatuation, who hopes, in 
the persons of his progeny, to preserve the state and consideration 
he has acquired for himself. He cannot bequeath, along with lands and 
houses, the wisdom and good fortune which obtained them; nor can he 
devise preventives against the natural consequences of folly and 
waste. His edifice of pride must crumble to dust, when both 
corner-stone and hypogeum are based upon the contingencies of 
expectation; and the funeral-stone and the elm of his family 
mausoleum will vanish, in course of time, before the axe and plough 
of a new proprietor.

This is the ordinance of Nature, who, if she scatters her good gifts 
of talents with a somewhat despotic capriciousness, is well content 
that men should employ them in republican and equal rivalry.

In a little valley bordering upon the Delaware, there stood, fifty 
years since, a fair dwelling, within an ample domain, which a few 
years of vicissitude had seen transferred from its founder to a 
stranger, although wealth and a family of seven sons, the boldest and 
strongest in the land, might have seemed to insure its possession to 
them during at least two generations. The vale lies upon the right 
bank of the river, imbosomed among those swelling hills that skirt 
the south-eastern foot of the Alleghanies, (using that term in the 
broad, generic sense given it by geographers,) the principal ridge of 
which,--the Ka-katch-la-na-min, or Kittatinny, or, as it is commonly 
called, the Blue Mountain,--is so near at hand, that, upon a clear 
day, the eye can count the pines bristling over its gray and hazy 
crags. It stretches, indeed, like some military rampart of the 
Titans, from the right hand to the left, farther than the eye can 
reach, broken only by the gaps that, for the most part, give passage 
to rivers; and but for these, it would be entirely impassable.

The original proprietor of the estate was an English emigrant of 
humble degree, and, at first, of painfully contracted circumstances; 
but having fallen heir to a considerable property in his own land, 
and events of a very peculiar nature altering the resolution he had 
formed to enjoy it within the limits of the chalk-cliffs of Albin, he 
sat himself down in good earnest to improve the windfall at home. The 
little farm which he had cultivated with his own hands, was speedily 
swelled into an extensive manor; and deserting the hovel of logs 
which had first contented his wants, he built a dwelling-house of 
stone, so spacious, and of a style of structure so irregular and 
fantastic, that it had, at a distance, the air rather of a hamlet 
than a single villa, and indeed looked not unlike a nest of dove-cots 
stuck together on the hill-side. Without possessing one single 
feature of architectural elegance, it had yet a romantic appearance, 
derived in part from the scenery around, from the beauty of the 
groves and clumps of trees that environed it, and the vines and 
trailing flowers that were made, in summer at least, to conceal many 
of its deformities. It was exceedingly sequestered also; for except 
the log hovel, into which Mr. Gilbert (for that was his name) had 
inducted a poor widow, befriended out of gratitude for kindness shown 
him, when their respective conditions were not so unequal, there was 
not another habitation to be seen from his house, though it commanded 
an extensive prospect even beyond the river. The highway to the 
neighbouring Water-Gap, indeed, ran through the estate; the broad 
river below often echoed to the cries of boatmen and raftsmen, 
floating merrily onward to their market; and the village dignified 
with the title of County-town, was not above seven or eight miles 
distant; so that the valley was not always invested with a 
Sabbath-day silence; and, besides, his protegée, the widow, had, with 
Mr. Gilbert's consent, converted her hovel into a house of 
entertainment, which sometimes seduced a wayfarer to sojourn for a 
period in the valley. Mr. Gilbert himself did all he could to add 
life and bustle to his possessions, by doing honour to such well 
behaved villagers, or even strangers, as he could induce to ruralize 
with him; for having built and planted, and torn down and 
transplanted, until he knew not well what to do with himself, he hit 
upon that expedient for driving away ennui which passes for 
hospitality,--namely, converting into guests all proper, and indeed 
improper, persons from whom he could derive amusement, and who could 
assist him to kill time. To this shift he was driven, in great part, 
by the undomestic character of his children; who, so soon as they 
arrived at an age for handling the rifle, individually and infallibly 
ran off into the woods, until, as the passion for hunting grew with 
their growth, they might be said almost to live in them. It was this 
wild propensity, acting upon a disposition unusually self-willed and 
inflexible, in the case of his eldest boy, Oran, that defeated his 
scheme of spending the remainder of his days in England. He actually 
crossed the sea, with his whole family, and remained in the 
neighbourhood of Bristol, his native town, for the space of a year; 
but in that time, Oran, a boy only twelve years old, 'heartily sick,' 
as he said, 'of a land where there were no woods, and no place where 
he could get by himself,' finding remonstrance and entreaty fail to 
move his father's heart to his purpose, took the desperate resolution 
of returning to America alone; which he did, having concealed himself 
in the hold of a vessel, until she was out of the Channel. His 
sufferings were great, but he endured them with incredible fortitude; 
and finally after many remarkable adventures, he found himself again 
in his happy valley, in the charge or protection, if it could be so 
called, of the good widow Bell,--for that was the name of the poor 
woman befriended by his father. In a few months, his father followed 
him, perhaps instigated by affection, (for Oran, being the worst, was 
therefore the most favoured of his children,) by the murmurs of the 
others, or by the discovery he undoubtedly made, that his wealth 
would secure him, if not equal comfort, at least superior 
consideration, in the New World.

Consideration indeed he obtained, and increase of wealth; but the 
wild manners and habits of his children greatly afflicted him; and 
having married a second wife, he was induced, in the hope of 'making 
a gentleman,' as he called it, of the boy she bore him, (none of the 
others having that ambition,) to commit him to the protection of a 
sister, the widow of a Jamaica planter, who had divided with him the 
bequest that had made his fortune, and being childless herself, 
desired to adopt him as her heir.

Thus much of the early history of Mr. Gilbert was recollected with 
certainty, so late as the year 1782, by the villagers of Hillborough, 
the county-town already mentioned, who had so often shared his 
hospitality; but long before that time, he had vanished, with all his 
family, from the quiet, beautiful, and well-beloved valley. They were 
wont to speak with satisfaction of the good dinners they had eaten, 
the rare wines they had drunk, the merry frolics they had shared, in 
the Hawk's Hollow,--for so they perversely insisted upon calling what 
Mr. Gilbert, in right of possession, chose to designate as Avon-dale, 
in memory, or in honour of his own buxom river of Somerset; they 
related, too, to youthful listeners, the prophetic sagacity with 
which they had predicted violent ends to the young Hawks of 
Hawk-Hollow, (so they called the young Gilberts,) for their 
disobedience to father and mother, and their unusual passion for a 
life of adventure; and, finally, they shook their heads with 
suspicion and regret, when they spoke of Jessie, Gilbert's only 
daughter, of her early and mysterious death, and still more, to them, 
unaccountable burial. All that could be gathered in relation to this 
unhappy maiden, was dark and unsatisfactory: her death had seemingly, 
in some way, produced the destruction of the family and the 
alienation of the estate. It was an event of more than twenty years 
back; and from that period, until the time of his own sudden flight, 
Mr. Gilbert's doors were no longer open, and his sons were no more 
seen associated with the young men of the county. The maiden had died 
suddenly, and been interred in a private place on the estate.

In connexion with this event, some, more garrulous than others, were 
wont to speak of Colonel Falconer, the present proprietor of 
Hawk-Hollow, as having had some agency in the catastrophe; but what 
it was, they either knew not, or they feared to speak. Evil 
suspicions, however, gathered about this gentleman's name; and as he 
was seldom, if ever, seen in Hawk-Hollow in person, but had committed 
the stewardship of the property to the hands of a distant relative, 
who resided on it, the young felt themselves at liberty to fill up 
from imagination, the sketch left imperfect by the old; and 
accordingly, the Colonel, in time, came to be considered by those who 
had never seen him, as one of the darkest-hearted and most dangerous 
of his species. He was very rich; the station he occupied in the eyes 
of his country was lofty, and might have been esteemed noble; for he 
had shed his blood in the great and fearful battle of rights that was 
now approaching to a close; and after being disabled by severe and 
honourable wounds, he had changed the sphere of his exertions, and 
was now as ardent and devoted a patriot in the senate as he had been 
before in the field. Yet in this distant quarter, these 
recommendations to favour were forgotten; it was said, if he had done 
good deeds, there were evil ones enough to bury them as in a 
mountain, and if he had fought well for his country, he had struggled 
still more devotedly to aggrandize himself. In a word, he was called 
a hard, avaricious, rapacious man, whose chief business was to enrich 
himself at the cost of the less patriotic, and who had got the 
mastery of more sequestrated estates than an honest man could have 
come by. It was a sin of an unpardonable nature, that he had 
succeeded in getting possession of Hawk-Hollow, when there were so 
many others in the county who had set their hearts upon it.

His representative on the estate was a certain Captain John Loring, 
who, with all the patriotism of his connexion, and perhaps a great 
deal more, had never been able to turn it to any account. On the 
contrary, beginning the world with an ample patrimony, at the time 
when Mr. Falconer commenced as an adventurer, he had descended in 
fortune with a rapidity only to be compared with that of his friend's 
exaltation. The love of glory had early driven him from his peaceful 
farm on the Brandywine; and after distinguishing himself as a 
volunteer in the Indo-Gallic wars of Western Pennsylvania, it was his 
hard fate to bring his career of effective service to a close on what 
he was always pleased to call the Fatal Field of Braddock. From that 
bloody encounter he came off with more honour than profit, and with a 
body so mangled and a constitution so shattered, that a quarter of a 
century had scarce served to repair the dilapidation of his animal 
man. But the Captain had lost neither his spirit nor his love of 
glory. At the first trump of the Revolution, he donned the panoply of 
valour; he snatched up the pistols he had taken from a dead Canadian 
at the Fatal Field of Braddock, strapped upon his thigh the sword he 
had received for his services in storming certain Indian forts on the 
Alleghany river, clapped into his pocket the commission which the 
colonial government had granted him in reward of that gallant 
exploit, and reported himself, among a crowd of younger patriots, as 
ready to do and die for his country. The Commissioners looked at his 
gray hairs and shattered leg, (the latter of which had once been as 
full of musket-bullets as was ever a cartouche-box,) commended his 
virtue and enthusiasm, and divided the honours of command among those 
who were better fitted to do the state service. The Captain retired 
to his patrimonial estate, and there contented himself as well as he 
could, until the current of conflict, diverted from one bloody 
channel into another, came surging at last into the pastoral haunts 
of the Brandywine. At that time, his home was blessed with two 
children, a gallant boy of eighteen, and a merry little maiden of 
twelve. But one morning, he heard a trumpet pealing over the hills 
and a cannon roaring hard by, behind the woods. He looked at the face 
of his son, and the eye of the boy reflected back the fire of his 
father's spirit. Their horses were saddled in the stalls, and the 
spurs were already on young Tom Loring's heels. It was enough--the 
Captain carried his son to the grave.--But, to his own dying day, he 
rejoiced over the young man's fall. On this subject, the Captain was 
commonly considered by his neighbours to be crack-brained.

After this, came other misfortunes; and the Captain was a ruined man, 
landless, homeless, and childless, save that his little Catherine was 
still left to share his poverty, and, like a lamp in a cavern, to 
exaggerate rather than enlighten the gloom of his desolation. At this 
critical juncture, he found a firm and prudent friend in Colonel 
Falconer, by whom he was installed into the privileges, if not the 
actual possession of Hawk-Hollow, in the supervision and improvement 
of which he seemed now likely to pass the remainder of his days. How 
far the kindly feelings of relationship, or how far the influence of 
his daughter's growing beauty, had contributed to secure him the 
benevolence of this friend in need, was a question frequently 
agitated by the curious villagers. It was settled among them, that 
there was a wedding in the wind; but whether the young lady was to 
share the lot of her distinguished patron, or to be given to his gay 
and somewhat wild-brained son, was a point on which busy bodies were 
long coming at a conclusion. The Captain, though frank enough in his 
way, was not exactly the individual whom one would think of troubling 
with impertinent questions; and Miss Loring, however hospitable and 
courteous, had not yet selected a confidante from among the blooming 
nymphs of Hillborough. She was, however, the theme of as much 
admiration as curiosity; and being very beautiful, and of manners 
always gentle, and at times irresistibly engaging, the village poet 
immortalized her in rhyme, and the village belles forgave the 
eulogium.

It remains but to say a word more of the Gilberts, as a necessary 
introduction to a record, designed to rescue the story of their fate 
from the uncertain and unfaithful lips of tradition. After mingling 
in all the border wars, both Indian and civil, that, from the time of 
Braddock's defeat to the dispersion of the Connecticut settlers, 
distracted the unhappy Susquehanna settlements, they deserted the 
cause of their countrymen at the beginning of the Revolution, and 
appeared in the guise of destroying demons, at Wyoming, on that 
occasion of massacre, which has given to the spot a celebrity so 
mournful. In other words they were traitors and refugees; and however 
dreadful the reputation they obtained as bold and successful 
depredators, their fate was such as might have been, and perhaps was, 
anticipated by themselves. One after another, they were cut off, some 
by the rifle and tomahawk, one even by the halter, and all who did 
perish, by deaths of violence. It was indeed, at the time we speak 
of, confidently believed that Oran, the eldest of all, and the last 
survivor, had fallen within the space of a year, at a conflict on the 
banks of the Mohawk, along with other refugees of the neighbouring 
commonwealth, with whom he had associated himself. Great were the 
rejoicings in consequence with all who dwelt among the scenes of his 
earlier exploits; though some professed to have their doubts on the 
subject, and swore, that Oran Gilbert was not to be trusted, dead or 
alive, until his scalp was seen nailed on the county court-house 
door.




CHAPTER II.

  Come here, my good hostess, pray how do you do?
  Where is Cicely so cleanly, and Prudence, and Sue?
    And where is the widow that dwelt here?----
                                                 PRIOR.


The year 1782 was distinguished on the western continent as the close 
of the great contest, which obtained for America the name and 
privileges of a free nation. The harbingers of peace came flitting 
into the land, with the swallows of spring; and before the autumn had 
withered into winter, so little doubt prevailed of a speedy 
reconciliation taking place between Great Britain and the United 
States, founded upon a full recognition by the former of all the 
claims of the latter, that the Continental Congress passed a resolve 
for the reduction of its army, to take effect on the first day of the 
coming year. War was no longer waged upon any scale of magnitude; 
such hostilities as continued, were conducted almost solely by the 
desperate and lawless of both parties, and consisted of predatory 
incursions, occasionally attempted in the wilder parts of the 
country, by some skulking band of refugees, and of expeditions of 
vengeance, planned and executed in a moment of wrath, by the excited 
sufferers. At this period, the only portion of the States, north of 
the Potomac, in the hands of the British, was the city of New York, 
with its dependencies; and around these narrow possessions the lines 
of the Continental army were drawn, extending from the Highlands of 
New York to the plains of Monmouth in New Jersey. Military posts 
therefore existed at no great distance from the Hawk's Valley; and 
although the wild and mountainous country on either bank of the 
Delaware offered the strongest retreats to men of desperate 
character, it had been very long since the inhabitants had 
apprehended any danger from the presence of enemies. In the earlier 
part of the year, at least, they had no cause for alarm; and 
accordingly they mingled, without alloy, their raptures at the 
prospect of returning peace with their rejoicings over the death of 
Oran Gilbert, the most dreaded and detested of the Hawks of 
Hawk-Hollow.

One atrocity had indeed been committed, in a neighbouring state, 
which, besides exciting the fiercest indignation, had taught the 
occupants of the valley how little their security was owing to any 
relenting of spirit, or want of military daring, on the part of the 
refugees, whom the general success of the republican arms had driven 
in great numbers into the city of New York. A certain Captain Joshua, 
or Jonathan, Huddy, of the New Jersey state troops, having been 
captured, after a gallant resistance, at one of the posts in Monmouth 
county of that state, by a party of loyalists from New York, was for 
a while immured in prison, then carried back to his native state, and 
finally hanged by his captors, without trial, sentence, or any 
authority whatever, except what was derived from the verbal orders of 
a body of men calling themselves the Board of Directors of the 
Associated Loyalists. The result of this wanton and brutal murder, 
and of the failure of the British authorities to bring the chief 
perpetrator to justice, was an instant order on the part of the 
American Commander-in-chief, to retaliate upon a British prisoner of 
equal rank; and before the month of May was over, young Asgill of the 
British Guards, whose story is familiar to all readers of American 
history, was conducted to the lines at Morristown, to await, in 
painful uncertainty, the fate that now depended, or seemed to depend, 
upon the movements of his countrymen in relation to the true 
criminal.

Late in the spring of this year, Hawk-Hollow received a new addition 
to its society, in the person of a stranger, who, one pleasant 
evening, rode up to the hovel, which, as was before mentioned, Dame 
Alice, or as she was more familiarly called, Elsie Bell, had, so many 
years before, converted into a house of entertainment. But the credit 
of the poor woman, now aged, infirm, and almost friendless, had long 
since departed; and the tongues of the ignorant and foolish, in an 
age when the most ridiculous superstitions were not wholly confined 
to the brains of children, had invested her habitation with a 
character which repelled alike the curious and the weary. Her age, 
her poverty, her loneliness, her unsocial character, and perhaps also 
her attachment to the memory of a family all others had learned to 
detest, had brought her into bad odour; and some thoughtless or 
malicious persons having persuaded themselves that a certain famous 
mortality among their cattle could have been caused by nothing short 
of witchcraft, it was soon determined that old Elsie had stronger 
claims to the character of a broom-rider than any other person in the 
county. It was fortunate for her that the imputation fell upon her in 
a land, which once, in the case of an old woman brought before a jury 
under the same charge, had rendered the wise and humane verdict, that 
they found her "guilty, not of being a witch, but of being 
_suspected_." It never once occurred to any individual to prosecute, 
or even persecute, poor Elsie; nor is it supposed that any sane man 
ever seriously believed a charge so cruel and absurd; yet the stain 
rested upon the unfortunate creature, and was the cause of her losing 
all the little custom of her house, and being, at one period, reduced 
to great straits.

Her house had a very lonely appearance, especially dreadful, at 
nightfall, in the eyes of the passing urchin. It was in a hollow 
place on the road-side, the head of a gully, which, expanding into a 
wide, though broken and winding ravine, ran down to the river, half a 
mile distant, receiving, before it had yet reached it, the waters of 
a foaming rivulet coming from another quarter. A little enclosure, or 
yard, serving as an approach to the house, was surrounded by 
oak-trees. Its surface was broken, and on one side was a rough and 
jagged rock, almost a crag, sprinkled with sumach and other wild 
plants, that hid one half of the lowly fabric, while the other peeped 
insidiously from under the boughs of an antique, spectral-looking 
sycamore, springing from the side of the ravine, which was, in part, 
overlooked by the hovel. A little runnel crossed the road immediately 
before the house; and flowing through the yard, and making its way 
among the naked roots of the sycamore, it fell, with a gurgling 
sound, into the ravine. The murmurs of this little cascade, affected 
variously by drought and rain, and by the echoes of the hollow, sent 
many a superstitious thrill to the heart of the countryman whom any 
unlucky accident compelled to pass by the cabin at midnight.

Of a silent, reserved, and even saturnine temper, there was perhaps 
enough in Elsie's cold welcome to repel visitation, even without the 
addition of imputed witchcraft; and long before that heavy charge had 
fallen upon her, it was esteemed a misfortune to be obliged to tarry 
above an hour at the Traveller's Rest, as the inn had been called in 
its days of credit. To crown all, about the time when men and boys 
were beginning to talk ominously about the rot and murrain, a rival 
establishment was set up, a few miles farther down the river, which 
offered the attractions of good liquors, lounging idlers, and a 
talkative host, who made it his business to be always well provided 
with news from the market, the army, and Congress. The last resource 
of the Traveller's Rest gave way before such a rival, and never more 
(at least for many years) was there seen a guest quaffing his cider, 
or smoking his pipe, in the shadow of Elsie's porch, except 
occasionally, when some stranger passed by, who boldly disregarded, 
or was entirely unacquainted with the popular superstition in 
relation to the hostess.

The privations suffered by the poor old woman, in consequence of this 
failure of her ordinary means of subsistence, were very 
great,--greater, indeed, than was suspected; for she uttered no 
complaint, and sought no relief. A few acres of ground had been added 
to the hovel, given to her by the elder Gilbert. The title was not, 
indeed, thought to be very strong, and as it lay in the very centre 
of Colonel Falconer's domains, a true _regnum in regno_, it was 
sometimes wondered he made no attempt to dispossess her, and thus 
complete her ruin. From these worn-out fields, had she been able to 
retain any one about her to cultivate them, she might have gleaned a 
scanty yet sufficient subsistence. But neither son nor kinsman of any 
degree, had the poor widow left in the wide world; and when men began 
to doubt, suspect, and shun her, she was no longer able to procure 
the assistance even of hirelings; and her fields lay fallow and 
overgrown with brambles. Her situation grew hopelessly distressed and 
desolate; in vain she exposed her slender stores of gingerbread in 
the window, and her bottles of spruce-beer in the cool brook, to 
tempt the wayfarer to turn aside for such refreshments. If the 
stranger did feel for a moment urged to exchange the scorching road, 
on a July day, for the shadowy porch, he cast his eye upon the 
garden, at the road-side, now the last dependence of the miserable 
widow, and beholding her uninviting and squalid appearance, passed 
on, without thinking how much real charity might have been conferred 
by the disbursement of a few pence at that abode of poverty.

Such was the condition of this poor solitary creature, when Captain 
Loring was installed into the manor house; and such it might have 
continued, had not his daughter, shocked at the discovery of her 
distresses, and interested doubly when she found in her a tone of 
mind and manners worthy of a better fate, came immediately, like an 
angel, to her aid, and restored her again to a state of comfort. Not 
satisfied with rendering this assistance, she rested not day or 
night, until she had procured a labourer to till the neglected 
fields, and had even obtained a little negro wench to dwell with 
Elsie as a domestic; and perceiving how much her sufferings were 
really owing to the ridiculous fears and prejudices of the country 
people, she made it a point frequently to visit her house in person, 
dragging along with her, when she could, the beaux and belles of the 
village, in the hope that others would soon follow the example, and 
thus restore the Traveller's Rest to its ancient reputation. She even 
prevailed upon her father to honour the house with his patronage, at 
least so far as to visit it, when riding by; and, though there was 
nothing in the tempers of the two to make any intercourse between 
them very friendly and agreeable, the Captain had humoured his 
daughter so long in that way, that it grew to be one of his habits; 
and he seldom passed by, without stopping for a moment, to bestow a 
few civilities upon the widow. Notwithstanding all these benevolent 
exertions of Miss Loring, however, the Traveller's Rest never 
recovered its reputation or custom; and when the traveller spoken of 
before, rode up to the porch, and announced his intention of 
entering, and even sleeping, under her roof, the poor widow herself 
regarded him with a species of amazement.

"How is it, good mother?" said he, observing her hesitation: "They 
told me, in the village, you could give me both meat and lodging. Do 
not fear I shall prove a fault-finder;--a crust of bread and a cup of 
milk, or, if need be, of water, will satisfy me; and as for a bed, 
why a sack of straw,--or the floor and my saddle-bags,--will be a 
couch for a king. Can you not receive me?"

As he spoke, he took note of her countenance and appearance. The 
former was withered and furrowed, for she was very old; her hairs 
were gray and thin, and one of her hands shook with a paralytic 
affection. Yet she bore her years bravely, and when she had shaken 
off the abstraction of mind, which had become almost habitual from 
her long life of solitude, and lifted her eyes, he saw that they 
shone with any thing but the gleams of dotage. He observed, too, as 
she rose from the wheel she had been plying on the porch, and 
approached to its verge, that her step was firm, and even, as it 
afterwards appeared, agile. Her dress was of the humblest texture, 
and none of the newest, but studiously clean and neat, and the muslin 
coif on her head was white as snow.

"If your wants be indeed so humble," she said, with a manner that 
surprised him, and a voice almost without the quaver of age, "I can 
receive you into my poor house, and bid you welcome. But, good young 
sir, here have I no one to help you, and to take your horse. My man 
Dancy, is in the field, and the girl Margery"----

"Say not a word about them," said the traveller, leaping from his 
horse, "I am my own groom and lackey of the chamber; and with your 
consent, I will find my way to the stable, which I see behind the 
rock; and Long-legs here will follow me."

He was as good as his word, and stabled his steed without farther 
preliminary; and thus, by showing himself ready to adapt his manners 
to his circumstances, he won the good will of Elsie immediately. 
Indeed, as if to convince her of his sincerity, he told her at once 
his name, and his objects in coming to her house. His name, he said, 
was Hunter,--Herman Hunter,--his country South Carolina; he was a 
painter,--or so professed himself; and his only motive for intruding 
upon the solitude of Hawk-Hollow, was to improve himself in his art, 
by devoting some weeks to study, among the neighbouring cliffs and 
mountains. It had been his intention, he avowed, to take up his 
quarters some miles farther on, in the heart of the neighbouring 
gorge; 'but he liked the neatness and privacy of the Traveller's Rest 
so well, he thought he could do nothing better than remain where he 
was; at least, he would remain a few days,--perhaps, he might stay 
two or three weeks,--he did not know, but he thought Hawk-Hollow 
exceedingly pretty.'

There were two circumstances which recommended him to the poor 
widow's regard, even more strongly than his affable and conformable 
behaviour. In the first place, it appeared that his name Herman, had 
been borne by some deceased son or relative, and its familiar sound 
brought a mournful pleasure to her ears,--in the second, his 
appearance was highly prepossessing. He could not have been above 
four or five and twenty years old; his figure, though somewhat 
beneath the middle size, was good, and his limbs well knit and 
active; his face was decidedly handsome, with a very dark 
complexion,--his eyes black and sparkling, and his mouth, which 
disclosed at every laugh, a set of the finest teeth in the world, 
expressive of good-humour and a mirthful spirit. As for the ornaments 
of his outward man, they consisted of under-clothes of some white 
summer-stuff, a frock of blue cloth, a grass hat, short boots and 
gloves; and to show that he was somewhat of a coxcomb withal, he wore 
a laced scarlet vest, an embroidered neckcloth, and a huge gold ring 
on his finger, glistering with a sapphire, or some cerulean 
substitute. He had a good roan horse, too, and saddlebags of enviable 
capacity; besides which, he made his first appearance with a carbine 
slung to his back, and a leathern portfolio under his arm; so that he 
looked like one who visited the retreat, with a resolution to make 
the most of its advantages.

Having taken a second look around the hovel, he saw no reason to 
abate his satisfaction. Though poverty was apparent on the naked 
walls and uncarpeted floors, yet every thing was clean and well 
ordered. The hands of the widow had eked out the lack of more costly 
decorations, by sticking in the fire-place and windows, and over the 
mantel and table-tops, green laurel boughs and sprigs of flowers, 
such as abounded on the neighbouring hills, or were cultivated in her 
little garden, and such as were pleasant enough at this season. 
Besides, a grape-vine had been encouraged to trail over one corner of 
the porch, and the other supported festoons of nasturtions and 
morning-glories. His evening meal, though simple and humble enough, 
he was pleased to commend; and if his bed was hard, and the sheets 
somewhat coarser than were wont to encircle his limbs, a happy 
temperament and a heart at ease made them endurable, and even 
pleasant. If he found Dancy, the farmer, when he returned from the 
fields, to be taciturn and even stupid, still he liked his honest 
face; and the little negro wench, Margery, ugly, awkward, and a 
thousand times more stupid than Dancy himself, he soon discovered, 
would prove a source of unfailing amusement.

Being of this happy mood, and persuading himself that his quarters 
were exactly to his desire, he prepared, the day after his arrival, 
to approve his zeal and skill, by sketching some one or other of the 
pretty prospects presented from the Traveller's Rest. He rose with 
the dawn and trudged down the ravine, until he reached the river; 
wherein, after looking about him with much satisfaction, at the hills 
sleeping in morning mist, he plunged, and amused himself with a 
bather's enthusiasm, now swimming luxuriously in the limpid and 
serene flood of the Delaware, and now trying his strength against the 
ruder current, that came dashing from the rivulet. This bore the 
patronymical title of Hawk-Hollow Run. And here we may as well 
observe, that upon a promontory at its mouth, he discovered the 
origin of that name, which, notwithstanding the efforts of Mr. 
Gilbert to christen it anew, his neighbours had so obstinately 
continued to give the valley. Upon a tall and conspicuous oak-tree, 
dead, barkless, and well nigh branchless, a pair of antique 
fishing-hawks screamed over their eyry; and here they had preserved 
it from immemorial ages. The dead tree and the nest of sticks being 
conspicuous objects, even from a distance on the river, the earlier 
navigators had soon learned to designate the whole valley after the 
majestic birds that seemed its monarchs.

After this, he set himself to work with paper and pencil, but with no 
good effect, not being in the mood, or because he discovered there 
were divers obstacles in his way. First, the sun did not shine from 
the right place, and secondly, it shone in the wrong one; then there 
was no way of getting a rock converted into a chair, at the precise 
place where he wanted it, though there were so many thousands where 
he did not; and, in fine, he found himself, when all was ready, 
waxing eager for breakfast.

After breakfast, he had as many difficulties to encounter; and in 
short, after making divers essays, he beheld the afternoon sun sink 
low towards the west, without having accomplished any thing worthy of 
being deposited in the port-folio. "But never mind," said he, with a 
philosophical disregard of his indolence and fickleness, "we shall 
have the fit more strongly upon us on the morrow."

He sat down in the porch and cast his eyes towards the manor house, 
which was commonly known by the title, so little flattering to the 
founder's memory, of Gilbert's Folly. At this distance, and from this 
spot, it had an impressive and even charming appearance. It lay upon 
the slope of a hill, perhaps a mile or more from the Traveller's 
Rest; and, as it faced very nearly towards the east, he had remarked 
it, in the morning, when illuminated by the first beams of the 
day-spring, shining, with a sort of aristocratic pomp and pride, at 
its lowly neighbour, from the midst of green woods and airy hills. At 
the present moment, the front being entirely in shade, it had a 
somewhat sullen and melancholy look, resulting in part from the 
sombre hue of the stone of which it was built; and though slanting 
rays of sunshine, here and there striking on the sides of chimneys, 
gables, and other elevations, gave it a picturesque relief, it still 
preserved an air of soberness and gloom. It seemed to lie in the 
heart of a mighty paddock, once, however, termed a park, that was 
circumscribed by a line of pollards, sweeping over the hill-side, and 
here and there broken by groves of unchecked growth. In one or two 
places on the grounds, were rows of Italian poplars, stretching along 
in military rank and file, and adding that peculiar _palisaded_ 
beauty to the landscape, which is seen to the greatest advantage in a 
hilly country. Here, too, was another exotic stranger, the 
weeping-willow, drooping in the moist hollow, and shaking its boughs 
in the pool. The principal trees, however, were the natives of the 
valley, most of them perhaps left standing in their original places, 
when the grounds were laid out in the forest. The picture is 
complete, when it is added that the slopes of the hills were carpeted 
with the rich embellishments of agriculture: the wheat-fields and 
maize-plantations, waving like lakes of verdure, in the breeze, were 
certainly not the least of the charms of Hawk-Hollow, except perhaps, 
at that moment, to the anti-utilitarian painter.

He regarded the prospect for a long time in silence, and then 
muttered his thoughts aloud, half to himself, and half to his ancient 
hostess, who had drawn her wheel up to her favourite seat on the 
porch, and added its drowsy murmur to the sound of the oak-boughs, 
rustling together in the breeze:

"This, then," he exclaimed, "is the little elysium, from which wrong, 
and the revenge of wrong, drove a once happy and honoured family, to 
wander exiles and outlaws in the land? And not one permitted even to 
lay his bones in the loam of his birth-place! and no friend left to 
avenge or lament! '_Quis sit laturus in aras thura?_'"

The wheel of Alice revolved with increased velocity, but she betrayed 
no inclination to yield to the prattling infirmity of age; though 
she, doubtless, of all persons in the country, was best informed on 
the subject now uppermost in the mind of the painter. He was in the 
mood, however, for extracting such information as he could; and after 
a moment's silence, he resumed, with a direct question,

"That is Avondale Hall, is it not, good mother?"

"It is Gilbert's Folly," replied the hostess, drily. "We know no 
other name.--There are some call it Falconer's Trump-card--but that 
is nothing."

"Perhaps not," said the young man: "but who can tell better than 
yourself? Good mother Elsie--you must forgive me for being so 
familiar; but, in truth, I love the name--it was the name of my 
nurse, the first I learned to utter:--I have a great curiosity about 
these poor Gilberts; and, I was told, no one could inform me about 
them so well as yourself."

"And why should you ask about them?" demanded the hostess, who, as 
Herman had long since observed, conversed in language that would 
scarce have been anticipated from her appearance. "They can have done 
you no harm, and certainly they never did you good. You cannot fear 
them, for they are dead; and you yourself said, they left none to 
lament them."

"But they left many to curse," said Herman; "and it is this that 
makes me curious to know the truth about them. I have not heard any 
men pronounce the name, without accompanying it with maledictions; 
which were just so many proofs that they were unsafe informants."

"It is better then that they should be forgotten," muttered Elsie: 
"If they did wrong, bitterly have they been punished; if they 
provoked men to curses, the curses have been heavy on their heads, 
and are now even heaped upon their graves. Yet you speak of them not 
like others--how comes it that _you_ pronounce their name without a 
curse?"

"Simply because, never having received any hurt at their hands, and 
having nothing of the hound about me, I feel no impulse to join in 
the cry of the pack, until I know what beast they are baying. I saw, 
in the village, an old man begging; I was told, his house had been 
burned down, and his wife and children in it, by 'the accursed 
Gilberts;' I saw also, a miserable idiot, or madman, I know not 
which, dancing along the road-side, and inviting me to a wedding: I 
asked about him, and was informed he dwelt of yore in the Wyoming 
Valley, and was set upon by the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, in the hour of 
his marriage, and he alone saved of all the bridal party--I saw"----

"It is enough--God has judged them," said the old woman, with a voice 
both solemn and reproachful. "All these things have they done, and 
many more as dreadful and cruel. These are the fruits of civil war; 
for men are then changed to beasts. I knew a man of Wyoming, who was 
killed by his own brother--shot through the head, while he knelt 
down, begging for quarter of his mother's son! God has judged these 
acts, for they who did them are gone; and God will yet judge the men 
that drove them into their madness."

"They had cause, then, for what they did?" asked Herman, with 
interest. "It was not in cold blood, and upon deliberate choice, that 
they sided with the tories against their countrymen?"

"Perhaps it was, perhaps it was not," said Mrs. Bell, mournfully. "A 
plough-furrow on the hill-side may grow at last into the bed of a 
torrent; and what is but a cause for light anger, may, in time, work 
the brain into a frenzy. But ask me not of these things now: it was 
in a season like this, twenty-four years since--but it is foolish to 
remember me of it,--perhaps sinful. Some time, perhaps, I may speak 
of these unhappy people to you; but I cannot now. Trust, at least, 
that if the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, as you called them, did much wrong, 
they also endured it,--and that, too, when they had not provoked it."

Finding that his curiosity could obtain no farther gratification at 
the present moment, Herman Hunter again cast his eyes upon the 
mansion, and being greatly charmed by an effect made by the striking 
of the sunshine on certain parts, while others lay in the broadest 
and deepest shadow, he was seized with a fit of artist-like 
enthusiasm, and arranging his drawing materials upon a little table, 
which he drew into the porch for the purpose, he was straightway 
immersed in the business of sketching. While he was dotting down 
chimneys and windows with great haste and satisfaction, he was struck 
with a new and unexpected effect in the picture. A scarlet mantle, 
beside which glittered another of snowy white, suddenly blazed out 
like a star from a clump of shadowy trees in the paddock, and he 
became aware that two females on horseback were issuing from the 
park, and riding down the road. But losing sight of them again, as 
they ambled into a hollow, and being now really engrossed in his 
employment, he thought no more of them, until they suddenly 
re-appeared from behind a thicket no great distance off, galloping 
forward with an impetuosity and violence that would have done honour 
to veteran dragoons.

Somewhat astonished at such an unexpected display of spirit, he 
dropped his pencil, and for an instant supposed that their ponies 
were running away with these damsels errant. They were not attired 
for the saddle, and seemed rather to have sprung upon their palfreys 
from some sudden whim and spirit of frolic than with a purpose of 
leaving the park, in which he had first caught sight of them. They 
were arrayed merely in simple walking-dresses of white, over which 
one had flung a light scarlet shawl; and instead of caps or round 
hats, they had low and broad-brimmed hats of thin felt, without 
veils, much better fitted for rambling in, over sunny meads, than for 
displaying to the winds on horseback.

His suspicion that their ponies had taken the matter into their own 
hands,--or rather the bits into their own teeth, was of short 
duration; and as they advanced with increased rapidity, he saw 
plainly, by the mirthful rivalry displayed in all their actions and 
gestures, that they were positively running a race, the scarlet 
mantle being the winner,--or, so far, at least, as a full length 
would go, in full prospect of winning.

Not a little diverted at the spectacle, and the merry cries with 
which they encouraged their steeds, he rose from the table, to take a 
better view of the fair jockeys, as they should brush by; when, to 
his great surprise, no sooner had they reached the little oak-yard 
that conducted to the Traveller's Rest, than they made a rapid wheel, 
and came dashing up to the porch in a style worthy of a race-course.

It happened, either because he was in part concealed by the veil of 
nasturtions that grew near to where he had placed his table, or 
because they were too much engaged in their frolic to raise their 
eyes, that the young painter was seen by neither of the ladies, until 
they were within six yards of the porch; when the headmost, suddenly 
observing him, drew up in such confusion that she had well nigh 
jerked her pony over on his back. He perceived at once, that _his_ 
appearance at the Traveller's Rest was wholly unexpected, and was any 
thing but welcome to the adventurous pair. Indeed, it was manifest 
that the consciousness of having been detected by a stranger engaged 
in such jockey-like amusement, had greatly disconcerted them both.

All this the young man observed in a moment, and could scarce 
suppress the smile that gathered over his visage, even when he saw 
that the confusion of the foremost damsel had discomposed her 
palfrey. However, as he looked into her face, florid at once with 
exercise and shame, he beheld a pair of such radiant black eyes, 
flashing with mingled mirth and vexation, and withal a countenance of 
such haughty and decidedly aristocratic character, as instantly put 
him upon his best behaviour. He took off his hat, like a well-bred 
gentleman, and advancing from the porch, would have taken her pony by 
the rein, had she not instantly recovered herself, and turned the 
animal aside, with an empress-like "I thank you, sir!" He thought the 
refusal of assistance, so respectfully offered, was somewhat 
ungrateful, and even rude; but she looked so beautiful, he could do 
nothing less than testify his admiration by another bow.

Meanwhile the second maiden, whose confusion seemed, at first, even 
greater than her companion's, and who blushed at the sight of him 
with even painful embarrassment, recovering herself more quickly, 
(for her filly was not so restiff as the other,) rode up to the 
porch, and saluting the ancient widow, who had risen to receive her, 
exclaimed, though with a flurried voice,

"You must pardon us, good Elsie--we came to visit you--but we knew 
not you had guests with you." Then turning to Herman, just as her 
friend had rejected his proffered assistance, she said, with the 
sweetest voice in the world, as if to make amends for the rudeness, 
"We are much obliged to you, sir--but the horses are very gentle." 
She then turned again to Dame Bell, and, as if resolved to explain 
away as much of the cause of visitation as possible, said,

"We are looking for my father, Elsie; and we thought, that, instead 
of waiting for him in the park, we would ride by your house, and ask 
you how you did. We will not intrude upon you longer.--Good by, my 
dear Mrs. Bell."

With these hurried expressions, and having inclined her head 
courteously to the painter, she rode out of the yard, followed by her 
companion; when having hesitated a moment, as if uncertain whether to 
continue upon the road or not, they suddenly came to a decision, and 
rode back towards the paddock, though at a much more moderate pace 
than before.

So great was the admiration with which Herman Hunter regarded the 
beauty of the red shawl, that he had scarce bestowed two glances upon 
her friend. He had noticed indeed, that a profusion of gold-shadowed 
locks and eyes of extreme gentleness and sweetness, gave a very 
agreeable expression to a countenance at least two years younger than 
the other's; but as there was none of the spirit of fire breaking out 
at a glance from those loop-holes of the soul, to make an instant 
impression on his imagination, as had been the case with the other, 
he lost the opportunity of satisfying himself by another look, how 
well her charms might endure a comparison with those of her 
companion. His admiration was doubly unfortunate; since, little as it 
deserved such a return, it laid the foundation for a spirit of 
hostility, little short of absolute hatred, in the bosom of the lady, 
as will be seen in the sequel of this tradition.

As the gay but disconcerted pair rode away together, he could scarce 
content himself until they got beyond earshot, before he exclaimed, 
with the most emphatic delight,

"I vow to heaven, my dear mother Elsie, she is the most beautiful 
creature I ever laid my eyes on!"

Alice responded with a faint sigh and a yet fainter smile; but her 
countenance immediately darkened, while she muttered,

"I pity her, poor child. The storm is coming upon her that she dreams 
not of; the curse will swallow up all that are, and shall be, of his 
house; and she in whom there is no wrong, and who was born no child 
of an unjust father, will share the penalty with his children. Yes, 
yes," she added, straining her eyes, after the maidens, "I shall see 
_her_ bright eyes dimmed with tears, and then closed,--_her_ yellow 
locks parted over a forehead of stone and death,--and perhaps help to 
lay her in the earth out of men's sight, as I have helped with one 
who was as young and as fair!"

"I vow, mother Elsie," said the young man, surprised at the prophetic 
sadness and emphasis of her speech, but still more at the mention of 
"yellow locks," while his own thoughts were musing upon ringlets of 
raven. "I vow, you have mistaken me altogether. I meant the other 
lady, the black-eyed, angelic creature, who tossed her head at me 
with such disdain,--and, hang it, incivility, too; for it cannot be 
denied, she was uncivil."

"I thought you were speaking of the Captain's daughter," said the 
widow, coldly.

"I know no more about the Captain's daughter than my grandmother," 
said the youth, irreverently; "nor do I care half so much. But tell 
me Elsie,--who is that black-eyed creature? I never beheld any body 
to compare with her!"

"She is the daughter of Colonel Richard Falconer," said the hostess, 
resuming her labours at the wheel, yet apparently disposed to reply 
to any farther interrogatories the young man might propose. But the 
painter seemed satisfied with what he had heard. He exclaimed at 
once, with a look of strong disgust,

"Why then may the fiends seize the fancy, and my fool's head along 
with it! Hark'e, good dame Bell, did you ever hear of the old heathen 
_Lamiæ_? the _Lemures_, as they were sometimes called?"

"I have heard of some such beasts of Peru," said the complaisant 
hostess; "and I believe they are a kind of camels."

"Oh, that's the _llama_, the pretty little llama," said the young 
man, with the good-humour that became an instructor. "The Lamiæ were 
monsters and sorceresses of Africa, with the face and bust of women, 
and the body of a serpent,--a sort of land mermaids. (By the by, do 
you know, I saw a mermaid once? Some time, I will tell you all about 
her; but, just now, all I can say is, that she was monstrous ugly.) 
These Lamiæ often bewitched men, who looked them in the face: if you 
looked there first, you were so blinded, you could not perceive their 
true deformity, until assisted by the counter-spell of some 
benevolent magician. Now, Elsie, this is my thought: I hold Miss 
Falconer to be a Lamia; and the sound of her father's name was the 
spell that opened my eyes to her true ugliness. Pho!" continued the 
youth, observing the incredulity and wonder of his auditor; "the 
image is a bad one after all, for it conveys an improper impression. 
I should say, that _I_ am like the Lamia's lover, not Miss Falconer 
like the Lamia. To tell you the truth, I have heard so many ill 
things said of the father, that I feel myself heartily inclined to 
hate the daughter. A vixen, I warrant me!"

The old woman regarded him earnestly, and then replied,

"Little cause have I to love Colonel Falconer, or to speak well of 
him and his; yet why should a stranger like you, assume the post of 
the judge, and visit the father's faults upon the head of his 
offspring? But you do not speak seriously. I know no evil of Miss 
Falconer, and I have heard none. This is the first time I have ever 
seen her so near to my threshold: and I know not what strange fancy 
could have brought her hither. As for Miss Catherine, the Captain's 
daughter, she often comes to inquire about me. Poor child! she fears 
not the 'old witch,' for she has done no harm to me nor to any other 
mortal; she does not hate 'wicked old Elsie,' for hatred dwells not 
in her nature; but she looks with respect and pity upon the miseries 
of age and penury. And many a good deed she has done me, when others 
passed me by with scorn and hate. Would that I might go down to the 
grave in her place! were it but in memory of her goodness. But when 
the bolt is aimed at the little willow, even the withered old oak 
cannot arrest it."

With such expressions as these the old woman, if she did not 
re-inspire Herman Hunter with admiration for Miss Falconer, succeeded 
at least in awakening some interest for the younger lady; which was 
greatly increased, when he came to suspect, from some expressions 
Elsie let fall, that the miseries she seemed so confidently to 
predict as being in store for the maiden, were predicated upon the 
knowledge of a contemplated union between her and the brother of her 
friend. It was plain, from what Elsie said, that this was to be a 
marriage of convenience, in which Catherine's affections were to be 
sacrificed, or disregarded. It is true, that Elsie did not directly 
affirm this to be the case; but the inference from her expressions 
was consequential and inevitable; and Herman only wondered that the 
young lady, whom he now pictured to himself as dying of a broken 
heart, should have looked so rosy and happy.

In the meanwhile, the maidens rode on, returning towards the park, 
until they reached the grove in the hollow, where they were sheltered 
from view. Here they paused, and the Captain's daughter gave at once 
the flattest contradiction to all Elsie's piteous allusions to the 
state of her feelings, by looking archly into her companion's face, 
and then bursting into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

"Well, what now, dear Hal?" she cried, while tears of genuine 
merriment swam in her eyes and rolled on her cheeks; "what do you 
think of your race _now_? Shall we try it over again?"

"Upon my word, Miss Loring"----

"Kate! call me Kate, or never look to see me laugh more," exclaimed 
the Captain's daughter. "Now pray, cousin Hal, do you not think we 
have exhibited our horsemanship somewhat too advantageously to-day? 
Fy, Harriet, I will never forgive you! To think we should go 
galloping in this manner, almost into the arms of a young fellow with 
a scarlet waistcoat! It is _too_ ridiculous!"

"So much for dragging me along after you, to the old witch's!" said 
Miss Falconer, pettishly.

"_After_ me?" cried the other, with increased mirth; "why, you were 
leading--you had beaten me by full a length and a half, as the 
jockeys call it:--so much for not starting fair! And as for dragging 
you there, Harriet, pray do me justice; you know it was your own 
wicked suggestion altogether that carried you thither, and my frailty 
that made me follow. It is all a punishment on you, for breaking the 
commandment, and running after the forbidden fruit. Oh, curiosity! 
curiosity! when shall we poor women shuffle the little tempter from 
our bosoms? But pray, cousin, what made you treat the young man so 
rudely? Sure, he was very handsome and well-behaved; and sure, young 
gentlemen, handsome and well-behaved, are not so plentiful in 
Hawk-Hollow! I think we will get pa to invite him to dinner."

"Well, Catherine," said the other, "you are merry to-day; but it 
happens so seldom, and I am so glad of it, that I pardon you, 
although your mirth is all at my expense."

"You are angry with me, Harriet?" said the Captain's daughter, riding 
up to her friend, and stretching forth her hand. Her frolicsome 
spirits vanished in a moment, and the change on her countenance and 
in her whole manner, from extreme gayety to impetuous emotion, was 
inexpressibly striking and touching.

"Angry? by no means," said Miss Falconer, as Catherine flung her arm 
round her neck and kissed her. "Poor wayward Kate! I would you could 
laugh at me for ever. Why do you cry, mouse? You are certainly the 
most extraordinary mad creature in the world!"

"Yes, I am," said Miss Loring, smiling through her tears; "I can't 
abide being talked stiffly to. But what shall we do? Shall we ride up 
to the park? Shall we sit down here, and play long-straws for 
sweethearts? Shall we take heart of grace, and ride on in search of 
papa? Or shall we play termagant again, whip, cut and spur, whoop and 
halloo, and call Monsieur Red-Jacket to stand up for umpire? Any 
thing, dear Hal, to kill time, and find you amusement."

"Was Monsieur Red-Jacket so handsome, after all?" demanded Miss 
Falconer.

"I don't know," said Catherine: "He kept his eyes so fixed upon your 
own face, I could not half see him. But, really, he seemed to admire 
you very much--I suppose, because you were first in! I don't see how 
you could have the heart to treat him so uncivilly, when his 
admiration was so manifest, and his bearing so respectful?"

"Was it, indeed?" said the other, shaking her head, as if 
regretfully. "Young, handsome, well bred, and an admirer--and yet, I 
know, I shall never abide the sight of him. What! see me riding in 
full race, with whoop and halloo, and all that, as you say, like a 
grazier's daughter!--poh, it is intolerable: it can never be 
forgiven!"

"Why, he saw me, too," said Miss Loring; "and I am sure, _I_ forgive 
him! And it is no such great matter, after all."

"No great matter, to be sure; but small ones govern the world. No one 
can forgive being made ridiculous, especially a woman of spirit. 
Come, we will gallop back to the park, and leave the Captain to find 
his own way."

With these words, they returned to the paddock.

In the confession of a weak and capricious prepossession, which was 
perhaps more than half serious, Miss Falconer showed an almost 
prophetic sense of what would be the future temper of her mind 
towards the unlucky Herman. Neither the manifest folly nor injustice 
of the sentiment, even when gratitude should have expelled it from 
her bosom for ever, could prevent it ripening into jealousy and final 
dislike; and unfortunately circumstances of an accidental nature soon 
arose to give a double impulse to these unamiable feelings.




CHAPTER III.

  A man of blood, being brought up in the wars
  And cruel executions.
                             BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

  ------A very foolish, fond old man,
  Four-score and upwards; and, to deal plainly,
  I fear, he is not in his proper mind.
                                         KING LEAR.


The painter, still keeping his eyes upon the pair, pondered over that 
propensity of our nature, which urges even the coldest and demurest 
of mortals into acts of extravagance, when removed a moment from 
artificial restraints. The whole system of social federation is a 
state of enthrallment and captivity, although undoubtedly a wholesome 
one; and he who publicly rejects its fetters, though he may 
personally enjoy his independence, violates that compact which 
separates the refined from the primitive and uncivilized states of 
existence, and encourages others to rush back upon the savage freedom 
of the latter. The preservation of a certain share of dignity is 
incumbent upon men, not merely as a means of holding caste, but of 
preventing a downslide in manners and mind. The hero may properly 
play at bo-peep with his children, though not at the head of his 
army; and, by the same rule, a fair lady may shoot and drive, play 
the fiddle, and race horses, to her heart's content, so long as the 
amusement is confined to the proper circle. For our own part, we 
think there is no more delightful spectacle in the world than is 
afforded by a troop of grown-up hoydens, released from the heavy 
trammels of etiquette, and yielding, in all the confidence of 
privacy, to the wild extravagancies of freedom; though a public 
display of the kind would, undoubtedly, be any thing but agreeable. 
Such were the sentiments of the painter; and however much the young 
ladies may have been mortified at an introduction made in a way so 
boisterous and masculine, it is questionable whether any other could 
have caused them to produce a stronger, or even more favourable, 
impression on his imagination. Being of a joyous temperament himself, 
he rejoiced at the manifestation of similar spirit in others; and 
only regretted that the parentage of the most admired (for his 
prejudice against the name of Falconer had been strongly avowed,) 
should have so soon driven away the visions of amusement and delight, 
that, at the glance of her brilliant eyes, came rushing through his 
brain.

He had scarce lost sight of them in the park, before the road again 
echoed with the sound of hoofs; and looking round, he beheld three 
young men, very genteely dressed, ride by, and make their way to the 
park gate. As they passed the cottage, they turned their faces 
towards it, saluting the widow by name, and acknowledging the 
presence of the stranger by courteous nods. He perceived, however, 
that they were somewhat surprised, and not a little diverted, by his 
appearance at such a place; for they exchanged smiles, and by and by, 
when they had got a little beyond the brook, they were heard laughing 
together.

"Well done, ye vagabonds," muttered the good-humoured youth to 
himself: "never trust me, if I do not make you more in love with my 
lodgings than your own empty skulls, before we are many days older. 
There _is_ some life in Hawk-Hollow, after all."

He had just succeeded in recalling his attention to his unfinished 
sketch, when it was distracted for the third time by the sudden 
appearance of a carriage, somewhat old-fashioned and grim, that 
rolled up to the inn at an unusual speed, and was in the act of 
passing it, when an old gentleman, whose head was thrust from the 
window, caught sight of Herman, and immediately diverted it from its 
course, by roaring out to the coachman, a venerable negro,--

"Holla, you Dick! right about wheel,--turn,--halt!" and the coach, 
guided with ready skill, stopped at the porch-step, almost before the 
last word had been pronounced.

Open flew the door, for it was evident the old gentleman was too 
impatient to await the tardy assistance of his servant, and out flew 
the steps, unfolding at a kick of his foot, which immediately 
followed them. As he thrust himself thus hurriedly from the vehicle, 
Herman observed, that besides his aged appearance, he had another 
claim to such duties as a young man could render, in a second foot, 
which, instead of displaying any of the strength and agility of the 
former, was battered out of shape by some ancient injury, and was 
pendent to a leg unquestionably infirm and halt. Seeing this, the 
young painter instantly stepped forward, and assisted him to descend; 
a courtesy that was acknowledged by a hearty gripe of the hand, and 
the exclamation,

"Surrender, you dog, or I'll blow your brains out!"--And to complete 
the astonishment of the young man, he perceived, at the same moment, 
a great horse-pistol, which the old gentleman had whipped out of the 
vehicle, presented within three inches of his ear.

Astounded at such an unexpected mode of salutation, the painter could 
do little more than express his alarm and confusion, by echoing the 
word, "Surrender?" when Elsie interfered in his behalf, crying out, 
"For Heaven's sake, Captain Loring! what are you doing? Do the young 
gentleman no harm!"

"_Gentleman!_" cried the Captain, somewhat staggered himself. 
"Adzooks! do you say so?--a gentleman? What! and no cut-throat 
Gilbert, hah? By the lord, I thought I had him! Why, you vagabond 
young fellow, give an account of yourself.--Who are you? what are 
you? and how did you come here? You are a gentleman, hah? and you 
have not killed Colonel Falconer, hah? and you profess yourself to be 
an honest man, hah! Why, what will the world come to!"

As he spoke, in these abrupt and startling phrases, Herman had 
leisure, notwithstanding his surprise, to observe that he was a 
comely, eccentric-looking old man, with a bottle-shaped nose, gray 
eyes, and huge beetle-brows, his whole countenance puckered into 
wrinkles, that seemed to begin at the tip of his nose, or on his 
upper lip, as a common centre, and radiate thence to all parts of his 
visage, though they appeared in the greatest luxuriance on the chin 
and forehead. His hair was clubbed, queued, and powdered; and, 
although he was evidently battered by time and hard service, and 
limped withal very uncouthly on his wounded leg, a three-cornered 
hat, and a half-and-half old military dress, gave him a somewhat 
heroic appearance. His coat was blue, his breeches buff; and he had a 
boot on one leg, and a shoe on the other,--or,--to speak more 
strictly, on the foot thereof, _that_ being incapable of the more 
manly decoration. But at the present moment, it was scarce possible 
to obtain a just idea of his appearance or character, had Herman been 
cool enough for the attempt. The violence of his attack upon one in 
the act of rendering him a humane courtesy, indicated that he was 
somewhat beside himself; and it was equally plain, from the medley of 
expressions on his visage, agitated at once by suspicion, anxiety, 
indignation, fury, triumph, and doubt, that he was in a condition to 
be replied to rather with softness than anger. In truth, there was 
something so ridiculous in his appearance, as well as in the 
circumstance of his own unexpected arrest, that Herman was no sooner 
relieved of the fear of death, by the dropping of the pistol, which 
the gallant soldier removed at the remonstrance of Elsie, than he 
burst into a laugh, and would have indulged it freely, had not the 
Captain cut him short by exclaiming,

"Hark ye, ye grinning cub! is it a thing to laugh at, when a man's 
murdered, and you arrested on suspicion?"

"Murdered, Captain!" cried the widow, whom some of his previous 
ejaculations seemed to have turned into stone:--"Murdered, Captain, 
did you say?" she exclaimed, seizing the soldier by the arm, and 
wholly disregarding the presence of the painter,--"Richard Falconer 
murdered at last? and by a Gilbert, when all that bore the name are 
in the grave? Impossible!"

"Murdered, I tell you, and given over by the doctors," roared the 
Captain, "and by one of the cursed Hawk-Hollow Gilberts, if there's 
any believing words out of his own mouth: I have it by express. And 
hark ye, you old beldam, if you have given shelter to the villain, 
never trust me if I don't burn you at a stake. Adzooks! was there 
ever such a thing dreamed of?--Hark ye, sir, I arrest you on 
suspicion."

"What, sir! on suspicion of murder!" cried Hunter, who had by this 
time recovered his gravity, and now spoke with as much dignity as 
boldness: "If you have any authority to apprehend me, I am your 
prisoner, and will accompany you to the nearest magistrate.--This is 
the most extraordinary circumstance in the world; and let me tell 
you, sir,"--but he was interrupted by the widow; who, still grasping 
the Captain's arm, although he strove to cast her off, exclaimed,

"Do no rash folly with the young man. Look at him--does _he_ look 
like a Gilbert? You are mad to think it, Captain Loring!"

Then, as if satisfied that such argument was sufficient to acquit her 
lodger of all suspicion, she again renewed her questions; and Herman, 
giving ear to the Captain, gathered from his broken and impetuous 
expressions, that assassination had been committed, or rather 
attempted, (for it did not appear that the victim was dead,) upon the 
body of Colonel Falconer, who had been so lately the subject of his 
thoughts and conversation,--that the outrage had been perpetrated at, 
or near, the metropolis of the State,--that suspicion had fallen upon 
a man long esteemed defunct,--and that Captain Loring, in the fervour 
of his indignation and zeal to bring the assassin to justice, being 
never very notorious for the wisdom of his actions, had resolved to 
seize upon all suspicious persons,--that is to say, all 
strangers,--he might light on, without much question of his right to 
do so, until he had caught the true offender, who, he doubted not, 
being a refugee and a Gilbert, would be found lurking about the 
Hawk's Hollow. It seemed, that the suddenness of the intelligence had 
overpowered the veteran's brain, and left him as incapable of 
distinguishing the appearances of innocence from those of guilt, as 
of understanding the illegal character of his proceedings; yet, being 
a man of impulses, excitable both in head and heart, his suspicions 
were as easily diverted as inflamed; and, accordingly, after having 
come within an ace of shooting a pistol through the painter's head, 
his next act was to seize upon him in the most affectionate manner in 
the world, crying out by way of apology,

"Harkee, younker,--adzooks, no ill blood betwixt us? When my blood's 
up, I'm an old fool, d'ye see. Didn't mean to insult you; and as for 
shooting, that's neither here nor there. But when we're after a 
deserter, spy, refugee, murderer, or such dogs, why quick's the word, 
and 'Fall in, friend,' the order of the day. Must catch the villain, 
and take account of all skulking fellows without the counter-sign. 
Here's bloody murder in the wind. The old woman says you are a 
gentleman: so, gentleman, as you were! Adzooks, you look no more like 
a Gilbert than a mud-terrapin; but all honest men answer to their 
names--what's _yours_?"

"Hunter,--Herman Hunter," replied the young man; "and, if need be, I 
can easily convince you that I am no object of suspicion."

"Don't doubt it; you've an excellent phys'nomy,--very much like my 
poor son Tom's," cried the soldier, now as much struck with the open 
and agreeable countenance of the stranger, as he had been before 
blinded by his own impetuosity. "I like you! You're a soldier, hah? 
Where do you come from?"

"From South Carolina," said Hunter, exchanging the serious mood in 
which he first submitted to examination, for one more characteristic 
of his humorous temper. He began to understand and even relish the 
oddities of the inquisitor; and as the Captain's questions were now 
put in a tone indicative of good will and admiration, and it was 
evident his turbulent feelings were giving way rapidly before others 
of a new character, he seemed disposed not only to endure but to 
encourage the ordeal.

"From South Carolina?" cried the Captain. "Too many tories there by 
half! But then you have some men there; yes, sir, some men, whom I 
call men! Sumpter, sir, and Marion, sir,--why I call such fellows 
_men_, sir! I like this swamp-fighting, too; I was brought up to 
it,--took my first lesson among red Delawares, and ended with Mingoes 
and Shawnees. A good tussle at Eutaw, too, sir, it was, by the lord!" 
exclaimed Captain Loring, warming into such a blaze of military 
ardour at the recollection, that he quite forgot the object of his 
delay, and the assassination of his kinsman into the bargain;--"a 
good tussle, (without saying any thing of my friend Morgan's 
rub-a-dub-dub at the Cowpens,)--a good tussle! And such glorious 
weather, too, when a man could fight and keep cool! Now I remember, 
that, at the fatal field of Braddock, ninth July, '55, it was the 
hottest work, what with the weather, what with the savages, what with 
the stupid cockney red-coats, that man ever saw,--an oven above, and 
a furnace all round; it was all blood and sweat, sir!--the wounded 
were boiled in their own gore. It was a day, sir, to make a man a 
man, sir,--it taught me to smell gun-powder! It was there, sir, I 
first looked in the face of George Washington,--a poor colonial 
buck-skin colonel then, but now, adzooks, the greatest man the world 
ever saw! Harkee, sir, have you served? have you smelt powder? have 
you heard a trumpet? have you ever fought a battle?"

"Certainly, sir," replied the young man, with humour; "I have 
inflicted bloody-noses, and received them. I was quite a Hector at 
school; and, so long as you stop short of killing, I am a Hector yet. 
But I never could find any appetite in me for bullets and 
broad-swords; and as for a bayonet, I think it the most inhuman 
weapon in the world. Noble Captain, I am a non-combatant, a man of 
peace."

"Hah!" cried the Captain, indignantly; "and how comes that? An 
able-bodied man, with your bleeding country calling on you, and no 
fight in you? Sir, let me tell you, sir, such a pair of legs should 
have been devoted to the service of your country, sir! Look you, sir, 
my son Tom Loring was only eighteen years old, when he fought his 
battle on the Brandywine; and a whole year before, he was ripe for a 
rub, as he often told me. How comes it, sir, you have grown out of 
your teens, and never faced an enemy? Zounds, sir, I was beginning to 
have a good opinion of you!"

"There is no accounting for it, Captain, except"----

"Hark ye, Mr. What-d'ye-call-it," said the soldier, the good feelings 
with which he was beginning to regard the youth, giving place at once 
to contempt and indignation, "there is every thing in having the 
right sort of blood for these things, and you have no blood at all. I 
despise you, sir, and, adzooks, I believe you are some suspicious 
person after all, and very contemptible, for all of your red 
jacket.--Holloa, Dick, there! help me into the carriage."

And thus venting his disgust, and preparing to put the seal to his 
displeasure by instant departure, the young man was on the point of 
losing a friend so suddenly won, when, fortunately for him, the 
Captain's eye fell upon the little table with the drawing materials, 
which he had not before observed, and walking up to it, he began, 
without a moment's hesitation, to examine the unfinished sketch. The 
effect was instantaneous; the spectacle of his own dwelling, 
transferred, with not a little skill, to paper, though only in light 
lead marks, and so accurately that he instantly detected (as appeared 
to him wonderful enough) the windows of his own sleeping apartment, 
threw him into such transports, that he seemed on the point of 
dancing for joy, as he would perhaps have done, had it not been for 
the infirmity of his extremity.

"Lord bless us!" said he, "here's the Folly! the identical old Folly, 
with the grape-vine, the stables, the negro-houses, the locust grove, 
the three tulip-trees, the pot in the chimney, and the old 
martin-house on a pole! And here's my two negroes, Dick and Sam, at 
the gate, driving the cows out of the park"----

"No, Captain," said Herman, with a painter's dignity; "those are the 
two young ladies; and I flatter myself, when I have done a little 
more to them"----

"My girls?" cried the Captain, in a rapture; "why, so they are! And 
_you_ did this? and you're a painter, hah?"

"A sort of one, as you see, Captain," replied the youth, with an air.

"A painter!" cried the Captain, grasping his hand, with delight. "Can 
you paint a soldier, hah?"

"Ay," replied the youth, "if he'll hold still long enough."

"And cannon, and horses, and smoke, and trees, and a dreadful 
splutter of blood and dead men, hah? Then, by the lord, you shall 
paint me the Fatal Field of Braddock, with the red-coats and the 
continentals, the savages and the Frenchmen,--and Braddock, lugged 
off on men's shoulders,--and George Washington rallying the 
colony-boys for another charge on the red-skins! What a picture that 
will make!--I'll tell you what, Mr. Harkem What-d'-ye-call-it, you 
shall come to my house, drink and be merry, and then you shall paint 
me that picture. You shall paint me the battle of Brandywine, too, 
with my poor Tom Loring bleeding to death, like a hero, as he was: 
and hark ye, you may bring _me_ in, too, holding him on my knee,--for 
I did it,--and telling him to die like a man,--for an old fool, as I 
was, to think he could die like any thing else! And stick in my girl, 
too, if you can, weeping and wringing her hands, when I carried Tom 
Loring home that day. And remember the bugles and trumpets, blasting 
up for the charge of cavalry; you should have heard them sweeping by, 
just as Tom was dying.--It was the finest sound in nature!" continued 
the Captain, vehemently, and as he spoke, dashing a tear from his 
eye; "the finest music ever heard; as Tom acknowledged himself: 
'Father!' said he, as he bled in my arms, 'it is not hard to die to 
such music, for I hear our own trumpets among the others!' And so 
died Tom Loring; he went to heaven amid thunder and trumpets; and if 
I had seven sons more, I should wish nothing better for them, than 
that they might go to heaven the same way,--I would, by the lord! For 
why? there's no way that's better!"

There was something in this eccentric burst of ardour, which, however 
ludicrous it seemed, touched some of the finer feelings of the 
painter, and checked the laugh which he could scarce repress, when 
the Captain began his energetic instructions. Not being disposed to 
accept a commission so capriciously proffered, or to undertake a 
composition, in which, it was evident, if he hoped to please his 
employer, he must mingle together as many different scenes and 
actions as would furnish subjects for a whole gallery, and desiring 
to temper his refusal to the peculiarities of his patron, he was 
puzzling himself in what way to express it, when his good-fortune 
sent him aid in the person of another stranger, who, as the 
capricious stars would have it, designed, like himself, to make trial 
of the accommodations of the Traveller's Rest.




CHAPTER IV.

  _1st Friar_. No doubt, brother, but this proceedeth of the Spirit?
  _2d Friar_.  Ay, and of a moving spirit, too; but come,
               Let us intreat he may be entertain'd.
                                    MARLOW--_The Jew of Malta_.


As the Captain concluded his eccentric oration, rather from want of 
breath than because he lacked the will to continue it, a sonorous 
voice, very manly and agreeable, save that it had a strong nasal 
twang, was heard pronouncing hard by, with solemn emphasis, the words 
from the Apocalypse,--

"'And I looked, and behold, a pale horse: and his name that sat on 
him was Death, and hell followed with him. And power was given unto 
them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with the sword, and 
with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.'"

Startled at an interruption so unexpected, both looked round at the 
first sound of the voice, and even Elsie Bell woke from the trance 
into which the Captain's news had plunged her, to gaze as eagerly as 
the others after the cause. As they directed their eyes towards the 
entrance of the little oak-shaded yard, they saw, turning into it 
from the road, and slowly riding towards them, an apparition that 
might almost have been supposed by a profane imagination to imbody 
the conception of the grisly terror. It was a tall man in black 
raiment, riding an old gray horse, very meager and raw-boned, which 
moved with a step so slow and drowsy, as to oppose no obstruction to 
the meditations of the rider, who held a book in his hand, from which 
he read the words that followed so ominously after the burst of the 
Captain. He seemed so inwrapt in his study as to be unconscious of 
the presence of strangers, having apparently yielded up the guidance 
of his course to the animal he bestrode; and as he drew nigh to the 
porch, still pronouncing the words, the first one of which had 
attracted their attention, all had an opportunity of gazing on him at 
leisure. He was a tall man, as has been said, being somewhat gaunt 
and thin in the lower part of his body, though his shoulders were 
broad and square. His joints were large and bony, and his hands and 
feet were any thing in the world but fairy-like. His neck was long 
and scraggy, his face of a cadaverous hue and lantern-jawed, and long 
locks of straight black hair, a little grizzled, fell from beneath an 
old cocked-hat, the brim of which was inclined to go slouching along 
with them, towards his shoulders. His coat was of black velvet, worn 
and soiled, and indeed extremely shabby, and so long, that, as he 
rode, the wide skirts almost concealed his saddle-bags and flapped 
about his heels; the collar was straight and short, and its place was 
supplied by a red bandanna handkerchief, which was twisted round his 
throat in a thong like a cable.

He continued to read aloud, until his horse suddenly paused before 
the porch; then lifting up his eyes, and closing the book, he 
bestowed a gracious stare upon the party, that had well nigh 
converted the painter's admiration into merriment, it was so 
extravagantly grave and sanctimonious. It dispelled also some of the 
reverence with which the soldier was beginning to regard him; and 
recurring suddenly to the objects which had brought him to the 
Traveller's Rest, Captain Loring hobbled up to the saintly 
apparition, advanced his hand to seize upon the bridle rein, and was 
just saluting him with a "Harkee, Mister, whoever you are,--being a 
stranger, you must give an account of yourself,"--when the worthy 
personage, rolling his eyes once more over the party, and then 
directing them to heaven, opened his mouth, and again lifted up his 
voice.

"Fellow sinners!" said he, with as much zeal as emphasis, seeming to 
consider that he had found a congregation in great need of his 
exhortations, "you have heard the words of the book: 'And I looked, 
and behold, a pale horse; and his name that sat on him was Death, and 
hell followed with him.' Death comes on the pale horse, and hell 
follows at his heels! Listen to what I have to say, and let your 
souls that are a-hungering, open their mouths and be satisfied. He 
that has ears to hear"----

"Is an ass!" cried Captain Loring, interrupting him without ceremony. 
"Come, you fanatical fool, none of your babble and sermonizing here 
of a week-day; but answer my questions."

"Will you rail upon the Lord's anointed? will you do violence to my 
holy vocation?" cried the preacher, hotly. "Get thee behind me, 
Satan! If thou wilt not profit by the unction of truth, shut thy 
mouth and get thee away, that others may not backslide after thee. 
Anathema upon thee! anathema baranathema! If thou stoppest the flood 
of the sweet waters that are ready to fall upon the thirsty-spirited, 
I say to thee, Anathema! Lo and behold! I am sent upon a mission, and 
the spirit waxes strong within me, so that I will wrestle with thee 
and prevail. Am not I he that is sent to scatter the good seed by the 
way-side? and art thou not a bush of thorns, that chokes up the grain 
ere it reaches the soil, or the rock that has no soil to receive it? 
I will preach the devil out of thee, I warrant thee, thou most 
antique sinner; for what says the word"----

"Harkee, friend methodist, or whatever you are," said Captain Loring, 
not a whit abashed by the violent zeal with which the fanatic 
prolonged this remonstrance, "it is not in my way to insult the 
cloth, all chaplains being non-combatants. But, hark ye, sir, 
adzooks, I don't believe you are a preacher at all, but a rogue in 
another man's feathers; and if you don't satisfy my mind, I will 
arrest you on suspicion of being a rascal, I will by the lord! and 
that's as true as any Scripture. And do you, you Harper 
What-d'ye-call-it," (turning to the painter,) "hand me my pistol, and 
hold him by the leg; and you, Dick! club your whip, and stand by to 
knock him off his horse; and you, Elsie, come forward for a witness; 
for I believe the dog's a Gilbert. Surrender, you villain, and give 
an account of yourself!"

Great was the confusion of the exhorting stranger, at finding he had 
lighted upon a zealot, of fire so much superior to his own, and a 
congregation so little disposed to bow down to his ministry; and 
great was the inclination of Herman Hunter to enjoy a rencounter 
betwixt two such antagonists, and even to add to its absurdities, by 
taking part with the Captain against a man who, whatever was his 
apparent sanctity, he was persuaded, was nothing more than a low and 
vulgar hypocrite. However, perceiving that the latter worthy, besides 
being greatly alarmed, was clubbing his bible as if weighing the 
propriety of employing all its arguments and exhortations together, 
in one fell swoop against the head of his irreligious captor, his 
humanity and love of peace drove the young man betwixt the eccentric 
pair, as a moderator and umpire.

"Stop, Captain," said he; "this mode of questioning is against the 
law; and you, reverend stranger, hearken to me. Being a man of 
religion and peace, and doubtless good sense and good manners, you 
can do nothing more than answer a civil question; which will save you 
the trouble of a ride, or drive, according to circumstances, to the 
nearest magistrate."

"Magistrate!" cried the preacher, blankly, "what have the servants of 
truth to do with a magistrate?"

"Yes, magistrate," blustered the soldier; "and then, adzooks, perhaps 
to the hangman afterwards."

"In a word, sir," said Herman, "there has been a murder attempted; 
though where, when, and how, I do not pretend to know; and this being 
a land where suspicion is somewhat capricious and even whimsical, you 
will see the necessity of doing as I myself have done but a moment 
before you;--that is, of declaring your name and business to this 
gentleman."

"Name, gentlemen! business, gentlemen!--Certainly, 
gentlemen,--certainly, fellow christians and sinners!" cried the 
preacher, recovering his equanimity, which had somewhat deserted him, 
and becoming ten times more nasal and sanctified than before. "I am a 
poor servant of the word, an expounder of the book, Nehemiah by 
name,--which is to say, Nehemiah Poke,--an humble labourer in the 
vineyard of sin--that is to say, of righteousness--and a warner and 
crier-out on the way-side, by the side of the great road that leadeth 
to the place of despair, and of wailing, and of gnashing of teeth. 
You put your scorns upon me, men of the world, and sons of a 
stiff-necked generation; you spit in my face, you strike me over the 
mouth, and you take me by the beard, crying, 'Get up, you bald-head.' 
But _he_ will reckon with you, who goeth about like a roaring lion, 
seeking whom he may devour. Open therefore your ears, and repent you, 
lest he who comes on the pale horse, with hell after him, shall fall 
upon you in your pride, and twist your necks, as you twist off a quid 
of tobacco from the roll. I come to the house of the good widow, for 
such, say the men of the world, is the widow Bell. I design to eat 
and refresh me with sleep; and then crossing over the river that lies 
in my path, wend my way to the scorners of truth, that are thick 
among the men of blood in the army; for among them, Death on the pale 
horse is ever ramping and roaring. But I see, that wickedness is 
here, even here, in this 'desert idle,' as it is written: I will 
therefore tarry awhile, and expound to you the words of comfort, and 
that before I eat and sleep, lest you fall and perish before the 
morning. Rest a moment then, irreverent and headstrong old man, and I 
will wrestle with the devil that is in thee. For I forgive thee, and 
will arouse thee with an exhortation, strong and fiery, 'fierce as 
ten furies, terrible as night,' according to the expression. Listen, 
therefore, to the words of my text: 'And I looked, and behold.'--And 
behold! the sinner rolleth away in his pride, rejecting the word! But 
he of the pale horse runneth after, even in the dust of his chariot 
wheels, shaking destruction from his shoulders, even as 'dew-drops 
from the lion's mane,' as it is written. Young man, give me thy hand, 
that I may descend; and widow, peace be to thy house, and comfort in 
the midst of thy poverty. He who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, 
as the word has it, and marks even when a sparrow falls to the 
ground, will not turn from thine humble tenement, when its door is 
open to the weary pilgrim, and its porch resounds with the cry of 
prayer and thanksgiving."

"Mr. Nehemiah Poke," said Herman, who gave his hand, as required, to 
the pilgrim, and assisted him to descend, "you perceive, that your 
exhortations have driven away one-third of the 
congregation."--Captain Loring had been fully satisfied with the 
explanations of Mr. Poke, or alarmed at the prospect of a sermon; and 
while the preacher was kindling into fervour, had suddenly slipped 
into the carriage, and in a moment rumbled furiously away.--"You 
perceive that your sanctity has driven away one auditor, and 
confounded another,--Mrs. Bell here being in a maze. Now know, 
likewise, that I, the remaining third, have no need of your edifying 
discourses, and request you to put an end to them."

This was said with a good-natured smile, and a knowing nod, which 
somewhat disconcerted the preacher. However, after staring at the 
youth awhile, he lifted up his eyes, hands, and voice together, 
saying,

"Are you a scorner of the word, then, in your early and tender youth? 
and will you shut your ears and harden your heart against the grace 
that is offered, even by my unworthy lips!"

"Even against all that can come from your unworthy lips, as you very 
properly term them," said the painter, with the most significant 
countenance in the world: "and to make you easy on that score, do me 
the favour to believe that I have studied Milton, Shakspeare, Sterne, 
and the Bible, so much more closely than yourself, that I never 
jumble them together, nor fail to perceive when another man does so. 
Do you understand me?"

"Truly not," said the preacher, with a somewhat humorous stare; "but 
out of the mouths of babes and sucklings we are sometimes wisely 
admonished. I perceive, that I have fallen among thieves--that is to 
say, among sinners; and that they are none the better, but much the 
worse, for any comfortable wisdom that is offered them. Therefore, I 
will hold my peace, lest the devil should be aggravated in your 
bosom; hoping that a better hour may be shown me, in which to warn 
you of the wickedness of your ways, and so pluck you as a brand out 
of the burning. Good woman," he continued, turning to Elsie, and 
speaking much better sense than before, "know, that by reason of thy 
poverty and widowhood, I have brought me lucre of silver and 
paper--that is to say, dollars both hard and soft--to reward thee for 
thy hospitality; and that I come, not like a thief and a man of war, 
to prey upon thy substance, and leave thee nothing in return; but as 
a guest, in the worldly sense, who will pay scot and lot, as the word 
is, without grumbling."

"Such as I have, you shall share," said Elsie, coldly, "whether you 
have gold or not, provided you will take the young gentleman's 
advice, and exhort no longer in my house."

"Woman," said Nehemiah, "let me not think that a devil has seized 
upon you, as well as the others. Shall wisdom cry aloud, not in the 
streets but at your house-door, and you regard it no more than the 
scoffers? I tell you, and I charge you to hear"----

"Softly, Mr. Poke," said Herman. "Remember your promise to hold your 
peace. That scrap from Sir John, though it smacks of a better origin, 
is of as clear an one as the others. Read your Bible, man, for a day 
or two more, and learn your trade better."

"Young man," said the preacher, again somewhat abashed, but with a 
stern voice, "you talk like one of the ignorant"----

"Groundlings!" said the other, laying a ludicrous stress upon the 
word. "'Thy face is valanced since I saw thee last!'--Does that come 
out of Habakkuk? If you will preach, why here fate sends you another 
auditor, in the form of another patron to the Traveller's Rest! As 
for myself, I am tired not only of your homilies, but your company; 
and I pray you, for our own two sakes, that you cross the river 
before supper. The sooner the better, I assure you; for though at 
present the 'rack' may 'stand still,' 'the bold wind' be

              'Speechless, and the orb below
  As hush as death; anon the dreadful thunder
  Will rend the region,'

and scatter jackdaws, along with the owls and pigeons. Fare you well, 
'Sir Topas, the Curate!'--'I am one of those gentle ones that will 
use the devil himself with courtesy'--I leave you to the pedler 
there, who may be of a better temper for conversation. '_Bonos dies_, 
Sir Topas!'"

And with these words, and laughing heartily, as at some jest 
perfectly well understood by Nehemiah, he left the porch, only 
looking once behind him, as the preacher stood regarding him with 
uplifted hands, and bursting into a second peal as he looked. He 
raised his eyes, nodding courteously to the new comer, whom he had 
justly characterized as a pedler--for so he seemed, having a pack 
strapped to his back, though riding a strong black horse. "Good luck 
for poor Elsie to-day!" he muttered to himself, as if even diverted 
by so slight a circumstance as the unusual windfall of patronage. "I 
thought I could not be mistaken in the rogue's lantern-jaws and huge 
hands; and I doubt me, his religion is a mere cloak, put on for a 
purpose; though I _have_ heard of such conversions before. However, 
honest or not, a fool or a scoundrel, a saint or a hypocrite, it is 
certain he can do me no mischief; and I'll see he does none to Elsie. 
As for others, they must take their chances."

Thus reflecting, and amusing himself with his cogitations, he made 
his way, though apparently without design or object, along the road, 
until he had passed the park-gate of Gilbert's Folly, and reached the 
rivulet described before, as emptying into the river at the mouth of 
the ravine, on which the Traveller's Rest was built. Although shallow 
and of a smooth bottom, where it crossed the road, there were rocks 
lying in its bed both above and below; and he could hear a murmuring 
noise among the trees that overshadowed it above, as if it made a 
cascade at no great distance in that direction. He had no doubt that, 
by leaving the road, he was trespassing upon the manor; but having no 
fear of intruding upon the haunts of any of its habitants, and being 
moved by a painter's curiosity, he did not hesitate to clamber over 
the rude stone wall, and dive at once into the shadowy grove 
bordering the stream.




CHAPTER V.

  To arched walks of twilight groves,
  And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
  Of pine, or monumental oak,
  Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke,
  Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
  Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
                                      IL PENSEROSO.


Meanwhile, the fair jockeys, after being repulsed from the highway, 
had betaken themselves to the park, where they galloped about for 
awhile, expecting the Captain. As they looked back ever and anon upon 
the road, they caught sight of the three young men, whom Hunter had 
seen pass the Traveller's Rest but a short time after the ladies 
themselves.

"Was ever any thing more provoking!" cried Miss Falconer. "Those 
three rural coxcombs, the doctor and the two lawyers! Will no one 
have the humanity to break a leg, or his neighbour's bones, so as to 
afford _them_ some employment, and _us_ a little peace and quiet? 
Must we be ever afflicted with their admiration and homage? It is 
more than a misfortune to be a fine woman in the country, where 
merit, as the old villanous poet says of female attraction in 
general,

      'In its narrow circle gathers,
  Nothing but chaff, and straw, and feathers.'

But we will escape them, if it be only for an hour. Down, Kate! down, 
ere they have seen you! Whip your filly, and I warrant me, she will 
find her way to the stable. We will hide in the woods, as I think we 
have done before from the same fellows."

Laughing heartily at a device that spoke so little in favour of the 
attractive qualities of the village beaux, the Captain's daughter 
leaped lightly from her palfrey, as Miss Falconer had done before 
her; and both flourishing their whips at the same time, the liberated 
animals fled towards the buildings, whilst their riders lost not a 
moment in burying themselves from sight, by plunging into a grove, 
from which they continued to ramble, until they had reached a little 
brook, as wild and merry as themselves, that gushed over a remote 
corner of the park, and then hid its gleaming waters in a hollow, 
overgrown with forest-trees.

Into this dell they made their way, following the brook, until it 
fell into a larger streamlet, which was indeed no other than 
Hawk-Hollow Run, so often mentioned before. Its banks were strown 
with huge masses of rock, gray and mossy, through which the waters, 
swollen by late rains, rushed with impetuous speed, and sometimes 
with great noise and fury, while its murmurs were rendered yet more 
impressively sonorous by the hollow reverberations of the forest. 
Proceeding farther, the woods, which now invested the hills on either 
bank, and the rocks, assumed a sterner character of wildness and 
grandeur. Hemlocks, and other gloomy trees, with here a rugged maple, 
or ghostly beech, and there a gibbous oak, springing from interstices 
of the rocks, seemed, with their knotted and contorted roots, to bind 
the fragments together; while their thick and arched boughs flung 
over these ruins of nature a chilly and everlasting gloom. Aloft, on 
the hill, the grape-vine swung its massy locks from the oak, and, in 
the lower depths of the ravine, for such it was, the 
swamp-honeysuckle shook its fragrant clusters, and green dodders rose 
on the stump of the decaying birch. When their path had conducted the 
fair wanderers beyond the immediate vicinity of the falls and rapids, 
these exchanged their murmurs for other sounds not less agreeable. 
The chattering of jays, the lonely-sounding whistle of the 
wood-robin, the cry of a startled dove, and now and then the sudden 
whir of a pheasant, starting from his lair under a fallen trunk, and 
bustling noisily out of sight,--the small uproar of young rabbits, 
bouncing out of a brier or a bush of ferns, and galloping away up the 
hill,--the dropping of half-eaten nuts from the paw of the retreating 
squirrel, and a dozen other such noises as invade the solitude of the 
forest, here added a double loneliness and charm to a scene long 
since a favourite with the maidens.

"Now are we safe," cried Miss Falconer, with exultation; "for no one 
having seen us take this course, our admirers, were they even 
spirited enough to pursue, would think of twenty more reasonable 
places to seek us in than this. But let us make assurance doubly 
sure. Don't tell me you are tired--what business has a country-wench 
to be tired? We will go down to the sycamore, and then rest us 
awhile, till the sun peeps red in the hollow. I will bring you to 
your confession; for, having failed in my precious designs upon the 
old witch there, (may Monsieur Red-jacket sleep harder to-night than 
he ever did before, for a Marplot!) and my curiosity being so much 
the more inflammable, I am resolved to learn what I can, and that 
without ceremony. So come along, Kate,--

          'Kate of my consolation,
  'Kate of Kate-hall, my super-dainty Kate,'

as the bear of Verona said of your amiable namesake; all that you 
have now to do, is to be, like her, 'Kate conformable.'"

Thus whiling away the fatigue of climbing over rocks and creeping 
through thickets, with a gay rattle of discourse, the black-eyed 
maiden dragged her companion along, until they reached a place where 
the stream was contracted by the projection, on the one bank, of a 
huge mass of slaty rock, and, on the other, by the protrusion of the 
roots of a gigantic plane-tree,--the sycamore, or buttonwood, of 
vulgar speech. Above them, and beyond the crag, the channel of the 
rivulet widened into a pool; and there was a plot of green turf 
betwixt the water and the hill, on the farther bank, whereon fairies, 
if such had ever made their way to the World of Twilight, might have 
loved to gambol under the light of the moon. A hill shut up the glen 
at its upper extremity; and it was hemmed in, on the left, by the 
rocky and wooded declivity, over which the maidens had already 
passed. Over this, and just behind a black rounded shoulder that it 
thrust into the glen, a broad ray from the evening sun shot across 
the stream, and fell, in a rich yellow flood, over the vacant plot. 
There was something almost Arcadian in this little solitude; and if, 
instead of two well-bred maidens perched upon the roots of the 
sycamore, on seats chosen with a due regard to the claims of their 
dresses, there had been a batch of country girls romping in the 
water, a passing Actæon might have dreamed of the piny Gargaphy, its 
running well,--_fons tenui perlucidus unda_,--and the bright 
creatures of the mythic day, that once animated the waters of that 
solitary grot. But the fairy and the wood-nymph are alike unknown in 
America. Poetic illusion has not yet consecrated her glens and 
fountains; her forests nod in uninvaded gloom, her rivers roll in 
unsanctified silence, and even her ridgy mountains lift up their blue 
tops in unphantomed solitude. Association sleeps, or it reverts only 
to the vague mysteries of speculation. Perhaps

    "A restless Indian queen,
  Pale Marian with the braided hair,"

may wander at night by some highly-favoured spring; perhaps some tall 
and tawny hunter,

  "In vestments for the chase array'd,"

may yet hunt the hart over certain distinguished ridges, or urge his 
barken canoe over some cypress-fringed pool; but all other places are 
left to the fancies of the utilitarian. A Greek would have invented a 
god, to dwell under the watery arch of Niagara; an American is 
satisfied with a paper-mill, clapped just above it.

The fair ladies of Hawk-Hollow were no more troubled with the absence 
of poetic association in their lovely retreat, than any of their 
countrymen would have been; as was plainly shown by the first words 
pronounced by Miss Falconer, after taking possession of a sort of 
arm-chair among the sycamore roots.

"This is a place, my mannikin," said she, bending her head 
majestically towards her kinswoman, whose seat was not so 
elevated,--"this is a place where one may think comfortably of 
murdering, whooping, scalping, and such sort of matters; and its 
solemnity will therefore give a degree of point to the story. Come, 
begin; I am all ears--that is, metaphorically speaking; though a 
viler metaphor, to come from men of rational imagination, could not 
have been invented. I tell you, Kate, I am dying with curiosity about 
these terrible Hawks; and as I know, you know _something_, I am 
determined you shall resuscitate me, in lack of a better physician, 
with such information as you have. No excuses--I know them all by 
heart, you have repeated them over so often. I declare upon my 
jockey-like word, that here I sit, as fixed as the very roots around 
me, and as immoveable; and here I _will_ sit, until you surrender 
your scruples, and open your mouth, though I should remain until 
washed away by the next fresh. I am positive; my will is as 
inflexible as the laws of the Medes and Persians."

"You have mistaken me, Harriet," said the other, bending her eyes 
upon the stream; "I know nothing of the matter.--That I have heard 
many idle whispers, hints, and innuendoes, is true; but there is 
neither wisdom nor propriety in repeating them, particularly to 
_you_.--But is not this the most charming place in the world? Do you 
know, I have determined upon the spot I am to be buried in? It is 
further up the river, where three lime-trees grow together; behind 
them is a rock, covered with laurels, wild roses, and columbines; and 
there is such an array of azaleas below, with blood-roots, and 
wind-flowers, and dogwood, as has half-turned my brain. Can you tell 
me, Hal, why I should be ever thinking of a grave, when I stumble 
upon such pretty places? It is always the first thought."

As Catherine spoke, she turned her eyes with much simplicity and 
earnestness of expression, upon her companion's face; and though it 
was evident, she had introduced the subject, for the purpose of 
diverting the conversation from the channel in which Miss Falconer 
desired to have it flow, it was equally plain, that it had already 
taken hold upon her imagination, and now occupied her mind alone. As 
she looked up, with such a thought at her bosom, it imparted a 
character of melancholy to her countenance, which, although not her 
natural and original expression, circumstances had made, of late, 
much more common than any other. Her face was the sweetest oval in 
the world, her features very regular and pretty, the hue of her 
complexion less brilliant than might have been expected in one with 
such light locks, but of a pleasant healthy tone, and her eyes, 
without being bright or striking, were so singularly earnest of 
expression, with a certain vague anxiety, or imploringness, mingled 
up with every look, as to seldom fail of interesting the feelings of 
the beholder in her favour. Besides, her brow, from which the hair 
was parted in the simplest and easiest manner, was particularly 
smooth and beautiful; and whatever might have been the depth of her 
melancholy, this noble feature lost nothing of its serenity. Indeed, 
when sadness dwelt upon her spirit, it seldom produced a change in 
any part of the countenance except the eyes; and it was in these 
alone, at the present moment, that emotion was betrayed by the change 
from the merry brightness which the events of the afternoon had 
thrown into them, to that appealing, anxious expression, already 
described. It must be added to this description that her voice was, 
if possible, even more strikingly expressive than her eyes. It was 
with her as with the Faerie Queene; always,

                        "When she spake,
  Sweete wordes, like dropping honny, she did shed;
  And 'twixt the perles and rubins softly brake
  A silver sound:"

every exertion was characterized by some appropriate and harmonious 
change; her joyous spirits broke out with such sweet and jocund 
sounds as come from tinkling bells; and when sadness was at her 
heart, her accents were such murmurs of subdued and contagious 
melancholy as the wood-pigeon breathes from the depths of the forest.

"Do I know _why_?" said Miss Falconer, looking down upon her with a 
mischievous air, and humming instantly,

  "'The poor soul sat sying by a sycamore-tree,
      Sing all a green willow;
    Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
      Sing willow, willow, willow.'

But pr'ythee, be comforted; this is the way with all young ladies who 
have hair-brained sweethearts. But I assure you, he we wot of is the 
best, truest, and most amiable creature in the world; and if he be a 
little wild, why all men are so, you know."

At these allusions, which were evidently unexpected, Miss Loring 
blushed, then turned very pale; and finally, while Harriet drew 
breath, as if to continue the subject, she said, recurring abruptly 
to the original topic of discourse, and in a hurried manner,

"If you insist I should tell you what I have heard, I must obey. The 
story is singular and melancholy,--melancholy under every aspect, but 
doubly so, if that be true which I know you are most anxious to 
learn. But, Harriet, I cannot tell you _all_. What concerns the 
Gilberts alone I am ready to relate; but that which involves the 
connexion between,--that is to say--Harriet!" cried the young lady, 
after pausing with embarrassment, "it does not become a daughter to 
listen to aspersions cast upon the good name of a parent!"

"It does not," said Miss Falconer, gravely, "when they are breathed 
by the lips of an enemy. But fear not, I will not eat you. I do not 
ask you to repeat slanders, but to inform me what slanders are 
repeated by others. You might have added, it did not become me to pry 
into my father's secrets; but as his child, his daughter--I would to 
heaven I could say his son!--it is fitting I should at least know 
from what to defend him. I tell you, Kate, I have this thing much at 
heart. Fear not to shock me by your relations; for, not being 
disposed to believe them, I shall not be grieved, except at 
discovering how extensive may be the malignity of our foes. I shall 
rest more sweetly on my pillow to-night, if I go not to sleep on 
suspicion. Begin, therefore, Kate, and scruple not to speak boldly."




CHAPTER VI.

  For us, we do approve the Roman maxim,
  To save one citizen is a greater prize,
  Than to have killed, in war, ten enemies.
                          MASSINGER--_The Guardian_.

  Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
  Thou art not so unkind
    As man's ingratitude.----
  Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
  Thou dost not bite so nigh,
    As benefits forgot.
                           AS YOU LIKE IT.


"You know then, I presume," said Catherine, beginning her narrative, 
ominously, with a sigh,--"you know, I suppose, all about old Mr. 
Gilbert, and his"----

"My dear creature," said Miss Falconer, "I know no more of Mr. 
Gilbert than the Grand Turk; and all that I can boast of knowledge in 
relation to his cut-throat children, is that they were the Hawks of 
Hawk-Hollow; but whether they were real kites, with claws and 
feathers, or only the philosopher's two-legged birds, human 
chanticleers, I could never yet determine. My father is not always so 
communicative as might be expected in a dutiful parent; and, once or 
twice, when I have been curious to come at some of his early exploits 
on the frontiers, (for they say he was a great Indian-fighter,) he 
has not hesitated to assume a severe countenance, and scold me in the 
most paternal manner imaginable. Nay, my dear, he once assured me 
that, as it became a woman rather to garnish the outside of her head 
than the interior, I would do well never to trouble myself by 
searching after information that could not make me a whit more 
handsome. I bowed my head at the reproof, and ran straightway to my 
brother. But Harry, poor fellow, knew no more about these matters 
than he cared,--that is, nothing. Ah! he is a jewel of a man, and 
will make the best husband in the world, having nothing of the 
meddler about him. I have often thought, if pa were to commit a 
murder, or even break his neck, Harry would not trouble himself with 
either wonder or lamentation; and this, not from any want of 
affection, but simply because he would consider the thing his 
father's affair, not his. A good easy temper is an excellent thing in 
men,--as excellent indeed as the 'voice soft, gentle, and low,' in 
woman. So, now, you perceive the necessity of beginning just where 
your story begins. Take up the father,--the grandfather, if you 
choose,--of this savage brood; give me their genealogy, if they have 
any, and if it be german to the matter; draw all sorts of parallels, 
make all kinds of reflections, and, in fine, do and say any thing you 
may think proper,--only conceal nothing. My curiosity is as capacious 
of appetite as the Moor's revenge, (so much for ruralizing, when one 
must kill time with Shakspeare!) and demands that its gratification 
should be as complete."

Thus adjured and instructed, Miss Loring began the narration of 
Gilbert's story, and the description of his family, as they have been 
already recorded; into both which, however, she entered in greater 
detail than it was thought necessary to attempt.

The first part of the history, which was without melancholy, and 
related chiefly to the dilemmas into which the founder of Hawk-Hollow 
Hall was thrown by the sudden accession of wealth, and his vain 
struggles to refine the character of his children, long since 
determined by early habits upon rude and adventurous lives, Miss 
Loring, naturally a merry and waggish maiden, with strong talents for 
mimicry, delivered in a manner that soon became humorous, and, at 
last, highly diverting; so that the hollow forest began to peal with 
the approving merriment of her companion. Her benevolence to the poor 
widow had so opened Elsie's heart, that she had cast aside most of 
the reserve with which she was accustomed to speak of the Gilberts; 
and, in consequence, Catherine was provided with an ample store of 
anecdotes, illustrative of their characters and habits, with which 
she now amused her friend. She related with what surprise the good 
Elsie, one autumn evening, (while Mr. Gilbert was yet in England with 
his whole family,) beheld the adventurous Oran, in ragged attire, and 
with a bundle at his back, come trudging up to the Traveller's Rest, 
looking as bold and resolute, to use her own whimsical illustrations, 
as a soldier marching up to the mouth of an empty cannon, or a 
militia-man returning from a campaign without battles; and she even 
mimicked, with voice, gesture, and looks, the appearance and bearing 
of the two friends, in the dialogue that followed as soon as the 
truant was recognized by the widow.

"'Heaven bless us!' said Elsie, with uplifted hands, 'is that _you_, 
Oran Gilbert?'"--Thus her story went on: "'What a foolish question!' 
muttered the hero of two lustres and a half, who had never affected 
much of the dulcet submissiveness of a child to any one, either in 
word or action; 'what a foolish question for you, goody Elsie! Here I 
am in Pennsylvany, and hungry, I reckon!' and with that, without 
waiting for invitation, he plumped himself down at the table, already 
set out for the widow's evening meal, and straightway fell to work 
with a zeal and industry that showed he had not mistaken the 
condition of his appetite. The widow regarded him with undiminished 
astonishment, crying out, for she feared lest some dreadful accident, 
by shipwreck or otherwise, had destroyed the rest, 'But your father 
and brothers, Oran,--where are _they_?' 'In Bristol,' mumbled the 
boy, scowling at her over a bone, but still making the most of 
it,--'in Bristol,--that is, the big English Bristol, and not our 
Pennsylvany town, down the river.' 'In Bristol,' echoed Elsie Bell;
'and what are you doing here without them?' 'Why, eating my supper, 
don't you see?' replied the juvenal. 'And how did you get here?' 
demanded Elsie. 'I came in a big ship to Philadelphy,' replied the 
boy, scarce intermitting his agreeable employment for a moment, 'and 
then, to be sure, I footed it.' 'You have run away from your father, 
Oran?' said Elsie. 'Yes, I have,' said the boy, grumly; 'let me eat 
my supper, and I'll tell you all about it.'

"The widow held her peace for awhile, until the lad had satisfied his 
ravenous appetite; and then, assuming a friendly and coaxing air, for 
well she knew nothing else would have any effect on that singular 
young reprobate, she drew from him a confession of his whole 
adventure, and the causes that led to it.

"It appeared, that, besides an extraordinary attachment to his native 
home among the wild woods, Oran had another cause to be discontented 
with his residence in England; and this he discovered in the public 
school, to which he was sent with his brother next in age, called 
Hyland. 'He sent me,' said Oran, expatiating upon the barbarity of 
his father, 'to a school, to learn grammar, and Latin, and reading 
and writing, and all that sort of thing!'--For you must know," said 
Catherine, speaking to her friend, "that the want of a teacher, or 
perhaps hard poverty, had prevented Gilbert sending his children to 
any school, before he fell heir to his fortune; which was the reason 
perhaps, that they got such wild notions and propensities among them 
as could never after be eradicated. 'Yes,' the urchin went on, 'he 
sent me to school, and Hy, too; for he has been a sort of crazy man 
ever since he came to his money. Well, the boys at school called me 
an Indian papoose, and I thumped 'em; and the man that was master he 
thumped _me_, and Hy also; for Hy came to help me. So, when school 
was out, I took Hyland along; and we went to a corner, and got a 
great heap of stones; and when the master came out, we pelted him!' 
'You did?' cried Elsie, in alarm: 'I hit him one polt on the shin,' 
said Oran, warming with the recollection,--'I hit him one polt--it 
was what I call a sogdolloger,--that made him dance like a ducked 
cat; and just as he stooped down to scratch it, we blazed away again, 
me and Hy; and if you ever heard two hailstones rattle on a 
well-bucket, you may tell how his head sounded, I reckon!'

"'But your father, Oran?' said Elsie,--'you have not told me what 
made you leave your father?' 'Father chose to take the master's 
part,' said Oran, sulkily; 'he said as how I must learn to be a 
gentleman, now I was in England, and never behave like a young savage 
no more, because I was never more to come home, meaning to 
Pennsylvany; and so I must go back to the master, and be thumped 
again; for nobody could be a gentleman, without having it thumped 
into him. Well, Goody, you see, I couldn't stand that; I was not 
going to a school to be called papoose, and trounced too; and I was 
mighty sick of England, which is just like a big garden,--you can't 
turn out of the road, without treading on somebody's 
strawberry-patch, and having 'em holla after you with dogs, and men, 
and such things; and I got into a great pickle once, for killing a 
thumping big rabbit that I saw in a stubble. They called it a hare; I 
killed it with a stone; they made father pay money about it. Well, I 
made up my mind to come home, without making any more words about it. 
So I went down to the river among the docks, and there I saw a ship 
that was going to sail to Philadelphy next day. I told Hy about it, 
and he agreed we should go over. I went to the captain, and I said, 
"Captain, I want to go to Philadelphy," but he called me hard names, 
and swore at me--there was no getting any thing out of him. I looked 
about, and saw them putting boxes, and barrels and baskets, and all 
sorts of things, into the big hole below. I went ashore, and laid out 
the shilling father gave me to go back to school, in gingerbread. But 
Hy's heart failed him: I never thought he would come to much, he's 
too much of a coward; he began to cry, and said he would go home to 
father. I gave him a thumping for being such a fool; but that only 
made him cry harder. So I gave him half my gingerbread, and told him 
to go, letting him know, if he told on me, I would give him another 
banging. Then I clomb into the ship again, and slipped into the hole 
among the boxes. But before I went down, I looked back to Hy, and 
there he was on the wharf, eating his gingerbread and crying. I shook 
my fist at him, as much as to say, "If you tell, mind you!" and then 
I went below, and after awhile they fastened me up.'

"'It was as dark down there as the dickens,' said Oran, in reply to 
the piteous ejaculations of the widow; 'but there was plenty of 
rats--I tell you what, they scared me! They stole my gingerbread, and 
whenever I got to nodding, they seized me by the nose and fingers, 
and I thought I should have been nibbled up, like an ear of corn. But 
I knew I must stand 'em as long as I could; or it would be all up 
with me.--Well, after awhile they came to a place, I don't know where 
it was; but there was a great clatter on the deck, and swearing and 
trampling, and they opened the trap-doors, as I saw by the great 
flash of light. Then there was a heap of voices, and father's among 
them, and Hyland's too. The great villain Hy, was telling on me, for 
all I gave him half the gingerbread! When I catch him, I'll pay him 
up, I will, Goody, if I wait ten years!'--And here the young 
scape-gallows, as he revolved the treachery of his fellow truant, 
clenched his fist, and looked as fierce and savage as a young bantam 
in his first fit of valour.

"'Then,' continued this hopeful junior to the astonished widow, 
'there was father, saying his son Oran was hid in the ship, and he 
would have him out, or bring the captain to the gallows for 
kidnapping him, meaning _me_; and there was Hy, the villain, telling 
him how I was to hide among the boxes; and there was the captain and 
the other folks, swearing that father was crazy, and ought to stay at 
home; though to make him easy, they had opened the traps, or the 
hatches, as they call them, and he might see for himself. Then father 
came down, and bawled out after me, and so did Hy; and Hy said, if I 
would come out, father would not send me to the grammar school, to be 
thumped no more; but he said nothing about father sending me back to 
Pennsylvany! no, not so much as a word! I was not to be caught by any 
such talking; so I laid snug and as mum as a rabbit. Then father took 
on as though I was dead, squeezed to pieces among the boxes, because 
I would not answer him--as if I was such a fool! Then he wanted the 
captain to take out the boxes, and the captain would not; then he 
went after constables; and when he was gone, they clapped down the 
hatches, and sailed away with all their might, and I never heard any 
thing more of father.'

"'Poor fellow!' said Elsie, her sympathy for the anticipated 
sufferings of her young protegé driving from her mind all 
disapprobation of the hard-hearted perverseness that caused them, 
'did they keep you long in that dismal, dreadful place?' 'You may say 
so,' replied the boy; 'they kept me down there till I was more tired 
of it than ever I had been of the grammar-school. I don't know how 
long it was, but I was mighty tired of it. Dickens, goody, but I was 
dry! I was in such a hurry to get down, that I forgot I should want 
water as well as gingerbread: I eat up all my gingerbread, but I was 
as dry as ever. Goody, you don't know what it is to be dry! I was 
always thinking and dreaming of springs, and wells, and pumps, and 
the big Delaware there, and even the ditches and gutters. But I held 
out as well as I could, till I thought we were clear of that hateful 
old England; and then I hollaed to 'em to let me out; but they did 
not hear me at all. There was a power of big baskets, that were 
rolled all about me; for you must know, a ship never holds still a 
minute at a time, but is always pitching and tumbling, now up and now 
down, like a cart in a corn-field; so the baskets rolled all over me; 
I thought they would have squeezed the life out of me, and I could 
not get out from among them. So there I pulled and hollaed, till I 
was tired of it, or fell asleep; but no good came of it. I tell you 
what, goody, I would have taken a thumping for a drink of water! but 
there was no coming at it. I bawled out, "Water! water!" and "Fire! 
fire!" but it was no good; nobody heard me; and it set me to crying, 
to think what a hard time I had of it. Well, I reckon!--I was 
scraping about among the baskets, and some gave way, they were so 
rotten. I scraped among the willow twigs, and got my hand among the 
straw, without so much as thinking what I was about, when, all of a 
sudden, I found I had hold of a glass bottle. "Oho!" said I; it was a 
great long-necked thing, with wax over the cork. I did not mind that; 
I knocked the neck off against the basket, and, good dickens! such a 
fizzing and spluttering as it made! It foamed all over my face, and 
some fell on my lips, and it tasted good, like cider--you may be sure 
I drained it.' 'It was wine!' cried Elsie. 'I reckon,' said the 
juvenal; 'and I reckon it made my head sing, too!' he exclaimed, 
smacking his lips over the grateful recollection; 'such stuff as that 
I never tasted before. It made me feel good,--all comical, and merry, 
and ticklish-like,--I don't know how, but all as if I was rolling up 
hill and down hill,--huzzy-buzzy, sleek, and grand! Then I seemed as 
if I was dreaming, but such merry dreams, and talking, and roaring, 
and laughing; and then some of them opened the traps, and dragged me 
out; and then I had a tussle with some of them, for I felt big enough 
to fight them all; and then somehow I fell fast asleep.'

"'When I came to, the captain said I was drunk, and he beat me: it 
was worse than the grammar-man. First, he thumped me for stealing 
into the ship, then for putting him to a bother, and then for 
drinking his cider, or champagne, as he called it.' 'He beat you, the 
villain!' cried Elsie; 'and you the son of Thomas Gilbert!' 'He did,' 
said the boy, with edifying coolness; 'he treated me like a dog, and 
he thumped me every day. I suppose the grammar-man could not have 
been harder on me than the captain of that big ship--they called her 
the Prince of Whales, for, you must know, a whale is a very big fish; 
but I could never get a peep at one. Goody! I never was so mauled in 
my life! If I crawled about the quarter-deck, as they call it, 
(because that's a place where the ship-boys never get any quarter,) 
why the captain cuffed me off; and it was pretty much the same with 
the mates, for they cuffed too, and every now and then, some one or 
other beat me with a rope's end, because I would not go up the ropes, 
or do any thing else to make myself useful. I never did believe a 
Christian man's son could be treated so! but that's the way they 
treat boys on board a ship, only that the regular ship-boys were not 
handled so hard. They all beat me, captain, sailors, and all; the 
cook boxed my ears when I went to the caboose;--and if I hid on the 
forecastle, as they call it, the sailors run me up a rope and plumped 
me into the sea; and even the ship-boys tried their hands at me, but 
I reckon _they_ got as much as they gave. They all beat me but Jackey 
Jones, an old fellow that had but one eye; and if it had not been for 
him, I believe they would have killed, or starved, or drowned me 
among them. One night he was washed overboard: and after that I was 
beat worse than ever. It was a great storm, goody; I reckon you don't 
know what a storm is, ashore, even when the trees are snapping; I 
tell you what, the sea was boiling up, just like a big pot, and the 
ship danced about just like an apple-dumpling; all the difference 
was, the water was not hot. They were all big cowards, for all they 
had been so big with me; and down they went on their knees, crying 
and praying, like methodist preachers. The captain was white all over 
the mouth, the chief mate got drunk, and Big George, a sailor that 
used to be hard on me, came to ask my pardon for treating me so 
badly. I told him, we should have a reckoning about that some other 
time; and that night he was washed overboard, along with Jackey 
Jones, and we saw them no more. I tell you what, goody! it was the 
happiest time I had aboard that ship; for I supposed it would sink, 
and drown 'em all; which was a great satisfaction for me to think on. 
However, it cleared up again next day; and if we had not soon reached 
Philadelphy, I don't know what would have become of me; for they were 
all worse than ever, especially the captain.' 'And that wretch,' 
cried Elsie; 'did no one punish him for his cruel and barbarous 
oppression of a poor, friendless boy?' 'You shall hear,' replied the 
urchin, with a grin that might have adorned the visage of an Indian 
coming out of battle, with a sack full of scalps; 'he was for 
fastening me up when we came to the wharf at Philadelphy, to see his 
merchant, and learn what was to be done with me. But I sneaked away, 
when he was gone, and hid among some barrels, till he came back. Then 
I watched him come out of the ship again, and ran to a corner, where 
there was a bundle of green hoop-poles, at a cooper's shop. Well, 
goody, I took one of the hoop-poles; and when he passed by, down it 
went, and down went the captain, too, like a butchered ox, with a 
great yell like a school-boy, that brought the people up. However, I 
gave him two more, for as long as I had time; and then I had to 
scurry for it.' 'Good heavens!' cried Elsie, 'perhaps you killed 
him!' 'Well, if I didn't, I'm sure it was all the fault of the people 
that ran up so fast, so that I had not time. As for the rest of them, 
if I ever catch any of them up here among the hills, you may reckon 
what will come of it.' And as he spoke, he raised his eyes to an old 
musket, hanging on the wall, and nodded his head significantly.

"This," said the merry narrator, "is the very story I had from 
Elsie's lips, only that she spoiled it in telling; and I leave you to 
judge whether there was ever a more exquisite young savage in the 
whole world, than that same Oran Gilbert."

"Never, truly," said Miss Falconer, upon whom perhaps the unusual, 
yet natural, vivacity of her friend, had produced a still more 
pleasant impression than the story itself. "This Oran must have been 
the Paladin, the Orlando, the very Tom Thumb, of Hawk-Hollow;

              'Though small his body,
  Yet was his soul like any mountain big;'

and verily, if the other Hawks, callow or full fledged, were of the 
same colour and quality, you have begun the most diverting story in 
all your budget. Pr'ythee go on; there is a magic in the whole 
affair; for, while you speak it, it makes the teller herself again. 
Methinks you are now the same merry Kate I knew a year ago,--the 
bright Kate, no longer 'kerchieft in a cloud,' as Milton says,--the 
gay Kate, the madcap Kate, the Brandywine Kate"----

"Not a word about Brandywine, if you will have me play the fool 
longer," said Miss Loring, hurriedly. "And after all, there is 
nothing more to tell--that is, nothing more funny; and, after all, 
too, there _was_ nothing funny in the sufferings of that poor, 
headstrong, vindictive boy; absurdity enough, I grant you, there was; 
but it was my wicked and hard heart that made me travesty an anecdote 
that poor Elsie considered serious enough."

She then went on to speak of the return of the boy's father, the 
building of the manor-house, the second marriage of Mr. Gilbert, and 
the exploits of his children. The peculiar temper of Oran soon 
determined the course of his life. While yet a boy of sixteen, he had 
extended his rambles over the mountains into the Wyoming valley, then 
occupied by two clans of Shawnee and Delaware Indians, who were often 
at feud together. "Among these barbarians," said the lady, "the young 
white Indian, for such he must be esteemed, fought his first battle, 
and took his first scalp. It was in the Grasshopper War"----

"The what?" cried Miss Falconer.

"Why, Hal, the Grasshopper War _I_ call it," said Catherine, "out of 
tenderness to our sex; but all others call it the Squaw War. It was 
waged between those rival tribes I spoke of. The women of the two 
clans met together in a strawberry field, where they gathered fruit 
in company, very pacifically I doubt not, except a little scolding at 
one another. The children employed themselves, in the meanwhile, 
chasing grasshoppers; when, unfortunately, two boys belonging to 
different tribes pounced together upon a magnificent insect, that was 
perhaps the emperor of the field, and contended for the possession of 
the prize. Up ran the mother of the Delaware, and boxed the young 
Shawnee's ears; the Shawnee parent ran to avenge her child; and 
others immediately taking part, in a few moments the whole field was 
in an uproar: such scratching, scolding, and pulling of caps, were 
perhaps never heard of before. Out ran the men from their villages to 
help their wives, and to it they went pell-mell; and the war, thus 
begun, did not end until hundreds had been slain on both sides, and 
the Shawnees entirely driven from the valley. The less we say of this 
war, the better; for I heard it instanced as one small proof out of a 
thousand better, that men never fall by the ears, without the women 
being at the bottom of the contention. The Delawares, with whom Oran 
fought, made much of him, gave him a name which signifies the Boy 
Warrior, and formally adopted him into their tribe. As his brothers 
grew up around him, he enticed them one by one into the woods, and 
made them as wild as himself; and by and by, when those dreadful 
Indian wars, that followed after the defeat of General Braddock, 
extended over the whole western country, and even east of the 
Susquehanna, he acquired a singular reputation as a bold and 
successful scalp-hunter. I don't know what else to call him; he was 
not a soldier, for he never could be prevailed upon to go out with 
any body of soldiers, under the command of regular governmental 
officers. He went with his brothers, and seldom allowed even a 
neighbour to join his little party, though this was an object with 
all who knew him; for none of the Gilberts having ever been seriously 
wounded in any of their mad enterprises, the people had a 
superstitious belief that good luck and safety went with them.

"In the meanwhile, Mr. Gilbert had taken a second wife; and being 
wealthy, he was able to choose one of gentler manners and character 
than her predecessor, who, they say, was a fierce, masculine woman, 
though devotedly attached to her children. It is said, he married her 
in the hope that her kindness and gentleness might wean his boys from 
their barbarous career; but the expedient only served to confirm them 
in their habits. They conceived a violent dislike to their 
step-mother; and the only bond of union between them--I should say, 
perhaps, the only moderator and protector of the poor woman, was the 
girl, Jessie, whom they all adored, rough as they were, and 
who--while she lived, at least--caused them to treat the unfortunate 
lady with some show of respect. I may say, since you are in the 
poetical mood, and have already quoted one of Milton's clouds to me, 
that Jessie was, betwixt the timidity of the step-mother and the 
rudeness of her brothers,

  'A shelter, and a kind of shading, cool,
   Interposition, as a summer's cloud;'--

(I found that out myself!)--and, according to Elsie, she was one of 
the sweetest and warmest-hearted creatures in the world. They had a 
rich relation, an aunt, in the West Indies, who desired to adopt the 
maiden; but Mr. Gilbert refused to part with her. In her place he 
sent his youngest boy, an infant,--the child, and only one, of his 
second wife; I think Elsie told me, she died in giving it birth; but 
I am not certain as to that. This part of the story I never could 
understand perfectly; for whenever the poor widow speaks of it, she 
becomes dreadfully agitated. But certainly, it was most unhappy for 
all, that he did not send the girl."

"And why,--why unhappy, Catherine?" demanded Miss Falconer, losing 
somewhat of her serene self-possession, as she heard her friend's 
voice falter over the words.

"According to Elsie," muttered Miss Loring, with downcast eyes, "the 
misfortunes which crushed and ruined the whole family, might have 
been thus averted.--But, Harriet," she continued, "let us speak of 
these things to-morrow. What follows is dark, gloomy, dreadful; and I 
cannot speak it without giving you offence."

"I pledge you pardon and immunity beforehand," said Miss Falconer. 
"The ice is broken, and now I must dare the flood, though it be of 
gall and poison. Dreadful, indeed? What can be more dreadful than the 
state of a daughter, blindfold at the side of a parent whom all men 
are shooting at with the arrows of malice, which she hears hissing 
around her, yet knows not how to arrest? Speak then, Catherine, for 
you have placed me on a rack: nothing can be more painful than 
suspicion."

"Promise not to be offended with me then, dear Harriet," said Miss 
Loring, taking her hand, and looking deprecatingly into her face; 
"and do not think"----here her voice quivered a little, and
her eyes again fell to the ground,----"do not think, because I tell 
you these things as I have heard them, that I necessarily believe 
them--or, at least, _all_ of them."

"Certainly, my love," said the other, with a slight tinge of 
asperity. "As you will, one day, have a duty, like myself, imposed 
upon you, to repel all calumnies against my father, the sooner you 
become incredulous, the better."

Catherine smiled faintly, then blushed, and, as had happened before, 
at a similar allusion, the glow of embarrassment was again followed 
by paleness.

"I presume," she said, after a moment's pause, "that the Colonel has 
often spoken to you of the dreadful peril at the Moravian 
settlements, from which he was rescued by Oran Gilbert and his two 
brothers?"

"Never," replied Harriet, in a sort of dismay. "My father rescued 
from peril! and by the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow? Why, here is a drama 
opening upon us indeed! But it is not true, Kate!"

"This, Harriet," replied the other, "is a circumstance well known in 
the neighbourhood; and I wonder you have never heard it before."

"On all subjects connected with the family of the Gilberts," said 
Miss Falconer, "my father is reserved and silent--at least to me; 
and, Catherine, I confess with shame, this very circumstance has 
often filled my mind with the most painful misgivings. I know nothing 
about the Moravian settlements, either. You must therefore tell your 
story to ignorance itself. I know that my father was, in his youth, 
an officer in the colonial war establishment, and that he did duty 
somewhere on the frontiers, and came off with scars; but that is all. 
Speak, therefore, without reserve."

"The country west of yonder blue cliffs, (how sweetly they peep 
through the hollow of that hill, and over the yellow tree-tops!) has 
always been the theatre of the most bloody contentions," said 
Catherine. "That same Wyoming, of which I have said so much, has 
never been entirely at peace since that redoubtable war of the 
grasshopper set its inhabitants by the ears. It was settled by 
certain Yankees from Connecticut, who claimed, and claim yet, to 
erect a jurisdiction independent of Pennsylvania, and to this day the 
partisans of the two powers are quarrelling rancorously with one 
another, often shedding blood. When the inhabitants are driven away 
by enemies, they are obliged to cross a great swamp, to reach the 
Delaware. This has been crossed so often, and so many miserable 
wounded, and starving, and fainting wretches, have fallen down in the 
retreat and perished among its bogs, that it is yet called the Shades 
of Death. The wars that produced such suffering have commonly been 
waged in another county; but they have sometimes reached our 
own--(_Our own!_ You see, I am making myself at home here!) The fall 
and winter of the year when Braddock was defeated in the extreme 
south-western frontier, were marked by many bloody incursions of the 
Indians, even in this county; and you may judge how terrible was 
their ferocity, when you hear that their enmity fell as heavily upon 
their friends as their foes. The poor Moravians, who, with a holy and 
unworldly zeal, had devoted their lives to the purpose of instructing 
and reclaiming them from barbarism, were among the first of their 
victims. The outer settlement of these poor missionaries was beyond 
the mountain, on one of the springs of the Lechaw, or Lehigh, as we 
now call it. It was beset, late in November, by the savages, and 
destroyed, together with many of the brothers. The next settlement 
was that called Gnadenhutten, where was much valuable property, and 
great stores of grain; and when the Moravians fled even from this in 
affright, the colonial government thought it of so much importance, 
that they directed it to be immediately garrisoned by a company of 
rangers. This was done; a fort was constructed in the neighbourhood, 
across the river, which was made the head-quarters of the company; 
while a detachment occupied the Moravian village. This detachment was 
commanded by your father, then holding the rank of lieutenant. And 
now, Harriet, I must tell you, that your father had enemies in these 
wild lands, even at that early day. I will not repeat what I have 
heard said, as the causes of enmity; for I doubt not they are mere 
scandals. I mention them only because some, I am told, yet declare 
that the barbarous attempt on his life was made by disguised white 
men, and not by Indians.

"Although from the time of the massacre of the over-hill Moravians, 
in November, until the end of the year, Indians were ever prowling in 
the woods, and occasionally carrying the tomahawk and flames to some 
lonely settlement, yet it was supposed that the presence of the 
soldiers at Gnadenhutten and the fort, would prevent their making any 
serious attempts this side the mountain. This induced a false and 
fatal security; and when the Indians did appear, the detachment and 
village of Gnadenhutten were completely surprised. It was upon 
New-year's day, and all the white men were amusing themselves on the 
frozen river, without arms, and of course they fell an easy prey to 
the savage assailants. Many were butchered, the village was fired, 
your father captured in the vain attempt to escape, and carried off 
to the woods.

"During all this scene of terror," continued the Captain's daughter, 
"there were no scalp-hunters among the white men so busy, bold, and 
famous, as the three Gilberts. Elsie Bell says, that Oran was then 
only nineteen, and the youngest two years short of that; but, it 
seems, men grow old fast in the woods, when Indians are nigh--(it is 
well the _women_ don't.) They were upon an excursion, fighting for 
themselves, at the very time of this calamity; and it was their fate 
to encounter the party that bore your father away a captive. It seems 
that the savages, after completing the destruction of the village, 
retreated in small bands to distract and avoid pursuit, for there 
were many companies of armed men in the county, ready to march at a 
moment's warning. Some took charge of the prisoners, and others were 
to strike at small and retired settlements. Your father, who had been 
severely, but not desperately wounded, was left in charge of one 
little division, six in number, and was carried off by a path so 
remote from those followed by others, that, I suppose, it was this 
circumstance which caused evil-minded persons to affirm he was 
captured by private enemies and white men. Their course was at least 
very singular, for it carried them rather to the north-east, along 
the foot of the mountain, than to the north and west. They dragged 
their prisoner on till after midnight, which has been mentioned as an 
unusual circumstance, at least with Indians; and, at dawn, they tied 
him to a tree, and piled around him dead boughs and pine-knots, 
intending, as he now saw, to torture him alive."

The narrator here paused, and looked upon her friend, who, after a 
slight shudder, very composedly said,

"Poor pa! he must have been horribly frightened! I should like to 
know how he looked, the moment he made the discovery!"

Catherine heard her with unconcealed amazement, but appreciated her 
philosophy, when she added, with an affected laugh,

"Why, my dear Kate, as, after all, he was _not_ tortured, it would be 
but folly to fall into hysterics. I never grieve over misfortunes 
that were never happening. But come; how got he out of this doleful 
dilemma? You said something about the three Hawks--Ah! you spoiled 
the dramatic point of the story, by enabling me to forestall a 
discovery. And so the three Hawks discovered the six buzzards, and 
fell upon them, and took their lambkin from them? They are no true 
fishing-hawks, after all; for it is the part of these ravagers, not 
so much to rob, as to be robbed. They should have been called Eagles, 
for it is these birds that take such little liberties with the 
feathered Isaac Waltons, as I have once or twice seen with my own 
eyes. But these were heroical kites, I must acknowledge."

"They were, certainly," said Miss Loring, not well pleased with the 
levity of her kinswoman; "and, methinks, you should do them the 
justice to consider that it was no child's play for three men--three 
boys we may call them, to assail six stout Indians, vanquish them, 
and rescue a poor doomed prisoner out of their hands. If you will not 
do justice to their courage, acknowledge at least, the dreadful cost 
at which they exercised their humanity. Hyland Gilbert, the second 
son, the best beloved of all, as Elsie assured me, was shot dead, 
while he was cutting your father loose from the tree."----

"Good heavens!" cried Miss Falconer, with an emotion, that seemed, 
however, to be rather horror than grief, "was this so indeed? Did one 
of them fall?"

"He did," replied Catherine, "and his poor brothers buried him where 
he fell. According to Elsie's superstitious belief, they were 
punished by the genius of their fate, for exercising their humanity 
on an undeserving object. You know _she_, at least, holds on to her 
angry prejudices. She said, that from that moment, which was the 
first unlucky one to them, the Gilberts never more prospered in their 
undertakings; every thing that came after was mischance and disaster; 
death followed death, sorrow succeeded sorrow, and now not one 
remains alive of the whole family, unless it may be the youngest son, 
who was sent to the Islands in his infancy, and of whom Elsie knows 
nothing whatever, although they have a report in the village that he 
also is dead."

"I am much obliged to Elsie," said Miss Falconer, sullenly; "after 
eating my father's bread, she might have the grace to abate her 
malevolence a little."

"Alas, Harriet," said Miss Loring, "do not call it malevolence; but 
the prejudice, the absurd and unjust prejudice of weak, dreamy old 
age, if you will. And you know, that she is ignorant from whom I 
derived the power to relieve her wants. I did but hint once that your 
father would befriend her, when she exclaimed, not in the heat of 
frenzy, but with a cold, iron-like determination, that she would gnaw 
the flints on the way-side for food, rather than receive a morsel of 
bread from the hands of Colonel Falconer. Indeed, your father himself 
directed me to conceal his agency in the benefaction."

"Peace to the silly old woman!" said Harriet, "and let us speak of 
her no more. Resume your story: I see, by your looks, that the worst 
is yet to come. But fear not: I am not so much shocked as I was, 
since the thing comes from that bitter old bundle of--oh, prejudice, 
my dear. Well, the two survivors saved my father's life--what then?"

"Then," said Catherine, "they bore him on a litter of boughs to their 
father's house; for, before they fled, the murderers had assailed him 
with their axes, and left him almost dying. The journey was very 
laborious; for to avoid the war-parties, now swarming through the 
country, they were obliged to steal along by circuitous paths,--and 
it was several days before they could procure assistance. They got 
him safe, however, to their father's house, and then played the good 
Samaritan with him. If you would like, I will show you the room where 
he lay, while recovering,--it is the chamber over the armoury, as you 
call it,--that is, my father's study, where he takes his afternoon's 
nap. Elsie told me there was a pane of glass on which he had cut his 
name with a diamond ring; but the sashes were changed, before she 
told me this, and I know not what has become of them. But, if you 
like, we will inquire about them.--He did not recover entirely before 
the autumn, and then he left the valley. I am told that there is an 
oak-tree on the lawn, at which he used to shoot pistols."----

"Catherine!" said Miss Falconer, with a piercing look, "you flutter 
about the subject, like a bird over the jaws of a serpent, unable to 
retreat and yet afraid to descend. Is there any thing so horrible to 
come?"

"There is indeed!" said Catherine, trembling; "but it is not true, 
cousin,--you must not believe it is true! It is about Jessie--they 
say she was very good and handsome--a kind nurse, simple-hearted, of 
an affectionate disposition, and"----

"Hold! hold!" cried Miss Falconer, vehemently, starting to her feet, 
with a pale face, and lips ashy and trembling, "this would be to make 
out my father a fiend! Saints of heaven! this is too much! Come,--let 
us proceed."

And thus muttering out her oppressive emotion, she darted down the 
stream, followed hastily by her friend.

Tall trees still overarched the rivulet; but its bank became smoother 
as they advanced. A few rods below, the channel was again contracted, 
but not by impending crags. A huge sycamore, ancient and 
thunder-scarred, but still flourishing, had been tumbled over the 
stream by some forgotten tempest; but so tightly were its roots 
twisted in the rocky soil of the one bank, and so tenacious was the 
hold of its gnarled and elbowed boughs upon the sward of the other, 
that it maintained its place despite the floods, which, it was 
evident, often washed over it, and thus afforded a bridge, rustic 
enough, but secure, though by no means easy of passage.

Upon this Harriet, still perturbed and driven onward by painful 
emotion, was about to place her foot, when she was restrained by the 
trembling grasp of her companion.

"What means the child?" she exclaimed, with a feverish accent: "there 
are no savages here."

"But," said Catherine, with a faint voice, "it was over there, by the 
rock, they dug the poor girl's grave!"

Miss Falconer recoiled for a moment, and then saying, with a firm 
voice, "It matters not--let us visit it," she sprang upon the bridge, 
followed by Catherine, and made her way across. About thirty paces 
below, the stream darted over a rock, making a cascade ten or twelve 
feet high; and it was the roar of this fall, borne downwards by the 
breeze, which had attracted the painter's curiosity, as he paused for 
a moment on the road side. It possessed no very striking beauty, nor 
was the body of water that leaped over the rock of any extraordinary 
magnitude; yet it had a violent and even impressive look, and the 
waters hurrying impetuously towards it from above, shot under the 
sycamore with an appearance of fury that might have tried the nerves 
of any over-timid person, crossing by so precarious a bridge.




CHAPTER VII.

  Dull grave--thou spoil'st the dance of youthful blood,
  Strik'st out the dimple from the cheek of mirth,
  And every smirking feature from the face,
  Branding our laughter with the name of madness.
  Where are the jesters now?----
                         --------Ah! sullen now,
  And dumb as the green turf that covers them.
                                      BLAIR--_The Grave_.


The spot which the maidens now reached, after crossing the rivulet, 
was wild and gloomy, yet exceedingly romantic. A little ascent led 
them up to a sort of platform, or shelf, of earth, the highest 
portion of the table-land, from which the torrent leaped downwards, 
making its way, in a series of foaming rapids, to the parent river. 
It therefore overlooked the sweeping hillocks and rustling forests 
below, and commanded a prospect of the river and the southern portion 
of the valley, both extensive and beautiful; and, indeed, a more 
charming nook could not have been imagined for one, who, though 
preferring personally to be surrounded by solitude, yet loved to send 
back his spirit to the world, and survey it from that distance which 
lends it the sweetest enchantment. On the summit of the platform lay 
two huge masses of rock, that approached each other in one place so 
nigh as scarce to permit a passage between them; towards the rivulet, 
however, the intervening space was wider, and covered with a grassy 
turf; and a sort of wall, composed of smaller fragments, ran from the 
one crag to the other, yet so rudely, that it was difficult to say 
whether the irregular barrier had been piled up by the hands of 
nature or man. Besides a majestic growth of trees behind and around 
the rocks, there was one tall beech flourishing within the enclosure; 
and from its roots there gushed a cool fountain, that went dripping 
and leaking through green mosses, until it yielded its meager tribute 
to the streamlet. Both the crags were overgrown with lichens and 
ferns; and under the larger one, which, in the afternoon, cast its 
shadow over the whole nook, there flourished a luxuriant array of 
arums, mandrakes, violets, and other plants that delight in cool and 
moist situations. On the face, and at the foot, of the eastern rock, 
where the sunshine lingered longer, were dusky columbines, 
rock-daisies, and other plants, now in bloom, and, in the summer, 
their places would have been supplied by the aster and the 
golden-rod; and at the foot of the rock, among a heap of brambles, 
that seemed to have almost choked it, there grew a rose-bush, the 
only remarkable thing present, being obviously of an exotic species. 
It bore a single flower, visible among the green leaves and white 
blossoms of the blackberry, and it immediately attracted the notice 
of the maidens.

"Elsie told me," whispered Catherine, with a voice of fear, "that the 
poor old father planted a rose-bush on the grave,--it is strange it 
should live so long.--She said there was a grave-stone too--ah! there 
it is!--Let us go away."

As Harriet, bolder than her friend, or affecting to be so, reached 
forward, to remove the brier from the more lovely plant, in hopes 
that the rude and thorny veil might conceal other flowers, it yielded 
to her grasp, and revealed a hollow or sunken place in the ground, at 
one extremity of which was a rude stone, entirely shapeless and 
undressed, yet so placed as to mark undeniably the couch of some 
human clod of the valley. No name, letter, or device of any kind,--no 
inscription to record the virtues of the dead, no legend to 
perpetuate the grief of the living,--appeared on the rude monument; 
and, indeed, however expressive the shape and appearance of the 
hollow place to those already aware that a grave had been dug in this 
unsanctified nook, it is scarce probable that a stranger, stumbling 
upon it by chance, could have believed that in that coarse and 
dishonoured fragment, his foot pressed upon a funeral stone. It was a 
singular grave--it was a singular cemetery; and the maidens regarded 
the brambled pit and the solitary flower with awe, the one because 
her spirit was especially susceptible of impressions from melancholy 
objects, and the other because the legend of her companion had 
invested the place with an interest personal, it might be said, to 
herself.

How little reflection is expended upon,--yet how much is called for, 
by the grave,--by the lowliest hillock that is piled over the icy 
bosom, by the grassiest hollow that has sunk with the mouldering 
bones of a fellow creature! And in this narrow haven rots the bark 
that has ploughed the surges of the great vital ocean! in this little 
den, that the thistle can overshadow in a day's growth, and the 
molewarp undermine in an hour of labour, is crushed the spirit that 
could enthrall a world, and dare even a contest with destiny! How 
little it speaks for the value of the existence, which man endures so 
many evils to prolong; how much it reduces the significance of both 
the pomp and wretchedness of being, reducing all its vicissitudes 
into the indistinguishable identity which infinite distance gives to 
the stars,--a point without parallax, a speck, an atom! Such is 
life,--the gasp of a child that inspires the air of existence but 
once,--a single breath breathed from eternity. But the destiny that 
comes behind us,--oblivion! It is not enough that we moralize upon 
the equality of the sepulchre; that the rich man, whose soul is in 
the ostentation of a marble palace, and his heart in the splendour of 
the feast, should consider how small a pit must content him, or that 
the proud, who boast their 'pre-eminence above the beasts,' should 
know that the shaggy carcass and the lawn-shrouded corse must fatten 
the earth together. We should teach our vanity the lesson of 
humiliation that is afforded by the grave; neglecting the mighty 
mausoleums of those marvellous spirits which fame has rendered 
immortal, we should turn to the nameless tombs of the million, and in 
their deserted obscurity, discover the feeble hold which we ourselves 
must have upon earth and the memory of men. Friendship forgets what 
the devouring earth has claimed; and even enmity ceases at last to 
remember the resting place of a foe. Love ourselves as we may, devote 
our affections to others as we can, yet must our memory perish with 
us in the grave; and all the immortality we leave to be cherished 
among friends, is expressed in the distich of a poet, whom the 
anticipation of enduring renown could not blind to the transitoriness 
of real remembrance:

  Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay
  A week, and Arbuthnot a day.[1]

[Footnote 1: SWIFT--_On the Death of Dr. Swift_.]

But there were other thoughts necessarily associated, and other 
feelings excited by this lonely sepulchre; and while Miss Falconer 
preserved a moody and painful silence upon its brink, Catherine bent 
over it, scarce conscious that she bedewed the rose-bush with a tear, 
or that her own shadow had descended, as it were, into the pit, with 
an ominous readiness.

It was a delightful evening; the air was full of balmy freshness, the 
landscape resplendently verdant, and the sky cloudless, save in the 
west, where the sun was sinking among curtains of gold and pillars of 
flame; and the solitude and quiet of the whole scene, broken by no 
sounds, except the ceaseless turmoil of the water-fall, and the 
plaintive scream of the fishing-eagles, which had deserted their gray 
perch, to bathe in the pure floods of sunset, that beautified the 
upper air,--the solitude, quiet, and beauty of every thing around and 
nigh, were additional arguments for silence.

But silence, long continued, was not consonant to the restless and 
impatient temper of Miss Falconer; and notwithstanding the indignant 
incredulity with which she had interrupted her friend's narrative, 
the same curiosity which compelled the commencement of it, still 
thirsted for the conclusion. The presence of the dead, however, in so 
wild, so forlorn, so unblest a spot, where, as it would seem, the 
shame of proud but humbled hearts had dug the neglected grave, worked 
powerfully on her feelings; and it was with a hesitating and 
quivering, though an abrupt voice, that she demanded, after gazing 
for a long time on the grave,

"Did others,--did any beside this bitter-tongued woman, accuse my 
father of this thing?"

"I know not," replied Catherine, with accents still more unsteady; 
"all that I have gathered was from Elsie; and when she speaks of 
these things, as I mentioned before, she becomes fearfully agitated, 
so that I have sometimes thought her wits quite unsettled. She never 
pretended to tell me the whole story; nor indeed would I have been 
disposed to ask or listen, knowing it would be improper to do so. All 
these things have come in broken hints and exclamations. What others 
in the neighbourhood may say or think, I know not, never encouraging 
any to speak to me on the subject. The step-mother soon followed the 
daughter,--Elsie says, heart-broken; you may see her tomb in the 
village church-yard. The old father, too, became another man, gloomy, 
solitary, and indifferent to his friends, so that the neighbours 
ceased to visit him. His sons no longer hunted with the young men of 
the country, but went, as in their war-expeditions, alone; and when 
others thrust themselves into their company, they quarrelled with 
them, so that they began to be universally feared and detested. To 
crown all, as soon as the Revolution burst out, they went over to the 
enemy; and being distributed among the wild and murderous bands of 
savages forming on the north-western frontiers, they soon obtained a 
dreadful notoriety for their deeds of daring and cruelty. Of course, 
this remarkable defection of the sons caused the unlucky father to be 
suspected and watched. He was accused, at last, of aiding and 
abetting them in their treasonable practices; and soon, either from 
timidity or a consciousness of guilt, he fled, seeking refuge within 
the royal lines. This was sufficient for his ruin; for after the 
usual legal preliminaries, he was formally outlawed, as his sons had 
been before, and his property confiscated. He died soon afterward, 
either at New York, or in Jamaica, where he had gone to seek his 
youngest son--the lad he had sent away as a substitute for the 
daughter."

"And this son?" demanded Miss Falconer; "did you not say that he was 
dead?"

"Of him," said Catherine, "Elsie knows nothing; but if we can receive 
a belief that prevails in the village on the subject, it would seem 
as if the vials of wrath had been poured to the uttermost on the poor 
devoted family. They say, that the young man, just raised to wealth 
and distinction by the death of his munificent kinswoman, was one of 
the many victims to that dreadful tornado which ravaged the island of 
Jamaica two years ago. But I never heard how this intelligence was 
obtained."

"And the other sons? the rest of this brood of traitors!" demanded 
Miss Falconer, who strove to merge the unpleasant feelings that had 
possession of her bosom, in patriotic detestation of the unfortunate 
family.

"They met the fate they must have anticipated," said the Captain's 
daughter. "They perished, one by one, in different bloody conflicts; 
one fell at Wyoming, another at Tioga Point, where the combined 
forces of savages and refugees were routed by General Sullivan; Oran 
himself, with a fourth brother, was killed at the battle of 
Johnstown, near the Mohawk river, where another refugee leader, 
Walter Butler, not less blood-thirsty and famous, met a similar fate. 
Their death was terrible; they cried for quarter, being wounded and 
helpless; but the victors bade them 'Remember Wyoming, and 
Cherry-Valley,' two prominent objects of their cruelty, and killed 
them without mercy. Another, I have heard, was somewhere hanged as a 
spy; and these, with Hyland, killed as I mentioned before, and the 
youngest, deceased, if indeed he be deceased, in Jamaica, made up the 
whole seven sons, all of whom therefore died violent deaths. The 
eighth child,--the poor daughter,--undoubtedly sleeps under this 
rock; and there are none left to mourn her. The destruction of the 
family was dreadful and complete."




CHAPTER VIII.

          Run! run! run!
        Quickly for a surgeon!
  Call watch, constable! raise the hue and cry!
          What's to be done?
        Why the devil don't you stir, John?
  This way, that way, every body fly!
                                      DON GIOVANNI.


Thus ended the sketch of a story, imperfect, perhaps tedious and 
unsatisfactory, but still a necessary preliminary to the series of 
events that completes the tradition. A mere womanly curiosity was 
perhaps at the bottom of the nobler feeling with which Miss Falconer 
sought to excuse to herself the impropriety of urging the relation. 
From the first to the last, it was meted out to her reluctantly; and 
nothing but the command she had long since obtained over a character 
less firm and decided than her own, could have persuaded the 
Captain's daughter to breathe a syllable of it into ears, which, she 
could not but feel, ought not to be opened to it. Miss Falconer had, 
moreover, overrated her powers of scepticism; she had provoked the 
story, as men commonly provoke an argument,--that is, with a 
resolution not to be convinced; but like the logician, in many 
instances, when the discussion is over, her incredulity was sorely, 
though secretly, shaken, and nothing but her pride and strength of 
character checked the humiliating avowal. Some circumstances a 
delicate consideration for the feelings of her friend, and an 
unconquerable repugnance to speak more on the subject than could not 
be avoided, had prevented the Captain's daughter from relating. These 
would have thrown a still darker stain upon the character of Colonel 
Falconer. There was enough, however, said, to force one disagreeable 
conviction upon Harriet's mind; and this was, that, if her parent 
were even as guiltless of ingratitude and wrong as her fondest wishes 
would have him, calumny had, at least in one secluded corner of the 
world, sealed him with the opprobrium of a villain. It was a sore 
addition also to her discomfort, that her penetrating mind discovered 
how deeply her kinswoman was affected by the hateful history: if she 
doubted, she did not doubt strongly. Vexed, humbled, displeased with 
herself and with Catherine, she rose from the rocky shelf, on which 
both had seated themselves when Catherine resumed the story, and 
prepared to leave the scene, equally mournful and unpleasant, when an 
incident occurred, which at once gave a new turn to her feelings.

The Captain's daughter had observed the look of dissatisfaction, and 
anticipated the movement, by rising herself, to lead the way to the 
bridge. As she started up hastily, her hat, which she had loosened 
from her forehead, to enjoy the evening breeze, now puffing among the 
flowers, fell from her head, and her beautiful countenance and golden 
ringlets were fully exposed. She raised her hands, naturally enough, 
to catch the falling hat, and thus assumed an attitude, of which she 
was herself unconscious, but which, to one spectator at least, had a 
character apparently menacing and forbidding. This spectator was no 
less a person than the young painter, who had rambled up the stream, 
and was now making his way across the sycamore, to obtain a view of 
the cascade, entirely ignorant of the presence of such visiters; for 
while they maintained their seats, their persons were concealed 
behind the low wall, and their voices drowned by the murmur of the 
water-fall.

A sudden exclamation, loud enough to be heard over this lulling din, 
drew Catherine's attention to the bridge; and there, to her extreme 
surprise, she beheld the young stranger struggling among the 
branches, as if he had lost his footing, while all the time, his 
eyes, instead of being employed in the more needful duty of looking 
to himself, were fixed upon her with an air of the most unaccountable 
wonder and alarm. The next instant, she beheld him, to her own 
infinite horror, fall from the tree, just as Harriet, starting up 
after her friend, had also caught sight of the strange spectacle. 
Both beheld the unlucky youth drop through the boughs, and both at 
once anticipated the most dreadful termination to such a 
misadventure; for a pitch over the cascade among the savage rocks 
below, could scarcely be less than fatal. The very instant she saw 
that the young man had lost his footing, Catherine uttered a loud 
scream, and then, driven onwards by an irresistible impulse, darted 
towards the river, to render him what aid she could. As for Miss 
Falconer, the shock had deprived her of her self-possession, and her 
tongue clove to her mouth with terror. She neither screamed nor 
rushed forwards to give aid, until her lethargy was dispelled by a 
distant voice, that suddenly echoed the scream of Catherine:

"Hark ye, Kate, you jade! hark ye, Kate, my dear Kate! my beloved 
Kate! what's the matter? I'm coming! I'll murder the villain! I'm 
coming, Kate!"

There was no mistaking the tones of Captain Loring, even altered as 
they were by anxiety and vociferation; and Miss Falconer recognising 
them, screamed out, "Quick, uncle, quick! for heaven's sake, quick!" 
and ran to the side of her friend.

The torrent, leaping along like a mill-race for the little distance 
that intervened betwixt the treacherous bridge and the fall, had 
immediately swept the young man from his feet; and as Catherine 
bounded to the verge, flinging out, with as much daring as presence 
of mind, the scarf of Harriet, which she had instinctively snatched 
up, in hope that he might seize it, she saw him swept by her like a 
feather in a whirlwind, and instantly hurried over the falls. The 
spectacle was really terrific; and as Miss Falconer caught sight of 
the dreary figure--the outstretched arm and the despairing 
countenance, revealed for one moment, as some rocky obstruction on 
the very brink of the cascade lifted the body half from the flood, 
and then instantly plunged it out of view--she lost what little 
courage remained, and was no longer capable of yielding the slightest 
assistance. If such was her overpowering terror, it might have been 
supposed that the Captain's daughter, who, whatever the vivacity and 
quickness of her mind, possessed little of the boldness of spirit 
that characterized her friend, would have been reduced to a state of 
imbecility still more benumbing and helpless. But this youthful girl 
concealed within the cells of a heart all of feeble flesh, a 
principle of feeling that could upon occasions, though she knew it 
not herself, nerve the throbbing organ into steel; and, at such 
times, if her brain was confounded, impulse governed her actions with 
an influence more useful, because more instant of operation.

Dreadful, therefore, as was the spectacle of the youth dashed down 
the abyss under her eyes, and almost in reach of her arm, she did not 
pause, like Harriet, to scream after the Captain, who was undoubtedly 
drawing nigh, and at an unusual pace; but leaving this to be done by 
her companion, she ran down the rocks that led to the base of the 
fall, and the next moment Harriet beheld her rush boldly into the 
water. The instant she reached the basin at the foot of the cascade, 
which was broken by rocks, black and slippery from the eternal spray, 
she caught sight of the body--for such it seemed--rolling in the 
flood where it boiled over a ridgy mole in a sheet of foam. It was 
scarce two paces from the bank, and though the torrent gushed over 
the rock with great impetuosity, it was shallow, at least in the 
nearer portion; and, unless too rash and daring, there was little 
danger she could be herself swept over the ledge among the deep and 
dangerous eddies below. She stepped therefore upon the rock as far as 
she durst, and stretching out her hand, succeeded in grasping the 
insensible figure, as it was whirling over at a deeper place and in a 
fiercer current. All her strength, however, availed nothing further 
than to arrest the body where it was; and she must have speedily 
released her hold, or been swept with it herself from the ledge, when 
a new auxiliary, attracted by the same cries that had alarmed Captain 
Loring, came unexpectedly to her assistance, crackling through the 
bushes, and bounding over the rocks on the opposite side of the pool, 
which was a wilderness of rock and swamp. No sooner had this 
personage beheld her situation, than he ran a little lower down, 
where the stream was again contracted, sprang across from rock to 
rock, and immediately darted to her side. With one hand he 
dragged--or, to speak more strictly, he flung her, (for his actions 
were none of the gentlest,)--out of the water; and with the other, he 
lifted the unlucky painter from the torrent, and bore him to the 
bank, saying, as he laid him at the maiden's feet, in a voice none of 
the mildest in the world,

"Why, here's fine sport for a May-day, and a rough end to a fool's 
frolic! How many more of you must I fish up?"

By this time the gallant Captain Loring, urged by anxiety for his 
daughter, (not knowing that the danger concerned another,) into a 
speed that he had not attempted for twenty-five years, made his 
appearance at the top of the fall, and seeing her stand shivering 
with fright over what she esteemed a dead body,--for the painter 
showed not a single sign of life,--with a stranger of questionable 
appearance at her side, he burst into a roar of passion, crying, 
"Hark ye, you vagabond villain! if you touch my girl"--when his rage 
was put to flight by Miss Falconer suddenly finding tongue, and 
exclaiming, "He has saved the poor youth's life;--that is, Kate saved 
him, and this man helped her. I never was more frightened in my life! 
Let us go down, uncle--I fear the young man is hurt."

Meanwhile, Catherine, whose courage and presence of mind had almost 
deserted her, so soon as she beheld the young man safe ashore, being 
roused by the rough accents of the stranger, and the death-like 
appearance of the youth, exclaimed, in tones of entreaty, for the man 
had turned away, as if to depart,

"Do not go.--Alas! you came too late! Help us yet a little, or the 
poor youth will die where he is. Pray, hold up his head--indeed, he 
is very much hurt!"

"Hurt! To be sure he is," cried the stranger, with infinite coolness, 
bordering upon a sort of savage contempt, or at least disregard, of 
the miserable spectacle, "knocked as clean on the head as if a 
refugee had been at him. So, d'ye hear, my young madam, there's no 
great need of troubling yourself more about him; and here come enough 
of your good folk to groan over him. As for me, I have no time for 
moaning. If you want help, just scream over again; and, I reckon, 
you'll have the whole road at your elbow."

Catherine had herself performed the office of humanity she had so 
vainly asked of the stranger; she stooped down, and beckoning to her 
father and Harriet, who were descending the rocks, to hasten their 
steps, she raised up the painter's head, and endeavoured, with a 
faltering hand, to loosen the neckcloth from his throat. Struck by 
expressions so rude and unfeeling, she looked up for a moment, and 
for the first time took hasty note of the person and lineaments of 
her preserver. He was a man of middle age,--perhaps forty or more, 
with a long shirt or frock of coarse linen thrown over his other 
garments, and a broad-brimmed, round-crowned, slouching hat, like the 
favourite _sombrero_ of the Spanish islands, which was, however, 
painted of a fiery red, and varnished, so as to resist the rain. His 
stature was not considerable, nor was his appearance very muscular, 
yet he had given proof of no mean strength in the ease with which he 
dragged the painter and herself from the water. His countenance, 
without being coarse or ugly, had yet a repulsive character, derived 
in part from several scars, the marks of violent blows from sabres or 
other weapons, one of which seemed to have destroyed his right eye, 
for it was bound round with a handkerchief; but perhaps the forbidden 
air was rather given by the savage fire that glimmered in the other, 
and the perpetual frown that contracted his brows. His hair was 
grizzled, and fell in a long lock over either dark and bony cheek. 
His mouth was particularly stern, grim, menacing, and even malevolent 
of character,--or so the Captain's daughter thought. All these things 
Catherine observed in a moment; yet, however unfavourably impressed 
by them, she could not refrain from again imploring his assistance, 
saying, with the most earnest accents,

"If you be a Christian man, do not leave us. We are none here but two 
feeble women, and an infirm old man; and before we can procure 
assistance, the young gentleman may perish. We will thank you,--we 
will reward"----

"Good heavens!" cried Miss Falconer, who had now reached the foot of 
the rocks, and beheld the pale and bleeding visage that Catherine so 
falteringly supported, "he is dying!"

"Dying! Who's dying?" echoed the Captain, limping up to the group; 
"Adzooks; what! my painter? my handsome young dog, that was to paint 
me my son Tom Loring? my Harman What-d'ye-call-it from Elsie Bell's? 
Hark ye, Mr. Red-hat, or whatever your name is, I intended to arrest
you on suspicion----Adzooks, I believe the young dog's dead! He looks 
amazingly like my son Tom. Hark ye, Mr. Harmer What-d'ye-call-it, how 
do you feel? Why, adzooks, he's clean gone!--Hark ye, Mister 
Red-head, fetch him up the rocks----We'll carry him to the Folly."

While the Captain thus poured forth his mingled wonder and 
lamentation, a surprising change came over the visage of the 
stranger. He no sooner understood from the mention of the 
lodging-place and profession of the young man, that he did not belong 
to the party before him, and had therefore no greater claim upon 
their humanity than on his, than he at once dropped his rude and 
disregardful air, saying, as he released the others from the care of 
supporting the wounded unfortunate,

"I am neither stock nor stone; but I thought you had idlers enough to 
bury your own dead. And so the younker is a stranger to you? a bird 
of old Elsie's, and none of your own roost? And this young lady was 
trying to save his life? I beg your pardon, if I have been rough with 
you, young madam."--He pronounced these words with a tone mild, and 
almost regretful; then turning to the Captain, he resumed, "Well, 
Captain Loring, for I believe that's your name,--what shall we do 
with this broken-headed fool? You see, here's an arm broke, and a 
gash on the head that might do credit to a tomahawk! How shall we get 
him to Elsie Bell's? I can carry him, sure enough--but 'tis a long 
mile off.----And then for a doctor? Here's a shoulder slipped, 
Captain. The fool! that must tumble down this dog-hole water-fall! 
Captain, you have servants and horses--you must send for a 
doctor.--Poor boy, how he groans!"

"Hark ye, Mr. Red-head," said Captain Loring, "we will carry him to 
the Folly, and cure him like a Christian. Just get him up these rocks 
here, and I'll give a lift myself; and hark ye, Mr. Read-head"----

"But the doctor, Captain? the doctor?" cried the stranger.

"He is at the house!" cried Catherine, eagerly. "We saw him ride 
there ourselves!"

"Adzooks! to be sure he is! so Sam told me! What a fool I was to 
forget it!" exclaimed the Captain. "Come along, up the rocks, 
double-quick step--march!"

The eyes of the stranger sparkled at the announcement of surgical 
assistance being so unexpectedly close at hand; for he seemed to have 
conceived as sudden a liking to the luckless painter as had the 
Captain himself. He raised him tenderly, and with singular ease, from 
the ground, and without a moment's delay, clambered up the rocky path 
that led to the platform. Then striding rapidly to the treacherous 
bridge, though encumbered by a burthen at once so inconvenient and 
piteous, he crossed it with a better fate than had distinguished the 
attempt of the painter, and, almost before the others had reached the 
deserted grave, was making his way over the shaded path at a pace 
that soon promised to carry him out of sight.

"Haste, father, dear father!" cried Catherine, to whom the terrible 
scene of peril and suffering she had witnessed and almost shared, had 
given a new energy, and, indeed, a new nature; "haste, or the man 
will miss the path, and the young gentleman die. Or stay--I will 
climb the hill here, and run to the house for assistance, and Harriet 
will walk faster, and point out the way."

"The path is broad, the wild fellow pursues it," cried Miss Falconer, 
giving the veteran the impulse of her own activity. "What could have 
brought the young man to the brook? What could have brought this wild 
barbarian? Nay, uncle, what could have brought yourself?"

"Sam told me," muttered Captain Loring; and of a thousand broken and 
confused expressions that now fell from his lips, all that the 
maidens could understand, as they hurried him along, was that he had 
met one of his labourers at the park-gate, who had seen them take 
refuge in the wood, and was then engaged catching their ponies, which 
were running wildly about,--that he had instantly left his carriage, 
and was seeking them along the stream, when he heard the shriek of 
his daughter. Something else of much more importance, he seemed 
labouring to give utterance to; and this being nothing less than the 
fearful intelligence in relation to Colonel Falconer, which he knew 
not how to impart, his mind became so confounded betwixt fear of its 
effect upon the lady, indignation at the outrage, and the thousand 
other emotions which were distracting his breast, that the more he 
essayed to speak, the more mysterious became his expressions; so that 
the whole group had reached the door of the mansion, before a single 
suspicion of his object had entered the mind of either Miss Falconer 
or her friend. He mingled the oft-repeated name of her father with 
that of the dreaded Gilberts, and this again with Tom Loring's, and 
the painter's; now he burst into a frenzy of apprehension lest 
Catherine, whose garments were dripping with wet, and, in one or two 
places, spotted with blood from the wounds of Herman, should have 
suffered as many hurts as the youth himself, and now he fell into 
lamentations over the loss of 'that grand picture of Tom Loring 
dying!' which, it seemed not altogether improbable, death might 
prevent the poor painter ever attempting.

But if the Captain brought confusion with him to the mansion, it was 
evident, at the first glance Miss Falconer had of it, that the 
deranging fiend had been there before him, and still kept possession. 
The sun was then setting--a multitude of persons, old and young, 
sallow and sable, were bustling about in the shadows of the porch, 
some running to and fro with burthens in their hands, others shouting 
and screaming, or staring about them in speechless wonder; the 
carriage stood at the door, the ancient charioteer sitting whip in 
hand, as if expecting orders to start at a moment's warning, while a 
smart mulatto in livery was engaged strapping a portmanteau behind 
it. Horses, saddled and bridled, were hitched to trees, or held by 
servants; dogs were barking; pigeons flying about; and in a word, it 
seemed as if the inhabitants of the Folly, male and female, human and 
animal, were one and all preparing, in some ecstasy of confusion, to 
desert its troubled walls.

"In the name of heaven, uncle! what means all this?" cried Miss 
Falconer, recognising in the livery-servant a personal attendant of 
her own father, and in the portmanteau which he was fastening to the 
carriage, one of the repositories of her own womanly vanities.

Before the Captain could answer a word, the confusion was doubly 
confounded by the clatter of hoofs, and in an instant two horsemen in 
military apparel, came thundering up the avenue, as if the lives of a 
community depended upon their speed.

"My brother Henry, as I live!" cried the lady, starting forward. 
"Captain, what _is_ the matter? Brother! heavens, brother! what can 
all this mean?"

At this, one half of the human elements of the chaos lifted up their 
voices, and groaned aloud, "Oh, the Gilberts! the bloody Gilberts!"

"Sister!" cried the foremost of the young soldiers, flinging himself 
from his steed, catching Miss Falconer in his arms, and speaking with 
a manner strangely compounded of horror and merriment,--"they have 
been at dad again! but don't fall into a fit--there's no murder this 
time! no, egad, only a few scratches. Don't be alarmed.--Ah, Miss 
Loring! my dear Miss Catherine!--you look dreadful pale--don't be 
frightened--beg pardon for coming in such a condition. Heard of it, 
Harry?--(my friend, Brooks,--Lieutenant Brooks, of the troop)--knew 
they'd send for you,--bent out of course--deflected, made a _detour_, 
as we say,--to fetch you. Not a moment to lose--must be in town by 
sunrise, if horse-flesh can carry us.--How d'ye do, Captain? All 
ready for marching?"

"Yes, all ready," said the Captain, recovering his tongue. "Don't be 
afraid, Harriet, my dear--Kate, bid your cousin good-bye. No great 
harm done,--only a little flesh wound that you can stitch up with 
your needle--by the lord, that's all! Must send you away--father sent 
a message after you--must have you to nurse him. Be a good girl, 
don't cry; 't an't all bad wounds do damage; saw many 
tomahawk-slashes at the fatal field of Braddock, and some got well. 
Tell the Colonel I'll be down to see him, and hope to fetch the 
assassin along."

"The assassin, Captain?" cried the young officer, as he leaped upon 
his horse, his sister having been already, almost without any 
exercise of her own will, thrust into the carriage, and the door 
secured. "Quick, Phil, you scoundrel, will you never have done 
strapping?--The assassin, Captain! oh yes, the assassin!--Remember 
the description--tall man, lantern-jawed, white horse, with a dappled 
near fore-leg, a black coat, and preaches!"

"Hah!" cried Captain Loring, with a shout of triumph, "saw the 
rascal, and meant to arrest him, but couldn't stand his sermons! I 
couldn't, by the lord!--Your horse, Phil! your horse! doctor, I'll 
take yours!--Whoop, Harry, you dog! down to the old witch's, and 
we'll nab him yet!"

While the Captain gave utterance to these expressions, he seized upon 
the nearest horse, and mounted him--a feat, that nothing but the 
frenzy of his enthusiasm could have urged him to attempt; for his 
infirmity had almost altogether incapacitated him from riding, save 
at the gentlest pace. But the recollection of the zealous Nehemiah, 
the assassin of his friend, now sheltered under a roof that he 
fancied, in the ardour of the moment, he could almost touch with his 
hand--and that holy impostor a villain so notorious and redoubted as 
the chief Hawk of the Hollow!--the fiery conception scattered his 
years and infirmities to the winds, and in an instant he was astride 
the beast of mettle, galloping over the park at full speed, followed 
by the two soldiers, as soon as they comprehended the meaning of his 
words--by the coach, which the venerable Richard set in motion upon 
an impulse of his own--and by some half a dozen of the male loungers, 
some on foot, some on horse, and all fired with the prospect of 
capturing a foe so famous and so deeply abhorred.

The pale gibbering ghosts, that start in affright at the magical 
alarum of the early chanticleer, could not have vanished from their 
doleful divan with a more impetuous haste, than did full two-thirds 
of those human beings from the mansion, who had given such life to it 
a moment before. In an instant, as it seemed, the hall was left to 
solitude; and the rough stranger, who still sustained the mangled 
frame of the painter, and had stood staring in astonishment at a 
scene so unexpected and confounding, had some reason to fear he was 
left to relieve the sufferings of his charge as he could, and to 
relieve them alone. A dark frown gathered over his visage, as he 
beheld the crowd rush away almost without bestowing a look upon his 
piteous burthen, or upon him; and he was about to mutter his 
indignation aloud, when it was pacified by a husky voice exclaiming 
in his ear,

"Hum, hah! bless my soul! what, drowned, eh? is the gentleman 
drowned? a case of suspended animation?--Hillo, Jingleum, stop! Come 
back, Pepperel! 'Pon my soul, 'tis the identical red-jacket we saw at 
the Rest! Why, what the devil's all this?--Beg pardon, Miss 
Loring!--Bless my soul, I hope you ain't hurt? Blood about your 
sleeve, and look very pale and nervous! A little wine, with"----

"Think not of me, doctor," replied Catherine. "Attend to the young 
gentleman. This dreadful surprise and the hurry of my father--it will 
explain all, and excuse all. Aunt Rachel will show you a chamber: 
command every thing--every thing shall be done that you order. 
Hasten, doctor, pray hasten, and relieve the young gentleman's 
sufferings. Gentlemen, pray give your assistance to this good man, 
and heaven--yes, heaven will crown your exertions with success!"

With these hurried expressions, and still more earnest gestures, the 
young lady gave an impulse to the group now gathered about the 
wounded man, and he was immediately carried into the house and out of 
her sight.

"Oh, Miss Katy,--beg pardon--that's to say, Miss Catherine," cried a 
buxom, blubbering damsel, whose quavering treble had borne a 
distinguished part in the late din of voices, and who had no sooner 
laid eyes on the young lady, which she did as soon as the tumult was 
over, than she ran bustling hysterically to her side,--"never saw you 
in such a pucker! hope we shan't all be murdered. Such dreadful 
contractions were never heard of--great big hole in your sleeve--the 
Gilberts all come to life again, and will murder us as sure as we 
live!"

"Be quiet, Phoebe--come with me to my chamber--I don't think he will 
die!"

"Hope not, Miss Katy,--that's Miss Catherine; but they shot him right 
through the head with a blunderbush, and slashed him to pieces with a 
baggonet. Oh, the cruel murderers! And Philip, the yellow boy, 
says----Lor' 'a' mercy! Miss Katy, what's the matter?"

"I am sick, Phoebe, very sick--it will be over directly. Don't call 
your mother--don't disturb any one; let them stay with the young 
gentleman."

With great difficulty, assisted by the girl, whose station in the 
house, without being altogether so exalted as that of an humble 
companion, was yet, at least in her own estimation, far removed from 
that of a menial--the young lady made her way to her apartment; when 
the impulse that had supported her energies through a scene of 
distress for so long a time, passed away, and was succeeded by 
prostration both of mind and body--by shuddering chills and assaults 
of partial insensibility, that terminated in fits of weeping, and 
these again in deep dejection of spirits, such as of late years had 
been a more prevailing characteristic than any other.




CHAPTER IX.

Whither shall I go now? O Lucian!--to thy ridiculous purgatory,--to 
find Alexander the Great cobbling shoes, Pompey tagging points, and 
Julius Cæsar making hair-buttons, Hannibal selling blacking, Augustus 
crying garlic, Charlemagne selling lists by the dozen, and King Pepin 
crying apples in a cart drawn with one horse?----

  Then here's an end of me; farewell, daylight;
  And, oh! contemptible physic!----
                    WEBSTER--_Vittoria Corombona_.


Conducted by the old woman, an heir-loom dependant in the Captain's 
family, whom Miss Loring had designated by the familiar and somewhat 
endearing title of Aunt Rachel, the grim-faced stranger bore the 
young painter to a chamber, where he was laid upon a couch, breathing 
forth occasional groans, but still insensible. His bearer, having 
thus finished what might have been considered his peculiar charge, 
lifted up his eyes, and looked around him, not however with any 
intention of departing. On the contrary, his rude indifference seemed 
gradually to have melted away, and been succeeded by an anxious wish 
to render further services to the youth, or at least to be assured 
they should be rendered by others as capable as himself. He fixed his 
eyes upon the physician, as if to determine the amount of his 
professional ability by such outward manifestations of wisdom as 
might be traced in his visage and person; and the result was so 
little to his satisfaction that he resolved to remain in the 
apartment, to give the physician the benefit of his own counsels.

The man of science, who bore the undignified name of Merribody, was a 
youth of twenty-five or six, though the gravity of his countenance 
was worthy a practitioner of fifty. His frame was short, and roundest 
in the middle, and his limbs and neck of conformable brevity and 
dumpiness. His face corresponded with his body, being round as a 
melon, with features all highly insignificant, except his nose, which 
had a short and delicate pug that gave it some importance. His 
complexion had been originally fair, and his locks flaxen; but a few 
years' exposure to sun and sleet had communicated a certain foxy 
swarthiness to both, so that his eyes, which were of a light gray, 
were now entirely visible. His eye-brows had maintained their 
original creamy hue; and being the only part of the countenance 
possessing any great mobility, their motions up and down, and to and 
fro, were always distinguishable; and indeed they flitted about under 
the shadow of his hat, like two snowy moths entangled in a cobweb. 
Though no figure in the world could have been worse adapted to 
purposes of dignity, Dr. Merribody had thought proper to assume an 
important air, which he always preserved, except when irritated out 
of his decorum; a circumstance that not unfrequently happened, owing 
to a temper naturally testy and inflammable. His countenance he kept 
in a perpetual frown; and he cultivated an attitude he thought 
expressive of professional dignity, in which his feet were planted as 
far from one another as the length of his legs permitted, his head 
thrown back, or rather his chin turned up, for his neck was too short 
to allow much liberty to the temple of the soul, and his hands thrust 
into his breeches pockets; in which attitude he presented a miniature 
representation of the Rhodian Colossus. He had even bestowed much 
cultivation upon his voice, which being of a childish treble, and 
therefore highly incompatible with all pretensions to gravity, he 
forced it into artificial profundity, and spoke with a husky, 
catarrhal tone, a sort of falsetto bass, exceedingly pompous, and 
indeed sometimes majestic. However, the same testy temper which so 
often robbed him of his dignity of carriage, as frequently threw his 
voice into its hautboy alto; and on those occasions, he did not 
appear to advantage. At the present moment, the doctor certainly 
might be said to be in his glory; for the sight of a patient threw 
him into the best humour in the world;--and by the presence of his 
two friends, without counting the stranger and Aunt Rachel, he was 
assured of witnesses to his skill in a case, which he declared, while 
trudging up stairs, to be 'exceedingly critical and interesting.' 
Notwithstanding this favourable condition of things, however, the man 
of the red hat conceived but a mean opinion of Dr. Merribody's 
professional skill; and having eyed him a second time, without 
finding any reason to alter his opinion, he demanded, in no very 
respectful terms,

"Well now, doctor, here's the man lying half dead and 
groaning,--what's to be done with him?"

"What's to be done?" echoed the doctor, turning up the cuffs of his 
coat, throwing out his legs, and looking important and complaisant 
together; "Why, sir, we are to----but, hark'e, sir, who are you? 
Don't know you--thought you was Dan Potts, the raftsman, but see you 
a'n't. Who are you? and what are you doing here? Can't suffer a crowd 
in the room; it smothers the air. Must beg you to decamp, sir. Have 
plenty assistance, sir,"----

"Be content, doctor," said the man, drily, but not roughly. "My name 
is Green, John Green, the trader; every body knows Green, the York 
trader, as they call me. I fished up the young gentleman;--that is, I 
helped the lady; and I must see him through his troubles."

"Never heard of you, Mr. Green," said the doctor; "but you may stay. 
You have something the matter with your eye! Now I don't boast; but I 
believe I am good at the eyes--I will look at it directly."

"I don't doubt it, doctor," said Mr. Green; "but suppose, instead of 
talking of my eyes, you make the best use of your own. Here's the 
young man in great suffering."

"Oh, ay," said doctor Merribody. "The first thing to be done is to 
strip the patient, and see what's the matter with him. Method is the 
soul of business. Hurrah, Jingleum; come, off with his coat,--strip 
it off."

"_Rip_ it off, you mean," said the trader, touching the fractured arm 
significantly, and indeed somewhat angrily. "Of all fools I ever 
heard of, those are the greatest who break their arms, when necks are 
so much less valuable. Here's his right arm smashed like a 
sassafras-bough; and, I reckon, slipped at the shoulder, too!"

"Ay! the deuce! you don't say so? a luxation!" cried the physician. 
"Set the old woman to work with her scissors. Aunt Rachel, my good 
woman, rip up this sleeve; and rip it as gingerly as if every stitch 
was the nerve of a man's elbow. A comminuted fracture, I can tell by 
the feel!--Here, Pepperel, pour some warm water into the basin, chill 
it a thought from the ewer, and soak this rag in it. A very 
genteel-looking dog, I protest!--Jingleum, lay out my pocket-case, 
tear an old shirt into bandages two and a half inches wide, and roll 
'em up; and you, Mr. York,--that is, Mr. Green, hand me the crooked 
scissors there, till I shave some of the hair from the wound. A devil 
of a job, if it turns out a trephine case! We must send off to town 
for Dr. Muller and his case of round saws--I don't object to consult 
with Dr. Muller; and if it comes to trephining, why the sooner we are 
ready for it the better. Method is the soul of business!"

"The cut on the head is but a scratch," said the trader: "I v'e 
looked at it myself. Goody, rip up the shirt-sleeve here, or let me 
do it--there's blacker work to look at."

"Method is the soul of business," cried the doctor, whose spirits 
were beginning to rise to a rapture, as business thickened on his 
hand, and who now raised himself a tip-toe among his temporary 
assistants, like a generalissimo surveying the manoeuvres of his 
subordinates on a field of battle, which is perhaps to determine the 
destinies of a nation; "there's nothing like method!" he ejaculated. 
"Aunt Rachel, scrape me a little lint--there are more scratches to be 
filled.--Hah! what! what the devil's the matter?" he cried, as the 
trader, groaning with sympathy at the sight, tore away the damp shirt 
from the shoulder, and displayed it deformed and shapeless from 
luxation. "Bless my soul, what! a dislocation, really, under the 
_pectoralis major_, anteriorly luxed! Oh, here's the devil to pay! 
Method is the soul of business: but what method is there in having at 
once an arm broke, a shoulder disjointed, a head cracked, and to be 
half drowned into the bargain? Murdering work, sir! murdering work! 
Where the deuce can I clap my pulley? and where the deuce, now I 
think of it, am I to get one?"

"A pulley!" exclaimed the trader, with scorn and indignation; "a 
pulley to drag a man's arm off! Why, where's your fingers? Come, 
doctor, now's the time."

"Method is the soul of business!" exclaimed the physician, waxing 
wroth. "Are you a doctor, a surgeon, a gentleman of the profession, 
Mr. What-d'-ye-call-'em, that you take it upon you to instruct _me_ 
what to do? I tell you, sir, a physician is not to be prescribed his 
duty, sir; and I allow no man to interfere with me in my practice, 
sir!"

The strength of this declaration was increased by its being delivered 
in the doctor's natural voice, high and shrill; but it produced 
little effect on the obdurate trader.

"Come, doctor," said he, "I know all about these matters of broken 
and disjointed bones, from the toe up to the top-knot, having had a 
hand in making many of them, as a man who has been an Indian trader, 
in war-times, may well say. So take the benefit of my advice; for I 
intend to give it."

"Then, sir," said Dr. Merribody, with becoming indignation, "you may 
take the matter into your own hands; I wash mine clear of it. I'm not 
to be ruled by any ignoramus Indian trader, who, I believe, is no 
better than an Indian himself, and blind of an eye into the bargain; 
if you are to dictate, you Mr. What-d'-ye-call-'em, I'll have nothing 
to do with the case,--if I do I'll be hanged. No, sir! work away 
yourself, and kill the patient as soon as you like: he is at death's 
door already."

"Not at all," said Mr. Green, with a bitter sneer; "if he had been in 
any danger, I should have taken the matter up myself. Come, doctor," 
he added, more civilly; "don't be in a passion, and don't play the 
fool. I tell you, if it will be any satisfaction to you to know, that 
I, John Green, simple as I stand here, have seen more wounds and 
broken bones than you, and a dozen other such younkers, will ever 
have the mending of; and, for the matter of that, I have seen more 
mended than ever you will see hurt, ay, and helped in the mending, 
too,--as any man must, who has traded among Indians. So, come; look 
to your duty; the young gentleman will pay you for your services; 
and, as he seems to be forlorn-like, with no better friend at hand, I 
shall stand by him, to see he gets the worth of his money."

The amazement with which the insulted leech listened to these 
contumelious expressions, was prodigious, and would have been 
expressed otherwise than by a simple, common-place "whew!" had it not 
been for the dark scowl that clouded the trader's visage, at the 
first sign of explosion. It was a look of more than ordinary 
resentment or menace; and, indeed, expressed equal malignance with 
the grin of a wild-cat, preparing for the spring. The terror it 
struck to the bosom of the doctor, was communicated to his friends, 
who betrayed at first some inclination to enter into the controversy, 
but ended the heroic impulse in sundry grumbling murmurs.

"A devilish strange fellow as ever I saw!" growled the doctor in the 
ear of one. "A case of _monomania_, sir; he is mad, sir: yes! I see 
mania in his eye; he has been hurt on the head, you can tell by the 
knocks there, the scars on his phys'nomy; and his eye shows the 
infirmity. So we must humour him, sirs, we must humour him.--'Tis the 
method; and method is the soul of business."

Thus apologizing for the surrender of his wrath and dignity, the 
surgeon betook himself again to his patient.

"Hum! hah!" he cried, laying his fingers on Herman's wrist,--"pulse 
irregular, intermittent.--The struggle between life and death--very 
low, sir, very low!--Aunt Rachel, make me half a dozen 
mustard-plasters, roast me a dozen bricks, and get me a coal of fire, 
to try if there's any feeling in him. One dare not bleed with such a 
pulse as this."

Green listened with visible impatience to the physician; and then, 
with as little consideration as before, exclaimed,

"What needs all these knick-knackeries? Clap this shoulder into 
place, and then think of them."

"My friend," said the doctor, his indignation supplying the place of 
courage, "I don't like to offend the feelings of any man; but you 
talk like an ass. Method is the soul of business; and there is no 
method in reducing a luxation for a man hovering upon the brink of 
the grave, unless you may consider the act a method of helping him 
into it. No, sir; the violence of the operation would do his business 
as expeditiously as a thump over the head with a tomahawk, which I 
think, as you are an Indian trader and fighter, you know something 
about. Yes, sir; I'll allow you to be a complete master of the 
science of tomahawking, skinning, and scalping; but when you come to 
talk of bones and dislocations, then, sir, I say, in the words of the 
Latin poet, _Ne sudor ultra crepidam_--I don't know whether it is 
_sudor_ or _sutor_; but it means, 'Mind your own business.'"

"I speak of nothing but what I know," replied Green, impatiently; 
"and I say, now is the time to fix the bone with the least trouble. 
Feel the lad's muscles; they are as loose and limber as a girl's in a 
swoon; wait till he opens his eyes, and you will find them as tough 
as ash-boughs. So go to work, doctor; for if you don't, _I_ will--I 
have clapped a bone in place before now. So, doctor, you or John 
Green, the York trader; and much good may it do you, when I tell the 
folks up the river how I out-doctored you!"

The argument was conclusive, and luckily it was given more in the 
spirit of persuasion than command; Dr. Merribody condescended to 
adopt the advice of the rude philosopher. As he had intimated, the 
muscles of the sufferer were in a condition so relaxed, that it 
required but little effort to restore the bone to its place.

"There! it is done!" cried the surgeon, triumphantly; "but it hurt 
him like the mischief! He groaned as if I had been cutting his 
throat. Now for the mustard-plasters"----

"Now, if you please," said the trader, "for your lancet; and leave 
such things for the old women."

The doctor was again offended; but the interference of his adviser 
had effected one desirable object, and he now thought him worthy of 
remonstrance:

"This, my friend," said he, striking his attitude, sinking his voice 
to its most majestic depth, and stretching forth his hand, to give 
emphasis to the oration,--"this is a case of concussion of the 
brain,--that is, while considered without reference to other minor 
injuries, such as the wound, the fracture, and the luxation. In 
concussion, sir, I would have you to understand, sir, the 
practitioner has to contend, or rather to provide beforehand, sir, 
against two insidious and dangerous consequences, _videlicet_ 
depression and inflammation. Ehem, sir! do you understand that? If 
you don't, sir, you are no better than a--I won't say numskull, 
sir,--but something of that sort. Bleeding may undoubtedly prevent 
the latter, but it may as certainly aggravate the former,--it may 
sink the patient into the grave,--it may send him to the devil,--it 
may"--

"Open his eyes, and so rob the doctor of a patient," said the trader, 
gruffly. "Do you see how the blood begins to flush over his face? do 
you hear how hard he draws his breath? Bleed him, and he opens his 
eyes; warm him with bricks, and plasters, and such stuff, and he will 
have a brain-fever. Come, doctor, I'll take the blame. If it should 
hurt him, why a vein is easier stopped than a fool's mouth."

"_Probatum est_," muttered the physician; "for nothing but a gag 
could do that for one that shall be nameless.--The fellow has some 
gumption, though," he muttered to himself. "Well, I'll bleed him but 
I _should_ like to put Dan Potts, the raftsman, on him, or some such 
two-fisted fellow, and have him drubbed for his insolence! yes, I 
should like it!"

And grinning with the agreeableness of the fancy, the doctor 
phlebotomized the patient.

The wisdom of the trader's suggestion was again shown in the event. 
The blood, at first merely oozing in drops from the vein, at last 
gathered strength and volume, and the poor painter opened his eyes, 
and rolled them wildly from person to person. The trader surveyed him 
for a moment with a much gentler visage than he had hitherto 
displayed; then turning to the doctor, he said, softly, as if to 
avoid disturbing the patient,

"Now you can bind up the broken bone at leisure. Only keep him quiet, 
and the hurt is nothing. I did not mean to offend you, doctor--I have 
a rough way with me. Treat the young man well, and he will soon 
recover."

With these words, he took up his hat, left the apartment, and was 
soon heard stepping from the porch down to the avenue through the 
lawn.

"An impudent, ignoramus, unconscionable, rascal, with no manners, and 
half mad!" growled the doctor, giving his indignation full swing.

"A wasp-mouthed, sharp-tongued, malicious savage!" exclaimed his 
friends; and even the matron, who had all the time bustled about, 
seemingly regardless of all conversation that was not specially 
directed towards herself, concluded the chorus, by muttering,

"And a man that never goes to meeting, I warrant me!"

"Let's have candles here, Aunt Rachel!" cried the doctor, indulging 
his importance, in all the joy of liberation from restraint. "It is 
as dark as--oh! here they come, eh? Hark! there's horses' feet in the 
park! They're coming back from the Rest.--Bless my soul! I forgot all 
about the murder and the assassin! Hope they don't bring him here, 
slashed all to pieces by the soldiers; work enough on hand for one 
surgeon.--Only a simple fracture, after all! Hold the splints here, 
Jingleum. Don't be distressed, sir; won't hurt you more than I can 
possibly help."

With these words, the surgeon proceeded to tie up the fractured limb, 
the painter having recovered so far as to be able to wince and groan 
to the heart's content of the practitioner. Before the operation was 
concluded, Captain Loring came puffing and blowing into the room, and 
being instantly assailed by the doctor's friends with anxious 
questions concerning the result of the late assault upon the 
Traveller's Rest, answered in his usual hurried and broken manner,--

"Bird flown, adzooks--beat retreat in time,--struck colours, crossed 
the river; young Brooks and a posse after him; will have him before 
morning,--we will, by the lord! But, adzooks, here's my young painter 
that's to paint me that picture. Hark ye, Harman What-d'-ye-call-it, 
my boy," he exclaimed, taking a seat on the bed-side, and speaking 
with rough hospitality; "glad to see your eyes open. Mean to treat 
you as well as if you were my son Tom. How do you feel now, hark ye, 
my lad? What the plague sent you tumbling down the rocks, hah? A 
mighty stupid trick, that, adzooks! How d'e do?"

The young man's wits were not yet clear enough to comprehend the 
question, or to digest a reply. He merely turned his eyes, with a 
wild and ghastly stare, upon the interrogator, and then rolled them 
vacantly from one individual of the company to another. He sighed 
heavily, and mumbled a little, as the doctor proceeded to secure the 
splints, but made no resistance.

"I don't like that stare," cried the Captain; "he looks as wild out 
of the eyes as a squeezed frog; and that's no good sign. I remember 
me, Tom Loring stared the same way, when the doctor was fishing for 
the bullet among his ribs. He'll never live to paint me that picture! 
He'll die, doctor, won't he?"

"Can't venture to say, Captain," replied Merribody; "a very critical 
situation, sir, a very critical situation. But I never despair, sir; 
for while there's life there's hope. My preceptor, the late 
celebrated Dr. Bones, of Bucks county, used to tell his patients, 'he 
never despaired till he heard the joiners screwing up the coffin.' A 
very good rule, that, sir! We'll hope, sir, we'll hope. Pulse very 
full and vigorous--will take a little more blood, and remain a few 
hours to watch him."

"Stay all night," said the Captain; "won't let you go, sir."

"As to staying all night, Captain," said the physician, with an air, 
"I can't say. Must look to my patients in the village----but will 
stay to tea with great pleasure. Jingleum, hold the basin!"

The practitioner removed the bandage from the vein he had before 
opened, and (the Captain, in the meanwhile, hobbling out to inquire 
into the condition of Catherine,) had soon the pleasure of seeing his 
patient recover his wits so far as to be able to answer questions, 
though he displayed a much greater inclination to ask them.

His first demand was, "What's the matter? what ails my head, and my 
arm? and who are you all here about me?--Oh! ay!" he continued, "I 
remember--that confounded brook! I vow to Heaven, I thought I saw a 
ghost, though 'twas broad daylight! Heavens! how my shoulder aches, 
and my arm, how it twinges! Are you a doctor? Where's Elsie?"

"Well, now, I warrant me, doctor," whispered Aunt Rachel, "he begins 
to wander."

"My dear sir," said the physician, "I must beg you to hold your 
tongue. Take this cooling draught, and go to sleep; and, for your 
comfort, know that you are now in much better quarters than you could 
have had at old witch Elsie's. You are now in Captain Loring's 
house."

"In Captain Loring's! What, Avondale? Gilbert's Folly," cried the 
painter, starting up.

"Be quiet, sir," cried Merribody. "Lie down, and keep yourself quiet; 
or I won't insure your life two hours."

"Nonsense, sir," cried the patient, petulantly. "I will dress, and 
get me to the Rest forthwith; and I warn you to take your hand from 
my shoulder; for, besides that, you hurt me insufferably, I don't 
choose to be treated like a prisoner of war, nor to be quartered on 
strangers."

"I warn you," cried the physician.----"There! was there ever such a 
dolt?--Hartshorn, Jingleum!"

The painter's resolution was greater than his ability. His struggle 
to arise upset the little strength he had remaining, and he fell back 
almost immediately in a swoon. When recovered again from this, he 
seemed sufficiently sensible of his impotent and helpless condition; 
but was still reluctant to remain where he was. He conjured the 
doctor to have him carried in a coach, an arm-chair, a cart,--in any 
thing,--but certainly to have him carried to the widow's hovel. Then, 
discovering the physician to be inflexible, he lowered his tone, 
consented to remain in the Captain's house, but implored so earnestly 
that he should send immediately for old Elsie to nurse him, that the 
doctor's heart was moved, and he condescended to argue the matter:

"Sir," said he, "I never saw a man with such ridiculous notions. Mrs. 
Rachel Jones here is the best nurse in the world. Old Elsie Bell is a 
witch and an ignoramus, and knows no more about nursing than she does 
about Greek; and she would poison you with some quack weed or 
another. I never trust these old women, that ramble about among the 
woods. And then, sir, what makes you think she will come to you? Why, 
sir, it is notorious, she never comes nigh the Folly; they say she 
swore an oath, when the Hawks were driven out, never to cross the 
threshold again, until they returned to it. Sir, a lady in this house 
has as much as admitted, that the old hag refused to come to it 
point-blank, a dozen times over. She won't come."

"Try her," murmured the patient, eagerly. "Say, I conjure her to come 
to me; tell her I am sick, dying, and will trust nobody's nursing but 
her's. And, hark'e, doctor, where's my waistcoat? There's a key 
there--it opens my saddle-bags----that's it! Send it to her; bid her 
fetch me some linen, and such things as she thinks I may want. My 
life upon it, the good old soul will come. Send it, doctor, and I'll 
take all your vile stuff without grumbling,--yes, all you have the 
conscience to give me. It is an awful thing to take physic!"

Having prevailed thus upon the physician to send his message and 
summons to the Rest, though no one perhaps save himself, expected to 
see it followed by the widow in person, he swallowed, with divers wry 
faces, the draught repeatedly offered to him before, groaned heavily 
once or twice, and then turning his face towards the wall, 
endeavoured to compose himself to sleep, while the physician and all 
his attendants, save the matron, Mrs. Jones, stole from the chamber.




CHAPTER X.

  The trout within yon wimplin burn
    Glides swift, a silver dart,
  And safe beneath the shady thorn,
    Defies the angler's art:
  My life was ance that careless stream,
    That wanton trout was I.
                                     BURNS.


To the surprise of every individual in the mansion, who had been made 
acquainted with the summons sent by the painter to his late hostess, 
it was answered in less than an hour by the appearance at the door of 
Elsie herself. She was followed by the little negro wench, bearing a 
bundle of linen and other apparel, and in a short time was inducted 
into the sick chamber, from which she contrived, before many hours, 
to expel dame Rachel, whom she had found listening very curiously to 
the sleeping murmurs of the sufferer, as well as all the officious 
auxiliaries. Indeed, she betrayed some inclination at first to be as 
free even with the physician, who had been easily prevailed upon to 
remain all night at the Folly, while his friends returned to the 
village; but the young man became so extremely ill in the course of 
the night, that she soon pretermitted her scruples, and was glad to 
receive the doctor's assistance in quelling the threatened 
brain-fever.

This remarkable repugnance of the old woman to divide with any one 
the labours of watching over the stranger's couch, excited no little 
surprise among the domestics, and seemed to them to attach a degree 
of mysterious importance to his character, which none had dreamed of 
attaching before. Long and anxiously, in consequence, did the good 
Aunt Rachel and her daughter Phoebe, in the dearth of all better 
occupation, apply their ears to the chamber door, and their eyes to 
the key-hole, in the hope that some murmur of the sick man, some 
whisper of his privileged attendants, or perhaps some movement in the 
room, might give a clew to the enigma, of the existence of which 
every circumstance now left them still more strongly convinced. Thus, 
they persuaded themselves that in the delirium, which all night long 
oppressed the painter's brain, he was betraying divers dreadful 
secrets, not at all to his interest to be generally known; and they 
demonstrated also to their entire satisfaction, that Elsie Bell, who 
had acquired by some witchcraft or other a complete knowledge of the 
young stranger's history, was imparting it to the physician, coupled 
with many injunctions on the one hand, and as many promises on the 
other, of honourable secrecy. Nay, they both affirmed, in after days, 
that they distinctly heard Dr. Merribody, in reply to some question 
or appeal of Elsie, say, with a manner highly characteristic of his 
dignified sense of honour, "The secrets of the sick room are as 
sacred as those of the confessional; and as for a doctor, Mrs. Bell, 
why you must know, we are all as mum as blacksnakes. A snake was the 
ancient symbol of physic, you know; because that's an animal which, 
if it don't _hold_ its tongue, never makes any great noise with it!" 
They observed, too, as they surveyed her through the key-hole, that 
Elsie's countenance was darkened and troubled in an unusual degree; 
and once, they thought, they saw her shedding tears. However, they 
heard and saw little except what inflamed their curiosity to an 
intolerable extent; and, in consequence, they came within an ace of 
being caught in the act of eavesdropping by the physician himself, 
who came suddenly out of the room to demand ice to apply to the 
patient's head. Luckily, however, the degree of trust reposed in him 
by the widow, as they supposed, had filled him with uncommon 
importance, so that he made no remark on discovering them so near at 
hand, except to express his pleasure; "for," said he, "I supposed you 
were all sound in bed, and that there would be the devil to pay to 
get any out-of-the-way thing that might be wanted."

"Lord love you, doctor," said Aunt Rachel, "why we're all keeping 
awake, just a-purpose to be ready and handy; and besides, the young 
gentleman makes an awful groaning and taking on; and besides, there's 
my young madam, Miss Katy, who can't sleep a wink, out of concern for 
the young man; and she told me to ask you, doctor, what you thought 
of the young man's case, and whether he'll die or no?"

To this the doctor answered, with a look of great wisdom, 'that every 
thing depended upon circumstances.'

"And besides, doctor," said Phoebe, emboldened by the gracious reply 
vouchsafed to her mother, "she is mighty curious to know what all 
these things is, the young gentleman is talking about?"

"Sorry it is not consistent with the honour of the profession to 
gratify Miss Loring in that particular," replied the physician, with 
extreme gravity. "Must have ice, Mrs. Jones. Mighty fortunate I was 
able to remain all night! You must bring me ice, Mrs. Jones; and you 
must just scratch on the door, to give me warning; and then you must 
keep all quiet, and let none approach the room, unless summoned by 
myself. And if you can venture to disturb the Captain, and tell him 
to turn over on his side, (the _right_ side, mind you,) he won't 
snore so hard. Very prejudicial, to sleep on the back, I assure you! 
It sets the liver tumbling over the lungs, and so half smothers one. 
But let me have the ice, d'ye hear; and keep all things quiet in the 
house."

Notwithstanding the skill, and (what was perhaps a less questionable 
virtue,) the zeal of Dr. Merribody, and the faithful vigilance of 
poor Elsie, the patient continued to grow worse, and was indeed, 
towards morning, in an alarming situation, and so remained during the 
greater part of the two following days, not a little to the surprise 
of the physician, who phlebotomized him with extreme liberality, 
expecting on each occasion to give the _coup-de-grâce_ to the 
disease. The truth is, the doctor, from having witnessed its efficacy 
at first, had grown enamoured of the remedy, and now applied it, we 
will not say without judgment, but entirely without mercy; and had 
not Elsie at last rebelled against his blood-thirsty humour, and 
resolutely resisted all further encouragement of it, there is no 
saying where the matter might have ended, unless in the grave. 
However, as the patient possessed a youthful and vigorous 
constitution, capable of withstanding disease and his tyrant 
together, he was at no time in absolute peril of death; and being 
left a little to himself, he began at last to mend, and in the course 
of the fourth day was, to the infinite satisfaction of Captain Loring 
and his fair daughter, pronounced entirely out of danger. His 
convalescence was rapid, and would perhaps have been still more so, 
had it not been for the pains his hospitable host took to expedite 
it; for Captain Loring beset his bed-side from the first appearance 
of a favourable symptom, mingling many joyous congratulations with a 
thousand exhortations and instructions in relation to 'that grand 
picture of the battle of Brandywine, and Tom Loring dying!'

From Captain Loring he also learned some of the particulars of those 
bustling events, which had taken place during the evening of his 
insensibility. He was much struck with the strange transformation of 
the sanctimonious Nehemiah Poke into no less a personage than the 
refugee and assassin, Oran Gilbert, and was very curious to hear the 
particulars of his escape. They were told in a moment: the pursuers, 
headed by Lieutenant Brooks, (young Falconer having proceeded on his 
journey with his sister, and the Captain, much the worse for his 
gallop, having been forced to return to the Hall,) had followed 
across the river, and continued the search until nightfall rendered 
it useless to prolong it. They had, at one time, been close upon the 
fugitive's heels, having lighted upon a pedler, (not, however, Mr. 
John Green, the Indian trader, who was safely lodged at the time in 
the wounded man's chamber,) to whom the pretended preacher had sold 
his old gray horse, or exchanged it for a better; and from this man 
they obtained instructions, which put them in good hopes for awhile 
of coming up with him. Night, however, fell upon them, and the 
Lieutenant returned to the right bank of the river, to rejoin his 
friend and Miss Falconer, committing the whole charge of the pursuit 
to his volunteers, from whom the fugitive escaped, having baffled 
them completely. As for Mr. Green himself, he left the little inn 
betimes on the morning after the accident, and was seen no more.

In regard to the outrage upon Colonel Falconer, Herman was informed 
that it had been committed in a mode especially daring and audacious. 
He was entertaining certain gay and distinguished guests at his villa 
on the Schuylkill, and had stepped for a moment, in search of certain 
papers, to a little pavilion, which he had caused to be fitted up as 
a study, not sixty paces from the house, where he was presently found 
weltering in his blood by the guests, whom his sudden shrieks had 
drawn to the place. The assassin had already vanished, having added 
robbery, as Captain Loring averred, to murder. The sufferer had, 
however, recognised his well-known visage, and in the course of the 
following day some traces of him were discovered. It was found, at 
least, that a man answering the description had stolen a horse from a 
neighbouring farmer; and upon this horse, or one very like him, Mr. 
Nehemiah Poke, the parson, had been seen wending his way up the 
Delaware; and as no one knew or had ever before heard of this 
reverend gentleman, it was at once supposed that the assassin had 
assumed the character as a disguise. Before this second discovery had 
been made, a courier, whom the Captain stumbled upon in the village, 
was despatched to Hawk-Hollow, to recall Miss Falconer to the city. 
His intelligence therefore, though it caused the Captain to arrest 
the true offender, was not sufficient to legalize the capture, 
especially when this was opposed so strongly by the zealous 
exhortations of Nehemiah, and the discreet remonstrances of the 
painter. When Captain Loring remembered the agency of Hunter in 
robbing him of his prey, he burst into a towering passion, and 
reproached and railed at him with as little ceremony as he would have 
done with his own son, or near kinsman. It was in vain that Herman 
pointed out the improbability of a wild hunter of the hills, like 
Oran Gilbert, being able to assume the character of a ranting 
preacher, and preserve it so well, and endeavoured to convince him, 
that, if Nehemiah were really not the assassin, he must be some other 
and some secret enemy. The Captain swore that Colonel Falconer had no 
other enemy in the world, and therefore, of course, Nehemiah, the 
parson, must be the identical Oran of the Hollow. This opinion he 
maintained with such fury, that the painter, if indeed he had no 
stronger reason for holding his tongue, did not choose to meet it 
with an argument derived from his own previous acquaintance with 
Nehemiah. He suffered the Captain to have his own way, and believe 
what he liked; and, in consequence, the Captain soon dropped the 
subject altogether, to take up another that now occupied his brain, 
almost to the exclusion of every other. This was the picture of the 
battle of Brandywine, and Tom Loring dying, the consideration of 
which, and of the painter's ability to execute it to his liking, was 
the main cause of the extraordinary affection he conceived for the 
youth.

Another piece of information, which the young man obtained from the 
Captain, was an account of the agency of Miss Loring in his 
deliverance from the brook, and perhaps from death. He had turned 
upon her a despairing eye, at the moment when, as he was pitching 
over the fall, she had cast out the end of the shawl to him; but of 
this circumstance he had retained not the slightest recollection, and 
indeed, it is more than probable that his faculties were at that 
moment in a state of torpor. Not content with this deed of daring 
humanity (for if he had clutched upon the mantle, the chances were 
that she would have been jerked into the torrent after him,) she had 
plunged among the boiling eddies below, and thus preserved him from a 
second and perhaps greater peril, and all the time with imminent risk 
to herself. His emotions upon making this discovery, mingled surprise 
and admiration with the gentler sentiment of gratitude.

"Is it possible," he cried, "that a young lady should have such 
spirit, such presence of mind, such courage?"

"Adzooks!" said the Captain, setting the matter to rest at once, 
"isn't she _my_ daughter? By the lord, sir, when my son Tom was but a 
boy of ten years, he could trounce all the boys of the Brandywine of 
his own age, and two years older."

"So heroic!" ejaculated the painter; "instead of committing me to my 
destiny, with a pathetic scream, to run at once to my assistance, 
like an angel, rather than a woman!"

"Adzooks," cried Captain Loring, "it was no such thing, when I 
carried Tom Loring home; for then she fell to weeping and bewailing; 
and hark ye, Herman, my boy, that's the way you must paint her."

"So noble! so benevolent! so humane!" continued Hunter. "Noble 
impulses are only produced in noble spirits.--And I really, then, owe 
my escape, perhaps my life, to the humanity of this young lady, to 
whom I was but a stranger!--Captain, it was the noblest act in the 
world!"

"Adzooks," cried the Captain, "do you think so? Why then, by the 
lord, we'll paint that too! And, now I think of it, 'twill make a 
most excellent picture! Why, yes,--what a fool I was, not to think of 
it before! 'Twas very brave of her, and it shall be painted: You 
shall stick yourself at the bottom of the brook, and my Kate Loring 
fishing you out, with Harriet and me on the top of the rock; and as 
for that rusty fellow, the pedler, why you may leave him out."

"I am very curious about that man," said Hunter; "but 'tis no 
matter."

Then he fell to musing, and in spite of the noisy rapture with which 
the Captain danced about his bed, filled with the new conception of 
immortalizing paint,--of a picture which was to perpetuate the 
heroism of his daughter as effectually as the other was to record the 
glorious death of his son,--the painter indulged his meditations for 
a considerable time. The result was, first, a perfect conviction that 
the sooner he made a due acknowledgment of his gratitude the better; 
and, secondly, that he felt himself strong and well enough to 
undertake a duty so pleasing, without further delay. In this opinion 
Captain Loring coincided with great satisfaction; and neither the 
physician nor his nurse being at hand to restrain him, (for so soon 
as he recovered his wits, and began to amend, they deserted his 
bed-side, returning only at stated periods,) he got up and dressed 
himself as well as he could, the Captain having in the meanwhile, 
descended, to apprize his daughter of the meditated visit. It was 
indeed lucky that the Captain did so; for after the young man had 
risen, and caught a view of himself in a mirror, his resolution 
melted away like wax in the fire.

"Heavens!" said he, "how villanous I look! Such lobster eyes, and 
such lantern-like jaws! That confounded doctor has bled me like a 
Turk: I wonder he did not make a Turk of me in earnest, and leave me 
with a poll as naked as a peeled yam. Truly I am now the _Caballero 
de la Triste Figura_, Don Quixotte in good earnest, as far as looks 
go; and truly I had better get me to bed again, and wait a month or 
two, before showing myself to any handsome young lady."

His objections, however, to descend were overruled by the Captain, 
and having been announced at his own instance, and the young lady 
having expressed great satisfaction at the happy change in his 
condition, as indicated by a renovation of strength so unexpected, he 
was even forced to do as he proposed, and suffer himself to be 
conducted into her presence.

Miss Loring was evidently surprised and shocked by the change in his 
appearance, which was still odiously visible, notwithstanding the 
great pains he had been at to arrange his battered person to 
advantage. The hair, massed over his forehead, to hide an envious 
patch, added but little ornament to his bloodless visage; nor did the 
splint on his right arm, the riband-ties of his sleeve which could 
not wholly conceal it, and the black silk sling that supported the 
arm on his breast, impart any peculiar elegance to a person of 
ghostly tenuity. However, the surprise of the young lady, though 
confirmatory of his own assurances in relation to his unprepossessing 
looks, served the good purpose of drawing what blood was left in his 
body into his cheeks, and thus, for an instant, removed one item of 
deformity.

The little confusion into which he was thrown by this inauspicious 
reception, was luckily driven to flight by the boisterous and 
triumphant introduction immediately commenced by Captain Loring.

"Look ye, Catherine, my girl," he cried; "here's my young Herman 
Hunter, the painter, that you fished so finely out of the water; and, 
adzooks, he says, he'll paint the action for you, as well as your 
brother Tom on the Brandywine, and General George Washington on the 
fatal field of Braddock! You see how quick we are curing him--begin 
to have quite an opinion of that fellow, Merribody!--As soon as we 
get his arm out of the stocks here, he's to begin. Don't intend to 
let him go back to Elsie's; but Elsie's a good nurse,--will say that 
for her. Have somebody to talk to, now! Will have cousin Harriet back 
as soon as possible. So be civil to my young Herman 
What-d'ye-call-it.--Think he looks very much like my poor Tom!"

With such characteristic expressions, the ancient soldier dispelled 
the young man's embarrassment; and Herman now turning his eyes upon 
the maiden with a disposition to be pleased, he found, in her 
countenance, so much to admire of beauty both physical and spiritual, 
that his approbation added a double emphasis to his expressions. 
Indeed he spoke of her act of heroism, and his own gratitude, with a 
warmth and energy of feeling that, to her own surprise, nearly 
startled the tears into her eyes, while they filled the Captain with 
a new sense of his daughter's merits.

"Adzooks!" he cried, in a rapture, "he tells the truth, and he speaks 
like an honest fellow! 'Twas the noblest deed in all the world, and 
't shall be painted."

Anxious perhaps to escape the praises of her father, which, as he had 
a whimsical docility of temper, might be obtained at any 
moment,--rather than to avoid those of the guest, which struck her as 
being unusually agreeable, Miss Loring hastened to protest against 
all panegyrics, by referring to the more efficient aid rendered by 
the trader; and then, with an attempt at pleasantry, to lead the 
conversation still further from herself, she required to know 'to 
what mysterious cause of alarm on Mr. Hunter's part she owed the 
happy opportunity she had enjoyed of playing the heroine?'

"You will be astonished, Miss Loring," he replied: "but you were 
positively the cause yourself."

"I?" said she. "Ah! I understand," she continued, with a smile of 
infinite mirth--"you were thinking of the assault made by the two 
dragoons upon poor Elsie's habitation, which we were so near taking 
by storm; and you looked for nothing less than a repetition of the 
charge, while you were at a disadvantage on the narrow bridge!"

"By no means," said Herman, sharing somewhat of her animation, and 
smiling--"I really took you for a spectre; and being of a 
superstitious turn"----

"A spectre!" cried Captain Loring; "does my Catherine look like a 
ghost?"

And "A spectre!" re-echoed Miss Loring, though with a more serious 
emphasis.

"I had heard," said the young man, "that there was a grave beyond the 
falls"----

"Adzooks!" exclaimed Captain Loring, "I never heard of it.--Who's 
buried there? One of the Hawks, hah? By the lord, I'll root him 
up--have no such villain's bones lying about the place"----

"Father," said Catherine, "it is a woman's grave."--Which answer 
instantly checked the veteran's rising indignation, and some little 
disgust with which Hunter heard him threaten the lowly sepulchre with 
violation.

"In truth," resumed the painter, "my mind was affected by the solemn 
scenery that conducted me to the burial-place; and when I had reached 
the bridge, and, lifting up my eyes, beheld a figure rising, as it 
seemed out of the earth, and to all appearance commanding me, by 
menacing gestures (for such, Miss Loring, was your appearance,) to 
retire, you may judge how much my imagination was excited. I assure 
you, such was the hallucination of my mind, that I beheld, even in 
_your_ countenance, the pallid hues of death, with tears, too, 
dropping from your eyes, and such an expression of mingled sorrow and 
displeasure, as I thought could exist only on the visage of a 
disembodied spirit. In the sudden alarm produced by such an 
impression, I forgot entirely where I was, and so stepped off the 
narrow bridge into that malicious torrent, and thereby, as I may also 
add, fell under the obligation of owing you a life--an obligation, 
which, I assure you, is of so agreeable a nature, that"----

"If you say so," cried Catherine, perceiving that her father was 
preparing for another burst, and interrupting the speaker with a 
smile, "I shall undoubtedly expect you to give occasion for some 
second display of my heroism, by leaping into the brook again, as 
soon as you have recovered your strength. You have indeed lowered my 
own vain estimate of the obligation conferred, by showing how much I 
was the cause of your misfortune; and I now perceive, that I shall 
not have entirely atoned for my fault, until you are wholly restored 
to health. Allow me therefore to work out my pardon, by assuming the 
character of a mentor and governess.--You are yet unfit for the toils 
of a courtier, and the exertions of the visit have already exhausted 
your strength. I must command you back to your chamber, to rest and 
recruit your spirits; and to-morrow, if Dr. Merribody consents to 
such unusual grace, I will perhaps permit you to enjoy another 
half-hour of liberty.--You must obey me, Mr. Hunter; my father is a 
soldier; and, in his house, you are under martial law."

The painter would willingly have disputed the orders of the 
'Lieutenant-commandant,' (for such Captain Loring, transported with 
her military spirit, immediately pronounced his daughter to be,) but 
Miss Loring spoke as if she had assumed the command in earnest; and 
Hunter admired how so much firmness could be expressed with so much 
pleasantry, and how both these qualities could be mingled in the same 
spirit with the maidenly gentleness becoming her youthful age. But, 
indeed, the young lady had found it convenient to put on both the 
former appearances, to terminate an interview irksome to herself, and 
perhaps prejudicial to the convalescent; for no sooner had he taken 
his leave, and her father with him, than she immediately walked into 
the garden, the supervision of which was the chief delight, and 
indeed passion, of her existence, and, sitting down under an arbour 
of honey-suckle and trumpet-flowers, indulged herself in a long fit 
of weeping.




CHAPTER XI.

                              Ladies' honours
  Were ever, in my thoughts, unspotted ermines;
  Their good deeds holy temples, where the incense
  Burns not to common eyes. Your fears are virtuous,
  And so I shall preserve them.
                             BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.


The happy constitution which had empowered the young artist to 
contend successfully with fever and phlebotomy, soon enabled him to 
exchange his quarters under the Captain's roof for those he had 
occupied so short a time in the cottage of Elsie. This was a change 
he made with no little reluctance; for, independent of the superior 
comfort of Gilbert's Folly, there was a charm in the society of the 
Captain's daughter, which, with all the drawback resulting from the 
addition of the Captain's company, was not to be replaced by the 
attractions of the melancholy widow. Nevertheless, a consciousness 
that his presence at the mansion, however welcome to its inmates, 
was, at best, an intrusion, soon forced itself upon his mind; he felt 
that it was highly improper to take advantage of the affection of a 
whimsical old man, and the kindness of a solitary and almost 
unprotected girl; and accordingly he revealed the determination he 
had made to leave them, upon the third visit he made Miss Loring. His 
resolution was however combated with such violent hostility on the 
part of the veteran, who commonly devoted three-fourths of his time 
to expatiating upon the subjects of the three great pictures, and 
with such agreeable dissuasives on that of the lady, that his 
resolves easily melted away, and his sojourn was prolonged for a week 
or more beyond the period of his first visit. At last, however, he 
grew ashamed of his effeminate abandonment to an enjoyment which he 
had no right to consider his own; and one morning, having surveyed 
himself in the glass, and discovered with peculiar satisfaction, that 
his cheek-bones were burying themselves in their former 
insignificance, and that his eyes were twinkling again with their 
natural sunshine, he took the sudden resolution of retreating to the 
Traveller's Rest that day; and this design, maugre all the furious 
opposition of the Captain, he was strengthened to put into immediate 
execution, by the frankly-expressed consent of his fair governor.

"Yes, I will go," he soliloquized, in his chamber, to which he had 
ascended for the purpose of collecting his scattered moveables; "it 
is plain enough, the girl is vastly delighted to get rid of me. 'You 
are now well enough to be released from captivity.' These were her 
very words; and she smiled as she uttered them, as if my discharge 
were a deliverance to herself!--Well,--and why should it not be?" he 
muttered, after a pause; "Why should my presence be a pleasure to 
her? and why should my departure afflict her? and why should I care 
whether she be pleased or not? A girl engaged,--betrothed,--and 
betrothed to a Falconer! Tush, I am a fool. I was a fool to come 
hither, too. The devil take the wars, and the king's commission into 
the bargain. I will leave the place--I would my arm were but sound, 
and I would leave it to-morrow,--ay, I vow I would!

  'Oh, the bonny bright island.'--

I wonder she don't sing: for a speaking voice, she has the richest 
_soprano_,--a _mezzo-soprano_, I think,--I ever heard; it is a 
positive music, mellow, rich, and wild, like the hum of a pebble in 
the air, darted out of a sling--a most delicious, wondrous,
incomprehensible voice. And then her eyes----Death! what care I for 
her eyes?

  'Oh, the bonny bright island'--

Pshaw! I would I were home again.--Home? _home!_" he muttered, with 
long pauses betwixt each interjection, and nodding his head the 
while, as if surprised at his own reflections. Then, as if these 
silent comets of the brain had returned to the orbit in which they 
had so lately vapoured, he resumed,--"At all events, old Elsie's is 
not far off; and in common civility I must call and see her two or 
three times.----And, besides, I don't see how I can get off without 
painting the Captain 'that grand picture of the battle of Brandywine, 
and Tom Loring dying.' What an absurd old fellow!--A precious picture 
I should make of it! Yet I must do something to requite their 
kindness.--Kindness! There's no doubt she saved my life. The Captain 
swears, nothing living that gets into the deep eddy under the fall, 
can get out living. His cow lay under there three days. To think I 
was so near my head-and-foot-stone! and to think this girl, this 
Catherine Loring, saved me from the destiny of a crumpled-horn! The 
most remarkable, fascinating.----Ah! the island's the place for me, 
after all.

  'Oh, the island! the bonny bright island!'

Well, now she's in the garden among the flowers, and the Captain's 
taking his siesta. A little medicine, with some of its concomitant 
starvation, is quite a good thing for the voice."

During all the time of this soliloquy, the young man had ever and 
anon, sometimes insensibly to himself, been humming the _refrain_ of 
a familiar air; until at last, being seduced by the sound of his own 
voice, and betrayed into a mood of melody by his reflections, he 
gradually fell to humming with more confidence; and, finally, 
supposing no one to be nigh, he even began to sing, though in a low 
voice, the following idle stanzas, that had been all the time 
jingling through his brain.

I.

  Oh the island! the bonny bright island!
    Ah! would I were on it again,
  Looking out from the wood-cover'd highland,
    To the blue surge that rolls from the main.
  How sweet on the white beach to wander,
    When the moon shows her face on the sea,
  And an eye that is brighter and fonder,
    Looks o'er her bright pathway with me!

II.

  Oh the island! the bonny bright island!
    Never more shall I see it again,
  Never look from the wood-covered highland,
    To the blue surge that rolls from the main.
  Never more shall I walk with the maiden,
    On the beach I remember so well:
  Farewell to my hope's vanished Eden--
    Oh my bonny bright island, farewell!

"Pshaw,--nonsense!" he went on, pursuing his reflections; "'the 
island, the bonny bright island,' is a very fine thing, but what do I 
care about it? I wonder if Elsie spoke the truth about the match? If 
I thought the girl's heart were not in it.--Pshaw again! She is the 
merriest-hearted creature I ever saw,--only of quick feelings, and 
strangely attached to the memory of her brother: her eyes always fill 
when the Captain talks of him--the very name makes the tears start; 
and good heaven! how superb her eyes look, with tears in them! But 
then the Captain is poor, and she knows it,--bent upon the match, and 
she knows that, too; and young Falconer is a soldier, and a handsome 
fellow, and she knows that, too. And he was here! I wish I had seen 
him. He has wealth, too--so have _I_; he is gay and handsome--I am 
neither sour nor ugly.--'Sdeath! where am I getting? I will find out, 
at least, what are her feelings towards him: if her heart be not in 
the match, why then.----Could any man stand by and see such a saint 
of heaven bartered away, sacrificed--sold to tears and captivity?"

Here he fell to musing again, and again his spirits seeking that vent 
to melancholy, he began to hum an air, extremely mournful, the words 
of which were in unison with his reflections.

I.

  Darkly the wretch that in prison is pining,
    Turns to the dim, dismal grating his eye;
  Darkly he looks on the day-star that's shining,
    The far-soaring eagles that float in the sky.
      In the pale cheek, so furrow'd and wet,
        The story of anguish is spoken;
      The sun of his hope it is set,
        The wing of his spirit is broken.
  Darkly the wretch, &c.

II.

  Heart! in thy dreary captivity heaving,
    The fate of the poor, hopeless pris'ner is thine--
  To look through a grate at the world thou art leaving,
    And slowly the long silent sorrow resign.
      But the vial is emptied at last,
        The bolts have been shot from the quiver,
      And the future has buried the past,
        With the tears of the captive, for ever.
  Heart! in thy dreary, &c.

Having despatched this second madrigal and his preparations together, 
he descended into the little apartment in which Miss Loring was wont 
to while away the time in reading, or plying her needle,--which 
latter employment she often followed in company with the girl Phoebe 
and the matron. On these occasions there commonly prevailed a proper 
degree of female noise and chatter; for which reason such 
convocations were strictly forbidden during that portion of the 
afternoon which Captain Loring devoted to napping--not indeed because 
any sound short of the blast of a trumpet or the roar of a musket, 
could disturb his slumbers, but because his brain was of too 
excitable a nature to sink into repose, so long as a single vocal 
murmur came to his ear. Herman had chosen this period to take his 
departure, for the sake of avoiding any altercation with his violent 
host; and he now stepped into the parlour, which opened into the 
garden, where he expected to find the Captain's daughter. However, he 
had no sooner entered the apartment, than he saw her therein, sitting 
by herself, plying her needle with unwonted industry, and her eyes 
filled with tears.

"Good heavens! Miss Loring," said he, "I hope nothing has happened?"

"By no means," she replied, displaying her countenance frankly, with 
a smile, and then proceeding, without any embarrassment, to wipe her 
eyes. "You must know, in the first place, that I come of a tearful 
tribe, a very lachrymose stock, and shed tears very often for no 
comprehensible purpose, except to pass the time; and in the second 
place, I have been paying the auditor's tribute, and rewarding your 
music with the utmost stretch of sentimentality,--that is to say, by 
crying. I wonder where you could light upon such melancholy tunes? 
But I like the last song extremely: that release from 
captivity,--that ending of

  'The tears of the captive for ever,'--

I should suppose you would have sung that line to the gay whistle of 
a blackbird!"

"I assure you, Miss Loring," said the painter, "my deliverance comes 
to me with no such spirit of rejoicing. I am ashamed you overheard 
me--I thought you were in the garden; I would not have otherwise 
presumed to hum so loud."

"Oh, I like your singing, I protest; and if you remain long enough in 
the valley, I shall claim a future exertion of the faculty, perhaps 
even a serenade. But beware of my father; if _he_ discovers this new 
virtue in you, rest assured, you will have to sing him Yankee Doodle 
and God Save Great Washington, all day long; and this too," she added 
with a mirthful smile, "without any hope of escaping from 'that grand 
picture of the Battle of Brandywine and--and Tom Loring dying.'--Ah, 
Mr. Hunter," she said, apologetically, for her eyes again glistened, 
and her lip quivered, as she pronounced the familiar name, "you have 
perhaps laughed at my father, perhaps you will laugh at me, when you 
behold our usual insanity on the subject of my brother. But he was 
one whom it was not easy to forget,--one long to be remembered by 
both sire and sister.--But I see you are displaying your generalship; 
you intend to beat a retreat, while the enemy is sleeping. Perhaps 
you are wise. Richard will have the carriage ready in a few moments."

"Not so, Miss Loring: I will depart on foot, like a pilgrim, as will 
be best. An unlucky jolt in the carriage over a stone, might bring me 
under the tender mercies of the doctor again." And he touched his 
wounded arm significantly.

"You are right," said Catherine, after a pause. "The distance is 
short; Richard shall escort you, for fear of accident; and Phoebe and 
myself will add to your retinue as far as the park-gate. Do you 
really consider yourself equal to the walk?"

"I do," replied the young man; "but pray be not in such a hurry to 
discharge me. In a very few days,--perhaps as soon as I am able to 
resume the saddle, I must take up my line of march, (to borrow your 
military illustration;) from Hawk-Hollow, with but little 
expectation,--that is, I think so,--of ever seeing it again."

"Must you, indeed? I thought you were to explore every cliff and 
brook in the county. However, I cannot blame you. I am afraid my 
father's strange conversation about 'those grand pictures,' must 
annoy you; and you are right to escape."

"On the contrary, Miss Loring," said the painter, "I am sincerely 
desirous to gratify him in that fancy; and, though sorely convinced 
of my inability to paint him any picture worthy acceptance, yet, were 
my arm well, I should do my best to paint him something; and if I had 
but a portrait or miniature of your deceased brother for a few hours, 
to secure a likeness"----

"You must not think of it seriously, Mr. Hunter. It is but a 
whimsical fancy, which my father will soon forget. There is no 
portrait of my brother; he was but a boy of eighteen, and his 
likeness was never painted. Indeed, I wish it had been, for my 
father's sake."

"Perhaps I can yet gratify him," said the painter. "I owe you a deep 
debt of gratitude--I have some skill in taking likenesses, and 
sometimes obtain them, even with but little aid of the sitter. The 
Captain has averred that you yourself bear an extraordinary 
resemblance to your brother----Perhaps, perhaps, Miss Loring, if you 
were to honour me so far--that is to say"----

"Ah!" cried Catherine, with sparkling eyes, "I see! Do you think it 
possible? I am indeed like my poor brother, if I can trust my own 
recollections. Do you think it practicable, from _my_ visage, to 
construct a likeness of my brother's? Then, indeed, I would sit to 
you, and gladly!"

"With such a resemblance to begin upon," said Herman, greatly pleased 
with the satisfaction of the young lady, "and the help of your 
recollections and criticisms, I do not doubt of success; and then the 
pleasure of presenting such a portrait!"----

"Of _presenting_, Mr. Hunter!" cried Catherine; "we cannot permit you 
to think of that. We will not convert your gratitude for a slight 
hospitality into an excuse for taxing your professional exertions."

"Professional, madam?" said the other, with some little petulance; "I 
hope you will not consider me a mercenary, hireling dauber?"

"A dauber, we hope not,--mercenary, assuredly not;--and hireling is a 
word not to be applied to one who receives payment for any generous 
labour," said Catherine. "If you insist upon painting 'the grand 
picture' for nothing, Mr. Hunter, you will certainly escape from all 
trouble in relation to it. Not even my father would think a moment of 
imposing such an unrecompensed task upon you, or such dishonour upon 
himself."

"You mortify me, Miss Loring," said Herman: "I can scarce call myself 
a painter by any thing more than inclination. If I have adopted the 
profession, it is not to make my bread by it; and indeed I can scarce 
say, I have adopted it at all.--That is," he added, in some 
confusion, for Catherine regarded him with a look of surprise--"In 
short, Miss Loring, it has been my good fortune to be put above the 
actual necessity of adopting this profession, or any other, for my 
support. I paint, because I love the art, and have nothing better to 
do; it suits my idle habits. I never have received a recompense for 
my labour, (you should have called it my amusement, for such it is,) 
and perhaps I never will;--not that I scorn recompense as being 
degrading, but because I need it not. The pleasure I feel in the 
labour is my reward; and I am doubly rewarded, when my poor sketches 
afford pleasure to those whose good opinion I covet. You have thrown 
me under obligation, Miss Loring; and I claim of your generosity, or 
if that word will not be permitted, of your justice, an opportunity 
to oblige in return."

"Your argument is singular, yet almost conclusive," said Catherine, 
with a pleasant accent, yet with a more distant air. "And so you are 
no poor painter--a wandering son of genius--after all; but a knight 
of romance, roaming the world over, with palette for buckler, and 
brush and maul-stick in lieu of lance and sword? Really, you have 
lost much by the transformation: it was a great pleasure to me, to 
think I could patronise you--encourage an unfriended genius. But 
now--ah! my folly offends you! I beg your pardon; I will trifle no 
more."

"I am not offended, Miss Loring," said the youth, who had coloured 
deeply while she spoke; "but I _did_ think your tone satirical, and 
indicative of a suspicion that I was not what I profess myself to be. 
Suffer me then to be a poor painter, as I really am; though not a man 
in very restricted pecuniary circumstances. I confess, that I was 
presumptuous, to think you--that is, your father,--would accept any 
gift at my hands; yet the persuasion that I had it in my power to 
give you--that is, _him_, a particular gratification, emboldened me 
to think I might presume to attempt what I thought a mere simple, 
allowable compliment."

"Pray, Mr. Hunter," said Catherine, "say nothing more about it. I 
believe you are right, and I wrong. We act here"--and here she smiled 
as merrily as before--"entirely upon impulses and instincts; and if 
impulses and instincts be conformable, as doubtless, some day, they 
will, we will accept the picture as freely as it is offered. But I 
see you are impatient to go;"--this was a discovery authorized by no 
particular symptom of dissatisfaction on the part of the painter, 
who, on the contrary, seemed well pleased to continue the 
tête-à-tête;--"you are impatient to go, and here comes 
Phoebe.--Phoebe, my dear, have the goodness to call Richard, to 
attend Mr. Hunter to Mrs. Bell's.--I am glad to see you walk so 
firmly, and look so well.--I will positively be your escort to the 
gate. It becomes me in my function of Lieutenant-commandant; and I 
will dismiss you with all the honours of war."

Thus speaking, and whiling away the walk with light and joyous 
conversation, Miss Loring conducted the guest to the park gate; where 
her eye suddenly caught sight of a little bush, of no great beauty of 
appearance, but exhaling an agreeable odour. This she instantly began 
to rob of its branches, expressing pleasure at the discovery.

"It is sweet-fern," she said, in answer to the painter's question, 
"not very rare, to be sure, but the first specimen that has come into 
the paddock of its own accord; all the rest I planted myself. Now, 
sir, this is neither myrtle nor sweet-grass; but it is good to smell 
at; and in token that my extreme hurry to drive you out of my 
father's house proceeded from no ill will, but from true benevolence, 
and as much friendship as one can feel at a week's notice, I present 
you this same odoriferous plant, and advise you to make a medicine of 
it. It is said to be a fine tonic and cordial; and, I warrant me, 
Elsie will know all about it."

"I shall apply it to a better use," said the painter, gaily. "You 
know, it is fern-seed which enables man to walk invisible.--Now, as a 
knight of romance, I may have need of such a magical auxiliary."

"Oh, if you laugh at me for that," said Catherine, "I see there is 
peace between us."

"You could have added but one more injunction," said Herman, "to make 
the gift agreeable. Had you told me to follow its example--you know 
it came into the paddock of its own accord!--I should have"----

"Thought me immensely witty," said Catherine. "Certainly, Mr. Hunter, 
I will expect you to call upon my father if you remain in the valley; 
and certainly, if he do not fetch you to the Folly to-morrow, I shall 
be vastly astonished. But pray, sir," she added, observing that the 
gentleman looked mortified, and abashed, "do not consider such an 
invitation necessary. A visiter at Gilbert's Folly is too much of a 
Phoenix--a _rara avis_, I think you scholars call it,--to be turned 
lightly away. I wish you, sincerely, a happy and speedy 
recovery.--Good day, sir--I commit you to Richard's keeping."

With these words she turned from the gate, plucked another branch 
from the fern-bush, and then, with Phoebe, pursued her way back to 
the house. The painter received her valediction with much less 
satisfaction than had been produced by the fragrant present. He saw 
her return to the bush, and then, looking once back, and waving her 
hand, resume her steps, walking on towards the mansion; and he was 
himself astonished at the feeling of melancholy that instantly came 
over his spirit. "What is there in her," he muttered within the 
recesses of his bosom, "that should interest me so strongly? Why 
should I be gladdened by the wave of her hand? why darkened at once 
by the turning away of her face?--She _is_ unhappy after all, 
whatever skill she may have to conceal it; and, by heaven, it is a 
piteous thing to ponder on. Well, well.--Such an admirable creature! 
so gentle, and yet so firm! so frank, yet so modest! so merry, yet so 
dignified! so natural in manners, yet so refined! so sensitive, yet 
sensible! so kind,--nay,--openly affectionate of disposition, yet so 
womanly in all!--sure I shall never more see her equal!"

Thus the young man mused, remaining so long with his eyes following 
the retreating figure of the young lady, that Richard, the venerable 
coachman so often mentioned before, thought fit to presume upon the 
arguments of his age and standing, as a faithful and highly-prized 
servant, and interrupt the meditations of his charge. He first 
scraped his feet over the gravelly road, then coughed, then hemmed, 
and at last opened his lips, and spoke:

"A-well-a, massa Hunta," he said, "werry bad practice this here, 
'sposing broken bones in the open air, 'specially when a gemman are 
sickish-like. No offence, massa,--but why we no go down to Missus 
Elsie's?"

"Right, Richard, let us go," said Hunter, walking down the hill, but 
ever and anon casting his eye over his shoulder, as long as Miss 
Loring was visible, or a single flutter of her garment could be 
detected among the green shades of the avenue. "How long have you 
lived with Captain Loring, Richard?"

"Ebber since he wa' born.--Wa' a mighty fine boy, Massa John Loring!"

"Oh, then you were in the family long before Miss Catherine was 
born?"

"Lorra-golly, yes!" said the negro, with a triumphant grin; "Massa no 
s'pose young missus born afo' her fader: Lorra-massy, yaugh!"

"An excellent, lovely young mistress!" said the painter.

"Lorra, massa, yes; a lubly young missus; and makes lubly fine 
hoe-cake, if massa Cap'n would let her.--Old Nance taught her, when 
she wa' no bigga naw my foot. Massa must know, old Nance wa' _my_ 
wife Nancy. So't o' nuss'd young missus Katy, for all what missus 
Aunt Rachel say; always liked old Nance betta, 'case how? Why old 
Nance larned her all she knew, make hoe-cake, corn-cake, johnny-cake, 
short-cake, hominy, pie, pone, and cream-cheese."

"Well Richard, and so you are to marry her off, and see her no more?"

"Golly, massa, yes; what for she young lady, if no?"

"And when's the wedding to be, Richard? Merry times you'll have!"

"Lorra, massa, don't know. Some says one day, some anoder. Wa' to 
been married soon, but faw the white nlgga Gilbert, what cut the 
Colonel's throat!"

"What, so soon?" said Herman, feeling a sudden thrill run through his 
frame. "Why, Richard, they were in a hurry, for such young folks. 
Miss Catherine is only seventeen--a very great hurry!"

"No, massa; long standing 'fair that; and put off, put off, Lorra 
knows how long; 'case young missus says she too young. Lorra-golly! 
old Nance wa' but fo'teen o' so; and I reckon there's more naw all 
that. An old nigga man, what's brought up a gemman, knows what's 
what!"

"Eh, Richard! you don't say so? You have the secret then? Come now, 
my old boy, here's a dollar. Come, put it in your pocket."

"Saddy, massa; God blessa massa!"

"Well now, Richard, what's the reason the marriage has been put off?"

"Golly! massa gib me the dolla' to tell?" cried Richard, looking 
alarmed.

"Certainly, Richard.--It's not a long secret, I hope?"

"Lorra, massa, can't do dat. Gib back a dolla', if massa call him 
back; but no tell on young missus. Brought up a gemman, massa; and no 
tell secrets out of the house."

"Oh, well, never mind, Richard; keep the money; I did not want to 
bribe you to tell any thing improper on your mistress; and I am glad 
to see you are so honest. It makes no difference: but what's the 
reason your young mistress does not like the Colonel's son?"

"Not like Massa Harry?" cried the coachman, in great dismay. "Sure 
old fool Dick no tell massa dat?"

"Oh, no; you kept the secret very well. But it is quite odd the young 
lady should not like so fine a young man?"

"Yes, massa, wery strange; but women's women, massa. Massa Harry 
werry fine young man."

"Well!" muttered the painter to himself, "I am playing an honest 
gentleman's part with this old ass, truly! I'll befool him no more. 
It is true, then!--even this dolt can tell that his mistress is 
sacrificed. So young, so fair, so good!--I would I had never seen 
her."

With such reflections as these, and many others of a painful nature, 
the young man continued his path; and, finally, having come within a 
short distance of the hovel, he discharged his attendant, and bade 
him return to the mansion. He then pursued his way alone, and 
reaching the solitary cottage, took possession of his former quarters 
with a sigh, a saddened brow, and a spirit no longer composed and 
mirthful. The bunch of fern he placed betwixt two leaves of paper, 
with as much care as became the first tribute to an herbarium.




CHAPTER XII.

  Oh, now I see where your ambition points.--
  Take heed you steer your vessel right, my son:
  This calm of heaven, this mermaid's melody,
  Into an unseen whirlpool draws you fast,
  And, in a moment, sinks you.
                    DRYDEN--_The Spanish Fryar_.


The summer had just set in, when the painter returned to the 
Traveller's Rest, with the prospect, so rapid was his convalescence, 
of being able to leave the valley within the space of a fortnight. 
But week came after week, June exchanged her green cloak for the 
golden mantle of July, the laurels bloomed on the hills, and the 
fire-flies twinkled in the evening grass, and still he lingered among 
the pleasant solitudes of Hawk-Hollow, as if unable to tear himself 
away. This faintness of purpose, for weekly, at least, he vowed he 
would depart, he excused to himself, by pleading the strong necessity 
he was under of delighting Captain Loring's heart with a picture, 
which he could not begin until his arm was released, not only from 
the wooden bonds of splints, but from the weakness resulting from the 
fracture. Until that happy period arrived, he was a frequent and 
indeed a welcome visiter at the mansion, his society being not less 
agreeable to Catherine than it was absolutely indispensable to her 
father. Young as she was, and with a spirit so gay and frank, there 
was much good sense in all Miss Loring's actions; and this had been 
doubtless sharpened by the necessity, imposed upon her so early, of 
playing the matron in her father's household, and guarding against 
the consequences of his many eccentricities. It was this good sense 
which taught her the propriety of getting rid of the stranger guest, 
as soon as humanity would sanction his expulsion; and this she had, 
in part, indirectly confessed to the party herself, with her usual 
good-humoured openness. This being accomplished, and Herman now 
assuming his proper station at a distance, and visiting the house as 
an avowed favourite of her father, she felt herself delivered from 
restraint, and received him without reserve. His manners and 
conversation were at all times those of a gentleman; and this is 
always enough, in America, to entitle a stranger, of whom no evil is 
known or suspected, to hospitality and respectful consideration, 
especially at a distance from the larger cities. That curiosity, 
which travellers have chosen to saddle upon Americans as a national 
characteristic, along with the two or three forms of speech that have 
belonged to the mother-land since the days of Chaucer, is in no 
country less really intrusive than in America. If it be irksome, and, 
at times, ludicrously impertinent, it is easily satisfied. It 
springs, indeed, not from a suspicious, so much as an inquisitive, 
disposition; and is the result of a certain openness of character, 
such as arises under every democratic government, and is well known 
to have prevailed to an extraordinary extent among the old Greek 
republics, notwithstanding the proverbial craftiness of individual 
character. With this curiosity is associated an equal quantity of 
credulity; and Americans are very content to receive the stranger, 
whose deportment is at all prepossessing, entirely upon his own 
self-recommendations. No jealousy accompanies an introduction made 
only by accident; and the same generous confidence is reposed in the 
new acquaintance, which the bestower will expect, under similar 
circumstances, to have lavished upon himself.

It did not, therefore, enter into the thoughts of Miss Loring to 
question Hunter's claims to such friendly courtesies as were accorded 
to him; and if any doubts of the propriety of continuing his 
acquaintance had occurred, they must have been dispelled by a 
remembrance of the circumstances under which he was introduced. Her 
happy instrumentality in rescuing him from a dreadful peril, had 
given her a right to be interested in his behalf; and the great 
pleasure the young man's society afforded her father, was an 
additional argument to banish reserve. The visits of Herman were 
therefore received and encouraged; the young lady's spirits, animated 
by such companionship, became more elastic and joyous; and Captain 
Loring rejoiced in the painter's acquaintance as much on her account 
as his own. "Adzooks, Kate," he was used to exclaim, "the young dog 
is as good company for you as cousin Harry,"--so he often called Miss 
Falconer, as well as her brother,--"and the lord knows how much 
_better_ for me! And then the picture, Kate, adzooks, is'n't it a 
charmer! that is to say, it _will be_; but the young dog won't show 
it to me."

The picture,--'the grand picture of the Battle of Brandywine, and Tom 
Loring dying,'--had been at last begun, or rather a drawing in water 
colours, meant to represent that double calamity; and from the few 
samples of proficiency in his art which Herman had already shown, the 
expectations of the daughter were almost as agreeably kindled as 
those of the parent. The painter had presented Catherine with a few 
little sketches from his port-folio,--landscapes, representing views 
of Southern scenery, which to her appeared highly spirited, while to 
the Captain they seemed sublime,--only that _he_ had a perverse 
facility at seeing rocks and stumps of trees in groups of kine on the 
meadows; and in distant flocks of sheep, nothing better than so many 
rambling killdeers on the barren upland. Notwithstanding these 
unlucky mistakes, he conceived so high an opinion of the artist's 
ability, that he strenuously urged him to begin the Battle of 
Brandywine upon a scale of magnitude commensurate with the grandeur 
of the subject; 'He would have it,' he said, 'done magnificently. He 
would go down to the village, and buy Ephraim Gall, the 
tavern-keeper's, big sign, that had the great Black Bear on it; or he 
would have another made just like it; and, he had no doubt, his young 
dog Haman,'--for the Captain could never fall upon his protegé's true 
name,--'would beat John Smith, the sign-painter, hollow,'--a flight 
of panegyric that somewhat nettled the artist, but vastly diverted 
Miss Loring.

But the greatest accession to his reputation was obtained when 
Herman, as the only means of securing a likeness of the Captain's 
deceased son, prevailed upon Catherine to sit to him for hers, and 
the radiant features beamed at last from the ivory. The delight with 
which the Captain seized upon this happy effort of art, was not 
merely boisterous; it was obstreperous,--nay, uproarious; and 
Catherine, laughing and weeping together, acknowledged that, in thus 
enrapturing her father's heart, the painter had made her his friend 
for ever.

"Now, Captain," said Hunter, with a beaming eye, "now, all I have to 
do, is to take that sketch home"----

"Shan't let it go out of my hands!" cried Captain Loring. "Why, it's 
my Kate herself! Give up my heart's blood first."

"You shall have it again, Captain; I promise you that. It is only to 
copy it, you know--that is, to paint the likeness of your son from 
it."

"Shall do no such thing--must do another," cried Captain Loring; and 
it required all the arguments of the painter, backed by those of 
Catherine, to prevail upon the obstinate old man to surrender the 
sketch, that it might be devoted to the purpose for which it was 
executed.

Thus passed the time of the painter in an employment, which, as much 
as his conversation, recommended him to the friendship of two 
isolated beings, simple-hearted, guileless, and unsuspicious of any 
coming ill. Thus he passed his time, confiding and confided in--the 
gayest, the merriest, and perhaps the happiest visiter who had ever 
been admitted to the privileges of Avondale; yet, all the time, 
whether rambling with the frank maiden in search of summer flowers to 
transfer to her garden, whether listening to the gay music of her 
conversation, or gazing, in the exercise of his art, upon her 
beautiful features, drinking in a poison which he felt and feared, 
yet without knowing the deep hold it was taking upon his spirit, 
until the sudden crash of coming events made him dreadfully aware of 
its influence. He was neither too young nor too short-sighted to be 
ignorant of the impression made on his feelings by each daily 
interview with a maiden so bewitching; nor did he attempt to repress 
the humiliating consciousness, that, in thus giving his heart to the 
affianced bride of another, he was preparing for himself a 
retribution of pain and penitence, and perhaps of shame. From the 
moment in which he discovered himself treasuring away with such 
jealous care, the gift of withering fern,--a bagatelle of compliment, 
which, he well knew, was only given by Catherine to remove a 
mortification she had inflicted,--he saw that he was sporting upon 
the brink of a precipice--trifling upon some such slippery bridge as 
that of fatal memory over the streamlet, from which his folly might 
at any moment hurl him. With this consciousness before him, he 
perceived the necessity of flight, yet fled not, deeming that the 
power of escape at the right moment could not be denied him--of 
taking some antidote with the poison, but took none, resolving it 
should be swallowed thereafter; and, in fine, while still thinking 
that he resisted, or was prepared to resist, when the peril should 
become urgent, he gave himself up to the intoxication of the new 
passion, and, in reality, sought every means to augment it.

  'When the flame of love is kindled first,
   'Tis the fire-fly's light at even,'--

the flash of an insect, which one can admire, without fearing its 
power to create a conflagration. A vague impression that Catherine's 
want of affection for the licensed lover would prevent the completion 
of the marriage contract, gave a sort of encouragement and hope to 
his selfishness, which he interpreted into the more generous sympathy 
of one who lamented her hard fate, and desired only to shield and 
protect her. In this delusive thought, in this romantic willingness 
to watch over the safety of another, he lingered around the vortex of 
fate, until the ripple became a current, and the current an impetuous 
tide, from which there was no escape, except by exerting his 
remaining strength to the utmost. At the very period when the 
exertion should have been made, he bore to his solitary chamber the 
idol lately completed by his own hands, and as he gazed upon it, felt 
that the moment of salvation had passed by.

"Yes, it is now too late," he muttered, apostrophising the miniature; 
"I have fooled myself a second time into the whirlpool; and who, 
Catherine, will play thy part with me again, and again save me? It 
_is_ too late; it is too late to retreat, and now therefore I must go 
on--yet with what hope go on? With none. She heeds me not, she dreams 
not of my folly, she cares not. Friendship is the grave of love; and 
in her friendship my love is entombed, before it has breathed twice 
in existence. I will speak to her, and be derided!--I will confess 
myself, and be driven from her presence! And this is honourable of me 
too! to take advantage of her unsuspicious frankness, her anxious 
desire to gratify her father, and steal a portrait from her! I saw 
she doubted the propriety of sitting; and yet I, by base 
dissimulation and affected indifference, cajoled her to consent. 
Well, if I can copy, I can destroy; and if this fool--this 
slave--this Falconer wed her, why, then good-by to the knavery and 
the folly together! I will tarry, at least, until I see the 
privileged woer; and then, if she like him not, if she recoil--nay, 
if she shed but a tear of repugnance, may heaven forsake me if I do 
not----Well, what? Kill him!----There has been enough of that among 
us already."

Thus murmuring to himself, and expressing invectives against his 
folly, with the usual arguments for continuing to indulge it, he sat 
down before a table, and despite his convictions of the impropriety, 
if not the meanness of the act, began to copy the miniature. He 
laboured assiduously until he had completed the outline, and then 
exclaimed, with a species of reproachful triumph,

"Now, foolish father of the best and loveliest! though you rob me of 
my labour, yet have I secured its counterpart. Send me a thousand 
leagues away, and within this dim outline shall my hand reproduce the 
image of your sacrifice.--But here come the fools again! Now for a 
smooth face, a merry voice, and a frolic with my jolterhead 
admirers."

The vow which the painter had made, when the doctor and his two 
friends passed by the widow's cottage, and smiled at his choice of 
lodgings, that he would make them fonder of the Traveller's Rest than 
their own village quarters, he had in part fulfilled. Whatever was 
his secret and growing care, it was yet confined to his own bosom; 
and he was altogether of too joyous a temperament, had he even 
desired to nourish his melancholy, to bear a sad spirit in company. 
He was one of those who suffer most, and suffer longest, by grieving 
only at intervals, and enjoying themselves heartily among friends. 
The idea of a continuous grief, of any duration, at least, is 
preposterous. The body can live upon the rack only a few hours, or 
days; and the spirit's powers of endurance are not much greater.

His gay and agreeable manners had strongly recommended him to the 
trio; and the two lawyers, having nothing better to do, were wont to 
mount their horses, and accompany the doctor on his professional 
visitations, which he continued for some time after the patient had 
taken refuge within the Traveller's Rest; and even after he insisted 
upon being cured, they wasted their tediousness upon him at least 
twice or thrice a week, in the way of friendly calls; and he was wont 
to entertain them as well as he could. Of the doctor he had made a 
conquest by asking for his bill, and paying it in good English 
guineas, a handful of which coin gave doctor Merribody more sensible 
delight than could the bushel of paper with which he expected to fill 
his saddle-bags; the amount charged against the unlucky amateur being 
some few thousands of dollars,--Continental currency.

One of the doctor's friends, whom he usually addressed by the 
familiar title of Jingleum, but whose real name was Jackson, or 
Johnson, or some such unhappy dissyllable, was the poet of the 
village, and a bard of renown for at least ten miles round. Him the 
painter won by praising his verses, and what was still more 
captivating, by singing them, and what was yet more enslaving, by 
requesting permission to cull all the stanzas of a _cantabile_ nature 
from the long blue-covered log-books, in which Mr. Jingleum had 
carefully recorded his labours. Seeing what a congenial soul he had 
found in the painter, Jingleum freely supplied his wants, and wrote 
divers madrigals at his suggestion, with which Herman charmed the 
ears of Miss Loring. The poet soon became his intense admirer and 
perpetual visiter; they grew fast friends, and soon came to regard 
each other, the one as the divinest poet, the other as the most 
finished singer, under the moon. It would have been an interesting 
sight, could one have invaded the sanctity of the painter's 
apartment, on such occasions, to see them together, industriously 
fixing a tune to each affecting ditty,--a labour that was sometimes 
none of the lightest; and sometimes, when the genius of the bard, as 
it often did, chose to disdain the base bonds of metre and rhythm, 
and none of the thousand melodies in their service could be forced or 
wheedled into nuptials with his independent verse, they were fain to 
betake themselves to their own resources, and finish the business 
with such a _quodlibet_ as they could manufacture between them. It 
was a divine enjoyment to the poet, when they had at last succeeded 
with any refractory song, to hear his lines breathed out from the 
mellow lips of his friend; for then his poetry seemed as celestial as 
his pleasure. His bliss, however, was not complete, until he lighted 
by accident, one day, in the village, upon a battered guitar,--an 
instrument of such venerable antiquity, that there was not a soul 
therein who was able to pronounce for what unheard-of purpose such an 
extraordinary engine had been framed, until Herman Hunter, swearing 
it could discourse most eloquent music, and was _not_ a banjo, 
managed, by dint of much exertion, to fit it up with fiddle-strings 
and the savings of some demolished harpsichord, and set its dumb 
tongues twangling: it was not until he heard his rhymes trolled forth 
to the clatter of this romantic instrument, that the joy of the poet 
mounted to the heaven of ecstasy. He would sit distilling with 
delight, while the lips of his friend warbled over the seraphic 
lines, and while his fingers hopped over the amaranthine strings; and 
then, sometimes, with a sudden feeling of inspiration, he would 
snatch the lyre, as he poetically called it, into his own hands, 
doubtless expecting an overflow of ineffable harmony from the mere 
fulness of his spirit, until warned by the dreadful dissonance of his 
touches, and the remonstrances of his admirer, he found, however 
extraordinary it seemed, that the drum and the jewsharp were the only 
instruments the playing of which came by nature.

This peculiar friendship betwixt the bard and the singer it is 
perhaps necessary here to mention, in order that it should be 
understood to whom should be given the credit of those canzonets sung 
by the painter, which seem to have any peculiar reference to his own 
condition. He did not carry his affection so far as to bestow any of 
his private confidence on the bard; nor did the latter ever suspect 
that any call, however urgent, for a ballad especially sad and 
amatory, was to be understood as indicating a passion deeper than 
that of the mere songster. There was little suspiciousness in the 
poet's frame, and no scandal-mongers in the neighbourhood. It was 
indeed the golden age of that part of the world; although the country 
was somewhat overflowed with paper-money.

It was one result of this generous spirit, doubtless, that caused the 
story of the resuscitation of a Hawk of Hawk-Hollow to be so soon 
forgotten. The account of the outrage upon Colonel Falconer, as 
having been perpetrated by Oran Gilbert, did indeed at first create a 
considerable sensation; and many excitable individuals, hearing of 
the chase after the fugitive Nehemiah, mounted their horses, and 
resumed the trail, the next day, with the resolution of sifting the 
mystery to the bottom. But the trail ended where Lieutenant Brooks 
had left it; the raw-boned white horse had passed through divers 
hands, and was, in course of time, supposed to have been recovered by 
the rightful owner; but the rider had vanished as if swallowed up by 
the earth, or melted into the air, and was never more heard of. The 
story died away, or was remembered only as a jest, which finally 
expired in the vapour of its own silliness. The reasonable men 
laughed at their late fears, and forgot them.

About the present time, however, there arose a rumour, no one knew 
how or why, which created a new sensation among the credulous and 
foreboding. It was whispered that a band of tories was secretly 
forming among the hills; but where, or for what purpose, no one 
pretended to say. It was a vague and mysterious apprehension, that 
spread from person to person, by virtue, perhaps, of its enigmatic 
character; for no inquiry could detect a better reason for its 
prevalence. As it carried its contagion further and further, men 
began again to talk of the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow; the refugees, in 
imagination, rose again from their tombs, and the scalp-hunter stole 
anew through the forests. The rumour had reached the Traveller's 
Rest; but it made little impression on the spirit of the painter.

He laid aside his drawing in haste, so soon as he heard that clatter 
of hoofs in the oaken yard, which, he thought, betokened the coming 
of his friends; and having secured it beyond the reach of any prying 
eye, he descended to meet them.




CHAPTER XIII.

  "Unto you," quod I, "with all my whole assent,
  I will tell trouthe, and you will not bewraye
  Unto none other my matter and entent."
  "Nay, nay," quod he, "you shall not see that daye:
  Your whole affiaunce and trust well ye may
  Into me put; for I shall not vary,
  But kepe your councill as a secretary."
                            HAWES--_Pastime of Plesure_.


Instead of the bard or the physician, Hunter discovered that the 
clatter which had interrupted his secret labours, was caused by the 
arrival of a personage entirely unknown, and, as he soon began to 
believe, unworthy his notice. He was a stout but ill-looking man, 
with a soldier's coat and hat, both worn and shabby, and Herman 
inferred at once, that he was some private from a disbanded regiment, 
returning to the life of industry and obscurity he had left for the 
wars. As he reached the porch, Herman saw that Dancy, the farmer, who 
happened to be about the house, was showing the new guest the way to 
the stable; and, however unprepossessing his appearance, he soon 
perceived that he had already struck up a friendship with Dancy, who 
talked and laughed, as they jogged together round the crag, as if 
with an old acquaintance. This set the painter's heart at rest; and 
he soon afterwards discovered that the man, being as humble in his 
desires as prospects, had visited the Traveller's Rest less in search 
of entertainment than employment, and had agreed with the widow, or 
rather with Dancy, who assumed the privilege of striking the bargain, 
to remain and assist the hireling in the labours of the approaching 
harvest, in consideration of receiving free quarters and forage 
during that period.

In the conversation of such a man it is not to be supposed the 
painter could have looked for any source of interest; and, 
accordingly, he merely gave him a glance as he strode away with 
Dancy, leading a sorry gelding in his hand, and then took a seat on 
the porch by Elsie, whose wheel, as usual, was droning out its 
monotonous hum near the door. Though hand and foot plied their 
accustomed task with accuracy and effect, it was evident that the 
poor widow's thoughts were not with her employment; on the contrary, 
she was engaged in profound and sorrowful contemplation; and, indeed, 
for a sennight past, Herman had observed that her fits of abstraction 
were unusually deep and frequent.

He sat down at her side, and addressed some few questions to her in 
relation to the stranger, but received such vague and irrelevant 
answers as convinced him her meditations were too engrossing to be 
easily broken. He proceeded therefore without delay to seek some 
other means of amusing his mind; and casting his eyes towards the 
distant hall, he was, in a few moments, plunged in reflections as 
absorbing, or even more so than her own. Indeed, his interrogatories, 
though they did not immediately rouse the old woman from her 
lethargy, served the purpose of interrupting and distracting her 
thoughts a little; so that she, by and by, woke up, and recovered 
herself so far as to look round her, and perceive she was not alone 
on the porch. She surveyed the young man very earnestly, until, at 
last, tears gathered in her eyes, and her wheel stood still. The 
sudden ceasing of the sound at once broke the spell that enchained 
the painter's spirit; and looking up to Elsie, he displayed a 
countenance on which the turn of some darker thought had imprinted a 
character of sternness, and even fierceness.

Elsie rose up, and stepping towards him, laid her palsied hand upon 
his shoulder, saying, in tones both solemn and impressively 
appealing,

"Drive these thoughts from your bosom, and now depart. Why should you 
rest longer in this place? Your limb is sound, your strength is 
restored; and now begone, ere the calls of others, and the anger of 
your own heart, shall drive you into acts of blood, which, if you die 
not among them, you will live only to repent."

"Fear me not, mother," said the youth, with a faint smile. "On this 
subject, I have told you my resolution before. I am, at the least, as 
good an American as yourself; and whatever may have been my original 
loyal and subjugating propensities, I have now not a wish, nay, not a 
thought, of playing the enslaver. Nothing on earth shall draw me into 
the matter you think of."

"Ay, but revenge though!" said the widow, warningly. "You are 
dreaming of him whom you think you should hate, and thirsting perhaps 
for an opportunity to shed his blood?"

"You are deceived, Elsie. I will never lift my hand against him, 
unless in self-defence. God is the avenger, and, one day, he _will_ 
avenge. I hate, Elsie, but I will not shed blood."

"And why then do you remain? If _he_, whom neither knife nor bullet 
can destroy, looks upon you again, as surely he will, and that 
perhaps sooner than you dream of, he will entice you into his bloody 
schemes; and though he escape, yet will you perish."

"Into his schemes I will not be enticed," said Herman; "and I rather 
hope, by argument and persuasion, to draw him from them."

"Argument and persuasion! and these to be tried on _him_?" muttered 
Elsie, looking around her as if in dread. "When you can argue the 
wolf from the neck of the dying deer,--when you can persuade the 
rattle-snake not to strike the naked foot that is trampling his back, 
then may you think of turning him from his purpose, or changing his 
wild and dreadful nature. He will have revenge, and I know that he 
will obtain it. Years have passed by,--(how many and how 
bitter!)--the gray hair has joined with the black, the smooth brow 
has turned to the furrowed, but the purpose of his heart has not 
grown old and fainted; all is now as it was, and so will be till the 
end. Think not of drawing him to your opinions; but be certain he 
will draw you to his. Go not near him, avoid him, let him not see 
you, or speak with you."

"Fear me not, Elsie"----

"I _do_ fear you. Alas, young man, trust not yourself in his power; 
if he touches you with his hand, you will fall. God forbid you should 
be joined with him in the matter that is coming! I had rather you 
were struck down by lightning where you stand;--better were it for 
you, had you slept under the Fall of the Grave."

"Sure, Elsie," said the young man, "there is nothing so criminal and 
horrid in the enterprise, after all. The rescue of a poor captive,--a 
boy, too, of nineteen years, and the only son of a doting and noble 
mother, condemned to death unjustly and perfidiously, (that is a 
harsh word, Elsie!) to expiate a crime committed by another,--sure, 
this is an enterprise of humanity rather than iniquity."

"And do you think this is all?" cried Elsie. "A darker project is in 
his mind, and a darker deed will be soon accomplished. Why then do 
you stay? Have you not seen enough, and mourned enough? I tell you, 
when the marriage-day comes, the wronger will come, and after him the 
avenger; and who knows what dreadful deeds will be done, before all 
is over?"

"If it be a marriage of blood," said the youth, "why so let it be. 
They are, I firmly believe, leading Catherine Loring like a sheep to 
the shambles. If they mean to wed her to young Falconer against her 
will, why then, though there should be no other man in the world to 
befriend her, I will stand by her myself;----I will, Elsie," he 
exclaimed, impetuously; "and, if Falconer do not at once surrender 
his claims, I will compel him!"

"What!" cried the widow, starting from him in dismay: "What is this I 
hear? What! you,--have _you_ looked at Catherine Loring, then, as a 
creature to be loved! Have _you_ dared"----

"Nonsense!" cried the young man, with a visage of flame; "I am 
enslaved to her by gratitude, and I wish to do her a service. I owe 
her a life, Elsie; and I will yield it up ten times over, before she 
shall be driven into a marriage she abhors, and which, I believe, is 
breaking her heart."

"Miserable, insane, cruel young man!" cried the widow, with 
unexpected energy,--"and it has come to this, then? You have repaid 
her humanity and kindness, by stealing away her affections from her 
betrothed husband, and so making a lot, sorrowful enough before, 
still more wretched! You have"----

"Hold, Elsie," exclaimed Herman; "it is you who are insane. You told 
me yourself, she was averse to the match.----And, as to stealing her
affections, I have done no such thing--they are not so lightly come 
by. If they were, Elsie,--nay, if they were really mine, Elsie, why 
should I not make my claim to them, as well as another? I am neither 
poor nor humble, neither degraded nor corrupted; in all things of 
worldly good, I am young Falconer's equal, and perhaps, in some, his 
superior."

"Ay!" cried the widow, with increasing vehemence, "and if she smiled, 
and if that would win her, you would shoot Harry Falconer through the 
brain! Is it not so? This is dreadful! Oh, young man, begone; remain 
not a moment longer in the valley. You will commit a crime worse than 
self-destruction, and one more hard to pardon!"

"I will commit no crime, Elsie; and none have I yet committed. Your 
anxiety is absurd; and so is your suspicion. That I have the most 
friendly regard for Miss Loring, the most ardent friendship, is true; 
but as to loving her, Elsie, that--why that is all nonsense."

"Perhaps it is," cried the widow, "and Heaven grant it may prove so. 
But go not near her again, do not expose yourself to the intoxication 
of her society. If not a wrong to yourself, it is an unkindness to 
her. If you talk to her of escaping from the marriage she hates, and 
she finds she has a friend left in the world to aid her--ah, that 
would ruin her! The desire of escape may madden the wisest."

"Fiddlesticks!" cried the youth; "I have no such coarse and meddling 
ways of testifying my regard; and a presumption of that kind would 
banish me from her presence for ever. But, Elsie, I tell you, I 
cannot bear the thought of her being married against her will."

"And how can you prevent it? By wedding her yourself? That cannot be. 
By breaking her heart? Yes, there you may succeed----it is breaking 
already; and when you have added one more pang to it, it will soon 
cease to suffer. Hearken, young man; if you persist in this thing, 
you will be a villain. Go up to the grove--get you to Jessie's 
sleeping place; and consider how fast you are treading in the steps 
of him who slew her."

"I, Elsie! This is extraordinary!"

"It is true. Both of you were carried, sick and dying, into the house 
of a stranger; both of you were received by guileless and open 
hearts; and, when you have gone a little farther in your folly, it 
can be perhaps said, that both left sorrow and death behind them."

"Elsie, this is shocking? Do you think me such a villain as that 
man?"

"I do not," said Elsie; "if I did,--if I thought you were now, like 
him before you, plotting, even in conceit, a wrong to that noble 
girl,--if I thought this," she added, with singular asperity, "I 
would put hemlock into your food, though you were the child of my own 
sister, and you should die before morning!"

"I commend your zeal in the lady's cause, and will myself endeavour 
to imitate it. But there, an end, Elsie; we will talk of this no 
more. Your fears are even more groundless than injurious. I will 
leave the valley soon--perhaps very soon; and I will murder no one, 
while I remain in it."

So saying, to end a discussion which was becoming disagreeable, he 
left the house, resolved to make his way to the scene of his late 
disaster. In this resolution he continued, until he reached the 
park-gate; when, suddenly observing the flutter of a white garment 
under the trees near to the mansion, he turned from his path, and 
again found himself in the presence of the Captain's daughter.

And thus it happened with him on the next day, the next, and again 
the next; until the little thread that tangled his spirit had become 
a web from which there was no escape, unless by rending away some of 
the vital limbs it encircled. He sang and painted as before; nay, he 
assailed the Battle of Brandywine with zeal and industry, and had 
advanced so far with the work, before the occurrence of unlooked-for 
events chilled his enthusiasm and palsied his hand, that he was able 
to carry it to the mansion, and exhibit it to the father and 
daughter, that he might derive all the advantage of their remarks on 
the most difficult feature of his subject,--that is to say, the 
figure of the Captain's deceased son.

In the meanwhile, he confirmed the good impression he had long since 
made on his two friends, and was indeed admitted to such intimacy 
with both, as marked, not only their sense of his merits, but their 
own simplicity of character. In the case of the Captain, he certainly 
began to fill up the gap made in his affections by the death of his 
son; and as for Catherine, she soon appreciated the value of a 
friendship based upon grateful recollections, and, what seemed to 
her, a delicate and purely disinterested regard for her weal and 
happiness.

The situation of this unhappy girl,--for such, in truth, she 
was,--was of a nature to engage her feelings warmly in favour of any 
one approaching her with real friendship, as it was also to touch the 
sympathies of the discerning and compassionate.

  "Naught is there under heaven's wide hollownesse,
     That moves more dear compassion of mind,
   Than beautie brought t' unworthie wretchednesse,
     Through envie's snares, or fortune's freaks unkind."

She was still very young, yet old enough to feel the desolation of 
her father's house and fortunes, and to be willing to sacrifice her 
own happiness to secure that of her parent. At the very moment when 
her father became a beggar,--an outcast from the home of her 
nativity,--her charms had won the heart of the young Falconer,----'A 
lad,' as Captain Loring was wont to say, 'after a man's heart, and a 
woman's too;' and the enamoured youth, with his father's fullest 
approbation, and indeed warm encouragement, claimed permission to 
throw himself at her feet, and received it. Perhaps the consideration 
of her father's misfortunes had greater weight with Catherine than 
the temptation of wealth and splendour; and perhaps the indifference 
of a young and wholly unoccupied heart had also its share of 
influence in determining her decision. It is certain, if she did not 
consent with alacrity, she did not refuse so earnestly as to make the 
Captain believe the proposal was otherwise than vastly agreeable to 
her; and, in truth, it was some considerable time before she began to 
lament her easy consent, and to feel that there was merit, because 
pain, in the sacrifice. The great youth of the pair (for at the time 
of betrothal, the lover was yet in his minority,) had caused the 
nuptials to be deferred until the close of the spring of the present 
year, but a short time previous to which the attempt was made on the 
life of Colonel Falconer; and that occurrence had necessarily 
produced another postponement. In the meanwhile, the maiden had grown 
older and reflected more deeply; and the regrets that began to wake 
in her spirit, though, at first, she scarce knew why, became more 
frequent and painful, as fame, or scandal, brought to her ears 
stories of wild frolic and dissipation on the part of her absent 
lover. These reports, to be sure, were combated by Miss Falconer, and 
the excesses they proclaimed made to appear, as they always are in 
the case of the rich and happy, only the natural outbreakings of a 
joyous and generous spirit. But Harriet's skill could not prevent her 
friend discovering that the young soldier had little beside a comely 
face and a merry temper to recommend him to her favour; and perhaps 
no circumstance will sooner prejudice a woman against a lover, not 
previously adored, than the discovery that his mind is inferior to 
her own. The _passion_ of love is a material instinct; the 
_sentiment_ is a particle of the divinity, and can only exist when 
called into action by the breath of spirit. Woman's love is only 
deserving the name when it is purely a sentiment, and based upon 
reverence for the idol of her affections. In a word, Catherine found 
she was to be wedded to a man she could never hope to love; and it 
required her constantly to keep before her eyes the situation of her 
father, himself wholly incapable of retrieving, as he had been of 
preserving, his fortunes, to prevent her openly repining. To him, 
therefore, she could not look as a friend, in her difficulty; his 
affection could be indeed counted upon, but it could be exercised in 
her favour only at the price of his ruin. As for Miss Falconer, 
though she loved her well, she knew that _her_ spirit was entirely 
with her brother, and that she encouraged, and did all she could to 
promote, the match, for his especial benefit, as a means of weaning 
him from a gay and dissolute career, which threatened, if not 
speedily checked, to terminate in confirmed profligacy.

With feelings of this kind constantly weighing upon her breast--a 
consciousness ever present, that in the death of an only and beloved 
brother, she had lost a friend to whom she might have unbosomed 
herself in grief, and from whom she might have expected sympathy and 
relief,--it is not extraordinary that the kindness even of a 
stranger, expressed ever with delicacy and gentleness, and uttered 
not so much in words as actions, should make a strong and enduring 
impression upon her feelings, and that she should bestow upon him the 
frankest evidences of regard.

  "Ne evil thing she fear'd, ne evil thing she meant."

A circumstance--and it was the only one--which seemed at first to 
threaten a speedy interruption of their good understanding, served in 
the end even to strengthen her confidence and friendship. In an 
unguarded moment, and while under a strong impulse, the young man 
alluded to the approaching nuptials, and that in a manner so plainly 
indicative of his knowledge of Catherine's feelings, and of the 
sacrifice she was to be compelled to make, that she was justly 
alarmed and offended. She felt as a woman, that this was an indecorum 
and presumption of the most unpardonable nature; and the reproof it 
brought upon the offender's head, was the stronger for being mingled 
with the tears of humiliation. But even this was forgiven, when 
several days elapsed without bringing the youth back to the mansion, 
and she reflected how much his offensive intermeddling must have been 
caused by the sympathy she was ever so glad to possess. She was 
really rejoiced, when her father, astounded and concerned, and 
finally enraged, at the unaccountable absence of his favourite, 
sought him out, and dragged him, almost by force of arms, to the 
mansion, and she heard his footsteps once more sounding on the porch; 
and Herman soon perceived that she had discharged from her mind all 
anger, if not all remembrance of his ungoverned zeal, and was 
disposed to treat him with as much confidence as before. In truth, 
she was one of the few we meet in the world, and perhaps as seldom 
even in woman as man, of that angelic quality of spirit, which 
mingles inaptness to take offence with the greatest readiness to 
forgive it; and as all he had said was made offensive not so much by 
its nature as by the position of the offender himself, and would have 
been proper in the case of a near kinsman or old and familiar friend, 
she easily persuaded herself that the very rudeness was an evidence 
of regard, which she did wrong to punish with severity. She never 
perhaps afterwards smiled with the same gayety, or conversed with the 
same unreserved freedom; but she treated him with much confidence; 
one proof of which, from its singular nature, and the important, 
though secret, influence it had upon the young man's conduct, it is 
necessary to mention. She took occasion one afternoon, when her 
father was sleeping, and her female companions were occupied afar-off 
in various domestic duties, to call his attention to the subject of 
the outrage on Colonel Falconer, with which, as an intimate at 
Gilbert's Folly, he was, of course familiar. 'She had,' she said 'a 
letter from Miss Falconer in relation to the unhappy and mysterious 
affair, and to certain steps that lady was taking in consequence of 
it. These,' she added, 'though of a singular nature and questionable 
propriety, she would not perhaps have presumed to communicate to 
another, as they were in a degree confidential, were they not 
accompanied by a call upon herself for co-operation, under 
circumstances so perplexing and embarrassing, that she felt herself 
at liberty to ask Mr. Hunter's assistance and advice,--the former for 
her friend, the latter for herself. She judged, from many expressions 
he had let fall, that Mrs. Bell had made him acquainted, in part at 
least, with the history of the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow; for which 
reason, he would be able to understand the letter without comments 
from her. He had seen one individual who figured prominently in the 
letter; and his opinion and recollections of _him_ would undoubtedly 
be acceptable to Miss Falconer. On the whole, she was persuaded he 
could assist her in what she felt to be a difficulty; and perhaps he 
might be able to suggest something for the benefit of her friend.'

With this preliminary explanation, she proceeded to read Miss 
Falconer's letter, not stopping at those parts which alluded to the 
painter himself, and of which she made diverting use, though here and 
there for obvious reasons, altering some of the expressions, and 
apologizing for others in a humorous way. It may be supposed, and 
with justice, that she carefully abstained from reading all those 
passages in which she was herself spoken of, in connexion with her 
affianced lord; and, indeed, the occurrence of these always caused 
her lip to quiver, and her finger, tracing the lines as they 
occurred, to hasten onward to the next fitting paragraph.

The letter was to the following effect:


"And so Monsieur Red-Jacket is alive and well, and handsome, and 
paints, and has a good singing voice, and is altogether a genteel 
young personage! Well now, though I detest his very memory, and never 
see a scarlet waistcoat, without thinking of two galloping fools, and 
another standing on a porch grinning, I am quite glad you fished him 
out of the river, since you have thereby got such a conformable 
well-behaved young man to keep you company, for lack of a 
better,--the doctor and the rest of those village noddies being all 
insufferable, as I always agreed. If he can really succeed in 
obtaining your likeness, retain him in the Hollow by all means, even 
if you have to break an arm for him over again. We must have at least 
two copies, one of which will set our beloved Harry frantic, and the 
other I will keep myself. The man may fix his own price; and, 
besides, I'll patronise him, though I _do_ detest him. Harry shall 
sit to him, I assure you; and perhaps I also--just as I happen to 
like him--that is his painting, not himself. Do you remember, as we 
sat at the sycamore tree, I wished him 'a harder sleep that night 
than he ever had before?' There's something odd in the coincidence; a 
hard night he had of it, from your own account, poor rogue. I only 
thought of an old bed and damp sheets, such as I supposed it likely 
enough he would find at that old witch's. I will wish bad luck no 
more, believing I have some magical power that way, which might, 
sooner or later, lead me to commit murder. However, I have more 
important matter for discoursing on.

"Papa is recovering fast; indeed, he was pronounced out of danger 
before I reached him; and he already talks of banishing me again to 
the green fields. To tell the truth, I have grown more inquisitive 
than ever; and it is plain, he is tired of me. That story, Kate, has 
set my brain spinning; but blessed be thou for telling it! There will 
such good come of my knowledge as will perhaps astound you, and him 
too.--But you shall hear.

"The assassin is wrapped round about with mystery,--a most singular 
doubt. My father is, or rather _was_, (for he never pronounced the 
wretch's name, except in the first moment of confusion and terror,) 
positive that the blow was struck by the Hawk of the Hollow; and who 
should know better? Yet, I can tell you, there are circumstances 
pointing so strongly at another man, that every body pronounces him 
guilty, except myself and, I suppose, papa; and these they are. There 
was (I speak of the man as if he were dead, for he seems to have 
killed and buried himself,) a certain vagabond in our town, called 
Sterling, or Starling,--a man of much shrewdness, some talent, and 
possessing a degree of rough humour and wit which made him a 
favourite with many of our citizens, some of them quite respectable, 
and delegates in Congress. Nobody exactly knew how the man lived; 
though it was generally supposed by gambling. An accident of no great 
importance in itself, revealed the fellow's true character and 
occupation to my father, who forthwith acted as honour and patriotism 
commanded him to do. This Sterling was a spy,--a pensioned spy, whose 
duty was to reside at our Congressional head-quarters, and by 
cultivating acquaintances among the honourables, pick up as much 
intelligence in relation to secret legislation as he could; and there 
is no doubt, the villain has laboured so well in his vocation, that 
the British commander-in-chief has been often apprised of our 
intentions as early as our own leader. It is said that Sterling was 
once an actor; they say, he has strong comic talents, but has a mad 
conceit he was made to shine in tragedy. He once got up a sort of 
company in our town, with the expectation of establishing a theatre. 
However, his friends all turned upon him the first night, the piece 
being tragedy, and laughed and ridiculed, and finally carried the 
matter so far as to hiss the poor wretch off the stage. They say, my 
brother Harry (I believe it was before he entered the army,) was a 
ringleader among the hard-hearted censors.--An exemplary youth, he! 
He was ever a most incorrigible mischief and plague, notwithstanding 
his excellent heart; and the duel he fought with his captain last 
winter, (a warm friend of his now,) was caused by one of his freaks 
of humour.--But marriage cures all that, you know.--However, I must 
speak of Mr. Sterling.

"My father obtained such proofs of the treason of the lord of the 
buskin as might have brought him to the gallows, and he was thrown 
into prison; from which, however, he escaped as soon as was 
convenient. I think, it happened eleven days before the outrage was 
attempted; and long before that, he was supposed to have succeeded, 
by verifying Shakspeare's words, (that is, by esteeming the world at 
large the boards of a theatre, and playing many parts thereon,) in 
passing the lines of the army, and reaching New York in safety. 
Indeed, he was, in a week's time, almost forgotten. But now comes the 
marvel.

"My father had entered the pavilion, (as I wrote you before,) to get 
certain papers. They were the very documents in relation to this 
man's case,--the proofs of his treasonable practices, &c., which were 
put into papa's hands, when he volunteered to conduct the 
prosecution. The man was really such a favourite, that all others 
were quite cool in the matter, and rather disposed to let him off, 
than push matters to extremity, especially as hostilities were almost 
over: even Harry interceded for him. Papa, however, was determined to 
bring him to justice; and therefore volunteered in the case. He had 
these very documents in his hands, when the assassin, (whoever he 
was,) who had previously concealed himself in the pavilion, or stole 
into it after him, suddenly assailed him; and, what is curious, it 
was found, when they came to examine afterwards, that these papers 
had all vanished, together with my father's purse, and a small-sword 
which he always kept hanging up in the study.

"The next thing discovered was, that a certain horse, the property of 
this Sterling at the time of his arrest, but which some one had 
seized upon and sold, to satisfy some claim or other, had disappeared 
from a neighbouring farm, where it was at pasture. The animal being 
traced, it was found that he had ambled up the river, supporting the 
weight of an individual, who, although assuming to be a fanatical 
parson, had so many points of resemblance to the original owner of 
the horse, that it was immediately affirmed, he could be no other 
than Sterling himself, playing off a character of which he was 
notoriously fond;--a ranting, canting parson, as Harry says, being 
one of the impersonations with which he was wont to set the table in 
a roar. You know the rest of this man's story; his sudden appearance 
at Elsie Bell's, at the very moment when we were discoursing of the 
Hawks under the sycamore;--his flight over the river, and his sudden 
disappearance. I suppose, he assumed some new disguise that deceived 
the pursuers.

"These things favour the opinion of the mass, who will believe 
nothing less than that the murder was attempted by Sterling, in 
revenge of my father's zeal in bringing his villany to light. But now 
remember, that papa was the only one who _saw_ the assassin; that he 
knew the faces of both parties; and that he affirmed the villain to 
be Oran Gilbert, without so much as mentioning Sterling's name. Can 
there be any striking resemblance between the two traitors? Might not 
a course of extraordinary coincidences have assisted the Hawk in 
adopting (even without knowing it himself) the appearance and manner 
of Sterling in disguise? Nothing should be thought too incredible in 
such a case, for the whole matter is a wonder.

"I have not space to mention all I wish, or all I have learned, that 
confirms my father's words. This, however, is certain: Oran Gilbert 
_is not dead_, but alive, and is engaged _somewhere_ upon _some_ 
villany; but where and what--ay, there's the rub. I have received 
intelligence not to be doubted a moment, that he was in New York, and 
that he left that city, about two months since, on some secret 
enterprise.

"Now, Kate, I have little more to tell you, except that I have turned 
thief-taker; that I am convinced Oran Gilbert was the midnight 
assassin, and is, at this moment, lying in wait in a certain place, 
with the expectation of renewing the attack on my father's life; and 
that I, weak woman as I am, have laid a trap for the cruel and 
remorseless villain, which may bring the doom he is projecting for 
another upon his own head. Don't stare; and don't say any thing of 
the matter. You cannot comprehend the spirit that now inspires me; I 
am playing the part of a man, but in a very ladylike way, and all to 
guard my father from the knife that is still outstretched against 
him. You shall know all in good time--sooner perhaps than you 
imagine. It is necessary to my purpose that I should have a minute 
description of Gilbert, his height, figure, eyes, hair, nose, mouth, 
his age, &c.: get it of Elsie Bell, and don't let her suspect you 
have any object beyond mere simple curiosity. If we could make the 
old creature speak, I warrant me she could tell us enough of the 
villain. I entrust this matter to you. Don't scruple: you _can_ 
deceive as well as any body, when the spirit of woman seizes you; and 
the end we have now in view will excuse a mountain of duplicity. You 
can also make inquiries (but, mark you, _not of her_--don't let her 
suspect suspicion,) in relation to the appearance of the preacher 
Poke. Your bonny Red-Jacket, the dauber, can doubtless answer 
satisfactorily on this point, painters being commonly good observers. 
As for your father, I interdict all counselling with him; for, first, 
his memory is not to be relied upon, being somewhat dependent upon 
his imagination, you know; and secondly, because we must take no more 
confidants into the confederacy than we can help. Every thing depends 
upon secrecy. I long to tell you the whole matter, but dare not 
_yet_--no, not even so much as the names of my counsellors, 
auxiliaries, agents, &c. By the way, did you observe Lieutenant 
Brooks? He is very genteel and agreeable, I assure you--and the 
shrewdest, boldest-witted brain for his youth I have ever seen. He 
will attend upon Harry, and you will adore him.--But my third sheet 
is out, and so I must conclude.

"As for your fourth of July jollification that you talk of so 
sentimentally, I hate all such merry-makings. What do I care about 
Jingleum, and his orations? Could they find no more reasonable 
Demosthenes? And then the folly of dragging up drums, and cannons, 
and militia companies, dogs, horses, and women in their Sunday 
clothes, to the sacred solitudes of Hawk-Hollow! Sure, you are all 
gone crazy: it is profanation. I should not wonder if the martial din 
of the jubilee should bring a regiment or two from the lines upon 
you. We shall see what will come of it.

"_Addio_----Do my bidding, and keep my counsel.

"_Mem._ It is very odd, I forgot the postscript."


The contents of this epistle, as Catherine saw, greatly surprised, 
and indeed confounded the painter; and it was some moments before he 
could shake off his embarrassment so far as to comment upon it. 'He 
esteemed it very singular,' he said, 'and very improper, that Miss 
Falconer should engage in an enterprise such as she so significantly 
hinted at; and he thought she was impelled by a species of frenzy. 
Her suspicions, that the assault upon her father had been committed 
by a Gilbert, were ludicrously absurd. How was it possible her father 
should, in a single glance, and almost in darkness, recognise a 
countenance he had not seen for more than twenty years? How could it 
be believed that such a man, a refugee captain, long since formally 
outlawed, should force his way into the very strong-holds of his 
enemy, commit a crime of unexampled daring, and then, with audacity 
still more astonishing, direct his steps towards the district where 
he was so well known? How incredible, that a man of his wild and 
stubborn habits could adopt a disguise so outré as that of Nehemiah! 
How much more incredible, having taken such pains to shed a foeman's 
blood, that he should have done his work so bunglingly! The idea was 
preposterous. Every thing went to show that Sterling was the 
assassin; and it was quite probable, nay, it was almost certain, that 
Nehemiah and Sterling were one and the same person. He could not 
pretend to say, or to know, or to be very certain, of course; but he 
was sure Nehemiah was an impostor, much more familiar with tags from 
play-books than scraps from the Bible, and so he had told the man 
himself, though not in direct words; the consequence of which was, 
that he instantly took the alarm, crossed the river, and escaped. As 
to the request made of Miss Loring in relation to the information she 
was expected to obtain of Mrs. Bell, that was as unworthy of Miss 
Falconer as compliance would be on the part of Miss Loring. It was 
quite proper, indeed, she should ask Elsie for information, but not 
without apprizing her of the object in view. But even this was 
needless; _he_ had heard Elsie speak of Oran Gilbert's appearance, 
and he could assure Miss Loring that no two persons could be more 
unlike than he and the ranting Nehemiah, the one being a man of 
middle size, the other a giant. He would advise Miss Falconer to 
adopt two measures, which would go farther to effect her objects, 
(which, he supposed, were, to protect her father from future danger, 
and to punish his enemy,) than all the witty and masculine stratagems 
in the world. If Oran Gilbert were really alive, and within the 
American lines, then let her persuade her father to remain in the 
city, afar from his dreaded vengeance; _there_ he most certainly was 
safe. To punish the assassin, application should be made to the 
British commander-in-chief at New York; and as the atrocity was 
purely of a civil nature--a case of malicious, inexcusable 
violence--it was highly probable he would be at once brought to 
justice.'

With remarks of this kind, which appeared to her to be founded in 
good sense, he satisfied Catherine that her confidence had not been 
misplaced or unprofitable; and the time waxed on, without causing any 
abatement of her good opinion, or any interruption of an intercourse 
highly agreeable to her own feelings.




CHAPTER XIV.

  I called on Vengeance; at the word
  She came.
                      SIR EUSTACE GREY.


The letter of Miss Falconer contained an allusion to an approaching 
festival, which she characterized as a '4th of July jollification.' 
This day was already rendered sacred in the affections of Americans; 
and the prospect of a speedy and successful close to the battle of 
independence had disposed them, throughout the whole confederacy, to 
signalize its recurrence with all the pomp and glory of observance. 
The spirit had awakened even in the precincts of Hawk-Hollow; and the 
villagers, taking advantage of the patriotic offers of Captain 
Loring, had made extensive preparations to celebrate it among the 
solitudes of that lovely valley. They assembled in public meeting, 
appointed committees of arrangement, purveyors, marshals, and masters 
of ceremonies; and that the occasion might not pass without a due 
share of national glorification, they selected an orator, who, it was 
universally supposed by all his friends, would electrify the souls of 
his auditory by a display of impassioned and heaven-inspired 
eloquence. It happened, however, that the appointment of Mr. Jingleum 
to this honour had disgusted the adherents of another candidate; and 
the consequence was, that, in the end, there were two different 
celebrations, held at different places, one in the village itself, 
which being more convenient to the mass of citizens, was much more 
numerously attended than the rival jubilee in the Hollow. Indeed, the 
spirit of faction running very high, there were found so many 
arguments against holding the convocation at the latter place, that 
the current of public opinion soon set decidedly against it, and it 
promised to be quite a failure. It was indeed but thinly attended; 
although circumstances arose to give it an _éclat_ entirely wanting 
at the other.

The gentlemen of the committee, finding how matters were going, 
redoubled their exertions, and by adding preparations for a _fête 
champêtre_ to those for the more public object, succeeded in 
awakening an interest on the side of the female portion of the 
community; so that, as the day drew nigh, they began to hold up their 
heads and boast aloud, that, go the day as it might, the beauty of 
the country would be found displayed only in the valley. The scene of 
festivity determined upon was the little promontory at the mouth of 
Hawk-Hollow Run, and the river-bank at its base, where were such 
green plots as might have enticed fairies, as well as mortal women, 
into the joys of the dance. A small piece of ordnance was dragged 
upon the promontory; the venerable habitation of the fishing-hawks 
was tumbled about their ears, and the tall and naked trunk that 
supported it, converted into a gigantic flag-staff, from which the 
striped banner was seen waving as early as the afternoon of the 3d. A 
scaffold some five or six feet in height was also erected around the 
trunk, and a tribune, or orator's desk, with seats behind it, 
constructed thereon; the whole forming a rostrum suitable to the 
occasion, which the good taste of the supervisors caused to be 
canopied and adorned with branches of laurel, that were also wreathed 
around the tree almost to its top. The whole of the day preceding the 
celebration was occupied with these and other preparations, in most 
of which the painter contributed his personal assistance with great 
zeal. He had consented, after first flatly refusing the honour, 
tendered him at the instance of his friend the poet, to accept the 
appointment of reader of the Declaration, with the pronouncing of 
which sacred instrument the exercises of such a celebration are 
always begun; and although, on many occasions, when his auxiliaries 
were all as busily occupied as himself, he betrayed a strong 
disposition to desert, and betake himself to the distant mansion, 
there was no one, when all were assembled together under its roof, 
sharing the hospitality of the Captain and the smiles of his 
daughter, who exhibited a more disinterested anxiety to hurry all 
back again to their duties.

The evening came, and the preparations having been completed, the 
bustling Committee-men mounted their horses, and retreated to the 
village, leaving Gilbert's Folly to solitude; for not even Herman 
returned to it that evening. But an unexpected guest made her 
appearance, an hour after night-fall. As Catherine sat musing on the 
porch, perhaps moralizing, as she watched the spark of the fire-fly, 
now struggling in the moist grass, now flitting among the oak-boughs, 
and traced the resemblance it seemed to figure forth to the life of 
man,--a tissue of linked light and darkness,--a bolder beam flashed 
along the park, the roll of wheels was heard on the gravelled avenue, 
and before she had time to wonder or surmise, a carriage stopped at 
the door, and in a moment she was clasped in the arms of Miss 
Falconer.

"Brava for my dear self!" cried the lady; "my generalship is 
complete--I take even my friend by surprise! Wo therefore to my 
enemies! for this is a part of my practice. _Eureka!_ _Eureka_, Kate! 
as the old philosopher said, when he discovered what the little 
fishes knew before him: I have discovered the enemy, and to-morrow I 
will take him! Never trust me if Congress do not order me a vote of 
thanks for my doughty services.--Where's your father?"

"Sleeping in his arm-chair," replied Catherine, confounded by the 
vivacity of her friend's expressions; "tired with entertaining so 
many people, and being so much on foot; and I believe he would have 
gone to bed, except for Mr.--that is to say, Monsieur Red-Jacket."

"Hang Monsieur Red-Jacket!" cried Harriet, quickly: "If he is here, 
get rid of him,--I've a thousand things to tell you.--Not here, then? 
but coming? Shut up the house, and fasten the doors--no admission to 
any superfluities to-night. And pa's sleepy, too? Pack him off to 
bed, dear Kate; tell him 'tis ten o'clock; or wait till we get the 
carriage away, and all quiet, and don't let him know of my arrival; 
we'll surprise him in the morning. I tell you, you unconscionable 
girl, I have such a secret to relate!--a secret so big and mighty, 
that I have been more than half dead with keeping it already!"

Ardent as were the lady's desires to escape the welcome of the return 
for that night, she was doomed to a disappointment. The bustle of 
arrival broke the Captain's slumbers, and he rushed into the porch, 
after a host of domestics bearing lights, expressing his rapture that 
'his dear Harry' had arrived at such a lucky time; "For," said he, 
"we've laid in two hundred and fifty charges for the six-pounder, and 
we'll have such a roaring racket as has never been heard this ten 
years; and there's Tom Terry, the trumpeter,--was regularly brought 
up in the troop school, and blasts a charge to make your blood boil! 
and there's the drums and fifes! and there's my boy Haman to read the 
Declaration! and, by the lord, now I think of it, there's the Battle 
of Brandywine and Tom Loring dying! There never was such likenesses 
painted by mortal man."

The Captain yawned fearfully while he spoke; but his enthusiasm was 
fast dispelling his drowsiness. Miss Falconer groaned in spirit; but 
woman's wit came to her assistance. She imitated his example, opened 
her lovely mouth, with an expressiveness his own could not resist, 
exclaimed, "Oh, how tired I am!" and concluded by vowing she could 
not keep her eyes open, but must retire to rest forthwith. In this 
manner, she succeeded in escaping to Catherine's chamber, whence she 
immediately expelled both Phoebe and her mother, charging the latter, 
as the Captain had also signified his disposition to retire, to lock 
up the house, and admit no visiters to disturb her or her companion.

As soon as these instructions were given, she turned to Catherine, 
and cried, with extraordinary eagerness,

"The man with the red hat! that fellow that helped the painter out of 
the brook,--what has become of him?"

"I know not," replied Catherine, surprised at the question.

"What! has he never been seen in Hawk-Hollow again?"

"Really, I know not--I have never heard: I suppose not."

"Oh, you poor owls! blind birds that you are!" exclaimed Harriet, 
laughing, yet preserving an earnest air: "I believe, if Beelzebub 
himself came riding into the valley, nobody would suspect him to be a 
bad Christian, provided he kept his tail in his coat-pocket. As for 
the cloven hoof, he might wear that naked; no one would think of 
looking at it. And Gilbert, the Hawk of the Hollow? have you heard of 
him no more?"

"Oh, there is some idle rumour among the people, but I think it 
foolish. But, Harriet, you got my letter, with the advice I gave you? 
You must know, I had that from a sensible person I was obliged to 
take into the secret"----

"Good Heaven!" cried Harriet, in alarm, "you have not told any one? 
Catherine, how could you? This may ruin all."

"I do not know what it is to ruin, Hal; but it will not ruin by 
betrayal of the secret. Mr. Hunter is"----

"Mr. Hunter!" exclaimed Harriet, in as much wonder as dismay. "What! 
Red-Jacket? a stranger, a vagabond dauber, to be made the repository 
of such confidence! Really, Kate, you will drive me mad. How could 
you be so insane?"

"These are severe rebukes, Harriet," said Miss Loring, "and perhaps, 
in my case, they are just and well deserved; but you will not be so 
harsh with Mr. Hunter, when you know him better. He is a gentleman, 
Harriet,--in every particular, a high-minded, honourable man. On his 
good will and friendly co-operation, I knew I could rely; he was 
shrewd, sensible, and had seen one individual you inquired after; I 
had no other person to look to for advice. I acted with my best 
discretion, Harriet, and for your sake."

"Well, don't pout now," cried Miss Falconer, throwing her arms round 
her neck. "Soldiers--that is, generals,--as Harry vows, are ever 
pestilent scolds; and you must lay my shrewishness to the door of 
military impulses. The thing can't be helped; I don t blame you; if 
Red-Jacket be really a sensible fellow, why there is no harm done; 
and, as I said before, I'll patronise him; and if the matter be not 
blown already, in good truth, he will not have time left him to do 
mischief. But now for my story--and know, Catherine, in the first 
place, you are surrounded by cut-throat tories,--by skulking 
refugees,--by the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow!"

"Sure, Harriet, you are raving!" cried the Captain's daughter, in 
affright.

"It is as true as that the stars are shining above us," said Miss 
Falconer, her eyes flashing with a soldier-like fire; "and to-morrow, 
when you look only for mirth and merry-making, you will perhaps 
see--ay, Kate, _see_ them fight their last battle. It is well you had 
me to watch over you, you poor cowardly mouse; or you might have been 
scalped and murdered, a week before your wedding-day. But all's safe, 
Kate; so leave trembling, and put yourself under my protection. To 
think we had that blood-stained demon so near to us, when we were 
talking about him! Nay, to think we had him in the house here, and my 
brother and myself standing hard by! Truly, Kate, had I known him, 
and could have laid my hand on a pistol, I should have fired it at 
the audacious monster--though I have no doubt, I should have hit some 
one else. That vagabond, malignant-mouthed villain with the red 
hat--who would have dreamed that blood-coloured covering was on the 
head of Oran Gilbert?"

"Impossible, Harriet! Remember, that he was in the house here nearly 
an hour,--that Green, the Indian trader; and at that very moment, the 
party was chasing the true murderer beyond the river."

"Nonsense!" cried Miss Falconer,--"nonsense and ignorance together. 
Listen to my story, and talk no more of impossibilities."

She then proceeded to relate, that, having recovered from the shock 
and confusion of mind produced by the sudden intelligence of her 
father's mishap, she began at once to gather all the information she 
could in relation to the outrage, and rack her ingenuity to penetrate 
the mysteries that attended and followed it. The information 
communicated by Lieutenant Brooks in relation to the fugitive of the 
white horse, though it added to the perplexities of others, threw a 
gleam of light upon her active imagination. It has been mentioned 
that this young officer, while in full pursuit of Nehemiah, had 
lighted upon a certain pedler who had, but a few hours or moments 
before, exchanged horses with the parson,--a piece of traffic which 
the trader was then bitterly lamenting; for though he confessed he 
had received a reasonable 'boot,' or consideration, he declared he 
was never more cheated in his life, the horse being knocked up and 
almost wholly worthless, as any one, he said, might see; he had been 
thrown off his guard by the holy character of Nehemiah; "for who," 
said he, "would think of being cheated by a parson?" He was very 
desirous, so great was his rage at the imposition, to guide the party 
himself after the cheat; but his horse being incapable of keeping up 
with the others, they were fain to receive his instructions, and 
leave him behind.

Two suspicions instantly entered Miss Falconer's brain; first, that 
in the indignant pedler, the pursuers had found and suffered to 
escape, the very rogue they were seeking; or, (and the second 
conjecture seemed to her the more rational,) that they had lighted on 
some agent he had despatched across the river for the purpose of 
misleading the avengers, he himself assuming a new disguise, and 
boldly remaining in the Hollow, until the hue and cry were over. She 
could give no particular reasons for turning her suspicions upon the 
Indian trader, save that his fierce countenance and savage bearing 
had made a strong impression on her imagination; and as she did not 
for a moment dream that the assassin could be any other than Oran 
Gilbert, she was as ready to discover his identity in the person of 
Green as in that of Nehemiah. In all this there was evidently, as 
Catherine in fact perceived, a degree of confusion and hallucination 
in Miss Falconer's mind. The idea had seized upon her, and it was 
impossible to shake her faith in the conception. It was in vain that 
Catherine urged the impossibility of merging the gigantic bulk of 
Nehemiah in the more moderate proportions of the trader. Her mind was 
made up; on that persuasion she had governed all her actions; and the 
result satisfied her that she was right, as the events of the morrow 
would show to the whole world.

She went on to relate, that, having communicated her suspicions to 
Lieutenant Brooks, as well as her belief that the bold outlaw would 
soon gather about him all the disaffected of the country, and strike 
some unexpected blow, that he instantly declared his readiness to 
sift the matter to the bottom, and at once devised a scheme that had 
already satisfied himself and his superiors of the justice of her 
monitions. A certain private of his own company, a man of bad 
character, but of the most crafty and daring spirit, had been 
selected as a fitting instrument; and, after a singular course of 
duplicity, which she related at length, had not only discovered that 
a band of refugees was already formed in those deserted solitudes, 
but had intruded himself among them. He had managed to communicate 
with his officers through _her_; he had discovered that the band, 
which was scattered in squads through the country, was actually 
commanded by Oran Gilbert; and though he had never yet set eyes on 
this redoubtable chief, he had heard and communicated enough to prove 
that he and John Green the trader were one and the same person. He 
had discovered, also, that one object of the rising was to be the 
rescue of young Asgill, the British guardsman, then under peril of 
suffering, by the mere law of retaliation, for the execution of 
Captain Huddy, mentioned in a previous chapter; after which was 
accomplished, (and until then no danger was to be apprehended,) he 
did not doubt they would begin to burn and murder, according to the 
usual system of tory tactics. One effort had been already made by the 
desperate partisan, single-handed, to rescue the young prisoner, 
while riding out on parole; and this was only defeated by Asgill's 
firm refusal to dishonour the pledge he had given his enemies. It was 
designed therefore to carry him away by force, which might easily 
have been done, so much license being allowed him in riding out for 
exercise, had not the communications of Parker (for such was the bold 
agent's name,) put the keepers on their guard. By the same hands, she 
had been informed of one haunt of the outlaws, at which Parker was 
himself posted, and where he pledged his soul to yield up the tory 
captain on the day of the approaching festival, provided the 
instructions he gave should be implicitly followed by his officers.

She then drew, from among divers other mystic-looking documents, a 
scrap of dirty and crumpled paper, which she declared, with a laugh, 
was the last epistle she had received from her new and highly 
esteemed correspondent, which was as extraordinary in style of 
writing as in appearance, being obviously the production of a rude 
and illiterate soldier, making unusual efforts at composition on 
account of the dignity of the correspondence and the character of the 
correspondent. It began by styling Miss Falconer 'Honourable madam to 
command,' and ended, after a postscript, in which he showed a 
discreet regard for his own safety, by cautioning the lady to 'let 
all the boys on duty remember the two rabbit-tails he was to wear in 
his hat,'--'as a sign for to be known by, and not shot at by 
accident; for, these vagabond refugees being uncommon crusty 
cut-throats, there was no use in being banged at on both sides,'--and 
by 'hoping, as before, that her honourable madam was well, and 
begging her pardon for singing a soldier's song,--

  'God bless George Washington, God d----n the King!'

and was dated on the '29th June, if I reckon right, in the year of 
our Lord, Anno Domini, 1782.'

It was stated in this precious epistle, that the different squads 
were to meet on the 4th July, at a general rendezvous within seven 
miles of Elsie Bell's tavern; but for what purpose he could not 
divine; they were, however, to meet their captain there. The place he 
could not describe; but as he was ordered, with six others, to take 
post in it two or three days before the 4th, he promised, on the 
night of the 3d, to deposite a letter containing a full description 
of the place, together with his final instructions, at a certain spot 
near the park-gate, which he described with a soldier's precision. 
There was much other matter in the scrawl, which Catherine only read 
so far as to satisfy herself that this bold traitor had laid a scheme 
for surrounding the whole lurking party; and Harriet assured her, 
that his advice had been followed to a letter, that, at that very 
hour, a strong force was marching thitherward from the army, and 
would be, by sunrise, perhaps earlier, in command of all the escapes 
from Hawk-Hollow.

"Besides this," she cried with triumph, "you will see some visiters 
among the feasters you have not dreamed of,--Harry himself, Mr. 
Brooks, and Captain Caliver, at least,--to receive the instructions 
of the last letter. _That_, Kate, we will seek at the dawn of day: 
see how methodically my martial swain discourses of the place of 
deposit:


"'It's a spot you can't miss,--but to be certain, you should start 
from the middle of the gate, facing right towards the house,--march 
nineteen steps, then halt, face to the left, dress, and fetch five 
steps and a half more, which fetches you to a bush that has a sweet 
smell, with long leaves, notched like a saw,'"----


"My bush of sweet fern, as I live!" cried Catherine, in whom the 
revealments of her friend had produced an agitation bordering on 
terror.

"Do you know it, then? Good luck to my trusty Parker, knave though he 
be. I have promised him a hundred guineas for his services; and, o' 
my word, I'll make papa double them. Can't you lead me to the bush 
to-night? But no--he may not yet have sought it out, and the sight of 
persons stirring in the park might frighten him away. Come, Kate, out 
with the light; we must sleep fast, and be up early: I will rouse you 
at the first gray streak of the dawning, I warrant me; for I shall be 
dreaming of the matter all night. Oh, that letter! that letter! if a 
maiden adoring looks for the billets of her swain with more anxious 
impatience than I do for honest Parker's greasy hieroglyphics, sure 
am I, I should myself soon die of expectation, so soon as I got me a 
wooer. Oh, lack-a-day, Kate, kiss me, and good night; for I think we 
have talked evening into midnight."

Anxious as was the lady's desire to fall instantly asleep, she was 
doomed to a disappointment. Scarce had she murmured out the last good 
night in the arms of her friend, when a sudden strain of music woke 
in the outer air, mingling the jangling of strings with the hum of a 
thousand nocturnal insects, flitting among the trees. Surprised, nay, 
almost startled at the sound of a guitar (for such her practised ear 
instantly knew the instrument to be,) in a region so remote and 
unsentimental, she raised her head from the pillow, and had soon the 
satisfaction of hearing an agreeable voice, manly yet capable of much 
tenderness of expression, added to the instrument.

"Oho, Kate," said she, "do you hear that? Now suppose my mad 
confederates should have stolen a march upon me, and, in their zeal, 
made the dawn of the 4th out of the midnight of the 3d? They say, Mr. 
Brooks sings well and plays--but, foh! I never heard that voice 
before--I was dreaming. Listen!"

She held her peace, and hearkening with no little curiosity, was able 
to distinguish (a window of the chamber having been left open to 
admit the balmy night-air,) the words of the following little 
serenade.

THE WHIPPOORWILL.

I.

  Sleep, sleep! be thine the sleep that throws
  Elysium o'er the soul's repose,
  Without a dream, save such as wind,
  Like midnight angels, through the mind;
  While I am watching on the hill,
  I, and the wailing whippoorwill.
                Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill.

II.

  Sleep, sleep! and once again I'll tell
  The oft-pronounced, yet vain, farewell:
  Such should his word, oh maiden, be,
  Who lifts the fated eye to thee;
  Such should it be, before the chain
  That wraps his spirit, binds his brain.
                Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill.

III.

  Sleep, sleep! the ship has left the shore,
  The steed awaits his lord no more;
  His lord still madly lingers by
  The fatal maid he cannot fly,
  And thrids the wood, and climbs the hill,
  He and the wailing whippoorwill.
                Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill.

IV.

  Sleep, sleep! the morrow hastens on;
  Then shall the wailing slave be gone,
  Flitting the hill-top far, for fear
  The sounds of joy may reach his ear;
  The sounds of joy!--the hollow knell
  Pealed from the mocking chapel-bell.
                Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill.

"Mighty well!" exclaimed Miss Falconer, so soon as the roundelay was 
finished. "That is one of Jingleum's madrigals, I dare be sworn; for 
there's the 'ship' and the 'steed' in it; and I never yet saw or 
heard of one of his compositions that had not a touch of salt water 
and the saddle. And so the dear ape has got to singing, has he? and 
he mourns the merry marriage-bell, the goose-cap! Really, I had no 
idea the youth had so good a voice."

"You are mistaken," said Catherine, who, Miss Falconer almost 
suspected, was asleep, for she did not lift her head from the pillow, 
and rather muttered out the words than spoke,--"it is the young 
gentleman,--Mr. Hunter."

"Hah, indeed!" cried Harriet, quickly: "And _he_ has got to chains 
and chapel-bells, too? But, pho, I forgot you told me about his 
singing. This serenading, though, is somewhat presumptuous. Well now, 
good youth, get you gone, and let us to our slumbers. I'll rouse you, 
Kate, I warrant me.--Why, good heaven, what is the matter? Crying 
again, Catherine! Sure, if I spoke roughly to you, Kate, I did not 
mean to offend you; and you must remember, it was on my father's 
account I became so suspicious, and averse to strange advisers and 
confidants."

She did not doubt that Catherine was brooding over her former hasty 
and reproachful expressions; and she knew her too well to be 
surprised, when the maiden replied to her apology only by flinging 
her arms round her neck, and sobbing on her bosom. Before she could 
attempt to soothe her, the serenader again struck his instrument, and 
began chanting a melody of extreme sadness, but to words of such 
mystical purport, that they instantly engaged her whole attention, in 
an eager desire to penetrate their meaning.

  Shall I speak it to the night-wind?
    Shall I breathe it to the sky?
  It is spoken in a whisper,
    It is uttered in a sigh:
  And the sigh shall be the saddest,
    And the whisper shall be low,
  Like the sound of hidden runlets,
    In their melancholy flow.

  There's a sigh comes on the west wind--
    Hark! it rustles through the leaves,
  Like the moan----

But here the artist abruptly ceased singing; his voice and the sound 
of the instrument were as suddenly hushed as if annihilation had on 
the instant rapt him into the world of spirits. Miss Falconer sprang 
from bed, and ran to the window, hoping to discover the cause of so 
extraordinary an interruption, but without any success. A sable 
cloud, gradually stealing up from the west, and at intervals 
glimmering with faint flashes of lightning, had invested the heavens, 
and all was darkness, especially under the lime-trees near the 
window, from which the music proceeded. She thought, at first, that 
she heard the murmuring of voices, as if the singer had been arrested 
in his task by the coming of a second individual; but they were low, 
and so mingled with the rustling of leaves, that she doubted if her 
ears had not deceived her. She peered through the curtains and the 
vines that encircled the window, into the darkness, without being 
able to detect any thing like a moving figure; and she listened with 
as little effect for the sound of voices or footsteps. Whatever had 
brought the serenade to so abrupt a close, it was certain that it was 
over, and that the singer had departed.

"Perhaps," she said, as she again threw herself into the couch, "the 
tender youth is afraid of the rain; and in truth, there was a drop 
fell upon my hand. So much for spoiling a lady's rest, good Red 
Jacket! I hope he may get a ducking before he reaches the hovel. This 
is rather an odd sort of a man for a painter. Good night, Kate--now 
we will sleep in comfort and quiet."




CHAPTER XV.

  "I do not like thee, Doctor Fell;
   The reason why I cannot tell,
   But I don't like thee, Doctor Fell."


Anxiety, expectation, and perhaps an unusual degree of restlessness 
on the part of her friend, who soon fell asleep, kept Miss Falconer 
awake until a very late hour; and when she opened her eyes, after a 
short and uneasy slumber, she found a streak of sunshine playing on 
the window curtains. She started up hastily, yet so softly as not to 
discompose the Captain's daughter, with regard to whom she seemed to 
have altered all her resolutions. She arrayed herself with such 
celerity and silence as indicated a desire to escape while Catherine 
yet slumbered; and indeed it appeared, that, so far as the sleeping 
maiden was concerned, Miss Falconer had changed her feelings, as well 
as designs. She eyed Catherine occasionally with a countenance on 
which suspicion seemed struggling with anger; and when she had 
completed her toilet, she stole up to the bedside, and surveyed her 
with a look of anger, which was the more extraordinary as Catherine, 
at that moment, presented an appearance of the most attractive and, 
in fact, seraphic beauty. Her hands were clasped together under her 
chin, as if some thought of rapture were shining through her spirit; 
a smile of such delight as can only come from a heart both guileless 
and happy, beamed from her visage; her lips moved, as if breathing 
the accents of joy, though no sound came from them; and the tears 
that stole from beneath the closed eyelids, were evidently shed in 
pleasure, not sorrow. Miss Falconer's countenance darkened, as she 
gazed; but she gazed only for a moment; and soon stealing from the 
bedside, she crept out of the chamber.

The rattling of the latch, as the door closed, dispelled the dream of 
delight, and Catherine instantly arose, and prepared to follow her 
friend, whom she had in vain called after to return. Miss Falconer 
had already left the house, and long before Catherine reached her, 
she saw that she had found her way to the memorable bush of fern. She 
saw also, without explanation from her friend, that some singular 
accident had defeated, at the very moment of its accomplishment, the 
plan so subtly laid and so zealously pursued. No letter or scrap of 
any kind was found in the appointed place; yet it was evident the 
bush had been visited by at least one, perhaps by two persons, in the 
course of the night. It was deranged and torn; two flat stones were 
found lying at its roots, which Miss Falconer did not doubt had been 
designed to protect the paper from the dews of the night, as well as 
the eyes of passers-by; and there were foot-prints in the grass, some 
of which were very distinct, having been left since a light rain, 
that had fallen during the night.

The chagrin and dismay of Miss Falconer at this unlooked for 
termination of her hopes, entirely drove from her mind the 
recollection of her late displeasure, together with its secret cause. 
She wondered and lamented, and devised a thousand suppositions for 
explaining the phenomenon, but without satisfying herself. Was it 
possible the treachery of her agent could have been discovered by his 
comrades, at the very moment of its consummation? Could such a 
discovery have been made by accident, and in the dead of the night? 
What now was she to do? how supply the information of which she had 
been robbed? how act upon that already received? how avert the 
ridicule of the coadjutors she had drawn into her schemes? how 
propitiate her brother?--For sure he had not ceased laughing at her, 
from the hour he was let into the secret, and would make it the theme 
of raillery to his dying day.

To the latter questions Miss Loring could frame no answers; but in 
regard to the former and more important, she expressed her doubts 
whether the agent had really visited the appointed place at all. It 
was _not_ probable he could himself have found his way to the bush at 
night, or that another should have followed him to it. The marks of 
footsteps were, in all likelihood, left by some of the patrons of the 
jubilee, collecting shrubs and flowers to adorn the rostrum--her 
garden had been thrown open to them for the purpose, and, she doubted 
not, they had already despoiled it. What was more probable than that 
some of those persons, returning from the house to the promontory, 
should have nosed the sweet-smelling shrub, as they passed by, and 
appropriated its leafy honours, along with those of other plants 
discovered on the way? Parker might yet come, and deliver his 
communication in person; or perhaps he found it impossible to escape 
the vigilance of his wild comrades, now rendered doubly watchful by 
the gathering of so many people in their neighbourhood. It was plain 
that Harriet must now give up the prosecution of the scrutiny into 
the hands of more fitting agents. If there were refugees in the land, 
a single word could convert the assembled revellers into soldiers, 
who would instantly scour the hills in every direction, and rid their 
peaceful solitude of such dangerous intruders; and if the companies 
and officers Miss Falconer had spoken of, had taken position in the 
woods, a general rising of the people must result in the capture of 
perhaps the whole gang. It was plain, at least, that the wisest plan 
to be followed was, to remain in tranquillity, until her military 
friends arrived; when it would remain for them to determine what 
further steps were to be taken.

The frustration of her sanguine hopes threw a shadow over Miss 
Falconer's spirits, and plunged her besides into a fit of 
peevishness, which she, before long, indulged to an extent that both 
surprised and pained her friend. Thus, her father making his 
appearance the moment they returned to the house, and, so soon as he 
had expressed his joy at seeing her, declaring she should see 'his 
excellent young dog, Hunter, the painter, the greatest genius and 
most capital fine scoundrel in the whole world,' she let fall certain 
expressions of scorn that might have stirred the Captain's choler, 
had his mind not been wholly occupied with 'the grand picture,' which 
it was now in his power to exhibit. The painter had laboured with 
much zeal, and, three or four days before, had brought his sketch to 
the mansion, to receive the father's and daughter's criticism on what 
had been done, as well as to introduce the Captain's figure; and he 
was easily prevailed upon to accept his patron's invitation, and 
continue his labours, until the sketch should be completed, on the 
spot.

Notwithstanding her dissatisfaction of mind, Miss Falconer could not 
deny, that, so far as he had gone, the artist had exhibited no little 
skill in the design and execution of his piece. It represented the 
young hero lying across the knees of his father, while Catherine 
knelt at his side, her hands clasped between those of her dying 
brother. A dead horse, a young oak-tree, shivered by a cannon-ball, a 
broken gun-carriage, and two or three other characteristic objects, 
made up, with this group, the fore-ground of the picture; while the 
back-ground, to which little had been yet done, was sketched over 
with hills and trees, and a confused medley of contention--broken 
columns of men, flying horses, and wreaths of smoke. With the three 
portraits Miss Falconer was very much struck; she had the vehement 
testimony of Captain Loring, and the melancholy assent of his 
daughter, in regard to the likeness of the expiring youth; and she 
could see with her own eyes, how well the painter had succeeded with 
both the others; though, as Captain Loring averred, 'he did not like 
so much red on his nose;' "and as for the tears that the young fellow 
has put into my eyes," he exclaimed, blubbering as he spoke, "why 
that's all nonsense, for I never shed a tear in my life--adzooks, I 
didn't!"

As there was a violation of the unity of place in the introduction of 
Catherine upon the battleground, so also there was an evident 
anachronism, which the painter had been guilty of, in depicting her, 
not as a little girl, as she was at the period of her brother's 
death, but a woman, such as she now appeared. The fault, such as it 
was, was easily pardoned, since it perhaps allowed a wider scope for 
expression; and on this visage, it was obvious, the artist had 
exhausted his skill. Independent of its beauty, it had such an air of 
deep grief as almost conveyed the history of the after life and 
feelings of the subject--secret sorrow, and a sense of lone, 
unfriended destitution, never to be banished a moment from her bosom.

While the three were engaged surveying the sketch, the painter 
himself entered the apartment. Piercing, almost fierce and menacing, 
was the look with which Miss Falconer regarded him; and her 
recognition of his salutation was haughty in the extreme. She 
observed, too, with high displeasure, with what frank and almost 
eager haste Catherine extended him her hand, and how her voice 
trembled in the uttered welcome, as if it were bestowed upon one 
endeared by long years of friendship; and she turned upon Catherine a 
look that almost frightened her from her propriety, when the latter, 
leading Hunter up, to present him with a more ceremonious form than 
her father had thought fit to use, said, as if to bespeak her good 
will at once,

"This, Miss Falconer, is my good and valued friend and _confidant_," 
(she strove to pronounce the word archly,) "Mr. Hunter."

"It is very well," said Harriet, turning coldly away, and fixing her 
eye upon the picture. "I am admiring his work, and striving to 
understand it."

"I do not pretend to be very perspicuous," said the painter, 
disregarding the mortifying reception and the perhaps equally 
ungrateful sarcasm. "Mystery is said to be an ingredient in the 
sublime; and as that is my aim, _of course_, (it belongs to the 
aspirations of all youthful candidates for immortality,) I always 
contrive to be as full of mystery as possible."

To this speech, which was uttered with an air of pleasantry, Miss 
Falconer only replied by a second penetrating stare; and then fixed 
her eye again upon the sketch. The painter, determined not to find 
offence where it was palpably meant, resumed his discourse, saying,

"I am afraid that my foolish music, last night, may have disturbed 
Miss Falconer. I forgot she had a right to be fatigued after her 
journey, until the plash of a rain-drop in my eye, as I lifted it 
romantically to heaven, brought me to my senses, and, ludicrously 
enough, in the very middle of one of Mr. Jingleum's best pieces."

"You knew, then, that I----Oh, certainly! the carriage rattled by 
Elsie's door. I am sensible of the compliment, sir, and return you my 
thanks."

These expressions Miss Falconer uttered with much vivacity, and began 
the question which she ceased so abruptly, in a voice of eagerness. 
Indeed, she felt that she had been almost thrown off her guard; and 
she therefore, without any purpose, except to divert the attention of 
those present to another subject, and certainly with no definite 
object in view, said, laying her finger at the same time on the 
sketch,

"I do not well understand this tree, sir. What kind do you call it?"

"Oh," said Hunter, with a smile, "that is a palm."

"A _palm_!" cried Miss Falconer, eyeing him with surprise; "and pray, 
sir, how came a palm on the hills of the Brandywine?"

The question threw the painter into confusion, which was increased by 
the keen and searching glances of the critic, over whom this third 
violation of propriety seemed to produce as strong an effect as the 
detection of it did on the unlucky artist.

"A palm! good heavens," he stammered, with a laugh; "and I did not 
myself discover the incongruity before? Ah, Miss Falconer, you are 
the very princess of censors; and I am glad you saw the fault, before 
it might have been too late to remedy it. But 'use doth breed a habit 
in a man,' as the great poet says; and painters are only flesh and 
blood, after all. This comes of taking my first lessons in painting, 
among the lagoons of Carolina. I must look close: I warrant me, I 
have stuck a live-oak into the picture also."

"Really, sir," said Miss Falconer, whom the opportunity of playing 
the critic seemed to have put into a better humour, "I must beg 
pardon for my ignorance. I thought that in Carolina we had no palms, 
except cabbage-trees; and this has a marvellous soaring, long-leaved, 
cocoa-nut appearance, judging from the prints I have seen of that 
tree, for of the tree itself I am quite ignorant."

"You are right, madam," said the painter; "the cocoa-nut is, in every 
way, a much finer palm than the cabbage-tree; and for that reason, I 
have always been accustomed to take a painter's license with the 
latter, to make it as graceful and stately as possible. Painting, you 
know, is a sort of palpable poetry; and one must not be tied down too 
closely to nature."

"The cocoa-nut has an immensely long leaf, has it not?" demanded Miss 
Falconer.

"Full fifteen feet," said the painter, warming into enthusiasm; "and 
each one so much shaped like a great waving feather, that you might 
deem it a plume plucked from the wing of Lucifer, or some other 
colossus of demons. One can never forget its majestic appearance, who 
has once looked upon the tree."

"You have been, then, in the Islands?"

"Certainly, madam, yes;--that is to say, in my early youth, when the 
tree made a great impression on my mind. You may judge, therefore, 
how natural it is that I should amend our inferior palms by adding 
somewhat of the beauty of those that belong to the tropics."

"Oh, very natural," said Harriet; "but it is quite droll you should 
put one upon the Brandywine."

And with this indifferent remark she closed a conversation that 
seemed, even to the unsuspicious Catherine, to be somewhat 
embarrassing to the painter, though she was glad to find how quickly 
it dispelled her friend's peevish humour.

They were soon summoned to the breakfast table, to partake a hasty 
repast, previous to visiting the scene of celebration, towards which 
several merry-makers were seen directing their way, even at this 
early hour. Miss Falconer appeared surprised that the young man did 
not instantly take his leave; but she soon discovered he was there 
for the purpose of attending her kinswoman to the promontory, that 
duty having been expressly delegated to him by the Captain, who had 
accepted the honourable and highly responsible command of the 
six-pounder, and the three or four vagabonds who were to serve it, 
and had therefore duties of his own to look after. He soon deserted 
the table, saying he left his young painter 'to look after her and 
his Kate; his rogues were coming after the powder, and he knew they 
would shoot off some of their legs or arms, adzooks, unless he 
accompanied them back to the hill.'

In the meanwhile, Miss Falconer, discharging her hauteur and 
petulance altogether, talked freely with the Captain's guest, and 
appeared much interested in his conversation, and many obvious good 
qualities. But it was observable, that as her ease and frankness 
increased, those of Hunter proportionately fell, until he became 
visibly reserved, and almost silent. This mood, however, did not last 
long; and by the time the little party was on its way to the scene of 
festivity, he was as gay and spirited as ever.




CHAPTER XVI.

  Then came the felon on his sable steed.
                         THEODORE AND HONORIA.


The festival, so far as events allowed it to proceed, was rather a 
pic-nic, of a somewhat patriotic character, than a true national 
celebration; and such indeed it might have been esteemed, had it not 
been for the occasional roar of the six-pounder, and the ambitious 
din kept up by the muskets, and the drum and fife of a small company 
of volunteers, the only portion of the county military who could be 
induced to honour Hawk-Hollow with their attendance. Few, however, as 
were the persons present, they claimed to form in themselves the 
flower of the district; and rather rejoicing in than regretting the 
absence of the great multitude, they proceeded with zeal to despatch 
what was esteemed the business of the day, in order that they might 
the sooner advance to its pleasures. In fact, all interest in the 
proper business of celebration was soon found to be confined to 
Captain Loring, the officers of the day, and their immediate 
adherents and partisans; the greater number of revellers, both male 
and female, preferring to ramble about in groups along the river 
shore, rather than to sit in solemn expectation on the promontory, 
awaiting the beginning of the proceedings. There were more attractive 
charms to the mass in the grassy glades below, where attendants were 
busily occupied in preparing for the feast and the dance, some 
arraying stores of napkins and platters along the course of the 
brook, and others matting together bushes and branches of trees, so 
as to form temporary canopies. In some places might be seen a knot of 
Sabbath-clad bumpkins, moving among the horses that were tied under 
the trees, and discoursing learnedly upon their good and bad points; 
in others, were collected divers rural beauties, admiring one 
another's bonnets, or exchanging, like merchants at a fair, their 
little stock of innocent scandals--the peculiar products of their 
respective neighbourhoods; and in one place, an amalgamation of the 
two interests was already effected, and a romping country-dance begun 
upon the green sward. Some idlers, incapable of any other exercise of 
their faculties, had begged pins of their cousins and sweethearts, 
converted them into minnow-hooks, and were already angling from the 
rocks; some, more gallant, were paddling their favourites about in 
canoes; some were singing; some rejoicing in the felicity of a jest; 
and in two different places afar off, was heard the screaming plaint 
of flutes, sounded by as many youthful followers of the Musagetes, 
who had stolen to their solitudes alone.

In the meanwhile, those who were most zealous in the cause which had 
brought them together, remained on the top of the promontory, whiling 
the time in conversation, until the moment should arrive fixed on for 
opening the rites of the day. The prospect from this elevation was 
extensive, and, at one spot, it comprehended a view of a horse-path 
sloping down the hills on the further bank of the river, which, in 
seasons of drought, like the present, was there fordable. It looked 
besides over a part of the valley, and afforded a clear glimpse of 
the public highway at a place near to the park-gate, where it ran 
over a hill. Both these roads possessed, on the present occasion, a 
peculiar interest in the mind of Miss Falconer, and she had chosen 
her resting place, with the view of keeping them always in her eye. 
She was followed to it by a select group, consisting, besides the 
Captain's daughter, of the painter, the orator of the day, Dr. 
Merribody, and a few of that immediate coterie. Her vivacity on this 
occasion was remarkable; but it was observed by many that there was a 
degree of restlessness and even uneasiness in her deportment, which 
were displayed in her frequent changes of conversation, and the 
piercing looks she occasionally bent on all present, as if in some 
sudden and short-lived fit of abstraction, that rendered her 
unconscious of them herself. These glances she bestowed more 
frequently upon her friend Catherine than any other person present; 
though some supposed they proceeded from solicitude; for it was now 
remarked that the Captain's daughter was thinner and paler than of 
old, as if suffering from some hidden or not yet fully developed, 
indisposition. There was an air of lassitude in her countenance and 
movements; and the bursts of merry humour that once marked her 
conversation, were now few and far between.

The individual who shared her piercing looks in the second degree, 
was undoubtedly the painter, with whom she carried on a conversation 
frequently very animated, and distinguished by a kind of malicious 
ambition, no one knew why, unless it proceeded from sheer good will, 
to betray him into inconsistencies and contradictions. She took 
occasion to recur to the subject of the serenade, and requested him, 
with many compliments, to resume 'the pretty little ditty of the Sigh 
and the Whisper,' as she called it, which had been so abruptly 
terminated on the preceding night by the rain-cloud, and the request 
being backed by that of others, he very good-naturedly consented to 
sing, objecting however to the lay in question, that being entirely 
of a serenading character, and therefore unfit for chanting by 
day-light. "Instead of that," said he, "I will sing you the song of 
_River, O River_, which always brings back the dear Pedee to my 
recollections." And so saying, with but little of that hemming and 
coughing, which we have good authority for esteeming the 'prelude to 
a bad voice,' he immediately sang the following little roundelay, 
turning his eyes the while, with a mournful earnestness, upon the 
Delaware, as if _that_, by a turn of prosopopoeia, was made to supply 
the place of the Southern river.

I.

  River, O River of light! whereon
    The eyes of my youth were cast,
  And many an idle hour and day
    In mirth and joy were past;
  Still bright and quiet thou flowest on,
    As flow'd my earlier years,
  Without a ripple, save those that rise
    Beneath my dropping tears.

II.

  River, O River! the trees still shake
    Their leaves in thy passing tide;
  And the nodding flowers the glass'd flowers see,
    That mock them as they glide.
  'Twas thus, even thus, in ages gone;
    But others,--alas, all flown!--
  Were wont to sit on thy gray old rocks,
    Where now I rest alone.

III.

  River, O River! thy charm is gone,
    For those that gave it are fled;
  And the thoughts thou wakest are dark and sad,--
    The thoughts of the distant dead.
  None of them rest where they should rest,
    By the waters they loved to see;
  And thy green banks a grave shall yield
    To none, unless to me.

IV.

  River, O River! my lady yet
    Walks on thy verdant shore;
  But though she smiles on thy bright blue waves,
    She smiles on me no more.
  I will not look on thy happy tide,
    Nor list to thy breeze's stir,
  When knowing, however she sighs by thee,
    Another sighs with her.

A deep sigh came from the breast of Jingleum; but before it had 
reached any ear but his own, Miss Falconer fixed her eyes on the 
singer, and asked him, with much inquisitorial emphasis,

"Pray, sir, how came those 'gray old rocks' into the Pedee?"

"_How!_" echoed Herman; "Truly, I know not; that is a question for a 
geologist."

"Really, sir," said the lady, maliciously, "I am surprised they 
should be found in the Pedee, which, I have heard, rolls through a 
quagmire."

"You are right, Miss Falconer. The Pedee _proper_ is without rocks; 
but the Yadkin, which is the upper portion of it, and mountainous, 
has as rugged a bed as any other river. But allow me to say,"--this 
he uttered with a smile of triumph, as if aware of her desire to 
catch him tripping,--"you appear to suppose the song commemorative of 
my native river; whereas, if I can believe the poet, my friend Mr. 
Jingleum, it relates entirely to the Delaware before us."

"Ah! I forgot--I thought you were speaking of the Pedee; and I longed 
to show my knowledge of geography," said the lady. "But, hark, sir; 
there is the roll of the drum; the volunteers are cocking their 
pieces, the Captain is just priming the artillery, and now we shall 
have the signal for beginning the ceremonies.--I hope, sir, you have 
well studied the Declaration?"

"I have, madam," said the youth, who seemed to discover something 
offensive in the bantering question; "and, however incompetent to the 
task of pronouncing it with eloquence, or even effect, I believe 
there is no one present who has given it more thought than my own 
unworthy self."

At the signal thus indicated, the various truants on the river-bank 
were seen thronging hastily up the hill, and the orator, reader, and 
officers of the day, immediately ascended the rostrum. Before the 
preliminaries were all completed, an exclamation from Captain Loring, 
who had mounted with them, drew the eyes of all across the river.

"Soldiers, by the lord! adzooks, soldiers!" he cried, and the 
patriots beheld three horsemen, in military attire, riding down the 
horse-path on the opposite bank of the river. "Look, Harry, my dear, 
look!" continued the Captain, eagerly; "'tis our brother Harry, I'll 
be sworn! Could tell him among ten thousand. Sits his horse like a 
general; and a wonderful handsome dog--and, see, he is waving his 
handkerchief!"

But Miss Falconer was at this moment staring at another object in a 
contrary direction, of more attraction even than her brother. She 
beheld a single horseman, riding slowly along the road by the 
park-gate, wending his way towards the cottage of Elsie Bell, and 
apparently too much wrapped up in his own reflections to bestow a 
glance, or even a thought, upon the scene of commotion presented by 
the promontory. The distance of the road was at least a mile; but it 
was easy to perceive, first, that the man was mounted upon a white 
horse, and, secondly, that his head-gear was of a flaming red 
colour,--two circumstances that filled both the eyes and the heart of 
the gazer with fire. She turned her face to the rostrum, on which 
Hunter was already displaying the record of a nation's 
enfranchisement; but interrupted his proceedings without ceremony, 
crying eagerly,

"You have a painter's eyes, Mr. Hunter--do you know that man on the 
road yonder? A red hat, I think?--a rawboned horse?--An acquaintance 
of yours, Mr. Hunter?"

"An acquaintance?" echoed the painter, with a look of surprise. "At 
this distance, it is impossible"----

"Mr. Jingleum, what say you?" cried Harriet, hastily; "or you, Mr. 
Pepperel?"

"The midnight oil, Miss Falconer," murmured the modest bard; but was 
interrupted by the lawyer, saying,

"It is necessary, before arriving at a conclusion, to examine into 
the premises; and before deciding upon this matter, I should like to 
have, not only the evidence of my own eyes, but the evidence of the 
eyes of other persons,"----when he was, in turn, silenced by the 
sudden exclamation of Dr. Merribody.

"I know the fellow, as well as I know my own patients," he cried, 
pursing his eye-brows together; "'tis that scoundrelly quack fellow, 
John Green, the Indian trader; and I hope he may come here before 
night, that somebody may get drunk and trounce him."

"Bravo!" cried Miss Falconer; and turning towards the river, she 
waved her handkerchief, as if to hasten the advance of her martial 
friends.

"Nonsense!" cried Hunter, eagerly, but manifesting some little 
agitation. "What! Green, the good fellow that pulled me from the 
brook? Nonsense, doctor; that man is twice as tall; and besides, he 
rides quite a different horse."

"I'll stand up to it," said the doctor, with dignity. "As for his 
horse, why these traders are always buying and stealing; and there's 
his red hat, as clear as a bunch of sumach, the red-headed villain! 
But never mind any such vagabonds: read away, Hunter, my boy, and let 
Jingleum begin; for I am as hungry as a horse-leech, and I long to be 
at something more substantial than all your confounded orations."

"Hang the reading," cried the painter, petulantly; "let us see what's 
in the wind first.--We should at least be civil to the army officers: 
you see, they are regulars; and, there, they have given up their 
horses to old Richard, the coachman, and are running up the hill, 
like three hounds after breakfast.--Rogues, you will be sorted! and 
fair Britomart, you shall this time wave the lance of cunning in 
vain!" The last expressions were muttered within the recesses of his 
own heart.

In the meanwhile, the three officers, ascending the hill quickly, 
were met by Miss Falconer, who flew to meet them, crying, "To horse, 
gentlemen, to horse! the game is riding into your very arms."

These words were heard even at the rostrum, and filled all present 
with surprise; which was not much allayed, when the youngest of the 
three martialists, seizing upon Miss Falconer's hand, exclaimed, with 
a laugh,

"Egad, sister Hal, we have resolved to convert you into Prince Hal, 
and make you Tory-taker General. Here's my friend, captain Caliver, 
who admires your abilities at strategy immensely; as for Brooks, why, 
gad's my life, he is your Grand-Vizier. But where's our dog Parker? 
and what news of those vagabond Hawks of the Hollow? Where's the 
thief, Joram, or Oram, or what d'ye call it? Ah, Captain Loring, my 
excellent friend! Ah, Miss Loring! ah, Miss"----

"Brother," cried Harriet, with an energy that startled all present, 
"you have no time for compliments. Accident has repaired the injuries 
of accident, and fate has thrust him you seek into your very hands. 
Mount, gentlemen, mount!--Mount, all who have horses, and ride up the 
ravine to the witch's cottage: the volunteers, and all our friends 
here who are on foot, can run across the fields, and secure the road, 
so as to prevent retreat. The man in the red hat, and with a white 
horse,--the canting Poke, or the sour-mouthed Green--all is one for 
that; seize him, and you seize the most audacious of traitors, the 
most ferocious of assassins!"

"Adzooks!" cried Captain Loring, "what's all this?"

"It means, Captain, egad," said young Falconer, grinning with pure 
delight, "that Hal here has been hunting your famous Hawks, till she 
has found them; and now, egad, if we can believe her, she is about to 
nab them. As for the road, sister, we have that safe enough, with 
twenty foot, and ten picked horse, coming down from the Gap; there 
are two companies, also, ordered to the village; and if you want more 
force, why we must e'en call upon the volunteers. The end of all 
this, gentlemen," continued the delighted lieutenant, "is, that you 
have a gang of refugees among you; and that their leader, Oram or 
Joram Gilbert, or whatever you call him,--captain Gilbert, they call 
him,--a very bold, murdering fellow, has just ridden by, as Miss 
Falconer says, and in a red hat, egad, and on a white horse, and with 
some dozen names or two; and so, gentlemen, we'll mount horse, and 
take him."

Had a thunderbolt darted from the blue sky among the group assembled 
on the hill, it could not have produced a more sudden terror, than 
did the name of the renowned refugee, with the announcement of his 
proximity to the scene of celebration. The name of the outlaw was 
familiar to all, as an omen of fear and blood; and while many of the 
young men re-echoed it after the lieutenant with open dismay, it 
produced such a general scream from the women as made the rocks 
resound, and added but little to the courage of their protectors. As 
for the lieutenant himself, he seemed to be vastly diverted by the 
general explosion of fright; though he instantly waved his hand to 
his friends, calling upon captain Caliver to mount, and waggishly 
directing his brother lieutenant to 'form the women and volunteers, 
and march them to the scene of action;' when Hunter, leaping down 
from the rostrum, exclaimed,--

"This is a mistake, an absurdity; I can assure Miss Falconer that the 
man who rode by is no more a Hawk of the Hollow than I am; at least, 
I am certain he is not Green, the trader, whom I will avouch to be an 
honest man."

"Let Mr. Hunter first avouch that for himself," said Miss Falconer, 
with a glance of fire; "the question will soon be asked him.--Quick, 
brother, quick! haste, gentlemen, haste! and all who can do nothing 
better, follow me up to the road-side."

Perhaps the singular sarcasm the young lady thought fit to fling at 
the painter, was unheard by him,--for finding that, despite his 
remonstrance, the officers were running down the hill towards their 
horses, he uttered a sudden shout, and immediately imitated their 
example, bounding along at such a pace that he soon outstripped the 
fleetest.

In a moment, the assembly was broken up, and the revellers flying in 
all possible directions. Here were seen women running to conceal 
themselves among rocks and bushes; and there one or two prudent 
gentlemen, who declared themselves 'men of peace, and no fighters,' 
paddling across the river, to get out of harm's way, with but little 
regard to the beauties they left screaming after them on the shore. 
But the torrent of fugation, though it sent off so many irregular 
rills, was seen dividing into two chief currents, one of which, 
consisting principally of mounted men, went, like the back-water of a 
flood, rolling up the ravine leading to the Traveller's Rest, while 
the other, consisting of such volunteers as had not already broken 
and followed after the officers, and such worthy celebrators as had 
the courage to imitate the example of Miss Falconer and Captain 
Loring, made its way on foot towards the public road.




CHAPTER XVII.

  Thorough brake, thorough brier,
  Thorough muck, thorough mier,
  Thorough water, thorough fier,
  And thus goes Puck about it.
                      DRAYTON--_Nymphidia_.


It has been seen, that if the painter made an effort to restrain the 
enthusiasm of the multitude, he instantly proved that he was not 
without the virtue himself, so soon as he found it was really 
determined to pursue the suspected person. The horses of the officers 
had been led round the hill to the covert where the others were tied; 
and towards this place he directed his steps, crying out all the 
time, with encouraging alacrity, "Quick, gentlemen, quick!"

But the strongest proof of his zeal he gave, the moment he had 
reached the horses, by vaulting upon the back of the nearest, (and, 
in his estimation, the best,) which happened, at that moment, to be 
in the hands of the venerable coachman, Richard, who was leading the 
animal round with a degree of solicitude and attention, that were 
testimonials enough of its value. Herman's lodgings being so nigh at 
hand, he had thought it wholly superfluous to trouble himself with 
his own roan charger; and the present emergency was of a nature so 
peculiar, he did not stop a moment to consider the lawfulness of the 
seizure. He leaped therefore into the saddle, jerked the reins out of 
Richard's hand; and the wrath of the owner, who was no other than 
lieutenant Falconer himself, was extreme, when he beheld the 
audacious stranger, his own loud calls to the contrary 
notwithstanding, bestride the captured steed with the air of an 
emperor, and instantly put him to his speed.

"Harkee, halt! stop! you've mistaken your horse," cried the 
lieutenant. "_Who_ is that impudent scoundrel? My horse, you rogue! 
Give me a pistol, Caliver, and I'll shoot him off."

But the anger of the soldier was unavailing; the painter swept out of 
sight, and while Falconer was calling on his friend Caliver, (a 
gentleman of a weather beaten face, very lantern-jawed, and with a 
red nose,) he also darted forward and vanished. Nothing remained for 
him but to follow the example set him by Hunter; and accordingly, he 
seized upon the best charger he could find, and with his brother 
officer and others, galloped after the two leaders.

The reader may remember that the Traveller's Rest was described as 
lying at the upper termination of a ravine, which swept down to the 
river, and just before it debouched thereon, received the waters of 
Hawk-Hollow Run. From the promontory so often spoken of, the cottage 
was plainly visible, and approachable along the bed of the river, 
even by horsemen, provided they were of the steeple-chase order, or 
were moved by any occasion so stirring as the present. The 
obstructions and difficulties, nevertheless, were of a nature, to 
call for great circumspection on the part of the riders; and 
accordingly the greater number of pursuers began to exercise their 
discretion so soon almost as they had well set out. The two leaders, 
however, dashed onwards with fiery zeal, and performed feats of 
horsemanship that gained them the applause of the laggards. It was 
fortunate for Herman that his spirit and address soon won him the 
good will of the cavalry officer, (for such was captain Caliver) at 
his heels. He had remarked the seizure of his friend's charger, and 
at first meditated a wrathful reprimand. He succeeded in coming 
within speaking distance, as Hunter toiled up an ascent of unusual 
ruggedness, and instantly hailed him:

"Harkee, my friend," said he, "you ride like a gentleman, and a 
little training would fit you for the army: but do you know you have 
mistaken your horse?"

"Faith, there is no mistake about it," cried the painter, "for my 
horse was not on the ground. In such an emergency, sir--but enough. 
Are you armed, captain? are you armed?"

"Surely my holsters are at my saddle-bow," quoth the cavalry officer, 
spurring up, as he reached a more level ground, on which he could 
display all the qualities of his charger; "and as surely you will 
find Harry Falconer's at his, if you know how to use them. Harkee, my 
friend, I will not make so bold as to consider you in a fright; but 
you are quite white about the lips."

"Ay, true," said the painter, clapping his hand to the holsters, and 
drawing forth a weapon, but taking no particular notice of the 
soldier's insinuation: "Captain, had you not better draw up, and wait 
for some of the company, while I push on, and secure the road?"

"I vow to heaven," said captain Caliver, "I would knock you off your 
horse, did I not know you spoke in the ignorant innocence of your 
heart. Draw up, and wait for company? It is not in my nature to call 
any man an ass, except a private; and you are here, I think, as a 
volunteer. So, Mr. Gentleman-volunteer, be pleased to look upon me as 
commander-in-chief, and attend to my instructions.--Do you know that 
Oran Gilbert, when you see him?"

"How should I? The Indian trader, to be sure, I know; and you will 
soon find, that this fellow of the white horse is no more like him 
than I am."

"Very well--Fall behind, Mr. Gentleman-volunteer, and"----

"I will do no such thing," said the youth, stoutly; "I will ride, 
fight, and kill refugees with any man in the county; and if you show 
me one, I'll engage to shoot him at sixty paces,--that is, with a 
good pistol,--I will, by the lord!"

And so saying, the volunteer brandished his pistol with such ardour 
that it suddenly went off in his hand, with a report that set the 
whole ravine roaring, and materially expedited the march of their 
followers, who responded with an instant cheer.

The captain of cavalry stretched forth his hand, seized Hunter's 
bridle, and was about to express certain rough suspicions which this 
untimely explosion created in his mind, when the painter cried out, 
with as much apparent innocence as confusion,

"Egad, I believe 'twas a hair-trigger!"

"Spur up, and no more firing," cried the soldier; "or by the eternal 
Jupiter, I'll knock you off your horse. You have alarmed the wigwam; 
see what a hubbub you have raised in the van, as well as on the rear! 
the tavern is in commotion. Hah! by the eternal Jupiter, there goes 
Red-hat! Spur up, gentleman volunteer; or by the eternal Jupiter, the 
fellow will escape!"

The report of the pistol had indeed reached the Traveller's Rest, and 
drawn forth its two or three inmates; who could now easily behold the 
whole train of horsemen dashing furiously up the ravine; and the 
quick eye of captain Caliver was not slow in detecting a person on 
horseback, with a red hat, pricking hastily away from the cottage.

"The game is sprung,--the rabbit is up!" he cried, while the fire 
that burned on his thin nose, seemed to have raised a kindred flash 
in his dark gray eyes. "Gentleman-volunteer, do you see? Now you 
shall behold the doings of Sky-scraper, the best horse for a long 
race on short fodder, that was ever galled by saddle. Up the bank 
here, and after!"

"You are wrong, captain, you are wrong," cried the painter, eagerly. 
"'Tis a white horse, you know; and this is a roan, or sorrel."

There could be no truth more incontestible than this; yet captain 
Caliver was of too sagacious a spirit, or perhaps was warming with 
too much fire, to be led from his purpose by an argument not of his 
own devising.

"I will be uncivil to no man but a private," he cried, fixing his eye 
upon the fugitive, (who was for a moment's space plainly visible, as 
he galloped up the road,) compressing his lips, till they actually 
seemed to have vanished, and, at the same time, driving his spurs 
deep into his steed; "I say, I will be rough-spoken to none but 
privates, for it does not hurt their feelings; but, by the eternal 
Jupiter, there goes our man!--or what does he mean by wearing a red 
hat? and, lastly, what does he mean by beating a retreat in such a 
fashion? Harkee, Mr. Gentleman-volunteer, I am glad now you fired 
that pistol. Had we come upon the dog silently, why then I should 
have picked him up, rolled up in a ball, like an opossum; which is a 
job for a black man, and not a captain of cavalry. I say," he 
continued, with increasing animation, "I am glad you have roused him, 
and shown him a fair field; for, by the eternal Jupiter, I have not 
seen a race worthy to speak of for two weeks; and, by the eternal 
Jupiter, you shall see such a one now as will make your blood run; 
and, by the eternal Jupiter, I hope his horse is blooded, for, by the 
eternal Jupiter, I will run him, or any other respectable tory 
gentleman, from time temporal to time eternal, from post to pillar, 
from Sunday to Saturday, and from life and the dinner-table to death 
and"----. And here the captain of horse, who was something of a horse 
himself when his blood was up, ended climacterically with a most 
soldier-like word, which, although it may be found in any English 
dictionary with which the public is acquainted, will nevertheless 
read more agreeably in a dictionary than any where else. He added, 
indeed, three more words; for turning his horse's head towards the 
steep bank that bounded the ravine on the right hand, he twisted a 
lock of the charger's mane round his finger, and uttered the 
cabalistic ejaculation,--

"Go it, Sky-scraper!"

The words had an immediate effect; no sooner did they reach his ear 
than Sky-scraper, with a plunge that carried him half a length ahead 
of the painter, darted to the brow of the acclivity; and Herman 
following, he beheld the Indian trader, (for it was this identical 
individual they were now pursuing,) some five or six hundred paces in 
advance, travelling at a very unusual pace up the highway. As Hunter 
reached the road, he cast his eye backwards to the hovel, and beheld, 
riding into the oak yard, a man whom he knew at once to be the person 
that had first attracted Miss Falconer's notice. He rode a white 
horse, and there was a red covering to his head; but this latter 
phenomenon, as it appeared, was owing entirely to the presence of a 
red handkerchief drawn over the horseman's hat, doubtless to shield 
his eyes from the sun-beams, or from the dazzling rays reverberated 
from a dusty road. There was nothing at all warlike in the appearance 
of this individual; on the contrary, he seemed, from his dress, to 
belong to the community of Friends; and he paused at the entrance of 
the yard, looking back on the chase he had left behind, with much 
innocent curiosity and wonder.

"Captain," cried the painter, at the top of his voice, "wheel about. 
You are leaving the true man: here he is, full in view, behind us!"

The captain answered only by repeating the charm that had already 
nerved the limbs, and fired the spirit of his steed; and Herman, 
urged by feelings and inducements of his own, followed after him; and 
in a few moments, the fugitive and his two pursuers were alike buried 
in a cloud of dust, raised by the fleet chargers.

When the two leaders so suddenly left the ravine, they were beyond 
the sight of those who brought up the rear; and these, not doubting 
they had continued their original route, galloped on themselves until 
they reached the little inn; where the first person they saw was a 
tall, middle-aged, gawky quaker, the same that had been seen by 
Herman, sitting astride his horse, and staring on them with gaping 
astonishment.

"Surrender, you villain!" cried Harry Falconer, with a whoop of 
victory; "surrender, you bloody Hawk, or I'll blow your brains 
out,--or I'll make Brooks do it, that scoundrel having run away with 
my pistols.--Hillo-ah-ho, Caliver!--What has become of the 
captain?--Down, you dog, and we'll tie you!"

"'Nan!" cried the astounded Friend: "What does thee mean, young 
person?"

"Death and Beelzebub!" cried Brooks, "What have we here? Why, old 
father Broadbrim, who the devil are you? Sure, I know this horse!"

"Sure thee may, and sure thee may not," replied Broadbrim, looking 
wrathfully upon his captors, who were evidently nonplussed at sight 
of him. "He is an honest man's horse, friend foul-mouth and sauce-box 
with the coat of the slayer on thee back!"

"The spot's on the wrong leg!" cried Brooks, who had been inspecting 
the stranger's horse with a curious eye. "Hah! d'ye see the dust on 
the hill? Some of you guard father Broadbrim; he's suspicious: we'll 
examine him directly. Hillo-ho, Falconer! I'll have you! oho! oho! 
oho!" and away darted the young officer after his brother lieutenant, 
who had galloped off so soon as he discovered the course pursued by 
the leaders.

By this time, all the young men present had grown warm with exercise, 
and were now waxing valiant, as they began to understand the little 
danger there was in chasing, so many of them together, a single 
refugee, who, although desperate and dangerous enough, had shown so 
little inclination to face them. They began to be apprized, too, of 
the nature of the service in which they were rather co-operating than 
compulsorily engaged; and all seemed to know, that the farther they 
rode up the highway, the nearer they would be to an armed force, 
marched into the county for the express purpose of ferreting out and 
destroying the band of outlaws. This being the state of their 
feelings, there were few of them willing to accept the ignoble trust 
of guarding the body of the Quaker prisoner; though, having had it 
urged upon them by the cautious lieutenant, they were loath to 
discharge him without authority. It was proposed by some to lock him 
up in the Traveller's Rest, and entrust the ward entirely in the 
hands of Elsie and her little negress; while others pointed to 
Gilbert's Folly as a safer prison-house; and some even talked of 
carrying him to the woods, and tying him to a tree, until the chase 
they were so anxious to share in, was over. The dilemma, such as it 
was, was already proceeding to altercation, when Broadbrim, having 
understood that they were in chase of a famous tory, proposed to ride 
with them in pursuit; adding with a zeal that delighted, as much as 
it astonished them,--

"A man of war am I not, neither a slayer nor a fastener of bonds, 
neither a firer of pistols nor a brandisher of swords and spears; 
yet, friend younker whom they call Andrews, if thee is the man to 
show me a tory who hath broken the law, then verily am I the man that 
will hold him hard and fast, till the law hath spoken with him; yea, 
verily, I am. Ride on, therefore, with whip and with spur; only swear 
not, and be not awroth; and do thou, friend Andrews, ride at my side; 
for my horse is a horse of peace and not a horse of war, sure-footed 
but slow, and peradventure I may be left behind. It doth not become 
me to say, I hate a tory, for a tory is a man, and hate belongeth not 
to a fellow creature;--but, verily, I have heard of the man called 
Oran Gilbert, the Hawk of the Hollow; and, verily, I should not like 
to be summoned on the jury to try him for his manifold crimes; for, 
verily, it would be against my principles to judge him to death, and 
verily it would be against my heart and conscience to let him off 
with aught less than hanging. So let me detain none from the good 
deed of catching the wicked man; and peradventure, if this animal 
beneath me hath any vigour left in his legs and reins, I may stretch 
forth my hand afar, and take the sinner by the nape of the neck."

The manifestation of such spirit on the part of Broadbrim, who seemed 
well prepared, so far as strength of arm and resolution of heart were 
concerned, to take even a huger man than the Indian trader betwixt 
his finger and thumb, determined the course of his sentinels at once. 
They gave a loud shout, and bidding him follow, rode after the 
officers as hard as they could; and it was worthy of remark, that the 
white horse, notwithstanding the hint the prisoner had given of his 
slowness, began gradually to warm into mettle and fleetness, so that 
before the race had extended many miles, he bade fair to outstrip his 
attendants altogether.




CHAPTER XVIII.

If you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life: no, I 
am no such thing; I am a man as other men are:--And there, indeed, 
let him name his name; and tell them plainly, he is Snug the joiner.
                                   MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.


Meanwhile, the party of footmen, consisting of some dozen or more of 
the volunteers, and such revellers as were brave enough for the 
exploit,--followed, or rather led by the valiant Harriet, who 
displayed the energy of a Penthesilea, and by Captain Loring, who 
forgot his lameness in the ardour of the moment,--succeeded in 
gaining the highway just in time to catch the most favourable view of 
the fugitive, as he thundered up the hill upon which they were 
themselves rushing. Indeed, they came upon him so suddenly, that when 
his ears, which as well as his eyes, seemed to be fully occupied in 
tracing the signs of pursuit, were surprised by the sudden shout they 
set up, the jerk which he instinctively made at the reins, brought 
his steed (a goodly roan charger, which was afterwards discovered to 
be the property of the painter) upon his hams, and had well nigh 
tumbled him in the dust. At that moment, the volunteers, in an 
ecstasy of excitement, raised their muskets, and fired together upon 
horse and man; so that, had there been any better ammunition in the 
deadly tubes than blank-cartridges, both must have been blown to 
atoms.

The appearance of the trader, as he rose up in his saddle, and looked 
upon the throng around him, apparently as much astonished at his 
escape from death as he was infuriated by such a display of mortal 
opposition, was wild and terrific; the broad red hat had fallen back 
from his forehead, disclosing his whole countenance; the eye with 
which he glared upon his opposers, had a certain ghastliness mingled 
with its fury, that was infinitely appalling; the retracted lips, 
exposing the set teeth, seemed widened into a grin that might have 
become the visage of a nether imp; and his hand, with which he had 
snatched up, and now brandished, a huge horse-pistol, could not have 
appeared more dreadful, had it been dripping with fresh blood. When 
it is remembered, that the whole throng were now impressed with the 
conviction, (a conviction which their reason had no time to 
question,) that, in this man, they beheld the most renowned and 
dreaded of the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, and perceived that he had the 
life of at least one individual in his power, it is not to be 
wondered at that their courage gave way, so soon as they perceived 
him unharmed by the volley. In truth, they began to shout and fly; 
and even the volunteers waited no longer than to see the pistol aimed 
towards them, before they took to their heels as hastily as the 
others. It was in vain that Miss Falconer cried out, "Now is the 
time, gentlemen! seize him!" The only individual who thought fit to 
obey the mandate, was Captain Loring, who, having just hobbled up to 
the road, sprang from a bank, and before the rover had fired, or even 
raised up his steed, snatched vigorously at the bridle, roaring out,

"I've nabbed you, adzooks, you rascal!--Surrender!"

To this bold summons the demi-barbarian answered by turning his 
weapon from the flying assailants, and clapping it instantly to the 
Captain's ear; when a shriek from Catherine startled, or conjured, 
him out of his bloody intention; and instead of shooting the veteran 
dead on the spot, he struck him a blow with the heavy barrel, that 
brought him to the earth. He then uttered a yell like the whoop of an 
Indian; and the roan horse, leaping over the Captain's body, bounded 
beyond the crest of the hill, and was in an instant concealed from 
view.

The next moment, and almost before the terrified rustics had plucked 
the unlucky veteran from the road, the thunder of hoofs again shook 
the hill, and the captain of cavalry, looking almost as grim and 
terrific as the fugitive, was seen to shoot by, pronouncing his 
magical war-word, "Go it, Sky-scraper!" Then, at his heels, came 
Herman, the painter, who, without seeming very sensible of the 
presence of any earthly spectators, gave forth, as he passed, a bold 
and stirring hurrah, that almost made Miss Falconer reject as 
improbable certain wild suspicions that had already crept into her 
brain. Then came the lieutenants and their long train of volunteer 
followers, bestowing as little notice upon the individuals on the 
road-side as the others had done; and these defeated worthies were 
left to themselves, busied in restoring the Captain to his senses,--a 
desideratum, that, to the delight of all, was soon effected; for 
indeed the Captain's cocked hat had done him the service his gray 
hairs had not; and it was soon found, that, except his being thrown 
into a violent passion, he was none the worse for his misfortune.

"I'll have the villain's blood!" he cried, starting up in a fury, 
which he expended upon all around him without much discrimination. 
"What are you blubbering about, Kate, you jade? Adzooks, but I'll 
have the blood of the rascal! Hark ye, Mr. Doctor Merribody, and you 
Mr. Orator Jingleum, and the rest of you, and especially _you_, you 
confounded cowardly volunteers! what did you mean by not rushing in 
upon the dog, when I had him, you puppies? Adzooks, you 
white-feathered hen-bantams, I had sooner trust to a regiment of 
suttler's wives, in a bayonet-charge, than to any such poltroonery 
rascals, even in the small matter of taking a tory by the ears. 
Adzooks, you gallimaufry what-d'ye-call-'ems, is this the way you 
keep the Fourth of July?"

While the veteran thus poured forth his indignant rebukes, which he 
continued until his daughter succeeded in pacifying him, the captain 
of cavalry, followed at but a little distance by Herman, still 
pursued the chase with untiring ardour, now catching view of the 
fugitive as he flashed over the brow of a hill, but oftener losing 
sight of him altogether, so winding and broken was the road, and so 
deeply embowered by forest-trees. Caliver marvelled greatly at the 
excellence of the roan steed bestridden by his quarry, upon whom, 
after riding several miles, he did not seem to have gained an inch; 
but, in truth, the horse was of approved speed and bottom, the rider 
was himself a master of the art of horsemanship, and was besides, at 
least, a stone and a half lighter than his pursuer. He continued, 
however, to follow, cheering himself with the reflection, that, by 
and by, the appearance of the infantry, already posted on the road, 
must bring the fugitive to a stand. "And then," quoth he to himself, 
with a grim chuckle, "he must e'en turn about; and then, by the 
eternal Jupiter, I will shave off the top of his poll with my sabre, 
or shoot him through the gizzard with my pistol, according to 
circumstances. Go it, Sky-scraper; and don't let it be said of you, 
you were ever beaten, in a fair race, by a rascally refugee!"

As for the painter, he possessed but little of the unflagging spirit 
of his leader; and seeing there was small prospect of gaining on the 
trader, he soon became tired of pursuing, and began to devise in what 
manner he might, without loss of honour, discontinue the pursuit. 
First, then, having reached a wild hollow, where a little runlet 
crossed the road, and was immediately lost amid a labyrinth of great 
rocks, trees, and brambles, he gradually slackened his pace, until 
the cavalry officer vanished among the windings of the road. As soon 
as he had lost sight of him, he came to a full halt, greatly to the 
dissatisfaction of his borrowed steed, whose heart was already warmed 
for battle. Here the painter listened a moment, as if to gather some 
tokens of the approach of others. A few straggling shouts came to his 
ear from a vast distance behind. He hesitated an instant; the cries 
of pursuit came nearer. He then dismounted, reversed the saddle on 
the horse's body, gave him a lash and a shout, and away went the 
liberated animal, leaving his rider standing in the middle of the 
highway. Here, however, he did not long remain. Another chorus of 
shouts, coming still nearer, reverberated through the woodland; and 
without waiting for a fourth, the young artist instantly deserted the 
road, and plunged into the wildest and deepest part of the hollow.

And now appeared the two lieutenants, rushing vociferously on, with 
some two or three young men who were better mounted than others, 
close at their heels. Then, strange to be said, came the zealous 
Broadbrim, the spirit of whose lank steed seemed to grow with his 
exertions, and who had left the rest far behind. It was the destiny 
of this worthy personage, like the painter, here to end the labours 
of the day; but with this important difference, that, whereas the 
painter had relinquished the pursuit, because it was his will to do 
so, the quaker, on the other hand, terminated his career, because it 
was the will of his horse he should do so. In other words, this 
highly republican animal, having debated in his body (for, being a 
horse, he had no mind,) the absurdity of the burthen being all on one 
side, and reflecting, that, as he himself could not ride, there was 
no reason why he should be ridden, now began to broach his rebellious 
principles in the most expressive language he could make use 
of,--that is, in sundry curvets and escapades; the result of which 
was, somewhat to the astonishment of honest Broadbrim, that the 
magnanimous insurgent suddenly broke his base bonds, and fled away, 
whinnying with the delight of freedom, while his oppressor, after 
admiring the print his back had made in a spot by no means dusty, now 
sat down pensively on the road-side, and began to ponder his 
misfortunes.

"'The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon!'" were the first 
words he uttered; and he uttered them with much sincerity of 
indignation. "Had the gallows been close by, thou ungrateful beast, I 
believe thou wouldst have been just as malicious. Wilt thou never be 
done thy tricks, White Surrey? Out upon thee, thou ass of a horse! I 
have helped thee out of all manner of difficulties, and, in return, 
thou never missest an opportunity of flinging me into one. 'A horse, 
a horse, my kingdom for a horse!' Now am I in a quandary, like a fish 
in a net.--And suppose some one of these malapert blue-jackets should 
look into my saddle-bags, and pull out, one after another, first Tom 
Hunting-shirt, then long-tailed Nehemiah, then Will Tapes, the 
pedler, and then--and then, and then?--Hillo, you vagabond Hawk! you 
skulking tories, that have fern-seed, and walk invisible! where are 
ye? Now am I like a rat between six cats.--Come to me, and ye shall 
hear the words of grace, the comfortable and fructifying words, ye 
men of Belial, that hide your faces in woods and in desert 
places!--Hearken to me, friend Gilbert, whom men call the Hawk of the 
Hollow: does thee not perceive I am in great straits, and that I am 
thy friend in the spirit, and will hold thine enemies very fast and 
hard, and will peradventure strike one of them under the fifth rib, 
so that he die?--Out, you inhuman rascal! you captain Gilbert! come 
to my assistance, or,--'_paucas palabras_,'--I shall be hanged."

As the mysterious quaker proceeded in his musings, which he 
occasionally vented aloud, his looks, fixed mournfully on the ground, 
fell by chance upon a shrub-leaf close to the earth, the under 
surface of which was turned up, looking white and glistening among 
the green fronds. This he, at first, regarded with great 
indifference; but having observed it a second time, a thought entered 
his brain, which caused him to rise and advance towards it, to 
examine whether it had been deranged by the winds, by the foot of a 
beast, or by some more important agency. Its foot-stalk was broken; 
and divers decaying leaves beneath it were crushed into the ground. 
These appearances induced him to look about him with much care; and 
the search terminated in the discovery of several foot-marks in the 
damp soil, evidently impressed by a pair of moccasined feet, and that 
very recently. This discovery infused singular animation into his 
spirit, which was quickened by a sudden shout from the road behind. 
He sprang behind a bush, until the comer, one of his late sentinels, 
dashed by; then resuming the search, he found himself following a 
human trail, that led him into such a labyrinth of bog and bramble, 
as might have made him repent his presumption, had he possessed the
grace to repent any thing. He persisted however with much resolution, 
and still made his way by the tracks, until the sudden appearance of 
a huge rattlesnake, bruiting under his nose, startled him out of his 
propriety and the path together. In a word, he soon proved himself to 
be no woodman; and, in the course of five or ten minutes' walk, was 
so completely lost and mazed among the depths of a wild swamp, as to 
have lost even the power of extricating himself.

"'Ay, now,'" said he, with a groan, "'I am in Arden; the more fool I; 
when I was at home, I was in a better place; but travellers must be 
content.'"

Then looking about him disconsolately, he perceived, through the 
trees, a little eminence, where he could rest himself, and whence, he 
thought, he might discover some path out of the wilderness. He 
proceeded towards it forthwith. It was a swell of land, on the summit 
very rocky, covered with beech and maple trees, and with an 
undergrowth of spice-wood and its fragrant sister, the sassafras. 
Among these he thought he heard the babbling of a little 
water-course; and this sound he hailed with satisfaction, for he was 
already tormented with thirst. As he passed up the hill, he stepped 
into a little nook, not above a dozen paces in circuit, enclosed by 
rocks and bushes, and so overshadowed by beeches as to form a 
thick-roofed grotto, on the floor of which sparkled a meager rill, 
flowing from a spring at the bottom of a rock.

An abrupt turn round a mass of protruding stone brought the wandering 
man of peace unexpectedly upon this scene; but before he had time to 
survey it, he was suddenly seized upon by an arm of iron, and hurled 
upon the ground. The next moment, a strong hand was at his throat, a 
heavy knee on his chest, and a long, bright knife gleamed like a 
flash of lightning before his eyes.




CHAPTER XIX.

            That you are rogues,
  And infamous base rascals, (there's the point now,)
  I take it, is confess'd.----
  May a poor huntsman, with a merry heart,
  A voice shall make the forest ring about him,
  Get leave to live amongst ye?--true as steel, boys!
                                         BEGGARS' BUSH.


"Speak--who and what are you? and what seek you here?" said the harsh 
voice of the conqueror.

The intruder looked up in his face with some wonder, and beheld the 
features of a man of middle age, very dark and fierce of aspect, with 
long black locks of hair hanging from his temples, wild, 
Indian-looking eyes, and a mouth expressive of as much inherent 
ferocity as was ever betrayed by the visage even of a red-man.

"Speak," repeated the apparition, impatiently, "or never speak more!"

To this the prisoner replied with less confusion of mind than 
difficulty of articulation,--

"Hark ye, Mr. Green, or Gray, or Black,--for a deuced black face you 
have!--or, if you like that better, Mr. Hawk-of-the-Hollow Gilbert, 
'what is the reason that you use me thus?' 'I would be friends with 
you, and have your love;'--but not while I am on my back, to be sure. 
'Call you this backing of your friends?' 'Slife, sir, take away your 
fingers, and let me up: I am Iago, the 'honest, honest' man. At any 
rate, be so civil as to consider, that, though your knee may find its 
cushion agreeable enough, my lungs do not."

"And what will they think of a knife in them?" cried the fierce 
captor, without relaxing his hold. "You were among the hounds that 
were hunting me!"

"Ay; and had they caught you, I should have been among the hunters 
that were hanging you,--provided they had not tucked me up first. 
Hark ye, friend Hawk, I should have known you better, had you stuck 
to the gray whig; I remember you of old, Mr. Green, the trader. I am 
an honest man; ask Sir Guy Carleton else; if he don't know Ephraim 
Patch, who is just as honest as myself, why then ask him about one 
Leonidas Sterling, an old friend and correspondent of his worship at 
Philadelphia. 'Slife, sir, I tell you I am a true man."

"Give me some proof, and I will release you. Trifle with me, and you 
are a dead man."

"Put your hand into the right pocket of my vest," cried the prostrate 
sufferer, "and you will find it."

The conqueror did as directed, and drew forth a guinea.

"You asked for proof," said the other, with a grin, "and there you 
have it! Were I a rebel, you would have found naught but a roll of 
beggarly continentals; had there been more, I should have been an 
honest quaker, and neither rebel nor tory. Are you satisfied? I came 
here to seek you, and save my neck, which is in danger. There are men 
among the rebel officers that know me; and to be known, sir,--'by 
these pickers and stealers,' 'tis true!--'twere as good as a word to 
Jack Ketch, under the sign and seal of a State governor! Captain 
Gilbert, I come to volunteer my services under your command; and the 
sooner you introduce me to your rascals the better."

"Rise, and behold them!" said the refugee, leaping to his feet; and 
friend Ephraim Patch, or Mr. Leonidas Sterling, as he had called 
himself, looking up, beheld to his extreme surprise, for he knew not 
how they got there, two men standing hard by, in green hunting 
shirts, with each a hatchet in his hand, as if ready to use them, and 
countenances grimly forbidding.

"'The earth hath bubbles, as the water has!'" he 
cried,--"'Peas-blossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustard-seed!' 'I cry your 
worships' mercy!' Your hands, gentlemen: I am as honest a scoundrel 
as any of you, though somewhat more unfortunate."

"Honest or false," said the refugee, giving a sign with his hand, on 
which the two instantly stepped from the den, and were concealed 
among the bushes, "it signifies but little to me. You are among 
friends, if you speak true; otherwise, among hangmen.--Your name is 
Poke?"

"'That's he that was Othello'--a poor servant of the word, an 
expounder of the book, a sower of good seed on the way-side," said 
the Proteus, in the tones of the quondam Nehemiah.

"You are Tapes, the pedler, caught stealing through the American 
lines at Morristown, and in good hopes of dying on an oak-tree?"

"True for you, captain Gilbert!" cried the other, with a stare; "but 
where did you learn that? Hah! I see! the roguish refugee that 
assailed young Asgill's guards, while he was riding out on parole, 
and would have plucked him out of the bonds of Egypt, had not the 
fool gripped tight to his honour, very much as a drowning man hugs a 
ship's anchor, at the bottom of a river, and so remained in 
captivity.--What, captain! was that one of _your_ clap-traps?"

"You are the impudent scoundrel who has been cutting throats, and 
laying them at honest men's doors? cried the other, without regarding 
the question.

"Softly, captain--a mere matter of accident."

"And, moreover," said the refugee, sternly, "you are the masking, 
blundering meddler, who has twice drawn the hue and cry after 
myself?"

"Verily, so it appears," cried Sterling; "but now that we have met at 
last, we shall play no longer at cross-purposes."

"What seek you here? Why have you returned to a place where your life 
is in danger?"

"Zounds, sir!" cried Sterling, stoutly, "you ask questions enough to 
puzzle a regiment. But here is my whole story,--the history of my 
deeds, dangers, and desires. I am a gentlemanly scoundrel and 
unfortunate man, like others that shall be nameless; and after 
seeking my fortune in divers parts of the world, and making a grand 
sensation on the boards of the regimental theatre among Howe's 
officers at Philadelphia, I e'en consented to take service under the 
King, and therefore staid behind, when he ran away, and have been 
ever since a particular confidential correspondent of the royal 
generals at New York."

"That is to say, a spy?"

"Why, if you like the word better, e'en use it; the more elegant word 
is, correspondent. I am told, you have an excellent friend in 
Congress, a certain Colonel Richard Falconer"----The refugee's brow 
grew as black as midnight----"Well, sir, this gentleman is e'en an 
excellent friend of mine also; and having somewhat of the cunning of 
the devil in him, became busy, one morning, and entirely ruined my 
fortune and reputation together; in other words, he discovered and 
denounced me, threw me into prison, and volunteered to help me to 
paradise. I broke jail, concealed myself for a time; until, one 
night, accident drove me into his presence. I found the good-natured 
gray-beard alone, studying my case as hard as he could, and out of my 
own papers! I am quite a peaceable man, captain, 'yet have I in me 
something dangerous;' I became choleric, and finding a sword hanging 
up just at my hand, I took the liberty of thrusting it into his 
gizzard."

"Fool!" said the refugee, grasping him by the arm, "the throat is the 
only true place!--But, hark ye," he added, abating the wolfish sneer 
that accompanied his words, "you robbed as well as murdered?"

"Ay, 'by St. Paul,' I did," said Sterling, with infinite composure; 
"having declared war, I made free with the spoils of victory; and the 
Colonel's purse has lasted very well, all circumstances considered; 
though, wo's me, that say it! besides the guinea in my waistcoat 
pocket, there are but two more remaining, and they on the back of 
White Surrey. Concerning White Surrey, you must know, he is a devil 
born, like yourself,--I mean to say, myself; fleet of foot, untiring 
of spirit, and nothing against him but his ugliness and starved 
appearance, and, by the lord, some touch of the Marplot, especially 
in times of trouble. I could not think of leaving him behind me; and 
I was on my way to the rogue he called master, with a whole 
theatrical property-room on my back, when I stumbled in the dark on 
my friend Falconer. You must know, I had a woodman's dress on"----

"Hah!" muttered the refugee: "it was not all conscience, then?" Then 
changing his tone, he continued, "You have said enough. You have 
sought to escape, and find yourself unable?"

"Ay; and hearing the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow were out again, I even took 
counsel from despair, painted White Surrey's legs over again, and 
came hither to throw myself among them. Faith, I knew Hawk-Hollow 
would be the fairest place to seek them in. I volunteer, captain, I 
volunteer; but I hope you have a stronger force than Moth and 
Mustard-seed? I volunteer, and, by the lord, I am ready to go into 
action as soon as you order. But would to the lord I could catch 
White Surrey.--Harkee, captain, can you hide a man, at a moment's 
warning, out of the sight of a gallows?"

"Ay: there are dens hereabout deep and dark enough for a royal 
refugee to take his rest in."

"Hark ye, captain; give me a carbine, and I'll do you a service. I 
have heard," he added, with a shrug meant to be significant and 
confidential, "of that matter betwixt Falconer and your 
black-eyed"----

"Villain!" cried the refugee, seizing him by the arm, and giving him 
a look that curdled his blood, "you are venturing upon a subject that 
will bring the knife to your throat! Pho, you are a fool;" he added, 
checking his impetuosity, and grinning,

  'A strange, uncomely, jawbone smile;'

"we are Christians here, and we forgive our enemies."

"Forgive?" cried Sterling, "come now, captain Gilbert, that's 
slippery. I know you better; and I know you have been wronged."

"You are deceived," said Oran Gilbert, laying his hand, with another 
ominous smile, on the volunteer's shoulder, "I am not an Indian, but 
a white man, and as you may have seen, forbearing and forgiving. They 
have told you, (for they have told the same to _me_,) that I am a 
wolf's whelp, an eater of men's flesh, and a drinker of blood; and 
that I never pardoned an injury, though I had grown gray thinking of 
it. Lies, lies all! I can walk by my father's house, and see the sons 
of his destroyer sitting in the doors; and yet carry myself like the 
best Christian of them all: I can be told, too, even by a 
foul-mouthed dolt like yourself, how shame and sorrow, came into the 
house, and afterwards death,--and yet feel no hotter for vengeance. 
All this I can do, because I have a bad memory for matters twenty 
years old, or more.--Look you," he continued, dropping his tone of 
irony, and adopting that of menace; "I can forgive treachery as old 
as that; but I remember a nave's trick a full year. If there be any 
deceit in you, look well to yourself during that time. You were 
better to have been hanged as a spy, than to come to me as one.--You 
shall see!"

"'Slife, sir!" cried Sterling, "you have no consideration for a man's 
honour!"

But while he spoke, the refugee had raised his finger to his lips, 
and drawn forth a low whistle; which was almost immediately answered 
by the appearance of the two individuals who had been in the covert 
before.

"Bring up the prisoner, and let the men follow," said Gilbert; and 
they immediately retired.

"Prisoner!" cried Sterling, in surprise, "Male or female?"

"You have volunteered your services among the royal refugees," said 
Gilbert, turning again to Sterling, and displaying a sardonic grin: 
"you shall be put on duty forthwith.--Have you ever killed a man?"

"Dozens of 'em!" replied the other, promptly; when seeing the tory 
stare in surprise, he fell into a laugh, saying, "That is, not in 
your barbarous, blood-thirsty way; but in the heroic, poetic, 
dramatic manner: in which mode I have also fought divers battles, 
from Bosworth Field to Dunsinane. No, captain, as to the real 
red-paint, as we call it on the boards, I have shed no more than a 
lamb, save in the matter of my friend, Colonel Falconer; but I am in 
the mood to learn: I have had a great appetite for war and glory come 
on me of a sudden. Hark ye, captain: my friend Falconer's son was one 
of the chasing party, and by and by he will be returning to the 
Hollow."

"Ay!" said the refugee; "what then?"

"I like that doctrine of the savages," said Sterling, with an amiable 
smile, "which teaches one who has a wrong to revenge, how unnecessary 
it is to be particular as to the individual he is to retaliate on. 
Now the son, I take it, is a good substitute for the father; and to 
my mind, it would be a pretty thing to lie behind a bush on the 
road-side, with a musket or pistol, as he passed by, and then,

  'Like a rat without a tail,
   To do, to do, to do!'

Now, supposing, as my commander, you should order me to such a 
service, why,--'_sessa_, let the world slide,'--I should obey; that 
is, provided you stood by, to help me to one of those dens deep and 
dark enough for a refugee to take his rest in."

"If the young ape has done you a wrong," said Gilbert, coolly, "shoot 
him the first opportunity. You will have a chance by and by. You say, 
your horse is good and swift?"

"The best, were it not for his deviltry, ever bestridden by a 
gentleman in trouble. And then, captain, the ungrateful scoundrel 
(sure I might have escaped a dozen times, had it not been for my 
concern for him!) has all my munitions of war upon his back,--some 
six or seven coats and wigs of approved manufacture, a pair of 
pistols and a stage-dagger, a gold sword-hilt and two new tragedies 
in manuscript, a pair of green spectacles, and a horn pair 
uncoloured, a bottle of good brandy, a bible, a copy of Shakspeare, a 
fiddle, and my friend Falconer's two guineas."

"You must recover him," said the tory captain: "but now for duty. You 
shall see how treachery is rewarded by the royal refugees!"

As he spoke, there came into the den eight men attired like the two 
first, who were included in the number, all of them with green stuff 
shirts, edged and furbelowed with wolf, raccoon, and other skins, 
leather leggings and moccasins, and fur caps with hawks' feathers 
sticking in them. Each bore a thick rifle in his hand, and had a long 
knife in his pouch-belt, as well as a light axe suspended, 
quiver-wise, over his shoulder. They were dark, fierce-looking men, 
and perhaps an unusual degree of sternness was communicated to their 
features by the fearful duty they had now in hand. They led with 
them, or rather carried, for he was bound hand and foot, a ninth man, 
dressed in many respects like themselves, though he wore an old 
military hat, and was without leggings or moccasins. His countenance 
was as rude as those of the others; but instead of exhibiting the 
same cold and stern resolution, betrayed a look of dogged sullenness, 
mingled with anxiety.

As soon as he was brought into the little inclosure, he was tossed, 
with but little ceremony, at the feet of the tory captain, the band 
forming a circle around,--each, as if by previous concert, drawing 
the tomahawk from his back, and resting his left hand upon his rifle.

"Oho!" said Sterling, looking into the prisoner's face, "whom have we 
here? 'By this light, a most perfidious and drunken monster!' 'Most 
reverend seignior, do you know my voice?' 'Oho, my sprightly Scot of 
Scots, Douglas, that run'st o' horseback up a hill perpendicular!' 
Why this rascal was he, one John Parker, a soldier on the lines, that 
nabbed me, being too drunk to understand the claims of my coat to 
better treatment. Oh, you vagabond, I knew you would come to the 
gallows!"

"Raise him on his feet," said the tory leader; then turning to the 
volunteer, he drew from his bosom a soiled and crumpled paper, which 
he put into Sterling's hands, saying, with a sternness that was 
perhaps assumed to cover the shame he felt at his own ignorance,--

"Read it.--Our merry men here can make nothing of such pothooks. Read 
it aloud; and then we'll proceed to judgment."

The volunteer obeyed, and succeeded in deciphering a scrawl, of a 
style of composition and penmanship so similar to that Miss Falconer 
had shown the Captain's daughter, that, had he ever seen the latter, 
he could have been at no loss to identify the correspondent. It was 
brief, and clear, and to the following effect:


"Honourable Madam to command--

"This here is the letter what I promised to put under the bush; and I 
put it this night, the 3d of July, in the year of our Lord, Anno 
Domini as before. The rendezvous is a place called the Tarrapin Hole, 
a swamp on the east of the road, six or eight miles above Captain 
Loring's. You turn off from the road at a place where a fresh blazed 
beech tree grows by a rock; but the path is astonishing twistified, 
and not fit for horse, but can be surrounded. I had some thoughts of 
deserting, for I reckon some of these dogs is suspicious; but that 
might throw them into a panic, and so drive them to the hills, where 
the devil himself (begging pardon for swearing) could not find them. 
They say the captain (that's the Hawk) is in the village, or to be 
there to-morrow, when it would be easy to take him--(remember the red 
hat; as for the horse, there is no depending on that, for he has 'em 
scattered all about in depots;) and then the rest is nothing, seeing 
as how they are in some of a panic already, as not knowing what is to 
turn up. Howsomever nevertheless, there's one thing I've found out 
quite astonishing; and that is, that our lieutenant, a most impudent 
chap as ever you saw, walks about openly, and lives at the old widow 
Bell's, and"----


"Hah! enough!" cried the leader, suddenly snatching the epistle out 
of the volunteer's hands. "Have we more traitors than one among us? 
Who has forgotten orders, and told secrets to new men?"

"I, captain," said one of the men, breaking silence. "This here John 
Parker and myself were boys together in Monmouth; and so, for old 
companion's sake, I was more free about the lieutenant, and other 
matters, than stood in orders, not thinking there could any harm come 
of it. But I knock under to punishment, seeing the man has been 
betraying us all, and am ready to do justice on him with knife, rope, 
hatchet, or rifle-butt; though it goes ag'in' my conscience to take a 
man that's tied up like a shambled ewe."

"Cut the thongs from his legs," said Oran Gilbert, "or slack them a 
little. John Parker, I give you three minutes to pray. What, Tom 
Staples, have you never a rope here that might serve the traitor's 
turn?"

"I have been twisting one all the morning," said the man who had 
spoken, displaying a sort of cable constructed of the shreds of a 
blanket; "for I hoped it might be _that_, rather than knifing."

"Good Lord!" cried Sterling, shocked by the sudden preparation for 
such a catastrophe, "you don't mean to hang the poor devil?"

The sound of a friendly and interceding voice seemed to thrill the 
baffled traitor out of his apathy. He stared at the pseudo-quaker, 
and at once displayed the reckless hardihood of his character, though 
his old friend Staples was at that very moment forming a noose in the 
rope, by laughing and saying,

"Well done, old Tapes, is that _you_? You're no Johnny Raw, I see; 
but you'll come to the acorns yet! Don't go for to make a fuss about 
the hanging; for, you see, it's according to law, and hanging's the 
word; and these here raggamuffin refugees must have their way; and so 
let 'em hang and be d----d! that's my notion. But look ye, Mr. 
Captain Gilbert, and all you tories, and you Tom Staples into the 
bargain, here's a notion of mine: you see, you're come to the hanging 
too late, for all the good it is to do; for the thing's done up so 
cleverly already, you're just as good as dead men, you are, damme; 
for I've fixed you in a hole you can't creep out of without my 
assistance, you can't, damme. Now, captain, here's a bargain I'll 
make: you'll just spare my life, and drum me out of camp in an 
honourable, soldierly way; and, in return, I'll show you the way out 
of the trap; for, damme, comrades, you're surrounded: and so we'll 
square matters betwixt us, and say nothing more about it."

"Peace, rogue," said Oran Gilbert; "were the whole army round us, you 
should have your dues. String him up to the oak tree."

"Well now, captain," said Parker, "that's what I call being 
unreasonable. But some of you give me a drink at a canteen, for 
there's no use being strung up thirsty: and, Tom Staples, give me 
your cuffers, in token there's no ill-will between us; and let's have 
a quid of tobacco to chaw on.--Hark! there captain! do you hear? The 
road's in a swarm, I tell you! That, I reckon, was the squeak of 
captain Caliver; you can hear him a mile, of a clear day; and, you 
may depend on it, he'll have some of you, afore I've done kicking. 
Won't you hear to reason?"

The coolness of the man was, to Sterling at least, astonishing. They 
were fitting the halter round his neck, when a faint shout from the 
road was heard, but whether from a new batch of pursuers, or from the 
old ones now returning, could not be determined. He took the 
opportunity afforded by the sudden surprise to beg Staples 'to be in 
no such fool's hurry with his blanket, and slack it off a little, for 
a word with the captain.'

"Harkee, captain," said he, "it's the last offer I can make. Now 
let's argue the case."

"Up with the babbling fool!" cried Gilbert, who had been hearkening 
attentively to the sounds.

"You won't?" cried the hardened desperado--"why then here's my 
service to you, and the devil take us all to supper 
together.--Hillo-ah-ho! Murder! Refugees!--in the swamp here, quick!"

He elevated his voice to a yell that caused the very leaves to shake 
above him; and would undoubtedly have given the alarm he intended to 
those on the road, had not the refugee captain snatched an axe from 
the nearest hand, and instantly felled him to the earth. Then, giving 
his orders anew, the wretch, before he had recovered his 
consciousness, shot up among the leaves of an oak tree; and Sterling, 
who watched the whole proceeding with mingled admiration and alarm, 
could not trace a single writhing or quivering of limb afterwards.

"'Slife!" said he, "you killed the fellow with the hatchet! But, 
captain, concerning that surrounding; I don't like that"----

"Peace!" said the tory; "the first duty you are to learn is, to hold 
your tongue--the next, to obey." He gave the wild band a signal, and 
they instantly betook themselves to the bushes, or to hiding-places 
of which Sterling was ignorant. "This man came to me as a deserter, 
and was therefore trusted by one who should have been wiser: he has 
met his fate. You I can trust, because I know you are a doomed man 
like myself. You must recover your horse."

"Ay, faith; but how?--'Slife! what's the matter now?" he cried, 
observing his companion start suddenly at what seemed to him the 
whistle of a wood-robin, and look eagerly from the covert. The sound 
was repeated once, and once again; and then the refugee, turning to 
him, said,--

"You must claim him. Get you quickly to the wood-side, and follow on 
after the others, so as to recover him before they open your 
saddle-bags."

"Death and the devil! you are joking! What! run my head into the 
lion's jaws? and just to recover a vagabond horse, that flings me 
whenever the humour seizes him?"

"If you lose your horse, you lose yourself. We can be burthened by no 
footmen."

"Footmen? why I see no horses!"

"Ay: but away with you. Seek the men you came with, and return with 
them to Elsie Bell's."

"God bless my soul!" said Sterling, in alarm; "that young knave 
Falconer will smoke me in a moment."

"Knock him on the head then."

"And then the other lieutenant, that was so curious with the spots of 
White Surrey's legs! a marvellous shrewd fellow, I assure you."

"Why, do the same with him then; and stay not here babbling like a 
helpless boy. Protect yourself. Fear not: your present coat suits you 
better than the parson's. Return to Elsie Bell's, secure your horse 
and other property, and see that you feed him well; by midnight you 
will be called for, and placed in safety. Keep a firm countenance, as 
I think you can, and you are in no danger."

"Ay; but what excuse shall I make for leaving the road, and diving 
into these damnable abodes of refugees and rattlesnakes?"

"Tell them any lie you will,--your horse ran away with you into the 
woods, and then----Or stay," he added, looking grimly up to the body 
of the spy; "tell them you were seized by the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, 
and that you saw them hang their tool. Bring them to the spot, and 
let them bury the carrion: it is good they should know what value we 
set on traitors. And, hark ye, tell them we mustered at least a 
hundred strong, and that we stole off across the road, swearing 
vengeance upon the village. Mind you, the village: make them believe 
we are marching to surprise it by night. Now, get you gone--off with 
you. Set your face to the west--there; walk onwards five hundred 
paces, without looking to the right or the left, and you will find 
yourself on the road. Begone, and look not behind you."

The volunteer perceiving that remonstrance with such a commander 
might prove as dangerous as it was really unavailing, turned to 
depart, but not before he had seen the refugee clap his fingers to 
his lips, and draw forth a whistle similar to that which had 
attracted his own attention. There was one injunction, however, which 
the retreating Sterling thought it entirely superfluous to obey. He 
had no sooner reached a spot proper for such a proceeding, than he 
came to a stand, and cast his eye backward towards the den. He beheld 
a light figure ascending the knoll among the bushes and under the 
embowering trees; and just before it vanished into the greater gloom 
of the grot, a sunbeam, peeping through the branches, fell brightly 
over it, revealing to his somewhat astonished eyes the person of that 
identical youth whose mysterious hints had been of such service in 
awaking the fears and stimulating the energies of the hard-beset 
Nehemiah.

"Zounds!" he cried, "have we any such gentlemanly fellows in the 
confederacy! Oho! I recollect now," he added, conning over the words 
of the letter,--"'our lieutenant, a most impudent chap as ever you 
saw, walks about openly, lives at the Traveller's Rest, and,'--ay, 
faith, there was something about that old fool, Captain Loring, and a 
girl. Very well, young one, you will be hanged like the rest of us!"

So saying, and murmuring other expressions of a similar nature, he 
made his way to the roadside, almost at the very spot where a 
'_blazed_' beech-tree flung its silver limbs over a rock.




CHAPTER XX.

            If thou long'st
  To have the story of thy infamous fortunes
  Serve for discourse in ordinaries and taverns,
  Thou art in the way; or to confound thy name,
  Keep on, thou canst not miss it;
  Keep the left hand still, it will bring thee to it.
                  _The Roaring Girl, or Moll Cut-purse_.


With a better fortune than had awaited the volunteer, Herman Hunter 
stepped into the grot; but with much less display of heroism; for he 
no sooner found himself in presence of the renowned Hawk of the 
Hollow than he bent his eyes upon the ground, and stood silent before 
him.

"You are come at last!" said the refugee, giving him a piercing look, 
and with a voice none the less expressive of indignation for being 
subdued to the lowest tones, as if he feared a witness even in the 
dead malefactor; "you are come at last; and the son of my father 
comes with my enemies and hunters!"

"So I come," said the painter, raising his eyes, and speaking firmly; 
"I come as the friend, who, having saved you from one danger, desires 
to rescue you from another yet greater. I warned you last 
night,--nay, I sent you word long since, that you were watched: I 
betrayed a confidence reposed in me by one it was a double duplicity 
to deceive, in order that you might escape the net that was secretly 
closing around you. Nay, I discovered the presence and machinations 
of the daring spy, who but this morning was selling you into the 
hands of your enemies; I found his letter, and left it where you were 
sure to obtain it."----

"Ay; while you were yourself playing the fool among the Independents, 
and leaving me to the care of a stupid ploughman and a dotish old 
woman!"

"It was all I could," said Herman: "I knew it was better I should be 
on the ground, when the officers came. Had I not been there, to join 
the first of the hunters, as you call them, and to fire an alarm in 
the hollow, neither your own cunning nor the fleetness of the roan 
horse could have saved you from capture."

"It was bravely done," said the refugee, with a softer voice, "and it 
will excuse what is passed. Where found you this dog's paper? and 
how?"

"Near the park-gate, under a bush, where I saw the man hide it, as I 
approached the place by accident. This fellow knows all your haunts: 
will he not bring the troops to this very spot?"

The refugee laughed, and at that moment Herman heard a noise on the 
bough of the oak tree, as of some animal rending away the bark; and 
looking up, he beheld what he had not before seen in the gloom,--the 
body of the dead traitor swinging with a sort of jerking, convulsive 
motion, as if still alive. The rope had slipped a little along the 
bough, and though soon arrested by some knot or other roughness, it 
was some moments before the motion entirely ceased. The dreadful and 
unexpected spectacle of a man, who, it was evident, the painter 
thought, had made his escape, thus hanging dead before him, filled 
him with horror, and he exclaimed at once,

"Oh, Oran! Oran! it is this dreadful cruelty of spirit which has made 
you what you are,--which has made us all what we are! For God's sake, 
let us cut him down, and see if he be yet alive."

"He was stiff before the rope touched his neck," said Oran, grimly; 
"I never struck _twice_ with the hatchet. Let him hang: he died the 
death of a spy and betrayer. I have invited the county to his 
death-bed!"

"Daring, as well as cruel! Why do you linger here? It is plain, you 
are surrounded: before the sun sets the whole county will be out; 
and, to-morrow, there will not be a den of the woods, or a hollow of 
the hills, left unvisited."

"Why, this is what I want!" cried the fierce outlaw; "the general has 
tied my hands to act only on the defensive; and here are forty devils 
with heads of iron and fingers of fire, that are lying asleep in the 
woods like winter bears, for want of something to warm the blood in 
them. I am ready."

"Ready to die!" said Herman, solemnly; "ready to throw away your life 
at the bidding of a master, or the prompting of an insane passion. 
Fly, while you yet may: the attempt to rescue young Asgill must be 
now fruitless, as it is needless--even the Americans say, his life is 
in no danger. Fly, then, Oran, and give up your bloody designs in 
this fatal Hollow. Hearken to me, Oran,"----

"Hearken to _me_," said the outcast, sternly. "Has your blood turned 
to milk, and your heart to water? Are your wounds healed, your bones 
knit, your strength restored, and do you talk of leaving Hawk-Hollow 
at this moment? What is this they say of you? You were among the 
foremost of the rejoicing fools at the Hawks' Nest--have you turned 
American?"

"I was born upon these hills; but I will not strike the friends and 
countrymen of my father."

"Will you strike his foes?"

"They are in the grave with him," said the youth, sorrowfully; "and 
he has forgiven them."

"They are upon the earth, and his spirit is not satisfied!" cried 
Oran, with the wild energy, and almost in the favourite language, of 
an Indian orator. "Have you rested under his roof? have you sat in 
his flower-garden? have you walked on his path by the Run-side? have 
you spoken with the people that drove him in his old age from his 
fireside? Hyland Gilbert! they broke his heart, and then trampled him 
to death. Will you not do him right and vengeance?"

"Oran!"----

"Changeling!" cried the refugee, with a scowl of savage contempt; "if 
you have not the feelings of a man, you have at least the gewgaw 
brain of a boy. Look!" he continued, drawing from his bosom, and 
displaying with a sneering grin, a roll of written parchment, 
decorated with the due pomp of martialness; "you begged for the toy 
that would make you a servant of the king; and here it is. Take it; 
and for the sake of a red coat and feather, do what you would not for 
the name and honour of your father."

Hyland--for the assumed name of the young Gilbert must now be 
dropped--recoiled from the emblem of distinction as much as from the 
frowning eyes of the speaker, but answered firmly,--

"When I was in the Islands, it is true, I desired the king's 
commission; and, it is also true, I left them to obtain it; and had I 
reached the royal army at my first landing, no doubt I should have 
accepted it. But it was my fate to be cast ashore far in the south; 
and I esteem it no bad fortune that I obeyed a whim of adventure, and 
made my way through my rebel countrymen (they are _ours_, Oran,) to 
this spot. I have thus been made acquainted with some of the 
principles on which this war is contested; whereby, I thank heaven, I 
have been spared the shedding of innocent blood in an unjust cause."

"Do you say this to me?" cried the refugee, with a wild laugh.

"Oran!" said the young man earnestly, "your heart is not with the 
side you have espoused; and fierce and cruel as may be your acts, 
they are, they must be, at variance with your conscience. A moment of 
fury drove you into a cause you abhor; and if you give the bloodiest 
proofs of your fidelity, you are impelled to them only by remorse and 
despair."

"You are a philosopher!" said the renegade, with another bitter 
laugh; "but we will play the fool no longer. Will you have the 
commission? See, it has the royal mark upon it!"

"Oran," said Hyland, mournfully, "after yourself, I am the last of my 
father's house. You ask me to do what has brought the others to their 
graves--to early and ignominious graves; and what, though you have 
been spared, has left you the prey of shame and sorrow. Why should I 
strike those men, who, besides fighting against tyrannous oppression, 
(such it was, Oran,) are also the children of the same soil--our 
countrymen and brothers?"

"You are the last of the seven," said the refugee, taking both the 
young man's hands into his, and looking at him with mingled affection 
and anger; "four of your brothers were slain--one of them hanged upon 
a gibbet--and all by 'our countrymen and brothers!' The fifth--look 
you, Hyland, the fifth--the second-born and the beloved, whose name 
was given you, that you might never forget him, fell in battle, 
saving the life of one of these--my countryman and my brother!"

The face of the outcast blackened, and Hyland trembled in his glance; 
he stepped out of the nook, and leading the young man along, 
conducted him up the hill to a place where a vista through the trees, 
looking over the green swamp, disclosed a glimpse of the blue ridgy 
cliffs of the Kittatinny, to which he pointed.

"Come with me to that mountain," he said, "and when you stand upon 
the summit, gazing to the right and to the left, you will look upon 
two graves. One of them lies in the desert, among the hills: I 
planted a pine tree on it, and you can see its blue head afar off. Do 
you remember who sleeps in it?"

"I do," said Hyland, with emotion; "it is my brother."

"And do you bethink you what laid him there?"

"His humanity and his noble heart."

"He died," said Oran Gilbert--"he died that a villain might live; and 
you call that villain 'my countryman and brother!'"

"No," said Hyland, with some of his wild brother's spirit; "I except 
_him_."

"Then look to the left," continued Oran, with a glance of painful 
humiliation: "on the brook, and in a little bower, there is a second 
grave."

"It is the grave of my poor wronged sister!" cried Hyland, 
impetuously.

"Of your sister, and of ----. Ha, ha! Is not this a merry subject for 
two brothers to talk on! 'My countryman and brother' destroyed her 
and fled."

"May heaven pardon him," cried Hyland; "but I cannot."

"We buried her in secret, and in night, that none might look upon her 
shame, or upon ours," said the refugee; "and that night came into the 
world her brother, whom we called Hyland, that we might better 
remember her destroyer."

"Oran! Oran!"

"Your mother," continued the elder brother, with a cruel pertinacity, 
"loved the girl well, and died of sorrow for her. My 'countrymen and 
brothers' pointed at our shame; they visited the sins of the children 
upon the father, and drove him forth in his old age, a childless and 
ruined man."

"They did," said the youth; "he came to the island, and he died in my 
arms."

"My 'countrymen and brothers,'" added Oran, with a ferocious sneer, 
"have left the oldest and youngest to weep for the others.--Here is 
the commission----We will avenge them!"

For a moment Hyland seemed to share the fire of the outcast; for a 
moment he grasped the parchment which the other had put into his 
hand. His face flushed,--then turned pale; he hesitated,--faltered; 
the badge of honour fell to the earth; and clasping his hands 
together, he looked at Oran imploringly, and said,

"My father died in my arms, and charged me, with his last breath, to 
forget that he had been wronged."

"It was the weakness of his death-hour," said Oran.

"He bade me," continued the youth, "leave his enemies to God, and the 
destroyer of his peace to his fate."

"Look at his fate!" cried the refugee: "wealth surrounds him, and he 
is envied for his happiness; while you are ashamed of your father's 
name, and I am poor, and abhorred, and miserable."

"We will go to the island, and forget"----

"Will you have the commission?" said Oran, abruptly. "You have youth, 
talents, education and fortune,--and will rise. This commission is to 
serve among the royal refugees; but if you carry it bravely at the 
first bout, I have the General's word you shall be transferred to the 
line, with a fair field for promotion."

"Look, Oran," said the youth, manfully, "I will not take the 
commission, nor will I trust your commander's promises. You have 
served him from the beginning; and none have served him better. How 
has he rewarded you?--You are still a captain of refugees!"

A shadow of humiliation passed over the face of the renegade; but he 
answered without emotion.

"I sought nothing better, nor am I fit for promotion. My station is 
where my habits and inclinations put me,--among the free rangers. But 
you have learning, youth, ambition; and are capable of training into 
discipline."

"I will not take the commission," said Hyland, with increasing 
resolution. "I have been enough with our people,--with the 
Americans,--to know that their cause is just, and holy, and is 
prevailing. Nay, you must know, that, at this moment, commissioners 
are deliberating over the preliminaries of negotiation, and that 
peace must soon be concluded."

"It is false," said the refugee, fiercely; "a trick of the 
ministers,--a common stratagem."

"True, or false, then, yet am I resolved to shed no blood in the 
quarrel; and, certainly, I will take no commission to distress the 
people of this neighbourhood. Oran, I am resolved; I will not fight; 
and I adjure you by the last wish of our poor father, and by your own 
hopes of future quiet, that you give up your schemes of blood, and 
leave this fatal valley for ever. Disband your followers; and take 
heed you be not suddenly deserted by your employers."

"Boy!" said the outlaw, "you are not white-livered, or you would not 
say these things to me! Look you, I know your folly: it is not for 
me,--not because you love liberty and peace,--not because you have 
laid to heart the dotish words of a half crazed father,--that you are 
so cold and shameless; but because you have set your eyes on the baby 
face of a girl, who will laugh at you, when the last fit of your 
folly is over. Hark you,--read me this knavish letter, and see what 
is already said of you."

"I have read it," said the young man, faltering.

"Ay, but read it again: let me know how far your madness has been 
talked of." And Hyland, summoning courage, took the letter and read 
it, though his embarrassment increased at the paragraph concerning 
himself, which had caused Oran to snatch it so suddenly from the 
hands of the volunteer. This paragraph, couched in the coarsest 
terms, expressed a knowledge of his affections, which had alarmed him 
at first excessively, though, it was probable, it was nothing more 
than the shrewd guess of a keen observer; and it concluded by showing 
how easily he might be 'nabbed, while at his gallivanting.'

"And this, then," cried the refugee, "it is that makes you so tame, 
so spiritless! Poor fool, could you look on none but the betrothed of 
a Falconer? Look you, boy, you are in a bear-trap, and the log will 
soon be on your back: with this baby fancy, shameful and 
dishonourable, you are gulling yourself into perdition."

"Oran," cried the young man, throwing himself upon the wild man's 
mercy, "this poor girl is betrothed against her will; and if no 
friend stands by her, there will be another broken heart laid by the 
side of Jessie. Do not scoff at me, or reproach me: she saved my 
life, she has treated me with a sister's kindness and trust; and if 
she will suffer me to aid her, I will rescue her from her misery, 
though I die for it."

"Do what you will," said Oran, with a gloomy frown: "though you had 
her heart and love, what will she say to you, when this cunning 
daughter of a villain, that sent yonder Parker to the rope, ferrets 
out your secret, and shows you to be a son of the Gilberts? Nay, what 
will others say to you? It is better to die as a soldier, than a 
spy!"

"I am no spy," said Hyland; "and when the time comes for disclosure, 
I will not fear to acknowledge my name."

"It will soon come," said the refugee. "Go," he added, sternly; "you 
are rushing upon destruction. Save yourself as you can, till 
midnight; and then take the commission, or be lost. Begone from this 
place; it will be soon full of soldiers--I have sent for them; and 
already they are coming.--Brother," he said, relenting, as the young 
man turned to depart: he strode after him and took him by the hand: 
"What have you or I to do with the love of woman? This is but a 
folly.--You have no friend or kinsman left to advise or help 
you.--Well, if the girl be willing to fly, why, put her upon a fleet 
horse, and to-morrow she shall be beyond the reach of a Falconer. It 
shall not be said, I deserted you, even in your folly."

How much further the wild and flinty outlaw might have been softened 
by the distress he saw pictured on his brother's face, cannot be 
told. The gentler feeling of affection beginning to yearn in his 
bosom, was chased away by a sudden sound like the flourish of a 
distant trumpet, which came trembling over the forest-leaves.

"Away," he cried hastily; "the curs are coming, and the troop with 
them. Dive into the swamp, and meet them on the road. To-night you 
shall see me."

So saying, he bounded down the hill with the activity of a 
mountain-buck, and was almost instantly lost to sight. The brother, 
crossing the swamp and brook, made his way to the road, some distance 
above the spot where he had dismounted.


END OF VOL. I.




THE HAWKS OF HAWK-HOLLOW.

A TRADITION OF PENNSYLVANIA.


BY THE AUTHOR OF "CALAVAR," AND "THE INFIDEL."




  Where dwellest thou?----
  Under the canopy,--i' the city of kites and crows.
                                              _Coriolanus_.




IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.




_Philadelphia_:

CAREY, LEA, & BLANCHARD.

1835.




Entered according to the act of Congress, in the year 1835, by CAREY, 
LEA, & BLANCHARD, in the clerk's office of the district court for the 
eastern district of Pennsylvania.




_I. Ashmead & Co. Printers_.




THE HAWKS OF HAWK-HOLLOW.




CHAPTER I.

  I will discover such a horrid treason,
  As, when you hear't, and understand how long
  You've been abused, will run you mad with fury.
          BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER--_The Prophetess_.


It has been seen how the rejoicings at the promontory were 
interrupted in their very beginning, by the sudden discovery of the 
refugee, so

  Drad for his derring-doe and bloody deed,

that his mere name had thrown all present into confusion. The 
crowning climax was put to the general panic, when some of the late 
pursuers were seen returning, early in the afternoon, whipping and 
spurring with all the zeal of fear, and scattering such intelligence 
along the way as put to flight the last resolution of the jubilants. 
The news immediately spread, that Oran Gilbert had burst into 
existence, not alone, but with a countless host of armed men at his 
heels; that he had attacked and routed the pursuers, hanging all whom 
he took alive, especially the soldiers; and that he was now, in the 
frenzy of triumph, marching against the devoted Hillborough, with the 
resolution of burning it to the ground. Such dreadful intelligence 
was enough to complete the terror of the revellers; they fled 
amain--and long before night, the flag waved, and the little piece of 
ordnance frowned in utter solitude on the top of the deserted 
head-land. It is true that there came, by and by, couriers with 
happier news, but too late to arrest the fugitives; and as these 
riders made their way towards the village, expressing some anxiety 
lest it should be attacked, they rather confirmed than dispelled the 
fears of the few inhabitants of the valley. From one of the coolest 
and boldest, Captain Loring, who fastened on him at the park-gate, 
learned that there had been no action indeed, and that the fugitive 
had made his escape; but, on the other hand, it appeared that there 
_were_ refugees in the land,--that they had hanged a soldier named 
Parker, and made good their retreat from the place of execution--that 
the greatest doubt existed among the pursuers in relation to the 
route they had taken and the objects they had in view, some 
believing, on the evidence of a certain quaker, who had been their 
prisoner, that they were marching by secret paths against the 
village, while others insisted that this was a feint designed only to 
throw the hunters off the scent, and to secure their escape,--that, 
in consequence, the party had divided, pursuing the search in all 
directions, in the hope of discovering their route,--and, finally, 
that it was now certain, the band, whose number was supposed to be 
very considerable, was really commanded by the notorious Oran 
Gilbert. From this man also, Captain Loring learned a few vague 
particulars in relation to the two greatest objects of his interest, 
namely Henry Falconer and the young painter, who had fallen into a 
quarrel in consequence of some misunderstanding about their horses, 
the officer having used harsh language not only in regard to the 
unceremonious seizure by Herman of his own steed, but in reference to 
a similar liberty the refugee had previously taken with the 
painter's, which, Falconer averred, was an evidence of intimacy and 
intercourse betwixt Mr. Hunter and the outlaw it behooved the former 
to explain, before thrusting himself into the company of honest men 
and gentlemen. This quarrel, it seemed, had been allayed by the 
interference of Falconer's brother officers; and the informant had 
heard something said of a proposal to drown the feud in a bowl. As 
for the man of peace, Ephraim, it appeared, that his spirited 
assistance during the chase, and especially his success in exposing 
the secret haunt of the tories in the Terrapin Hole, the scene of 
Parker's execution, had not only removed all suspicion in relation to 
his character, but had highly recommended him to the favour of his 
late captors.

With such news, the Captain strode back to his mansion, and awaited, 
with his daughter and kinswoman, the return of the officers to the 
Hollow, and their appearance at the hall, which he doubted not, they 
would instantly make, after returning. He waited, however, for a long 
time, in vain; and by falling sound asleep, as he watched the sun 
creeping beneath the western hills, escaped the intelligence, which 
was soon after brought to the house, that the officers had returned 
to the Hollow, and instead of reporting themselves forthwith under 
his hospitable roof, had made their way to the widow's inn, where 
they were carousing with a zeal commensurate with the spirit they had 
exhibited during the troubles of the day.

This unexpected termination of a day of heroism--a termination that 
surprised and irritated Miss Falconer as much as it perhaps secretly 
pleased the Captain's daughter--was a consequence of the late 
quarrel, or rather a mode of burying it in oblivion, devised by 
captain Caliver, who had contracted an esteem for the painter, and 
preferred 'his ease in his inn' to all the delights and blandishments 
that might be expected in the society of Gilbert's Folly. As the 
superior officer, he had taken the command into his own hands, and 
besides arranging his forces so as to watch all the approaches to the 
valley, and despatching lieutenant Brooks to the village, to 
communicate with the authorities there, he declared his resolution to 
erect his head-quarters in the Hollow, at a place like the 
Traveller's Rest, where, while still commanding the road, he would be 
near enough to protect the females and non-combatants in the 
Captain's house. "And besides," he added facetiously, while riding up 
to the little inn, "as we men of the sword are protectors of widows 
as well as orphans, we will thus protect a forlorn old woman from 
mischief, and put a penny into her pocket, and drink our wine at our 
ease--for you remember, Falconer, my young brother, you swore by all 
the gods you would have some of the wherewithal smuggled up to this 
identical old woman's whiskey-house!"

"I swore it 'by the eternal Jupiter,'" said Falconer, with a grin; 
"and, by the eternal Jupiter, I am as ready for a blow-up now as 
another time; only that we must blow fast, so as to run up to Hal, to 
be scolded before bed-time, as soon as Brooks comes: and as for Mr. 
Hunter here, why he and I can blow out one another's brains in the 
morning."

"If thee talks in this evil-minded, blood-thirsty manner," said 
Ephraim Patch, indignantly, "I give thee warning, I will have nothing 
to do with thy wholesome wines and thy goodly brandies, whereof thee 
has spoken, and whereof much good may be said, in regard of them that 
are faint and weary. If thee will eat, drink, and be merry, all in a 
civil, Christian way, without drawing any weapons more dreadful than 
corks, pulling only at the bottle instead of the pistol, and neither 
swearing profanely nor drinking foolish irreligious healths, thee 
shall have me in company to give thee good counsel, whereof thee has 
considerable much need, as well as thy long-nosed friend here, (not 
meaning any offence,) which thee calls captain, and the youth also, 
friend Hunter. Verily, I am both hungry and thirsty, and will sooner 
enjoy the creature comforts in this quiet hovel, than even the 
satisfaction of bringing the breaker of laws into the hands of 
justice. Verily, the thought of these goodly wines doth make my mouth 
water; and I shall rejoice, even to the bottom of my spirit, if they 
have already reached the house of the widow."

We do not design to relate the joys of the banquet shared by the four 
worthies, and some two or three young men of the county, who had 
shown themselves men of spirit, and remained bravely by the side of 
the officers, resolved, as they said, to contribute their aid to the 
defence of the Hollow. It is only worthy of remark, first, that the 
ill blood between young Falconer and the painter gradually wore away, 
and was succeeded, on the part of the former, by a sudden friendship, 
which bade fair to ripen into fondness, and on that of Hyland, by 
what was at least a show of reciprocity; secondly, that honest 
Ephraim, gradually displayed as much spirit in the feast as he had 
before manifested in the fray, and became, to the surprise of all, 
the soul of mirth and drollery, so that young Falconer, clapping him 
on the back, swore, with the favourite oath of his friend Caliver, he 
'had never seen a jollier old broad-brim;' and thirdly, that this 
capricious young gentleman grew so enamoured of his company, that he 
ceased to talk, as he did at first, of the necessity he was under of 
paying his sister and friends a visit at the Folly, until he was 
roused to recollection by the sudden retreat of his new friend from 
the cottage. The painter was detected in the very act of stealing, or 
as they chose to call it, sneaking from the apartment; and Mr. 
Falconer, uttering a loud 'Hillo! halt, deserter!' volunteered to 
bring him back to the punishment immediately ordered by the captain 
of cavalry, of a glass of salt and water. He rushed from the room, 
and plainly beheld the youth, in the light that flashed from the 
window, spring from the porch, and dive into the midnight shadows of 
the oak trees--for it was now completely dark. As he retreated, he 
stumbled over some obstruction in the path; but instantly recovering 
himself, he leaped over the little brook, and was soon out of sight.

"Hillo, Hunter, my boy!" cried the lieutenant. "Why zounds! there he 
goes up the road like a light-horseman! Why, gad, here the fool has 
dropped his handkerchief;--no, gad's my life, 'tis a paper. Hillo, 
painter! you've dropped something! A letter, as I'm 
alive!--Ehem--hiccup!--a very handsome constellation that Great Bear! 
never saw the Pointers shine so brightly in my life.--Gad's my life, 
and adzooks, as Captain Loring says, 'tis the lights in the Folly, 
after all! and here am I, carousing like an ass, instead of playing 
off the Romeo to Catherine by starlight. Now Hal will scold like 
twenty housekeepers, Catherine will look sulky, and as for the 
Captain, why I suppose he will fall into one of his patriarchal 
rages. Gad, but I feel rather warmish and particular; but this cool 
night air is a good thing for settling one's nerves. I warrant me, 
that rascal Hunter has gone up there before me. A very handsome, well 
behaved dog, and I like him immensely!"

With such expressions as these, the young man, whose brain, never one 
of the strongest, was at present whirling in confusion, began to make 
his way towards the Folly, without troubling himself to think what 
amazement or affliction his absence might cause his friends. Indeed, 
he was fast verging towards that happy state in which man shows his 
loftiest contempt of the world and the world's ways, and his 
disregard of all those restraints and encumbrances which society has 
imposed upon the free-born lord of creation. He had left the hovel 
without his hat; but what cared he for such a superfluity, of a fine 
summer night, even although beginning a walk over hill and hollow, of 
full a mile in extent? Had he left it even without his boots, it is 
questionable whether he would have noticed the deficiency, until 
recalled to his senses by the roughness of the road. In a word, the 
wine he had already swallowed, had made serious inroads upon a brain 
that was always 'very poor and unhappy for drinking;' and, as it 
frequently happens in such cases, the exercise of walking more than 
counteracted the effects of the cooling air; so that, by the time he 
had trudged half the distance towards the paddock, the young 
gentleman was in the happiest spirits imaginable, wholly insensible 
of his condition, and almost unconscious of the purpose that had 
drawn him so far. He even began to sing along the road, and by the 
time he had reached the gate, was trolling a song, of a character 
ludicrous enough to come from his lips, but which, perhaps caught 
originally from those of some wag or philosopher of the camp, was now 
suggested by the spirit of happy indifference it breathed to all 
sublunary concerns, and was therefore in excellent harmony with his 
own feelings. It was the song of _Poor Joe_, and was sung with 
wondrous emphasis and gusto.

I.

  Poor Joe! I've no wealth but content at command,
    I am otherwise poor as a rat;
  But while the world covets one's houses and land,
    I'm sure 'twill not rob me of that,
      Poor Joe!
    I'm sure 'twill not rob me of that.

II.

  I've no money, no money to squander in wine,
    To aid me in soft'ning my lot:
  But then, if the shame of a poor man be mine,
    The shame of a scoundrel shall not,
      Poor Joe!
    The shame of a scoundrel shall not.

III.

  No sweetheart to flatter, no wife to applaud,--
    Poor Joe! he may house him or roam;
  But, sure, if he meets with no angel abroad,
    He'll hap on no devil at home,
      Poor Joe!
    He'll hap on no devil at home.

IV.

  Poor Joe! I've no friends, as, if richer, I might,
    But for that I'll not bitterly grieve;
  If there's none, with the gabble of love, to delight,
    Why then there are none to deceive,
      Poor Joe!
    Why then there are none to deceive.

V.

  Poor Joe! I am ragged, my hat is grown old,
    My elbows peep out to the storm;
  But why should I fear for the wet and the cold,
    When content and a blanket can warm,
      Poor Joe!
    When content and a blanket can warm!

Apparently, he found the madrigal just one stanza too short, at least 
for his present mood; for which reason, so soon as he had finished 
the last of all, he began to repeat it, with even more expression 
than before, and had just reached the second line,--

  "My elbows peep out to the storm,"--

when one of his own elbows was suddenly seized upon, and a voice, 
bitterly reproachful, muttered in his ear,

"Are you mad? Are you mad, brother? are you mad?"

"What! Hal? sister? is that you? Gad's my life, I knew you would 
scold me; but if you would only consider----But, now I think of it, 
egad, what brings you out here of a dark night, singing Poor Joe, 
like an old soldier? Adzooks, as the Captain says, I am quite 
astonished!"

"Brother, you are----Oh, that you should be so insensible to 
interest, if not to shame!" cried Miss Falconer, with deep feeling. 
"Brother, brother, you"----

"If I have, may I be shot!" cried the young officer, hastily, as if 
the instinct of long habit had taught him what his sister intended to 
say; "that is, Harry, my dear, nothing to speak of; and it is all on 
account of Caliver, who, betwixt you and me, is so deuced 
soft-headed,--he is, egad,--one must always sit by, to take care of 
him. As for me, Hal, why I can drink a hogshead of any such wishwashy 
stuff as these French wines; I can, by the eternal Jupiter, as 
Caliver says; and at the present moment I am"----

"Ruined, irretrievably ruined!" cried his sister; "and by your own 
folly--by your own miserable, infatuated dissipation. You have lost 
Catherine Loring."

"Lost Catherine Loring? _my_ Catherine Loring?" cried the young man, 
in alarm. "Have the Hawks carried her off?"

"What if I say _yes_?" replied Harriet; and then added, with a tone 
that brought the youth still farther to his senses, "and I must add, 
that even a base and renegade Gilbert is worthier of her than 
_you_,--my brother,--the son of Richard Falconer! Oh, shame upon you, 
brother! shame upon you!"

"Harry, you are joking with me!" cried Falconer, with a voice 
somewhat quavering and querulous. "We've driven the dogs the lord 
knows whither; and as for that story of the village, why that's all a 
fib: so as to carrying Catherine off, I don't believe a word of it."

"And yet you have lost her,--lost her, perhaps, beyond all 
redemption. Oh Harry, brother Harry, were you but enough in your 
senses to understand me!"

"I am, sister, I am," cried Falconer; and indeed the devil, 
drunkenness, was fast giving place to the devil, fear: "I _have_ been 
drinking; but I swear to heaven."

"Swear no more: you have done so a dozen times already."

"I have done so, sister; but I swear again, and I call heaven to 
witness, that if you have spoken the truth, and Catherine be really 
lost, I will never drink more till I have recovered or revenged her. 
But for pity's sake, speak; what is the matter?--I am sober now. What 
has brought you out here in the dark? Where is Catherine? What is the 
matter?"

"You shall hear," cried Miss Falconer, hurriedly: "perhaps it is not 
yet too late. You have a rival, brother, a dangerous rival!"

"Oh, gad now, sister! lord, is that all?" exclaimed the young man, 
bursting into a laugh: "why, you don't think I shall go jealous, 
because I have a rival? Gad, Harry, you're the most absurd sister in 
the world.--I wonder what the deuce has become of my hat?--A rival, 
Hal? One of these village clotpolls! A dozen of 'em, if you like: the 
more the merrier. I'll invite 'em all to my wedding."

"You are mad!" cried Harriet. "Wedding, indeed! Perhaps you will 
never be married. What think you of a rival that has her heart?"

"Her heart? Catherine's heart?" exclaimed the gay-brained soldier; 
"why, it has been mine these two years!"

"And now," said Harriet, "it is another's.--Brother! rouse from your 
dream of confidence and security. It is as true as that the stars are 
above us: Catherine Loring loves another."

"Harriet!"----

"It is true--she confessed it with her own lips."

"Confessed it, sister!" said the young man; and then added, with a 
spirit that surprised her, "If that be so, why then good luck to her: 
she shall have her freedom. I don't think I shall break my heart; 
and, certainly, I shan't force her to marry me. But, Hal,--look you, 
sister Hal,--I did not think she would cozen me. She confessed it, 
did she? Why, that's enough. I'm an honourable man; but after being 
cheated and jilted, I don't care much----But if I don't kill the 
scoundrel, Hal!--I say if I don't kill him, you may have leave to 
call me a fool and chicken twice over!--Confess it!"

If this display of spirit surprised Miss Falconer, the manifest 
distress with which her brother spoke, incredible as it may seem, 
greatly gratified her. His greatest fault in her eyes,--that is, 
aside from his dissipated habits,--was that easy indifference of 
disposition, or indolence of feeling, which kept him reckless and 
passive when she would have had him ardent and energetic. She knew 
him to be insensible of the full value of that prize it was her 
ambition to secure him; and had he been any but her brother, she 
would have hated him for what seemed the feebleness of his affection, 
as indicated by the little pains he took to secure that of Catherine. 
It was obvious, from this homely burst, in which magnanimity, pride, 
indignation, anger, and distress, were all so characteristically 
jumbled together, that the young gentleman had really feeling enough 
at bottom, and that, in a great measure, of the right kind; and the 
discovery brought a ray of hope into her mind.

"Brother," said she, "if you really love Catherine, you may yet save 
her."

"What! after confessing she loves another?" cried he, sulkily. "Now, 
Hal, for all your wisdom, you don't know me--I won't have her. 
Confess, indeed!"

"No--she did not confess--I will explain. Perhaps 'twas only a 
dream;--it was in her sleep."

"In her sleep!" cried Falconer, and then burst again into a roar of 
laughter. "In her sleep!" he ejaculated, giving way to a second peal. 
"Well! you have scared me with a vengeance!--But I forgive you--you 
have brought me to. Of all the cunning doctors in the world, give me 
yourself, Harry; you are infallible. And so she confessed in her 
sleep, poor soul, did she? Oh, Hal! Hal! Hal!" And here the 
capricious youth gave full swing to his merriment.

"Thus it is," said his sister, impatiently; "one extreme or the 
other, ever. Listen, brother; for I am serious. Your wild habits have 
greatly weakened Catherine's affections. Another comes, in the 
meanwhile, with attractions, I will not say superior to your own, but 
perhaps every way equal, who ceases not, neither by day nor by night, 
to influence her imagination and engage her heart. Judge of his 
success, when you know that she has admitted him to intimacy, nay, to 
confidence; judge, when I tell you that she trembles at the sound of 
his voice, turns pale at the echo of his footsteps, blushes when he 
speaks, looks glad when he is by her, and weeps when he is 
absent,--and, finally, who hides the secret from her own waking 
thoughts, yet babbles his name over in her dreams, and sheds tears, 
and smiles with her tears, when she murmurs it. Is not such a 
man,--the object of such emotions, himself so passionately enamoured, 
that his visage betrays the thought of his bosom, even when he knows 
he is suspected and watched,--is not such a man a dangerous rival?"

"Sister, you know better than myself," said Falconer, uneasily; "if 
_you_ think so"----

"I do, brother; I believe, that, this moment, without knowing it 
herself, Catherine's mind is dwelling upon your rival; and if he be 
not driven away, you will lose her."

"Point him out to me, sister Harriet, and then, by"----

"No fighting! no fighting, brother!" cried Harriet, in some alarm, 
and speaking with eagerness. "Not a hair of the young man's head must 
be harmed; we have done him injury enough among us, perhaps, already. 
We must frighten him away: if I know him, we can legally expel him 
from the valley. Arrest, imprison him, banish him;--do any thing; but 
harm him not--that is, do him no harm with your own hands. If he have 
forfeited his life to the law, let the law take it. Now, brother, 
know your rival--it is the youngest brother of this dreadful Oran 
Gilbert."

"Saints and devils!" cried Falconer, with vivacity, "a Hawk of the 
Hollow! and dare to love Catherine Loring?"

"I could be sworn to it," said Harriet. "The circumstances that 
pointed out the assassin of my father, were but clews of thistle-down 
to the chains of evidence that led me to the knowledge of this 
skulking raven's character. The first circumstance was as strong as 
the last; an idle, thoughtless, nay, an accidental, pencil mark on a 
drawing opened my eyes in an instant; and heaven's light immediately 
streamed through them. But think him not the coarse cut-throat his 
name would indicate; he has had a gentleman's breeding, and such is 
his bearing. I doubt not that he is a confederate of his brother, 
perhaps even a spy; and, I am persuaded, it was he who counteracted 
our scheme of seizing the reprobates, and brought the poor soldier, 
Parker, to the gibbet. He must be arrested and examined. He knows he 
is suspected--he knows that I suspect him; but will, in his audacity, 
remain, in the assurance that no real proof can be brought against 
him.--That man, that painter, brother,--that Hunter? where did you 
leave him?"

"Leave him?" cried Falconer: "why, is he not here? Sure, he led the 
way hither; and sure I followed after him. A rare fellow, sister! I 
was going to blow his brains out; but, egad, I know him better, and, 
gad, I am coming on fast to adore him. Adzooks, as the Captain says, 
I picked up his letter, and"----

"His letter?" cried Harriet, eagerly; "where is it?"

"Here," said the lieutenant, drawing it from his pocket, wherein he 
had safely bestowed it.

"To the light! to the light!" cried the maiden, snatching it out of 
his hands, and running with the speed of a frighted deer towards the 
mansion, followed by her bewildered brother. A candle blazed in one 
of the windows that opened on the porch, and in the chamber it 
lighted, had she been disposed to look, Miss Falconer might have seen 
the gallant Captain Loring sitting upright in his arm-chair, but fast 
asleep, and filling half the house with the melody of his nostrils. 
To this window ran Miss Falconer, and hither she was followed by her 
brother; who, to his amazement and indignation, found her devouring 
the contents of the paper with the avidity of a malefactor poring 
over his own respite from a death of ignominy.

"Gad's my life, sister Hal!" cried the incensed soldier, "you have 
disgraced me for ever! What, reading the young fellow's letter?"

"Reading _my_ letter!" cried Harriet, turning upon him a look 
inexpressibly fierce and triumphant. "Was not this suspicion as 
prophetic as the other? The dead Parker speaks to me, and from his 
grave affords me proof even stronger than I sought. Oh, villain! 
villain! audacious, inconceivably audacious, villain! Their 
lieutenant? His intimacy with, his designs upon Catherine Loring, 
revealed even to his ribald companions? and made their theme of 
speech! their jest! Oh, what a rival have you suffered to approach 
your betrothed wife, Harry Falconer! _This_ convicts, doubly convicts 
him.--What ho, uncle! Captain Loring, awake! Where is Catherine? 
Uncle! uncle!"

"Devils!" cried Falconer, "do you mean to say that Hunter is the man? 
Why he's a gentleman!"--

"Adzooks, and adsbobs, what's the matter? Send out scouts to beat the 
bushes: tree 'em, my boys, tree 'em; never show an inch of Adam's 
leather to an Indian.--Adzooks, is that you, Harry my dear?" were the 
words of Captain Loring, roused as suddenly from his slumbers as he 
had often been in his early woodland campaigns. "What's the matter? 
Have you caught that scoundrel Oran, or any of his gang?"

The answer to this question astounded the old soldier; and while Miss 
Falconer poured into his ears the story of the transformation of his 
beloved Herman the painter into Hyland Gilbert, a brother and leader 
among the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, he seemed for a moment, like the 
devotee, rapt in a holier passion, to have

  Forgot himself to marble.

In the meanwhile the unlucky author of this commotion had brought his 
destinies to a crisis in another quarter, and with another 
individual.




CHAPTER II.

  "Not all the wealth of Eastern kings;" said she,
  "Has power to part my plighted love and me."
                                             DRYDEN.


The painter had long since made his way to Gilbert's Folly. As he 
hurried through the park, he discerned the figure of Miss Falconer; 
and notwithstanding the obscurity of the hour, he knew her at once, 
and avoided her. There was a moon in the sky, but new, and low in the 
west; and, besides, it was struggling with clouds that robbed it of 
half its lustre; yet it cast ever and anon light enough to enable a 
good eye to distinguish objects on the more open portions of the 
lawn.

Not a little pleased at the prospect, thus offered, of enjoying a 
_tête à tête_ with the Captain's daughter, though it might be only 
for a moment, he entered the house and the little saloon in which he 
had spent so many happy moments. It was empty, but the door leading 
to the garden was open, and the broad gravel-walk, fringed with low 
shrubs and roses, was lighted by the taper in the apartment. As he 
stepped out, his eye fell upon Catherine Loring, who was that moment 
approaching from the garden, her step hurried, and her countenance 
displaying agitation, which was increased the moment she beheld him.

"Oh, Mr. Hunter!" she cried, running eagerly towards him, "I am very 
glad to see you, and I am glad we are alone. We are all going mad 
here at the Folly, and it is right you should know it. You have--I am 
ashamed to say it, for I know you have not deserved her dislike--made 
an enemy of my cousin Harriet; the strangest suspicions have entered 
her head; and she may offend you, unless you are put on your guard. 
You must forgive her: by and by, you will laugh at her folly, and so 
will she; but at present she seems half-distracted by the events of 
the day, the disasters of her father, and her fears for the future. 
Did you not meet her? Alas, she will be here in a moment!"

"Fear not," said the young man, in hurried and altered tones, but 
with an effort to be jocose; "she is down by the park-gate, studying 
the stars, and reading my own foolish history among them. Miss 
Catherine,--Miss Loring,--I am aware of your friend's dislike. I am 
not surprised--she will tolerate your having no friend less 
interested than herself."

"You must not speak thus, Mr. Hunter," cried Catherine, but in too 
much hurry of spirits to rebuke. "I did wrong to show you her letter: 
_that_, I fear, is the chief cause of her anger; and your being a 
stranger, and so great a favourite with my father--oh, and a thousand 
reasons more she has found, or fancied, for supposing you are--that 
is, that you have deceived us, and that"----

"That I am--an impostor," said Hyland, hesitating an instant at the 
word, but pronouncing it at last firmly.

"Such is indeed her strange aberration," cried Catherine, apparently 
overjoyed that the idea so repugnant to herself, had been conceived 
by the suspected person, and without distress or anger; 
"and,--and--but this is the maddest and most insulting suspicion of 
all, (yet you must not be offended:)--she thinks, you--really, I 
could laugh, but that she has frightened me half out of my wits--she 
thinks, you are even a tory in disguise!--a refugee,--(ah, now I have 
said it!)--a comrade of these wild and lawless men, come to spy upon 
us, and murder us--(is it not too ludicrous?)--a spy, an enemy, a 
traitor--nay, even a Gilbert--a Hawk of the Hollow! I _can_ laugh, 
now that I have said it. And now, too, I am sure you will not be 
offended, the suspicion is so very ridiculous: yes, I am sure you 
will forgive her."

"I do," said the young man, sadly and falteringly, "for her suspicion 
is just,--at least, it is just in part--I _am_ an impostor."

"Heavens!" cried Catherine, "what do you tell me?"

"That I have deceived and imposed upon you--at least in name. I am 
neither spy nor refugee, indeed, neither cut-throat nor 
betrayer,--but I am Hyland Gilbert, a son of him who built this 
house, and a brother of those whose name fills it with horror. Miss 
Loring, Miss Loring!" he cried, impetuously, seeing that Catherine 
recoiled from him with terror, "is the name so dreadful even to you? 
In nothing else am I criminal--do you think I would do you a hurt?"

"Surely not, surely not," cried Catherine, gasping almost for breath, 
and speaking she scarce knew what: "I do not think you would hurt me. 
No, oh no! I have done you no harm, and my father has been good to 
you."

"For God's sake, Miss Loring--Catherine--compose yourself," cried the 
young man, both amazed and shocked at the impression his words had 
produced on a mind almost unhinged by long and brooding sorrow. 
"What, _I_ harm you? I would die to protect you from the least evil."

"And you are a Gilbert, then? a foe to the land of your birth, a 
disguised enemy, an associate of thieves and murderers?" cried the 
maiden, with sudden energy, and in a passion of tears; "oh, Mr. 
Hunter, I thought better of you!"

"Think better of me yet," he exclaimed, catching her by the hand, 
"for as there is a heaven above us, I have done nothing to deserve 
your hatred. All that I have done--and it is nothing but 
concealment--was to do you service, and to obtain your friendship."

"Go--stay no longer here--you must come no more," cried Catherine, 
weeping bitterly; "and would you had never come, for I thought you 
were my friend--my friend, and my poor father's. I don't believe you 
are a bad man, or that you will do a wrong to any one; but you must 
go. Yes, go," she added, wildly, "for you are in danger. They will 
arrest you; and then what will become of you? It was Harriet's 
talking of this,--of arresting you,--that made me tell you, that you 
might show her how much she was deceived. Go, go! and never return 
more. A moment, and the officers will be here: Harriet has sent for 
them. Go, Mr. Hunter, go!"

"I will not, Catherine," cried the youth, giving way to the most 
vehement emotion: "I know that they are sacrificing you; and I will 
remain till you are rescued, come what will. You hate this young 
Falconer; you do, Catherine,--you cannot conceal it: he is unworthy 
of you--he shall never marry you."

"You will drive me mad! For heaven's sake, Mr. Hunter--is this the 
way to show your friendship?"

"My love, Catherine, call it my love. I love you, Catherine Loring, 
and I will save you, even against your will. Say that you hate Henry 
Falconer, the wretched son of a still more wretched father--say 
that--nay, place but your hand on mine, and you shall"----

"Never!" cried Catherine, wildly; "I love you not--I hate you! 
Release me. Is this the way you repay my father's good deeds? Go, Mr. 
Hunter: you have made me more unhappy than before."

"I will make you happy, Catherine. I have wealth--nay, and 
reputation, Gilbert though I be. I will go to your father, I will 
demand you at his hands"----

"Kill me, first--kill me, rather than speak to me thus!" cried the 
unhappy maiden, in unspeakable agitation. "Is this the way to talk to 
me? You should know better, for I am to be given to another. Oh, that 
you had never come to our house! Go--I forgive you--I will tell 
nobody. If they find you, they will kill you: Harriet has shown me 
they can take your life. Hark! they are coming! I hear their voices! 
I hear my father's! I forgive you, Mr. Hunter; yes, I forgive 
you--but I will never see you more! no, never!"

"Catherine!"----

"Never! I swear it--never, never! I am vowed and betrothed. If you 
stay longer, I shall die! Oh, have pity on me, and go: have pity on 
me, for my father's sake,--pity, pity!"

These wild and hysterical expressions were concluded by a shriek; for 
at that moment the ill-fated girl, who had been all the while 
struggling, though feebly, to make her way into the little saloon, 
beheld Miss Falconer, followed by her father and the young 
lieutenant, rush into it. As she screamed, she burst from the grasp 
of the impassioned lover, and, running forwards, threw herself into 
the Captain's arms.

"Oh, the hound! the villain!" cried the veteran; "he has been killing 
her! Shoot him down, run him through, knock him on the head! Here, 
you Aunt Rachel! Phoebe! Daphne! Dick! Soph! and the squad of you! Oh 
lord, Harry, my dear, the dog has murdered her!"

"No, father, no, no, no!" cried the maiden, clinging, almost in 
convulsions, to his neck; "I am very well, father,--a bat flew in my 
face,--a snake came into the garden, and I don't know what! But it is 
very foolish, father,--I am always very foolish!" And with these 
incoherent expressions, in which even the whirl and tumult of a 
suffering heart could not repress an instinctive effort to distract 
notice from the young man in the garden, she fell into a state of 
pitiable prostration, which engaged the whole attention of her father 
and kinswoman.




CHAPTER III.

               Will you walk out, sir?
  And if I do not beat thee presently
  Into as sound belief as sense can give thee,
  Brick me into the wall there for a chimney-piece,
  And say,--I was one o' th' Cæsars, done by a seal-cutter.
                       RULE A WIFE AND HAVE A WIFE.


In the meanwhile, Herman,--or Hyland Gilbert, as he must now be 
called,--(so soon as he beheld the maiden, wooed so wildly and 
vainly, fly to her parent for refuge,) turned from the illuminated 
path, and taking advantage of his previous knowledge of the garden, 
soon succeeded in making his way out of it, and, as he thought, 
without being observed. He hurried through the park, torn by a 
tempest of passions, and had almost reached the gate, when he was 
suddenly roused by a tap on the shoulder, which brought him to a 
stand. The moon had set, and the light of the stars, breaking through 
ragged clouds, was not sufficient to make him acquainted with the 
visage of the intruder; but the first word of the salutation that 
accompanied the touch, told him he was now confronted with his rival.

"An excellent good night to you, my fine hail-fellow-well-met!" cried 
Harry Falconer; "you'll be jogging, will you? A word in your ear: 
there's star-light enough to be civil by, soft moist grass for 
sleeping on, and, gad's my life, as good barren clay at your feet as 
ever gentleman rotted under. Now you may be surprised to hear it, but 
I have the prettiest pair of pistols in my pocket that were ever made 
for a lady's finger; somewhat dwarfish, to be sure--but, egad, as 
good, at six paces, for blowing one's brains out, as a battering 
piece at point-blank distance. So douse kit, as the cobbler says, and 
let's begin.--Harkee, sir, no skulking! Don't put me to the painful 
necessity of calling hard names. No sneaking!"

"You are a fool," said Hyland, sternly. "If you will renew your 
quarrel, come to me in the morning."

"By your leave, no," said the lieutenant, laying hand on his collar. 
"As to being a fool, adzooks, as the Captain says, I am, or _was_, 
for supposing you an honest, respectable sort of a vagabond young 
man; whereas, on the contrary"----

"Remove your hand, or----Well, sir," cried the young Gilbert, "what 
will you have? Must I cut your throat? Trust me, my fingers have been 
itching to do it all day; and, at this moment, they are hotter than 
ever. Begone, therefore, while you may, and while the devil is yet 
behind me. This is no time nor place for quarrelling."

"The best in the world," said the officer; "and to end your scruples 
at once, know that I give you choice only of two alternatives. Being 
a cursed Hawk-Hollow Gilbert"----

"Hah!"

"You have a certain claim to the gallows; but being also an 
exceedingly well-behaved, genteel, handsome young dog, who have done 
me the honour to court my sweetheart, you have an equal claim to die 
in a gentlemanly way. So take your choice--a pistol, six paces, and a 
shot at _one-two-three_; or yield yourself a prisoner, and die by a 
drum-head court-martial."

"What if I say,--Neither?" replied Gilbert. "Away, molest me not." 
And he turned again to depart, but was again arrested by the hot 
soldier.

"Oh, gad," cried this worthy, "one thing you _must_ say."

"Look you, Mr. Henry Falconer," said Hyland, with a trembling voice, 
"I have never yet harmed a human creature, and I would not willingly 
hurt even you, though I have a double cause to wish you ill. Provoke 
me no farther. You have been drinking, and are now beside yourself."

"Never think it," said the lieutenant, dropping his tone of 
bagatelle, but speaking with characteristic impetuosity. "You have 
presumed to be impertinent to a certain lady, who shall be nameless; 
for which reason I will forget that you are a low and contemptible 
scoundrel, worthy only"----

"Give me the pistol," said Hyland, "and your blood be on your own 
head. I will abide no more from the son of your father."

"Spoken like a man," cried Falconer, instantly stepping off six paces 
on the grass, and counting them aloud as he stepped. Then turning, he 
added, with a furious voice, as if giving way to his passions, "Now, 
you rascal, prepare to fire as soon as you hear me count three; and 
if I don't teach you manners, you gallows dog, may I never more smell 
gunpowder. Ready, you rogue! fire! One,--two,--three!"

The instant the last word escaped his lips, he fired his own pistol, 
and Hyland staggered backwards, as if the shot had taken effect. 
Immediately recovering himself, however, he cried, with an agitated 
voice, "Let that satisfy you--I will not hurt you," and threw his own 
undischarged weapon away. The act of generosity was not appreciated 
by his rival, who, inflamed by a rage to which he seemed now to have 
given himself up, uttered an oath, and whipping out the sword he 
always carried at his side, rushed upon him, crying, "Villain, you 
don't escape me so easily!"

Thus attacked, and with a fury that seemed to aim at nothing short of 
his life, Hyland, who was entirely without arms, avoided the lunge 
aimed at his heart, and immediately closing with his adversary, they 
fell together to the ground.

In the meanwhile, the pistol-shot had reached the ears of the captain 
of cavalry, and one or two of the late banqueters, who were, at that 
moment, making their way to Gilbert's Folly, in obedience to a 
summons from Miss Falconer, which, although meant only for her 
brother, the domestic entrusted with it, had communicated, in his 
absence, to captain Caliver. It found that worthy gentleman, as well 
as all others present, somewhat incapable of understanding it; but as 
it related to the Hawks of the Hollow, and seemed to require the 
presence of the lieutenant or his friends at the mansion, it was 
obeyed by all, not even excepting the gallant Ephraim; although, as 
it afterwards appeared, this mysterious individual had, after setting 
out, separated from the party, which was now but three in number.

"By the eternal Jupiter!" cried Caliver, toiling and stumbling up an 
ascent that led to the park-gate, as the sudden explosion, followed 
immediately after by angry voices, broke the solemn silence of the 
night,--"by the eternal Jupiter, halt!--there's the tories! They're 
beating up the old cock's quarters!"

"Let us retreat," cried one of his attendants, "and get our horses."

"Halt--hark!" exclaimed the soldier, "there's Harry Falconer's voice! 
the dogs are murdering him! Prepare to charge, and hold your 
tongues.--Now follow me, and I'll have a whole regiment on 
them.--Halloo!" he cried at the top of his voice, as if really 
calling upon a competent force of both horse and foot; "Make bayonet 
work of it, you light-infantry dogs! Horsemen, over the fence, and 
surround the vagabonds!--No quarter!--Double quick-step, march! 
Charge the villains!" And with this valiant stratagem, the officer 
ran boldly up the hill, followed by his two companions,--though not 
until they had heard behind them, or fancied they heard, the clatter 
as of a party of horsemen descending the hill they had already left.

As Caliver rushed into the park, he again heard the voice of his 
friend, and rushing up, beheld, to his great amazement, the band of 
tories dwindled into a single individual, lying across Falconer's 
breast, and in the very act of transfixing him with his own weapon.

"By the eternal Jupiter! what means all this?" he cried, dragging 
Hyland off his prey. "What! my jolly gentleman-volunteer, hah! What 
means this, you absurd young cut-throats?"

"It means," cried Falconer, rising and darting at his foe with 
unexampled fury, "that I've nabbed a tory lieutenant, and I'll have 
his blood!"

He took his adversary at a disadvantage, for Hyland was still held by 
the captain; and before this bewildered peace-maker could interfere, 
the combatants were again rolling together upon the ground, only that 
their positions were reversed, for Falconer was now uppermost, and 
armed with Caliver's sword, which he had snatched out of the 
captain's hand, not knowing, nor indeed caring, what had become of 
his own.

At this juncture, a new feature was given to the battle-field. 
"Enemies!" cried Caliver's two attendants; and the cry was echoed by 
a fierce yell, like the war-whoop of a savage, coming from the gate, 
through which galloped they knew not how many dusky figures, looking 
to the eyes of the revellers like the fiends of darkness themselves. 
The astounded captain, deserted in a moment by his attendants, looked 
up, and beheld with still greater amazement, the apparition, as it 
seemed, of Ephraim Patch astride his gallant gray; only that this 
impression was put to flight by the spectre urging the steed right 
upon him, crying at the same time in a voice of thunder, "Down with 
the rebel dogs! trample them to death!" and the next moment, the 
unlucky officer was struck to the ground by the blow of a hoof, and 
there lay insensible.

"Victory!" cried the valiant rider, springing from his steed, and 
cheering his companion (for he had but one,) who was at that moment 
dashing after the two volunteers. "Victory!" he exclaimed, rushing 
towards the original combatants, and immediately proceeding to knock 
young Falconer on the head with the butt of a pistol, crying at the 
same time to Hyland, whom he assisted to rise, "Up, brother actor and 
Hawk of the Hollow,--'my name is Harry Percy!' 'The trumpet sounds 
retreat, the day is ours!'"

"Good God!" cried young Gilbert, bending over his adversary, "you 
have killed him!"

"Quarter!" murmured the lieutenant, faintly, "quarter, if you be 
Christian men!"

"Hell and furies!" cried Ephraim, thrusting the pistol into his face, 
"you die, were you the king's son!" and he would have killed the 
unlucky youth on the spot, had it not been for Hyland, who dashed the 
weapon out of his hand, exclaiming, "Touch him not, on your 
peril!--What! can you stand?" he added, addressing Falconer: 
"Away--you are safe. You would have taken my life--I give you yours. 
But, remember, Henry Falconer," he whispered in his ear, as he led 
him a little way, "remember _this_: you are seeking Catherine Loring 
against her will. If you persist, it were better for you had you 
never been born. Away with you, ere those come who will not be so 
merciful."

The young officer, confused by the blow he had received, and perhaps 
terrified by the appearance of enemies so unexpected and of a 
character so incomprehensible, stole away and concealed himself among 
some neighbouring bushes. He heard the crash of hoofs over the 
avenue, as if he who had chased away the volunteers, were now 
returning to his unknown companions, then a murmur of voices, and 
finally a renewed sound of horses' feet, whereby he perceived that 
the midnight assailants had left the paddock. He then crept from his 
concealment, and made his way towards the mansion, to which, as was 
evident from the flashing of lights in the windows and on the porch, 
the alarm had been already communicated.




CHAPTER IV.

And I remember the chief, said the king of woody Morven: I met him, 
one day, on the hill; his cheek was pale; his eye was dark; the sigh 
was frequent in his breast; his steps were towards the desert.
                                                    CARRIC-THURA.


A month swept over the valley, and found it restored to its pristine 
quiet and loneliness. The confusion resulting from the developements 
of the eventful 4th had subsided, and men began to remember the 
occurrences of that day almost as a dream. Had the refugees really 
been in the Hollow? The discovery of Parker's body,--the recovery of 
his last letter, which had remained in Hyland's hands in the hurry of 
separation from his brother, to be, by a natural fatality, converted 
into testimony against himself,--the nocturnal scuffle in the park, 
from which captain Caliver and the junior officer had come off with 
injuries, though not serious ones,--and, finally, the sudden 
disappearance of the painter and the eccentric Ephraim,--were the 
only evidence to establish the truth of such a visitation. No outrage 
had been perpetrated either upon life or property; nor could the 
keenest search of the county volunteers, assisted by several 
detachments from the lines, sent to scour the whole country, detect a 
single vestige of the audacious outlaws. That they had fled was 
manifest enough, but how and whither no man could tell. It appeared 
from the letters of Parker, that the chief object of Gilbert's return 
to his native valley was the rescue of young captain Asgill, of whom 
we have before spoken, out of the hands of his jailers; and it is now 
well known, that, among the devices to secure the life of this 
unfortunate captive, 'a plan was, in case of the worst, arranged for 
his escape,' and secretly persisted in, until it became evident that 
the humanity of the American Commander-in-chief was his truest 
safeguard. There remained, therefore, no longer occasion for the 
services of Oran Gilbert, to whom an exploit of this nature, 
requiring a man of crafty and daring spirit, had been so properly 
entrusted; and it was at first hoped, and then confidently believed, 
that he had withdrawn entirely from the neighbourhood, and, after 
disbanding his followers, returned, in spite of the vigilance of his 
foes, to New York; and, indeed, certain secret intelligence was 
received from that city, that he had been long since ordered to 
return, the project of rescue being now as unnecessary as it was 
hopeless of success. That he had committed no outrage upon the 
unprotected inhabitants of the county was supposed to be owing not 
more to the necessity of avoiding all acts that might give the alarm, 
and so draw attention towards him, than the positive commands of the 
British Commander, whose course in the present conjuncture of 
affairs, was to the full as forbearing as that of his enemy.

These considerations restored confidence to the county; and nothing 
remained for the good citizens but to weave the chain of mysterious 
circumstances attending the visitation into a web of wonderful 
history, and to speculate upon the character and fate of the painter 
and honest Ephraim. As for the latter, ingenuity was for a long time 
at fault, until the story of Mr. Leonidas Sterling became generally 
known; when an opinion, hazarded at first almost in jest, grew into a 
settled belief,--namely, that these twain were one and the same 
person, and that he who had deceived so well as the ranting preacher, 
had deceived still better in the semblance of the zealous quaker. The 
successful _fourberies_ of this modern Scapin obtained for him a 
higher degree of credit than he had ever won, while contracting his 
genius into the representation of the kings of fiction; and he was 
remembered and spoken of with a degree of good humour, that perhaps 
explained the unwillingness of his city friends to proceed rigorously 
against him, when his treasonable practices were discovered.

As for the young Hunter, or Gilbert, as he was now universally 
called, he was remembered with no such favour. To be a scion of the 
tory family, was enough to condemn him, even although (as had been 
the case) he might have passed his days afar from the contamination 
of his brothers' example, and shared neither in their acts nor their 
hostile spirit. But to be an associate,--an officer of the very gang 
commanded by Oran,--was a sin of inexpiable die, to which a double 
blackness was given by his dissimulation and audacity. He had resided 
among them as a friend and brother, and yet was all the time playing 
the part of a spy and betrayer; and he had capped the climax of 
effrontery by taking part in the jubilee of liberty, and even 
profaning with hypocritical lips the sacred manifesto of 
Independence,--or so, at least, he would have done, but for the 
interruption caused by Oran's appearance. This seemed to them little 
short of impiety, a sacrilegious mockery, indicative as much of his 
contemptuous disregard of the holy instrument as of his daring 
character. In this spirit of indignation they proceeded to canvass 
his whole history, raking up every little act that could be 
remembered, and perverting each into a manifestation of villany; the 
worst of which was his attempt to carry off Captain Loring's 
daughter,--for so much they made of his parting interview with the 
young lady,--and then, being baffled in the base attempt, waylaying 
and attempting to murder her affianced husband. In a word, he was 
proved to be a monster of treason, perfidy, and ingratitude; and few 
had the courage, fewer still the disposition, to say a word in his 
defence. It must be confessed that Dr. Merribody once, in a fit of 
unusual generosity, declared to a whole throng of raging villagers, 
'that the scoundrel was an honest man and a gentleman after all, for 
he had faithfully paid his bill, and even asked for it, before it was 
presented;' but this impulse of magnanimous friendship vanished when 
he came to remember how much he had been imposed upon in relation to 
the youth's true character, by some deception Elsie Bell thought fit 
to play upon him, under colour of admitting him to the secret. The 
poet also, who, in the loss of Hyland, wept that of his warmest 
admirer, contended 'that he sang better, and had a more refined 
literary taste, than any body he ever knew.' Nay, even Captain 
Loring, who had begun to esteem him as the apple of his eye, was 
converted into a furious foe, which was owing, in a great measure, to 
the discovery of the young man's political inclinings, though his 
anger was sharpened and augmented by Miss Falconer, who took 
occasion, for a purpose of her own, to reveal what the Captain had 
never dreamed of himself. She gave him to understand, what was indeed 
nothing more than true, that his ungrateful protegé had endeavoured 
to detach Catherine's affections from her brother, and divert them 
upon himself,--an assurance that infuriated the old soldier, whose 
wrath was not much mollified when Miss Falconer succeeded in making 
him aware how much his own extravagant patronage of the impostor 
might have been construed into almost positive encouragement of his 
presumption. But bitter as was the worthy veteran's anger, it was as 
capricious as his love had been. Whenever he laid his eyes upon the 
unfinished painting, which he commonly did a dozen times a day, he 
would begin to bewail and admire together, and swear 'that his young 
Haman What-did-ye-call-it, for all of his roguery, was the finest 
painter that was ever known; and, adzooks, he thought there must be 
some mistake about his being a tory and a Gilbert.'

The occurrence of these incidents had naturally made the poor widow 
an object of suspicion, as having connived at the presence, and aided 
in the concealment and flight, of the outlaws; and she was even 
threatened with the vengeance of the law, until Harry Falconer, to 
the surprise of every body, stepped forward as her champion, and made 
such interest for her as left her again in her lonely and quiet 
desolation. Whether this display of generosity was prompted by his 
own erratic feelings, or was derived from the secret influence of the 
Captain's daughter, Elsie knew not. Catherine visited her no more; 
and within a week after the explosion of the 4th, she left 
Hawk-Hollow with her friend Harriet, and was absent for a 
considerable period. Elsie saw her, as the carriage rolled by; her 
face was very pale and haggard, as if she had been suffering from 
sickness. When she returned, young Falconer and a brother officer, 
both mounted, pranced along at her side. She looked from the carriage 
as she passed, and kissed her hand to the widow, while her eye 
sparkled as with its former fire. But Elsie beheld her not; as she 
looked up, her eye caught the outlines of a dark and stern 
countenance behind that of Catherine, on which were the traces of age 
and broken health.

She started from her seat, and gazed eagerly after the rolling 
vehicle, but it was soon swept out of sight. She remained upon her 
feet, until she had seen it enter the park, and draw up before 
Captain Loring's door, when she again sunk upon her chair, muttering 
to herself:

"I saw him last a black-eyed boy, with a cheek like the rose-leaf, 
and hair like the wing of a crow; and now he comes with a cheek as 
withered even as mine, and locks frosted still whiter. So let it be 
with the villain; honour may fall on the snowy head, but what lies in 
the bosom? And can he walk over the knolls where Jessie walked, and 
smile on those around him? There is thunder yet in heaven, and a long 
reckoning yet to settle. Ah well, ah well, we shall see what we shall 
see, and I shall live to see it; for she cursed him in her 
death-gasp; and I cursed too, and I prayed God I might live to see 
the two curses light upon him together; and together they will light, 
and I alive to see it!" And muttering thus in one of those occasional 
moods of darkness which had, perhaps more than any thing else, served 
to fix the stigma of the sibyl upon her, Elsie gathered up her wheel 
and spindle, and retreated from her favourite seat on the porch, to 
which she returned no more during the day.

The person upon whom she invoked this malediction was the father of 
Miss Falconer, who, with Catherine and himself, made up the contents 
of the carriage. As he stepped upon the porch of Gilbert's Folly, 
from the vehicle, and received the rough welcome of Captain Loring, 
it was with a firmer bearing than would have been expected from his 
apparent age and infirm health. He was of tall stature, and, although 
greatly wasted, preserved an erect military bearing. His countenance, 
though hollow, withered, and of the sallowest hue, was, even yet, 
strikingly handsome, and his eye was of remarkable brilliancy, though 
of a stern and saturnine expression. His brow was very lofty, though 
not ample, and his mouth singularly well sculptured, and indicative 
of decision. On the whole, his appearance was at once commanding and 
venerable; and even those who were freest to whisper the tale of 
early profligacy and maturer corruption, could not deny him the 
deference due to his gentlemanly air and deportment. A close 
inspection of his countenance would have revealed no traces of the 
workings of an unquiet spirit. The first glance showed him to be of a 
temper thoughtful, reserved--nay, severe and moody; but the second 
could discover no more. A perfect self-command, a mastery not merely 
of his countenance, but of his spirit, lifted him above the ken of 
petty scrutiny; and if he wore a mask in his commerce with men, it 
was like that iron one of the Bastile, which when put on, was put on 
for life, and was, at the same time, of iron. He was a man upon whom 
even his children looked with fear,--not that fear indeed which lives 
in constant expectation of the outbreaking of a violent spirit, but 
the awe that is begotten by a consciousness of the inflexible 
resolution of the spirit that rules us. This inflexibility is power, 
and power is ever an object of secret dread, even with those who love 
its possessor.

The austerity of his mind was not accompanied by rigid manners, nor 
even coldness of feeling. No one could be more courteous, and, at 
times, even agreeable, than Colonel Falconer. He received the 
welcomes of his kinsman with much apparent pleasure, and himself 
assisted Catherine from the carriage, and conducted her into the 
mansion, congratulating her, with gentleness and kindness, upon her 
return. "Yet you must grant," he added, "that even the smoke of a 
city can sometimes renew the health, when the air of the country 
fails. I would I might profit by these mountain breezes, as I know 
you will, when you have once recovered from your fatigue. But let me 
see you but happy with my graceless Harry, I shall not complain of my 
own infirmities."--

On the third day after the arrival of Colonel Falconer, the solitude 
of Hawk-Hollow began to be broken by the appearance of divers 
carriages, filled with gay and well dressed people, the destination 
of all whom appeared to be Gilbert's Folly. A few individuals, the 
more favoured of the villagers, were seen mingling their equipages 
occasionally with the others; but it was plain that the majority of 
visiters were strangers, and had come from a distance.

The object of such an unusual convocation of guests at Gilbert's 
Folly, could not long remain a mystery; and indeed it was known, 
several days before, that it was to do honour to the nuptials of 
Henry Falconer with the daughter of Captain Loring. The wealth and 
standing of the bridegroom's father were sufficient to secure him the 
means of giving _éclat_ to the ceremony, at a day when that ceremony 
was always one of festivity; and accordingly there appeared guests 
enough, and of sufficient figure, long before night, at the mansion, 
to convince those who took note of such circumstances, that it would 
be such a wedding as had never before been known in all that 
county.--And such indeed it proved; though not even the most 
imaginative could have foreseen from what unusual circumstances it 
was to owe its claim to be remembered.

Upon that day, while all others were laughing and smiling, a deep and 
moody dejection seized upon the spirits of the bridegroom's father; 
and although he displayed his wonted courtesy in receiving his 
guests, (they should be considered _his_, for the bride was without 
kinsfolk, and her father had invited none to partake of his joy, save 
a few villagers,) the task of continuing to trifle with them during 
the entire day became intolerably irksome, and perhaps the more so 
that his habits had for so many years accustomed him to solitude and 
privacy. Worn out at last, he exchanged the noisy apartments of the 
mansion for the shaded garden-walks; until, finally, driven from 
these by an increase of his melancholy and the presence of a bevy of 
maidens, seeking flowers to decorate their fair persons, or perhaps 
that of the bride, he fled from them to the more unfrequented walks 
in the park.

"Why should _I_ mingle with this mockery?" he muttered to himself, 
"and on this unhappy spot? Let me look upon those scenes I have not 
beheld for twenty-four years, and see if they have yet power to move 
me.--There are none here to miss me; and they will feel the freer and 
gayer, when frightened no more by my death's-head countenance.--I 
would the silly Captain had spared the poplar-row: and yet I know 
not,--the old white-oak, where----Faugh! that should be forgotten.
There is something _new_ at least in the forest. The shrubs have 
become maple-trees and beeches, the old oaks and sycamores have 
rotted in their places, and nothing is the same save the rocks and 
the water.--Why should I fear, then, to revisit scenes that have 
changed like myself? I shall never look on them again, after this 
day."

He composed his countenance into its ordinary expression of severe 
and frowning calm, and directing his steps through the grounds, as 
one familiarly acquainted with their most hidden retreats, made his 
way towards the Run, until he had reached the path along its rocky 
borders, previously trodden by Catherine and his daughter. He even 
sat down under the sycamore, where Catherine had begun the story of 
the wild Gilberts, and his own early adventures; and here, as if 
there were something in the spot to conjure up such memories, he 
mused long and painfully on the same dark subjects. Perhaps, also, as 
he looked upon the turbulent water rushing at his feet, he pictured 
to himself the resemblance it bore to the course of his own life,--a 
current, which, although now sunk into the composure of a river just 
losing itself in the vast ocean, had dashed so long in a channel full 
of rocks and caverns.

   'Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong?
  Such as my feelings were, and are, thou art;
    And such as thou art were my passions long.'

The current of his early life had been indeed as wild, as tortuous, 
as tumultuous, as that before him; and as he looked backwards upon 
its broken course, he saw that the freshes of passion had left as 
many ruins around it as now deformed the margin of the streamlet.

When he rose from his meditations, it was with a brow indicative of a 
deeply suffering mind; and as he strode onwards, still pursuing the 
course of the brook, a spectator looking at him from a concealment, 
might have detected on his visage the workings even of an agonized 
spirit, though it was observable, that, even in this solitude, where 
there seemed to be so little fear of observation, he still struggled 
to preserve an air of serenity. The roar of the waterfall fell upon 
his ear, and perhaps as the voice of an old acquaintance; it did not 
rouse him from his dream of pain, but seemed, although he essayed to 
approach it, to plunge him deeper in gloom; and he would perhaps have 
crossed the rustic bridge without being conscious of the act, had not 
his footsteps been suddenly arrested by a figure that started 
suddenly in the path, and recalled him to his senses. He looked up, 
and beheld a young man, in a hunting suit and leather hat, with the 
rifle and other equipments of a woodman, standing before him. The 
texture of his garments was coarse, and there was nothing in them to 
indicate any superiority in the wearer above the young rustics of the 
country; but he wore them with an air of ease, a _savoir s'habiller_, 
by no means common to the class. His figure was light and handsome, 
and so was his face, though the latter was miserably pale and thin, 
and marked with the traces of grief, and the former considerably 
emaciated. As he stepped into the path, he dropped the butt of his 
rifle upon the earth, as if for the purpose of arousing the 
abstracted comer by the clash; and when the Colonel looked up it was 
not without some alarm at opposition so unexpected.

"Fear not," said the young man, eyeing him with a mournful, yet 
steadfast gaze, "I design you no hurt."

"And why should you?" cried Colonel Falconer, returning his gaze, 
with one that seemed meant to rend him through. As he looked, 
however, he faltered, turned pale, and thrust his hand into his 
bosom, as if to grasp at a concealed pistol. The act was observed by 
the stranger, and he instantly repeated his words,--

"Fear nothing,--at least fear nothing from _me_: I desire to serve 
you, not injure.--Accident, or Providence, has given me the means. 
You are Colonel Falconer?"

"And you?" cried the gentleman, with an agitated voice.

"I--what matters it what _I_ am?" said the youth; "I am neither 
footpad nor assassin,--let that satisfy you. What do you in this 
place? Cannot even conscience make you wiser? Methinks, there is not 
a rock or a bush in this dark den,--there should not be a rustle of 
the leaf or a clash of the waters, but should tell you what you 
should expect, when treading the soil of a Gilbert."

"If you meditate violence, young man," cried Falconer, whose 
agitation visibly increased, the more he regarded the figure before 
him, and who now spoke with an emotion amounting almost to terror, 
"heaven forgive you. But heaven will _not_--there is no pardon in 
store for the young man who assails the gray hairs of the old."

"False, Colonel, false!" cried the youth, with a laugh of singular 
bitterness, "or surely you had never lived to tell me so. There was a 
man of gray hairs, Colonel Falconer, who once lived among these 
woods, and very happily, too; but a young man struck him, and struck 
him to the heart, Colonel; and the young man lived to have a head as 
white and reverend as he whom he slew! Yet fear not; again I say, 
fear not: I came to save, not to kill. Hear me, and then away. Begone 
from this place, and begone with such speed as becomes a man flying 
from a loosed panther. Mount your horse and away,--away instantly; 
and in return for the good deed of one who has perhaps saved your 
life, speak not a word to any human being of what you have heard and 
seen in this place."

"Stay," cried Colonel Falconer, recovering from his terror, yet 
speaking with a choking voice, "I owe this caution to a"----

"To an enemy," cried the other, turning from him.

"Stay, I charge you,--I command you,"--and as the Colonel spoke, in a 
sudden revulsion of feeling, he grasped the arm of the youth, who had 
already placed his foot upon the fallen sycamore, for the purpose of 
crossing the stream. To the surprise of Colonel Falconer, he 
discovered that even the strength of his aged arm was superior to 
that of the young man, who seemed to have been enfeebled by long 
sickness. He struggled to release himself, but not succeeding, he 
turned upon his captor, and shedding tears, said,

"If you will seize me, I have no strength to resist, nor any means of 
defence but this--and I will not use it." As he spoke, he cast his 
rifle to the earth. "You have but to will it, to complete the ruin 
you have begun."

"Alas, young man, unhappy young man," said Colonel Falconer, "I know 
you, and would recompense your humanity, if such it really be. _You_ 
should not, at least, perish like the rest of your mad and infatuated 
brothers, and yet you are rushing upon the same destruction; you have 
not been gently nurtured, to live the life of a bravo and outcast. I 
have heard of you, of your generous acts--of at least one,--nay, two; 
for Henry Falconer confessed you had both spared and saved his life. 
I can save you, young man,--I can and will;--and,--think of me as you 
please,--I will do it for your father's sake. You were not meant for 
this dreadful life, on which you are embarking."

"Such as it is," said Hyland Gilbert, picking up his rifle, for the 
Colonel had withdrawn his hand, "I am driven to it by you and yours. 
Now, Colonel Falconer," he added, leaping on the tree, "mock me no 
more with a sympathy I despise as much as I hate him who offers it. I 
am not your prisoner, and I will not be. I am weak and almost 
helpless--thank your son for that, and the skill that was exercised 
at the expense of one who had scarce ever fired a pistol in his 
life--I am weak, but I am armed and desperate. Follow me no further, 
for I trust you not. Follow me not, or be it at your peril."

He made his way across the bridge, but slowly and painfully; and 
Colonel Falconer observed more clearly than he had done before, that 
all his motions were laborious and feeble, and that, notwithstanding 
the arms he carried, he was entirely at the mercy of any one who 
chose to assail him. A thousand different feelings took possession of 
his breast, and among them pity for the unhappy condition of one, 
who, if he had inherited a deep hatred for himself, was not without a 
claim upon his feelings, and feelings deeper even than gratitude. He 
had been, of course, made acquainted with the extraordinary 
developements effected by the cunning, or perhaps the good fortune, 
of his daughter; and he was especially interested in the account of 
the discovery of the youngest Gilbert in the person of a young man, 
who, until that discovery was made, had so recommended himself even 
to strangers by the gentleness of his manners, and the apparent 
blamelessness of his life. Partaking little in the suspiciousness of 
his daughter, he judged the actions and character of the youth with 
more leniency and justice than others, though he kept his inferences 
locked up in his own breast; and, happily perhaps for Hyland, Miss 
Falconer had not thought fit to apprize him of what she deemed the 
presumption of the youth in becoming the rival of her brother. He saw 
in him, therefore, a young man in no wise resembling his fierce 
brothers, from whom he had been separated in early infancy, and one 
whom perhaps a mere desire to revisit the scenes of his childhood had 
drawn to Hawk-Hollow; and he thought, with justice, that nothing but 
the revealment of a name universally detested, by exposing him to 
sudden danger, had driven the young man to seek refuge among men of 
blood, whom he would otherwise have avoided. The confession of Henry 
Falconer, (whose jealousy was rather wrath at the presumption of his 
rival than any unworthy suspicion of his mistress,) that he had 
fought a duel with the 'confounded tory lieutenant,' as he always 
called him,--that his antagonist had endured his fire, and although 
hurt, as he believed, had refused to return it,--and, finally, that 
he had very generously interfered to save him from one of the gang, 
who was on the point of blowing his brains out,--was additional proof 
to Colonel Falconer that this orphan son of a man he had deeply 
injured was not by choice among the refugees, but forced among them 
by the ill will and violence of his own children. The wrong he had 
done to one member of Gilbert's family had, indirectly at least, 
produced the destruction of all but this one; and _he_ was now on the 
point of sinking into the abyss which had swallowed the rest, though 
worthy of a better destiny, unless a hand were stretched forth to 
save him.

These considerations,--a memory of the wrongs he had done and the 
reparation he should make, together with the present prospect of the 
poor youth in a state that might make him the prey of any enemy who 
might meet him, and some sense of the generosity of the warning he 
had just given--excited Colonel Falconer's feelings, and moved him 
with an impulse, which caused him at once to cross the brook, 
pursuing the fugitive, and intreating him to stay. Whether it was 
that his motive was misunderstood, and that the young man, in the 
agitation of his spirits, supposed that he was followed merely for 
the purpose of being arrested, or whether it was because he found 
himself in a spot peculiarly calculated to arouse his most vengeful 
feelings, it is certain that he became excited to anger by a pursuit 
designed only in kindness. He clambered up to the little enclosure of 
the grave, and was about making his way through the narrow passage 
betwixt the two rocks; when, hearing the pursuer close at his heels, 
he turned round, displaying a countenance so fierce and intimidating, 
that it instantly brought the Colonel to a stand.

"Villain!" he cried, throwing aside his rifle, and drawing his knife, 
"God has sent you to your fate--you are treading on Jessie Gilbert's 
grave!"

If the words had been thunder-bolts, they could not have sooner 
unmanned his pursuer. He started, shivering from head to foot, and 
looking down, beheld the dreary hollow, from which some pious hand, 
perhaps that of Hyland himself, had plucked away the weeds, leaving 
the stalk of the rose-bush flourishing alone at its head.

"Oh, holy Heaven!" cried Colonel Falconer, dropping upon his knees, 
and wringing his hands, while he gazed with an eye of horror upon the 
couch of his victim, "the grave of Jessie Gilbert!"

"Of the mother and the babe!" cried the young man, advancing towards 
him, with looks of vindictive fury; "and here, gray-headed though you 
be, you deserve to die. To this place of shame, man of ingratitude! 
you consigned the victim of your villany; and here it is fitting she 
should have her revenge."

But if Hyland Gilbert was a moment disposed to play the part of the 
avenger, it was only for a moment. His wrath was instantly disarmed 
by a burst of grief from the wronger, so overpowering, so agonizing, 
that he at once forgot his dreadful purpose, and felt himself melting 
with commiseration.

"She has had--she has had her revenge," cried the wretched man; 
"death had been too cheap a retribution, and therefore it has been 
ordained in a life of misery,--and _such_ misery, oh heaven! Would to 
God I had died in her place, though it had been with a world hooting 
me to the scaffold. Yes, Jessie, I _am_ a villain, and thou knowest, 
how much greater and viler than ever was thought, even by thee. But 
thou shalt have justice," he added, beating his breast, "yes, thou 
and thy murdered babe, though I give up my children to be sacrificed 
to thy memory."

"My father was right," muttered Hyland, as the foe of his family 
poured forth the wild expressions of a remorseful spirit; "he charged 
me to leave the destroyer of his peace to God and his fate; and God 
has made his fate an existence of retribution.--Arise, Colonel 
Falconer," he added, sternly; "profane this holy resting-place no 
longer with the mockery of repentance. Fly, and secure your wretched 
life for further remorse; for here it is in a danger of which you do 
not dream. Begone, and remember what I charged you----Hah! do you 
hear?" he cried, as a whistle as of a bird came from the forest 
behind and below the rocks. "Up for God's sake!" he cried, seizing 
the penitent by the arm, as if fear had supplied him with new 
strength, and hurrying him across the brook. "Begone, or you are a 
dead man. To the bushes, quick--to your horse, too, or your carriage. 
Dally not a moment, but begone. Say nothing of what you have seen or 
heard; and fear not for your children or friends--no harm is designed 
any of them. Away--save your own life, for no other is in danger."

With these charges, pronounced in the greatest haste, he took his 
leave, recrossing the brook, while Colonel Falconer, torn now as much 
by fear as he had been a moment before by anguish, fled through the 
wood, and over the hill, until he had reached the mansion. Here 
calling for his servant, and ordering a horse to be saddled instantly 
for himself, and another for the attendant, he prepared to leave the 
house, which he did in a few moments, and almost without being 
observed, the wedding-guests having retreated to the garden and the 
pleasant walks behind it.




CHAPTER V.

  The bridegroom's doors are open'd wide,
    And I am next of kin;
  The guests are met, the feast is set,
    May'st hear the merry din!
                     COLERIDGE--_Ancient Mariner_.


The Colonel galloped through the park and down the hill, until he had 
approached nigh enough to Elsie's cottage to see that its porch was 
darkened by the bodies of several men, moving about in what seemed to 
him extraordinary commotion. He grew pale, and finally, drawing up 
his horse, beckoned to his servant, a young and active mulatto, with 
an exceedingly bold and free visage, to approach:

"Give me the larger pistols, Reuben," he cried, "and do you take the 
smaller holsters----'Pshaw, they are fiddling and dancing! It is 
nothing.--Follow."

He resumed his course, and drawing nigher to the little inn, saw that 
the group, which he at first eyed with trepidation, consisted of his 
own son, and two or three young gentlemen of the bridal party, with a 
man of strange and even ludicrous appearance, from whom they appeared 
to be extracting no little diversion. He was a tall man, with a 
French military coat of white cloth, faced with green, and on his 
head a chapeau-de-bras, which was, at that time, though the common 
cap of the Gallic auxiliaries, esteemed quite a curiosity in the 
confederacy. Instead of a white underdress, however, he had on 
breeches of broad blue and white stripes, which, being very tight, 
gave a pair of legs more remarkable for brawn than beauty, an 
appearance quite comical, and the more especially that they were 
decked off at the extremities with rose-coloured shoes, and were kept 
moving about as briskly as those of a house-fly or a monkey. In the 
particular of shoes, as well his silver-fringed rich waistcoat, and a 
cane with a head half as big as his own, he bore no little 
resemblance to the valet-messenger of a French field-officer,--a sort 
of humble aid, whose business was to fetch and carry written orders 
in a review, but who was sometimes mistaken by our simple-minded 
ancestors for a general-in-chief, in consequence of the splendour and 
gravity of his appearance; and such a menial Colonel Falconer 
supposed him to be, discarded by his late master, or driven from 
service by that sudden spirit of independence so apt to appear in 
foreign servants, when brought to the land of liberty. Besides his 
cane, he had a fiddle and bow in his hand; and from these, as well as 
the prodigious grace, restlessness, and activity of his motions, it 
was judged that he had betaken himself, in his distresses, to that 
honourable profession, to which three-fourths of the wanderers of the 
Grande Nation seem to have been born,--in other words, to that of the 
dancing-master. It did not seem, however, that he had yet profited 
much by the change of profession, for his attire was in somewhat a 
dilapidated condition, and his cheeks pinched and hollow. Such as he 
was, however, he seemed to be the happiest creature in existence; and 
as Colonel Falconer drew nigh, he saw that he was one while engaged 
flourishing his bow, the next his leg, and ever and anon his 
tongue,--the last with intense volubility,--as if in spirits 
irrepressibly buoyant and exuberant. The unruly member was hard at 
work, as the Colonel approached, and had it not been for the clatter 
of his horse's feet, he might have heard him deliver the following 
highly flattering account of himself:

"Yes, Missare Ou-at-you-call-it, and jentlemans, I am a man of figure 
in mine own land; and you laughs, par de deb'l! I come invite myself 
to de marriage, _néanmoins_, juste like Ménélas in l'Iliade d'Homère, 
_mort de diable, parce qu'il etait_ jentleman. You are soldiare! _Et 
moi_, by mine _honneur_, and so am I; for _autre fois, jadis_, (ou-at 
de deb'l you call him?) I use de sword for de violon, ride de horse, 
chargé _sur mon ennemi_, in ou-at you' Shakaspeare call de 'war 
glorieuse.'--

  'Ah! cruel souvenir de ma gloire passée!
   OEuvre de tant de jours en un jour effacée!'

Yes, missares, I am jentleman-soldiare, ou-id fiddle. How de deb'l 
you make mariage wi'sout de fiddle, _l'aimable violon, l'instrument 
des amours? Ecoutez!_ you s'all hear. How de ladies and jentlemans 
s'all dance when dey hears, '_Qu'elle est grande, qu'elle est 
belle!_'"--And, in a rapture, he forthwith began sawing his 
instrument, and singing, with a voice exceedingly cracked and 
enthusiastic, the words of the old chorus of shepherds,

   'Ah! qu'elle douce nouvelle!
    Qu'elle est grande! qu'elle est belle!
  Que de plaisirs! que de ris! que de jeux!'

nor did he cease, even when the merriment of his auditors became as 
uproarious as his own harmony.

In the midst of the chorus and the laughter, young Falconer looked 
up, and beheld his father, who had suddenly checked his horse at the 
entrance of the little oak-yard, and was looking towards him. He was 
struck with the unusual agitation of his parent's countenance, and 
ran towards him; but before he could speak, the Colonel demanded 
quickly, as if with an effort to change the current of his own 
thoughts,

"What do you here, Henry! Is this a place, is this a sport for a 
bridegroom?"

"'Pon my soul, pa," said the hopeful son, "I find it more agreeable 
than up among the tabbies. This fellow, this Monsieur Tiqueraque, as 
he calls himself, is decidedly the most agreeable person I have seen 
to-day,--a gentleman fiddler, who swears by all the gods of a 
Frenchman, he has trudged twenty miles on foot, to have the honour of 
dancing at my funeral--that is, my wedding; but the lord knows, pa, 
you look as solemn as if to-day was to be the end of me. Pray, sir, 
what is the matter? I hope you are not offended? Egad, sir, I am 
acting under orders,--under Harry's, who has taken as much command of 
me as if she were my wife, instead of my sister. She ordered me away, 
to be out of Catherine's sight,--the lord knows why, but women are 
all mad, and I think Catherine is growing as whimsical and absurd as 
the rest."

"Get you back to her, notwithstanding," said the father; "a maiden is 
privileged to be capricious on her wedding-day. Get you back; your 
absence is improper. And hark you, Henry, my son--delay not the 
ceremony on my account: the clergyman must be now on the way, and 
will soon arrive. Wait not a moment for me. A sudden affair, not to 
be deferred even to the nuptial rite, calls me to Hillborough:--Say 
thus much to Captain Loring and the rest; say that I will be back 
within a few hours; and add, that I charge them not to delay the 
ceremony a moment for me. God bless you, my son--I must away."

So saying, he put spurs to his horse, and followed by Reuben, was 
soon out of sight.

"Well done, dad!" cried the young soldier, staring after him; "I 
wonder what's in the wind now? He has seen one of his spectres, I 
warrant me.--Adzooks, as the Captain says, if one were to believe 
that Reuben and black Joe, they are thicker in our house, about two 
in the morning, than is comfortable,--especially in dad's chamber. 
Won't stay to the wedding? why that's comical, egad! But that's his 
way. Well, now for that mad fool, Tiqueraque: he shall have his will, 
were it only on account of his striped breeches; he shall go among 
the fiddlers, though, gad's my life, he saws like a knife-grinder. I 
never saw two such legs before: egad, I beg my pardon, I _did_! 
'List, list, oh list!' Such legs in Hamlet! Well God bless us, and by 
the eternal Jupiter, as Caliver says, I had no idea it was so stupid 
a thing to be married. _Eh bien, monsieur_," he added, turning to M. 
Tiqueraque, "I have no doubt you are a gentleman born and bred; so, 
gad's my life, you shall fiddle at the wedding, and get drunk into 
the bargain; but, by the eternal Jupiter, you must not be in a 
hurry!"

"_Si fait, monsieur_," cried the wanderer, drawing a note of 
indignation from his instrument; "_Mort de ma vie_, dronk! I s'all do 
no such sing. But I s'all see de leddees?" he added, in a transport 
that quite dispelled his temporary wrath. "Ah, Missare 
Ou-at-you-call-him, I s'all be very happy now! I love de leddees, 
_particulièrement_ de leddees of figure, and not the contree 
_pauvrettes_, wis big feet and te'es like de old horse.--_Ah ça_, I 
s'all be very happy, and I s'all sharge only two dollare."

"Bring him along Tom, fiddle and all," cried the bridegroom,--"and, 
you Ned Cascable-nose, if you love me, gad, steal somebody's horse, 
ride down the road, and see what the deuce has become of the parson. 
We can get married very well without dad; but, adzooks, as the 
Captain says, a parson is quite essential. I swear, gad's my life, 
'tis a very ludicrous thing, one's wedding-day."

And thus, as the party bent their steps towards the mansion, rattled 
the bridegroom, a youth of the lightest heart and emptiest head in 
all Pennsylvania, of a mind entirely too contracted for eccentricity, 
yet full of those foibles of character which commonly pass for 
such,--incapable of any stretch of sentiment or elevated emotion, and 
indeed rude, boisterous, and unreasonable of manners,--yet with a 
certain native good-humour and spirit prevailing through all his acts 
and conversation, that recommended him to the favour of such as were 
not choice in their friendships, and preserved him the affection of 
those whom the ties of relationship compelled to love. Such was the 
man whom Colonel Falconer, or rather his daughter, (for she was the 
guiding and ruling spirit throughout the whole attempt to unite such 
adverse elements together,) had chosen as the husband of Catherine 
Loring; and the inhumanity of the choice was rendered excusable only 
by the natural desire she had to contribute to his happiness, and the 
undue importance she attached to those good qualities he really 
possessed. Still the attempt was cruel, for it set at naught the 
disinclination of one whom feebleness of character, a sense of 
destitution, operating, however, only through the person of a 
bereaved parent, a knowledge of _his_ desires, and a consciousness 
perhaps that it was too late for escape, had put into her power. It 
is not to be supposed that Miss Falconer saw, that in effecting her 
brother's happiness she was destroying that of her friend; or that 
seeing it, she would have persisted in her object. On the contrary 
she was sincerely attached to Catherine, and fully believed she was 
consulting her welfare, though at the price of some temporary pain. 
It was her peculiar disposition to pursue every object with an 
avidity and resolution that became the stronger for every interposing 
obstacle; and she willingly blinded her eyes to such difficulties as 
she was not forced to see. She turned her looks, therefore, from her 
friend's distresses, and soon ceased to believe that they existed. 
But the match was one not made in heaven, nor destined to be 
accomplished; and fate, in frustrating the whole ill-advised scheme, 
was preparing a heavy retribution for all who had laboured to promote 
it.




CHAPTER VI.

  I come not for your welcome, I expect none;
  I bring no joys to bless the bed withal,
  Nor songs, nor masques, to glorify the nuptials.
    BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER--_The Elder Brother_.


It was late in the afternoon when Colonel Falconer rode by the 
Traveller's Rest; and his disappearance, though accounted for in the 
apology he had commissioned his son to deliver, was considered the 
more remarkable, as within an hour's time the presence of the 
clergyman was expected, for whom captain Caliver and lieutenant 
Brooks, as two of the principal attendants on the bridegroom, had 
gone in great state. There were many conjectures secretly hazarded as 
to the true cause of the Colonel's desertion, when the delay of an 
hour might have enabled him to discharge his duties to his son and 
destined daughter; and had Captain Loring been favoured with any 
jealous kinsmen, alive to the honour of his family, or been himself 
of a suspicious and cavilling mood, it is quite possible a defection 
so extraordinary might have caused some unpleasant feelings, and even 
an interruption of the ceremonies in hand. But such was not the case, 
and the matter was left to be canvassed by the friends and connexions 
of the bridegroom alone; who, after satisfying themselves that the 
Colonel had been summoned away by no sudden messenger, and that, if a 
necessity had really existed for his departure, it must have existed 
long enough previously to allow him time to make his own explanations 
in person, agreed to attribute the proceeding to one of those fits of 
moody eccentricity, by which, it appeared, he was often affected.

By the time this subject of wonder was exhausted there arose another, 
which produced, in the end, still greater surprise and discussion 
than the other. This was the non-appearance of the clergyman at the 
appointed hour; and indeed the sun set, before any tidings were had 
either of him or of the officers, and then not until messengers had 
been sent off with led horses, on the vague presumption that some 
accident might have happened to the carriage on the way.

Another subject of discussion was the conduct of the youthful bride, 
who, although during the greater part of the day exhibiting uncommon 
spirits, and running over the grounds with other frolicsome maidens, 
herself the most frolicsome of all, yet displayed, on one or two 
occasions, a disposition to wander by herself, and even stray into 
the woods; and once, when she had strayed further than usual, and was 
pursued and arrested, she shed tears, though none could tell for what 
reason. As the time drew nigh when the clergyman was expected, she 
manifested a great unwillingness to be withdrawn by her bridemaids, 
according to custom, but insisted she would walk in the garden, and 
that so obstinately, that it required all the influence Miss Falconer 
had over her to induce her to retire to her chamber; and here she 
wept so bitterly as to amaze and even alarm her youthful attendants. 
Her parent, however, being summoned to the chamber, she embraced him, 
dried her eyes, smiled, laughed, suffered a garland of snowy 
rose-bays, the latest of the season, to be fastened in her hair, and, 
so long as he remained in her sight, betrayed no other symptom of 
distress or agitation; for which reason her late tears were 
remembered without surprise, as being natural to the occasion.

It was not until after nightfall that the clergyman made his 
appearance, with the officers. Accidents of a common nature, but 
unusual in number and fatality, had detained them on the way. First, 
they had broken down, before reaching the village, in consequence of 
the loss of a linchpin, or some other essential atom in the economy 
of the coach; then, after attempting to return, it was discovered 
that a horse had lost a shoe, and that some portion of the harness 
had given way. In short, their difficulties were of such a nature, 
that they were on the point of abandoning the carriage altogether, to 
seek some other conveyance among the neighbouring farms, when 'a very 
excellent, contriving blockhead,' as lieutenant Brooks called him, 
came to their assistance, and inspired them with new hopes of 
accomplishing their journey. This was no less a personage than honest 
Dancy, of the Traveller's Rest, who chanced to be returning from the 
village on foot, and was glad to offer his services, on condition of 
being allowed to ride home on the box with the venerable Richard. 
Nay, not content with again setting the vehicle in motion, he even 
volunteered, in the warmth of his gratitude, to divide with Richard 
the labour of driving,--a proposal highly acceptable to the latter, 
who had much of his master's affection for an afternoon nap, and 
could take it as well upon a coach box as in the chimney corner. The 
only ill consequence of this exchange was, that, before they had 
proceeded a mile further, the zealous Jehu interrupted an exceedingly 
interesting account captain Caliver was giving the clergyman of his 
midnight encounter with the Hawks of the Hollow, by suddenly 
overturning the coach into a gully, whence all thought themselves 
fortunate in escaping without broken bones. But now arose a greater 
difficulty, or rather a series of difficulties, than before; for, 
first, it was questionable whether their force was sufficient to 
raise the unlucky vehicle, or whether, being raised, it was in a 
condition to carry them further; and, secondly, the reverend 
functionary, frightened and resolved to trust his neck no longer to a 
structure so ill-fated, declared, that, whatever might be the event, 
he would enter it no more, but would rather finish the remaining four 
or five miles on foot. In a word, they were reduced to the necessity 
of applying at a neighbouring farm-house for assistance; and getting 
horses and saddles as they could, they continued, and at last 
concluded, the journey, but in such plight as caused no little 
surprise and merriment among the expectant guests.

In the meanwhile, the tedium that might have been produced by these 
unforeseen circumstances, was put to flight by the appearance and 
activity of the French dancing-master, who, although carried to the 
house only for a whim, was soon found to be the most efficient 
adversary of ennui that could have been found. He was no sooner in 
the house than he snuffed his way, with the unerring accuracy of a 
setter-dog, to the kitchen, where he fell upon the ruins of the 
dinner table with the zeal of the hungriest of that species; and 
then, having succeeded in first gaining possession of a flagon of 
wine, or some stronger liquor, he threw aside his cane, clapped his 
hat under his arm, and seizing upon his fiddle, bounded with a hop 
and a skip first into one apartment, then another, and finally into 
the porch, in all of which were gathered some of the guests, and in 
all, as he entered, drawing a savage note from his instrument, and 
exclaiming,--

"_Attendez_, jentlemans and leddees! now we s'all dance; ou-y for no 
we no dance? Now for de Contre-danse and de Menuet!--Each jentlemans 
and his leddee--Mon Dieu! de jentlemans and leddees will be very well 
content. _Attendez_; I am de _maître de bal_, and I know ou-at is de 
_matiéres de mode_, begar, ou-at you calls fashionable."

The appearance of the man was itself diverting, but was rendered 
still more so by his sudden assumption of the character and authority 
of master of ceremonies, to which he seemed to consider he had the 
best right in the world, and which he was, in the end, suffered to 
exercise, for no better reason than that there was no other person 
appointed to such an honour. He evidently held, that the chief 
ceremony and pleasure of a wedding lay in the practice of his own 
art; and he addressed himself to the task of marshalling and 
animating the dancers with such zeal and enthusiasm, that several 
forgot they were beginning the ball at the wrong end, seized upon 
partners as forgetful, or as waggish, as themselves, and set Monsieur 
Tiqueraque's heart in a blaze of rapture, by dancing outright. What 
was begun in jest, came at last to be practised in earnest; and when 
the clergyman with the military groomsmen rode up to the door, they 
had some reason to fear lest their ill fate had deprived them of the 
most impressive portion of the ceremony.

Their appearance was hailed with the greatest joy, and the more 
especially when they declared they had met Colonel Falconer, and 
received from him the same charges he had delivered to his 
son,--namely, that the rites and rejoicings should not be delayed on 
his account, even for a minute. They retired for a little space to 
refit their disordered attire, and a few moments afterwards 
reappeared, conducting, with the other attendants, the youthful pair 
whose destinies were now to be united. The bride was very pale, her 
eyes red with weeping, and her brows contracted into that expression 
of imploring distress so frequent on her countenance; her lips 
quivered incessantly; and ever and anon her frame was agitated by 
that shuddering sob which remains as the last convulsion of tears. 
Yet she walked into the room without faltering, and suffered herself 
to be placed beside the lover, and surrounded by the guests, without 
betraying any agitation sufficient to excite remark. All that was 
observed was, that she kept rolling her eyes about her a little 
wildly, as if in part bewildered by the sudden transition from her 
quiet chamber to an apartment full of lights and human beings. At 
last, her eyes fell upon the clergyman, and she surveyed him with a 
gaze so fixed, so peculiar, so strongly indicative, as he thought, of 
a troubled and unhappy spirit, that his own feelings became 
disturbed, and he began the rites with an agitated voice.

In the meanwhile, the wedding guests pressed closer around, and the 
domestics, thronging at the doors of the apartment, began to steal 
reverentially in; and among them, it was noticed that there were 
several strange faces not before observed. One of these, however, was 
recognised by Captain Loring as belonging to a young farmer residing 
near the valley, and he did not doubt that the other intruders were 
people of the same class, who had stolen softly into his house, 
attracted by the opportunity of witnessing a ceremony so much more 
splendid than any ever before seen in the neighbourhood of 
Hawk-Hollow. Such intrusions are indeed not unusual in certain 
sequestered parts of the country.

With her eyes still fastened upon the clergyman, Catherine listened 
to the words of the ceremony, until the usual demand was made, "Dost 
thou take this man to be thy husband?" She opened her lips to reply, 
but, though they moved as if in speech, and every sound was hushed as 
in the silence of death, not a word, not even the whisper of an 
accent, came from them. The demand was repeated, and with as little 
effect; she spoke not a word, but she rolled her eyes around the 
circle with double wildness; and Miss Falconer, throwing an arm 
around her waist, murmured, in hurried tones,

"She is ill--the ceremony cannot go on."

"Kate, my dear, adzooks!" cried Captain Loring, "what's the matter? 
Are you ill, my girl? What, can't you speak? can't you say _Yes_ to 
the parson? Ah, adzooks, that's a girl! that's my Kate Loring! You 
hear her, parson? She says, yes!"

"Patience, sir," said the clergyman, surveying the bride, who at the 
sound of her father's voice, seemed to recall her powers, and opened 
her lips, as if to speak. "Be not precipitate, young lady," he added, 
directing his discourse to Catherine, and speaking with a kindly 
voice: "this is a question too solemn to be answered lightly,--a 
profession embracing too much of the sacrament of an oath to be made 
except with deliberation. Take, therefore, your own time, and answer 
according to your heart and your reason----'Dost thou take this man
to be thy husband?'"

The words of reply were almost upon Catherine's lip, when a whistle, 
sounding loudly from an open window, and startling the whole company, 
was echoed by a sudden cry from the room itself; and at the same 
moment, the bridemaids starting away in affright, a young man, pallid 
in visage, and roughly clad, rushed into the circle, and displayed to 
the eyes of the bride the features of the younger Gilbert. She 
uttered a scream, and to the confusion of every body present, flung 
herself immediately into his arms, crying with tones as wild and 
imploring as his own, "Oh, Herman, save me!" and fell into a swoon.

"Death and furies!" cried the bridegroom, recognising his rival at a 
glance, and springing at him like a tiger.

"Kill the villain!" exclaimed his sister, in a transport of 
indignation, endeavouring to tear her friend from the embraces of the 
intruder. But the efforts of the brother and sister were counteracted 
by a new and unexpected enemy. The French dancing-master, who, 
notwithstanding the violent enthusiasm with which he entered into his 
proper duties of fiddling and animating the guests, had yet wisdom 
enough to conduct himself with proper decorum, the moment his 
reverend colleague appeared, and had been for the last few moments 
entirely lost sight of, now darted with a hop and a pirouette to the 
bridegroom's side, and roaring with a voice loud enough to add to the 
terror, "_Sacre!_ ou-at! marry a leddie against her ou-ill!" he 
struck his violin over young Falconer's head with an energy of 
application that brought him to the floor, and dashed his instrument 
into a thousand pieces. "_Sacre!_" he continued, triumphantly--"I 
s'all help myself to the most beaut'ful leddee here!" And, as he 
spoke, he snatched up the astounded Harriet, and vanished from the 
apartment.

In the meanwhile, the outrage, of a character so extraordinary, had 
not been confined to the persons of the wedding pair and the 
bridegroom's sister. At the very moment when Hyland Gilbert darted 
into the circle, many of the guests, hearing the whistle that seemed 
to have conjured up the spectre, turned to the window, and beheld 
three or four savage-looking men spring through it into the room, 
while as many others, remaining in the open air, thrust long carbines 
and rifles among the guests, as if upon the point of firing on them. 
At the same time, others made their appearance at the door, armed in 
the same way; and, to crown all, the little six-pounder, which had 
remained in the Hollow ever since the eventful 4th of July, and stood 
upon the lawn near the house, charged by Captain Loring's own hand, 
and ready to be fired the moment the ceremony was over, was suddenly 
let off by some unknown hand, rattling the glass in the windows, and 
shaking the house to its foundation. These circumstances were enough 
to inspire all with dread; which was still further increased when the 
assailants, singling out the few military officers present, rushed 
upon them before they could betake themselves to their arms, and beat 
them all to the floor, with the exception of the captain of cavalry, 
who sprang from a window on the opposite side of the apartment, 
uttering a single ejaculation of surprise,--that is to say, 'By the 
eternal Jupiter!'--and was seen no more until the assault was over, 
and the actors in the outrage had vanished. The whole scene, though 
one of unexampled confusion and terror, was over in a few moments; 
and such was the panic, that scarce a being present remembered, or 
indeed conceived, the true nature, or had noted all the circumstances 
attending the assault. That wild men with arms in their hands, had 
been among them,--had struck down several persons present, then 
rushed over the whole house, as if in search of some object of prey 
whom they expected, but found not, among the guests below, and then 
had betaken themselves to flight, without doing further mischief--was 
all that was at first known; and it was not until a distant yell at 
the park-gate, followed by the faint sound of hoofs, proclaimed the 
departure of the enemy, that the gentlemen present were able to tear 
themselves from the grasp of the frighted women, and examine into the 
effects of such a visitation. It was soon found that the officers, 
who had endured the brunt of the attack, had owed this distinction 
less to the animosity than the fears of the assailants, who, seeming 
to apprehend resistance from no others, had made it a point to seize 
them, before adventuring upon the main objects of the outrage. They 
were but little hurt, the assailants having studiously avoided all 
bloodshed; and even the bridegroom, though stunned and a little 
disfigured by the blow so heartily bestowed upon him by Monsieur 
Tiqueraque, soon recovered his wits, and joined the rest in eager 
search after the bride. She had vanished, as well as his sister; and 
by and by, when the distraction caused by such a discovery, and the 
ravings and lamentations of Captain Loring, had a little subsided, it 
was found that the girl Phoebe had also disappeared.




CHAPTER VII.

  "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
  They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
                                                    MARMION.


In the meanwhile, and almost before her disappearance had been 
noticed by a single person, so great was the confusion at the moment 
the outlaws burst into the room, Hyland Gilbert had borne the 
insensible Catherine into the porch, and strove to carry her from the 
house. His strength was scarce fitted to sustain such an exertion; 
for, in truth, although none of the dwellers of Hawk-Hollow were 
apprised of his mishap, until he revealed the secret to Colonel 
Falconer a few hours before, the bullet of his rival, in their 
encounter on the night of the fourth, had taken effect, and he was 
yet labouring under the effects of an unhealed wound. He was now, 
however, animated by a new feeling; for as he clasped the burthen to 
his heart, he remembered that the outrage had been sanctioned not 
merely by passive acquiescence on Catherine's part, but had been 
preceded by a direct appeal, as it seemed, to his affection, though 
wrung almost by frenzy from the unhappy girl, in the moment of her 
greatest need. "Heaven be thanked!" he muttered to himself--"I am not 
a villain; and this deed of violence has preserved her happiness, as 
well as my own miserable life."

"What! brother?" cried a harsh voice in his ear, as he attempted to 
stagger forward, and found himself arrested by the hand of Oran: 
"What, man, am I not both doctor and brother?--a good doctor, too? 
You shall look up now, and be healed in a day--heart-whole, 
body-whole! I knew what it was was killing you."

Fierce and abrupt were the accents of the refugee; but there was 
mingled with them a tone singularly expressive of affection.--"And 
were you not a fool to doubt," he added, "when you had the love of 
the maiden? But come, Hyland; this duty is not for you--give her here 
to Staples"--

"Never, Oran, never!"

"Foolish boy, you are sinking under her weight. You must ride 
unburthened, or be captured. When the fresh air opens her eyes, and 
she can sit a horse herself, you shall ride at her side. Quick! and 
get you after her to the horses."

With these words, and without regarding the opposition of the feeble 
lover, he drew the lady from his arms, and putting her into charge of 
another, bade him 'see to her, and the rest,' and then immediately 
darted back to the house.

"Perhaps it is better," muttered Hyland, conscious of his inability 
much longer to support his precious freight, yet resolved she should 
not be long sustained in the arms of another. "I have saved her,--I 
have saved myself; ay, and I have prevented murder, too. Go, Oran; 
the victim is beyond your reach. Ah! Catherine, thou hadst been 
dearly purchased, had it been with blood,--even with the blood of a 
Falconer!"

He was still pursuing after his mistress, and had nearly reached the 
park-gate, when his ear was saluted by a piercing scream from behind, 
and the voice of Miss Falconer, which he instantly recognised, 
calling for help. He ran back, and discovered her struggling in the 
arms of Monsieur Tiqueraque, who was bearing her along at a great 
pace, and all the time uttering, with a volubility not a little 
inflamed by his frequent visits to the bottle, in which he had quite 
distinguished himself, a thousand exhortations to the lady to be 
pacified, with as many eccentric commendations of her beauty and his 
own good qualities.

"_Tuchou! taisez vous_, ou-at de deb'l! _mon ange, ma petite, ma 
maîtresse, avec les yeux noirs d'un diablotin!_" he heard him cry, 
"ou-y for you fear? _comment diantre_, ou-y for you squeak? You are 
the mos' fine leddee of all, and I am the mos' excellent jentlemans, 
and I s'all love you, begar, mos' extremely. _Fi donc!_ you mus' 
know, I am jentlemans in disguise, and have you love 'is sis mon's, 
and s'all make you very good lovare. O ciel, begar, I do so sink you 
ver' beaut'ful, and I s'all give you on' douzaine kiss extreme fine, 
_mon dieu_, if you s'all no squeak no more."

"What, Sterling, are you mad!" cried Hyland, seizing this 
incorrigible adventurer and exemplary wooer by the arm. "Release the 
lady instantly--you have made a mistake."

"_Diablezot!_ none in the world," said the man of many coats, 
changing character with the facility of an 'old stager.'--The sudden 
transformation operated even more effectually than the voice of the 
detested Gilbert, in frightening Miss Falconer into silence. "And 
harkee, Mr. Lieutenant Hawk," he went on, with great equanimity, 
"stick to your own prizes,--follow your own Blowselinda."

"Rogue, do you resist me?--Come, sir, you have been drinking!"

"Drinking in your teeth!" said Sterling, in whom 'the good familiar 
creature' had the effect of rather sharpening than changing any of 
his characteristics. "'Back and syde, go bare, go bare,'" as old 
Gummer Gurton says:

  'Now let them drynke till they nod and winke,
     Even as good felowes shoulde doe;
   They shall not mysse to have the blisse
     Good ale doth bringe men to.'

"But 'this is my right hand, and this is my left'; what more would 
you have? Do you think I am to be kept on your cursed Adam's ale of 
the mountains for ever? 'Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, 
there shall be no more cakes and ale?' And finally, Mr. Lieutenant 
Chicken-hawk, dost thou opine thou shalt have thy bottle and thy 
wench, and I"----

"In a word, scoundrel," said Hyland, clapping a pistol to his head, 
and thus bringing the madman to his senses, "unhand the lady, or I 
will blow your brains out."

"Zounds, sir,"----

"No words, sir. Get you to the horses; and thank your stars I do not 
report your villanous conduct to the Captain."

The volunteer, who had indeed made freer with one item of the bridal 
cheer than became a man, who, as he had hinted, had been confined to 
a beverage of the mountain brook, since his association with the 
band, grumbled a drunken oath or two betwixt his teeth, and 
immediately slunk away, leaving his captive to be disposed of by the 
subaltern.

"You are free, Miss Falconer," said the young man, speaking with a 
smothered voice. "The evil you have done me I forgive you; the 
cruelty you meditated and practised against another, I leave to be 
judged by heaven and your own conscience.--False friend! treacherous 
kinswoman! your victim is beyond the reach of your inhumanity."

"You are a villain, sir!" cried Harriet, exasperated out of her 
fear,--"the worst of villains,--an ungrateful one!"--

What more she might have said and done, on the impulse which restored 
her all her native energy, it is impossible to say; but just at that 
moment her ears were struck by the wailing of a female voice; and 
looking round, she saw, obscurely, for the night was very dark with 
clouds, though a new moon was in the sky, a horseman ride by, bearing 
a woman across his saddle-bow, and apparently greatly embarrassed by 
her struggles. Her first idea was that she beheld her unlucky friend, 
not yet snatched beyond her reach; and accordingly she darted 
forward, and with extraordinary intrepidity, seized the bridle-rein 
with one hand, while with the other she grasped at the captive's 
garments, bidding her leap down, and crying out loudly for help.

"You are insane, Miss Falconer!" said Hyland, endeavouring to draw 
her aside; "Catherine is safe, and this is but Phoebe, who follows 
her."

"Oh! Miss Harriet!" cried the serving-maid, with a piteous voice, 
"don't let 'em murder me; and oh! Mr. Hunter Gilbert! sure you won't 
be so barbarous! and sure I never did you any harm in my life, and 
sure"--

But her words were cut short by her ravisher suddenly spurring his 
horse, as Harriet, in surprise and disappointment, let go her hold, 
and immediately darting out of the park.

By this time there was a great flashing of lights on the porch, as if 
the wedding-guests were recovering from their confusion, and 
preparing to avenge the outrage, before it was yet too late. This 
Harriet saw, and she observed besides that the dusky figures which 
had, ever and anon, for the last few moments, been flitting by, 
towards the road, one or two of them being on horseback, and who, she 
doubted not, belonged to the refugee band, had ceased passing, as if 
the last had already left the park. It was at this moment that she 
felt the touch of Hyland Gilbert's hand on her arm, as he endeavoured 
to draw her from Phoebe; and as she jerked away, she became sensible 
how feeble was the grasp of this detested foe. An idea, worthy of an 
Amazon, entered her mind; and forgetting the act of generosity which 
had but an instant before relieved her own person from the clutches 
of a drunken and lawless desperado, she laid hands upon her 
deliverer, thinking only on vengeance. As she seized him, she 
screamed loudly for assistance, calling upon her brother, Mr. Brooks, 
and others, by name; and had they made their appearance, or any one 
of them, it is certain she would have secured her prisoner. He was 
confounded by an exhibition of spirit so unexpected; and not knowing 
how to release himself, unless by such an exertion of his remaining 
strength as he could scarce think of exercising at the expense of a 
woman, he was reduced to extremity; when a horseman, coming from the 
house, suddenly galloped up, stretched out his hand, and with a 
single effort, jerked her from the ground to his saddle-bow.

"Quick," he cried to Hyland; "why do you tarry? To your horse, and 
away."

So saying he spurred onwards himself. The voice, breathing out the 
harsh accents of the trader,--the refugee, the man to capture whom 
she had launched so boldly among the billows of stratagem, and almost 
of war,--froze the blood of the maiden, and the sight of his grim 
features, revealed in the glare of distant lamps, completed the 
overthrow of a courage which had supported her in a struggle with one 
so little to be feared as Hyland. Her brain whirled, her senses 
became bewildered, as she felt the steed bounding beneath her, and 
knew that every leap, while it separated her still further from her 
friends, placed her yet more completely in the power of the refugee. 
But it formed no part of his schemes to add her to the number of his 
captives. He checked his steed at the park-gate, dropped her gently 
on the grass, and uttering a yell, to draw the attention of another 
horseman, approaching from the house, galloped through the gate and 
was soon buried in the darkness. The second horseman, who was no 
other than the captain of cavalry, rode up to the spot, dismounted, 
and uttering many ejaculations of surprise, took the lady in his 
arms, and with her returned to the mansion. He found its inmates 
still in extreme agitation, the women weeping and screaming, the men 
swearing, and bustling, and vociferating for arms and horses, with 
which they designed to do they knew not what, and Captain Loring 
roaring like a bedlamite.

"Mount horses, gentlemen," he cried, "and by the eternal Jupiter, 
we'll recover the prisoners. A rum one, that Mr. Gentleman-volunteer! 
Come, mount, mount, and keep the chase warm, till a better force can 
follow us. There's a regiment of foot billeted in the village 
below--let some one gallop down for a reinforcement; the rest follow 
me. If we can't fight the vagabonds, why, by the eternal Jupiter, we 
can dog them."

The proposal of captain Caliver was responded to by such as could 
think without alarm of following the fierce marauders, by midnight, 
into their native forests; and in a surprisingly short space of time, 
they set out, six in number, to pursue on the course of the 
fugitives, and keep them within striking distance, until assistance 
should arrive. A messenger was immediately despatched to the village, 
and some two or three of those gaping supernumeraries, whose 
intrusion into the house has been already mentioned, volunteered to 
carry the alarm among the neighbouring settlements, and thus rouse 
the whole country to pursuit and vengeance.

The little party of six, headed by young Falconer and Caliver, 
issuing from the park, began the chase by galloping up the road, 
already made familiar to the leaders by the memorable adventure of 
the 4th. Assistance was nearer at hand than they thought; and almost 
before the trampling of their horses had died on the ear, a large 
party of mounted men, with Colonel Falconer at their head, halted at 
the gate. In obeying the counsel of the young refugee to leave 
Hawk-Hollow without delay, this individual had not been governed 
alone by fears for his personal safety. The appearance of Hyland 
Gilbert so near to the scene of festivity, convinced him, as strongly 
as did his urgent exhortations to fly, that the ferocious band of 
Hawks, though supposed long since to have effected its escape, was 
yet lying concealed in the neighbourhood, meditating some deed of 
violence, though what that was, unless to burn Gilbert's Folly to the 
earth, as the only way of wreaking vengeance upon him, he could not 
pretend to divine. It was enough, however, that such an enemy was at 
hand; and, accordingly, when he rode to the village, it was with the 
purpose of summoning such a force to the valley as should protect its 
inhabitants, if it did not effect the still better object of ridding 
it from such visitants for ever. He sought the commander of the 
regiment already spoken of; and his representations, added to the 
weight of his character, were enough to cause that officer to take 
instant measures for the protection of Hawk-Hollow. A party of sixty 
picked men, mounted for the occasion, was put under his disposal; 
while several other companies were ordered to follow on foot. While 
on the road, he was met by the messenger sent by the captain of 
cavalry, with the stunning intelligence of the outrage, as it has 
been already related. Inflamed by the news, the party put spurs to 
their horses, and were soon in the Hollow. They paused at the 
park-gate, just long enough to communicate with the house, and 
ascertain that the pursuit was already begun by the bridegroom; and 
then resuming their route, they were in a few moments beyond the 
swelling ridge that shut in the Hollow to the north.




CHAPTER VIII.

  Thought he, 'This is the lucky hour;
  Wine works, when vines are in the flower.
  This crisis, then, I'll set my rest on,
  And put her boldly to the question.'
                                             BUTLER.

  You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid:
  You loved, I loved.
                                 MERCHANT OF VENICE.


The outlaws were, in the meanwhile, proceeding on their course with a 
celerity that left them little to dread from pursuit; and, indeed, 
all their measures indicated that their plan had been laid with as 
much forethought as audacity. The captive maidens, after being borne 
for the space of a mile or more, in the arms of their captors, were 
placed upon horses previously in waiting; and then, supported by an 
athletic attendant on each hand, were hurried forward with even 
greater rapidity than before. Before this arrangement was effected, 
and while they were yet in the neighbourhood of Hawk-Hollow, a change 
came over the spirit of one of the prizes, not more advantageous to 
herself than it was agreeable to the wild band who were somewhat 
weary of her lamentations. This was Phoebe, whose terrors, instead of 
abating, grew more clamorous, with every bound of the steed that bore 
her; and which, having begun with sobs and piteous ejaculations, 
increased to something like positive outcries; until, at last, the 
man who carried her, losing all patience, and unlocking lips that 
seemed previously made of stone, muttered, or rather whispered in her 
ear, but in no very amiable accents,

"Consarn the woman! what are you squalling a'ter? Hold your foolish 
tongue, Phoebe Jones, or"--

But the sound of a threatening voice was by no means fitted to allay 
the damsel's fear, or paralyze the member it had set so vigorously in 
motion. She interrupted the menace with a still louder shriek, 
adding, "Oh lord, good gentleman, pray don't murder me!"

"Gentleman!" cried the other with a kind of snort, evidently designed 
for a laugh: "Well, I reckon, I am a sort of, as well as another. But 
what's the contraction? Who's talking of murdering? I'm an honest 
feller, Phoebe Jones, and you know it; and these here refugees are 
all honest fellers, too, as ever you'd wish to see. Now, Phoebe, just 
scratch your nose, and be quiet; for you know I won't hurt you."

"Lord!" said Phoebe, in surprise, "don't I know that voice?"

"Why, I reckon," replied the other, with a more strongly marked 
chuckle than before; "but, mind you, no talking above breath; for 
that's agin orders, and captain Gilbert's a screamer."

"Captain Gilbert!" said Phoebe, in mortal terror. "Oh Dancy Parkins, 
don't let him kill me, and I'll never abuse you no more!"

As he spoke, she banished so much of her fear as to fling an arm 
around the horseman's neck, as if to insure the protection she 
entreated; and the action, as well as the appeal, went so effectually 
to his heart, that he answered forthwith, "Well I won't,--I won't let 
him hurt you, I won't, consarn me!--You see, Phoebe Jones," he added, 
with the same giggle which had marked the manly assurance of 
protection, "I'm the man for you, a'ter all: I told you, you'd be 
coming round, some day or other, for all your saying you despised 
me."

"But an't I to be murdered, Dancy?" demanded the wench, dolefully: 
"Oh! that ever I should be among the bloody Hawks! They say, they 
scalp women and children, as if they were no more than great 
Indians!"

"They're not half such fellers as people say," replied Dancy: "the 
only murdering I ever knowed of among them, was that of Andy Parker; 
and that I uphold to be salt for gruel,--fair grist for cheating the 
miller. He chalked me down like a fool, me and Tom Staples, being all 
old friends, or sort of; and so hanging was good for him. But I tell 
you what, Phoebe--give us a buss, and _we_'ll be married, as well as 
our betters."

"I won't do no such thing," said the damsel, stoutly. "I don't like 
you no better than I ever did; for I don't see you're any 
better-to-do in the world than you was; and, besides, I won't have no 
tory."

"I reckon," said Dancy Parkins, "I'm no more a tory than the 
lieutenant--that's him you used to suppose was Mr. Hunter, and a poor 
painter; and there's your betters, the Captain's daughter, jumps at 
him."

"She don't!" said Phoebe, with indignation; "and don't you go to say, 
Miss Kitty Loring will have any such vagabondy, poor fellow."

"Poor!" cried Dancy; "why he's as rich as a king, and a mighty fine 
gentleman, too, for all he's consorting just now with these here 
refugees. He's got a grand plantation, as big as all Hawk-Hollow, 
with a thousand niggurs, where he raises sugar by the ship-load, and 
molasses beyond all reckoning, and, as I hear, good Jamaiky spirits. 
He's to make me a sort of I-dunna-what-you-call-it; but I'm to manage 
the niggurs, and make a fortun'. They say, no man ever sets foot on a 
sugar plantation, without making a fortun' out of it,--that is, 
excepting the niggurs. So, Phoebe Jones, there's no great use in 
despising me. It's a fine country, that island of Jamaiky; and 
consarn the bit of a hard winter they ever hear of there. So now, 
Phoebe, don't be a fool and refuse me no more; for I'm mighty 
well-to-do in the world."

And thus the enamoured Dancy pursued his claims to the love of his 
prisoner, who had been hard-hearted enough to frown upon him of old, 
while a labourer on Captain Loring's estate, and before the Captain's 
daughter had, by rewards and promises of further favour, prevailed 
upon him to take charge of the meaner fields of the widow. There was 
some presumption, at least Phoebe thought so, in his daring to raise 
eyes to _her_; for besides being without any personal attractions 
whatever, he was, to all intents, a gawky and stupid clod-hopper, 
with but little prospect of ever rising beyond the condition of a 
mere hireling, or, at best, a peasant of the lowest class; and 
accordingly, the damsel repelled him with extreme scorn, as a person 
unworthy to brush the dust from her shoes.

But the case was now altered, or seemed to be. In the first place, 
the scornful beauty was in his hands, and had wit enough, though by 
no means overcharged with that brilliant commodity, to perceive that 
his friendship was better than his enmity; and, in the second, his 
appointment to the important and lucrative office of 
He-did-not-know-what-to-call-it, on a sugar plantation, where they 
raised molasses by the ship-load, and good Jamaica spirits, was a 
circumstance to elevate him vastly in her consideration; for her 
affections not being of a romantic or sentimental turn, she ever held 
herself ready to bestow them upon any body who, in her own favourite 
phrase, 'was well enough to-do in the world to make a lady of her.' 
She listened, therefore, with complacency to his arguments, which he 
pressed with as much ardour as he was capable of; and by the time 
they reached the place where she was to exchange a litter in his arms 
for a seat on a side-saddle, she had so far recovered from her fears, 
that she might have told him in the words, and with more than the 
sincerity, of Juliet,

  "Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much."

In the course of his communications, for he became wondrous frank and 
confiding, as he perceived her grow more favourable to his suit, he 
made her acquainted with some of the mysterious causes that led to 
the outrage, and the extent of his own agency in it.

When the young Gilbert fled from Hawk-Hollow, it was with a sorrowing 
spirit and a bleeding frame. The wound was, it is true, neither 
dangerous, nor, in fact, very severe; but he was left to endure it 
among woods and rocks, afar from assistance, except such as could be 
rendered by his wild associates, who were themselves reduced to 
extremities, so keen and fierce was the spirit with which they were 
hunted, though unsuccessfully, during the first week after their 
flight.

The sufferings of the young man were, in consequence, neither light 
nor few; and they were aggravated by anguish of spirit, which became 
a withering despair, when Dancy Parkins, the only individual with 
whom he could communicate in the valley, brought him intelligence 
that Catherine had been taken away, and, as was currently believed, 
for the purpose of being united to her affianced lover, afar from the 
reach of danger or opposition. His condition became such that it was 
no longer possible to remove him from the concealment where he lay, 
even when the abatement of all pursuit opened a path of escape to his 
companions, and when they looked daily for orders to proceed, or 
disband,--the removal of the chief object for which they were sent to 
the district, and the commands imposed upon them to commit no 
outrages, leaving no argument for remaining longer.

While he lay in this dangerous condition, the fierce Oran, whose 
bosom yearned over him as the youngest, and, after himself, the last 
of his father's children, read the secrets of his spirit; and, seeing 
no other means of saving his life, he formed, so soon as the sudden 
return of Catherine to the valley appeared to render the scheme 
feasible, the bold resolution of carrying her off, and thus defeating 
the only scruples in the way of Hyland's happiness. His own heart was 
a rock, and he smiled grimly as he thought of the affection of woman; 
but he had learned to love his brother, and knew that the passion he 
derided was consuming his spirit within him. "I will give him his 
gew-gaw puppet," he muttered, as he sat one night watching by 
Hyland's couch--(it was a bed of fern spread on a rock, on the naked 
hills, with only a thatch of hemlock boughs to shelter him from winds 
and dews, and a fire in the open air to light the wretched den:) "I 
will give him his wish.--He mutters her name in his sleep, and he 
sobs as he speaks it. Poor fool! he said true--he is unfit for this 
life of the desert, and his heart is warm to all God's creatures. Why 
should I seek to make it as fierce and bitter as my own? Let him to 
the island again, and the girl with him--it will be better: he was 
made to be happy."

When he first announced his scheme to Hyland, the youth, to his 
surprise, strongly and vehemently opposed it, as being a violence and 
wrong not only to Catherine, but to himself: but when the news was 
brought him that the wedding-day was fixed and nigh at hand, and he 
saw that he must act now or never, his resolution and feelings 
experienced a sudden change. He thought over again and again all the 
evidences he had traced of Catherine's aversion to the union, and he 
added the few and precious revealments of her regard for himself: he 
remembered her wild and broken expressions at that hour of parting 
which had made her acquainted with the depth of his love, and perhaps 
taught her more than she had dreamed before of the condition of her 
own: he pictured her in his imagination, the fair, the beautiful and 
the good, driven into the arms of one as incapable of appreciating 
her worth as he was undeserving her love: he thought of his peaceful 
island-home, and the paradise it would become, when she whom he 
adored should sit with him under its arbours of palms, or walk over 
its shelly beaches: he thought these things, and persuaded himself 
that fate called for, and heaven would sanction, the violence,--that 
he acted not so much for himself as for her,--and that she would 
forgive the friendly audacity that brought her release and happiness 
together.

He rose from his leafy couch, and in secret and by night crept back 
to the valley. The presence of Colonel Falconer filled him with 
affright and horror; for that had been concealed from him, and he 
knew by the devil of malice that glittered in Oran's eye, that his 
father's hall was designed to be stained with the blood of his 
father's foe. Accident gave him the means of preventing this dreadful 
catastrophe, while wandering over those scenes which reminded him of 
Catherine, and debating in fear and anguish of mind, whether even she 
was worthy to be purchased at the price of murder. This obstacle 
removed, there still remained another. Fear and disaffection, 
resulting in a measure from inactivity, had thinned his brother's 
band; and they refused to strike a blow so bold and dangerous by 
daylight, when the smallness of their number could be seen at a 
glance, and their retreat as easily intercepted as followed. An 
effort was made to delay the ceremony until night, by throwing 
difficulties in the path of the clergyman; and this duty had been 
committed to Dancy, who succeeded beyond the expectations and even 
the hopes of his employers; while men were stationed in different 
parts of the grounds, to take advantage of any accident which might 
carry the bride afar from her attendants. At the very moment when 
Catherine wandered farther than usual from her friends, and wept at 
being hindered and recalled, she had approached the concealment of 
one of the party, and would have been seized on the spot, had not the 
man's heart failed him. It seemed as if destiny were driving her 
towards a path of escape, of which she had an instinctive perception, 
just at the moment when it was closed against her footsteps.

These particulars,--or at least the leading outlines,--Dancy 
communicated to the object of his own fervent but unromantic 
affections; and Phoebe was astounded with the discovery of her 
mistress's private attachment, if such it was, and still more so when 
Dancy, taking _that_ for granted, assured her of his belief that 
Catherine was privy to the whole design. However, she did not trouble 
herself to pursue Catherine's story much farther. She heard enough to 
satisfy her that Mr. Hunter Hiram Gilbert, as she called him, 'who 
painted such lovely fine pictures, and had a thousand niggurs to 
raise sugar, and molasses, and Jamaica spirits, was as good a husband 
as one might meet of a summer's day; and for her part, she did not 
know, she could not say, she would not pretend to be certain,--but 
she was quite sure she never meant to say, that Dancy Parkins was 
altogether despisable.'




CHAPTER IX.

  Beshrew me but I love her heartily;
  For she is wise, if I can judge of her;
  And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true;
  And true she is, as she has proved herself;
  And therefore, like herself, wise, fair and true,
  Shall she be placed in my constant soul.
                                MERCHANT OF VENICE.


When Catherine recovered her consciousness, or rather woke from utter 
insensibility, (for it was long before her mind regained its full 
tone,) she was mounted upon a horse on which she was supported by two 
men, one riding on each side, who sustained her on the saddle, and 
directed the steps of her palfrey. She began to speak, but her words 
were wails, low and faint, and half lost amid the sough of the 
breeze, and the crash of pebbles under the horses' feet; and, indeed, 
it was soon apparent that she had exchanged a state of dreamless 
lethargy only for one of partial delirium. To this condition she had 
been fast verging for several days, during all which time, both 
asleep and awake, her mind had been in a state of constant tension, 
enduring jar after jar, and blow after blow, until its fraying fibres 
were one by one giving way, and a few narrow threads alone were all 
that kept it from the snap that ends in madness. Sleeplessness is a 
disease, which sometimes is prolonged, until insanity or death puts a 
close to the scene. The mind does not always slumber with the body: 
and in such instances, the spirit consumes amid the visions and 
dreams of night, as fast as amid the torments of day, until it lapses 
into the oblivion of dissolution or mental derangement. Such had been 
the case with the Captain's daughter: even slumber had brought no 
release to her spirit; and the last shock, combining in effect with a 
long train of benumbing influences, had reduced it to a condition in 
which it hovered between imbecility and distraction.

Though retaining an impression of the scene in which she had lately 
played so chief a part, it was faint, vague, and broken by other 
recollections of other scenes; and though some of her accents 
betrayed a childish joy at feeling herself in motion through the open 
air, she was apparently incapable of forming any but the most 
imperfect and bewildered conception of where she was, whither going, 
and for what purpose. Occasionally, she murmured words that seemed 
those of grief and entreaty; and, at such times, her father's name 
was on her lips, as if she implored those riding at her side to carry 
her to him. By and by, however, her words became fainter and fewer; 
then she uttered sobs, and those only at intervals; and at last, 
these ceasing also, she sank again into unconsciousness, and was 
maintained on her seat only with the greatest difficulty.

In consequence of this unexpected impediment, the speed of the 
fugitives became gradually less and less; but as they were already at 
a considerable distance from the valley, and had no reason to 
apprehend immediate pursuit, this circumstance created no alarm, and 
was, in fact, a cause of no little private satisfaction to many, the 
road being exceedingly rugged, and the night waxing darker and darker 
as the moon sunk lower in the west. Suddenly, however, as the 
headmost of the party toiled slowly over the crest of a hill, the 
wind swept from the rear a sound of voices, followed almost instantly 
by the explosion of fire-arms, and these again by loud shouts.

"'Sessa! let the world slide!'" cried the voice of Sterling, "whose 
cow's dead now? So much for not killing the men, and carrying off the 
women!"

"Peace, parrot!" said Oran Gilbert, lifting Catherine from her horse, 
(for he was one of those who supported her,) and flinging her into 
the volunteer's arms. "Bear her to the top of the hill,--nay, gallop 
on till you strike the river, and"----

"Figs and furies!" cried Sterling, with drunken astonishment; "do you 
make me a chamber-maid?"

"Away, fool! follow the other,--follow Dancy."

And with that, the refugee, turning his horse, galloped down the hill 
towards the scene of conflict, leaving Sterling, not yet completely 
sobered, to make his way after Dancy Parkins and Phoebe, who were in 
full flight, as well as he could, cumbered by the weight of 
Catherine, and perplexed by certain indications which White Surrey 
gave of misliking the additional burthen imposed upon him.

"'Sessa, let the world slide!'" he exclaimed, "here's a coil with a 
wench, dead or half-witted! Ha! she stirs!

  'Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
   Who is already sick and pale with grief.'

Shame on thee, White Surrey! hast thou no more respect for the 
ladies? Now were not this the lieutenant's white-faced 
Rosalind----Oons! they are at it! Well, the better part of valour 
shall prevail; and so, fair soul, we'll be jogging. But where's that 
bottle of brown Sherry I clapped into Tiqueraque's pocket? _Paucas 
palabras!_ I will have mercy upon thee--'thou shall taste of my 
bottle; if thou hast never drunk wine afore, it will go near to 
remove thy fit.' 'Slife, I will be merciful, and medicinate thy lips 
a little. Marry, I am 'a brave god, and bear celestial liquor.' Now, 
White Surrey, my brother, handle thy legs peaceably, or I will knock 
thee over the mazzard.--Fight, Hawks! and sing, Leonidas!"

The worthy volunteer, with these words, after having taken a 
bountiful draught from a flagon which was the first thing he laid 
hands on in the moment of assault, and sprinkling, doubtless with a 
humane and generous motive, some of its contents upon the face and 
lips of the maiden, gave spurs to his horse, and was soon beyond the 
reach of bullets and the sound of shouts.

The commotion, such as it was, was soon over. The party of Caliver 
and Falconer, urging their horses to the utmost, had suddenly, and 
unexpectedly to themselves, found themselves in contact with the 
stragglers of the tory band; and as these fled the moment they 
observed the pursuers, the gallant officers fired their pistols and 
rushed forward with renewed ardour, until checked by the opposition 
of the main body. They were met with fury, and, being overpowered, 
were almost instantly put to flight; after which the retreat of the 
outlaws was resumed.

In the meanwhile, the shots and yells with which the contest began, 
the change of position, or perhaps the wine which had been sprinkled 
on her lips, woke Catherine from her torpor; and slowly collecting 
her senses, she became at last sensible of her situation. Her 
recollection of the events of the evening was still confused; but she 
remembered enough of the bridal, and its violent termination, to know 
that she was afar from her father's roof, and that each moment saw 
her carried still further. She felt, too, that she was grasped in the 
arms of some powerful horseman, whose character might be imagined 
from the heartless, or drunken, nonchalance with which, while 
supporting a fainting and almost lifeless female, and hearing the 
uproar of mortal conflict just behind him, he yet trolled to the 
night-air some further stanzas of that quaint, joyous, and uproarious 
old ballad, of which he had given a specimen before in the paddock.

  'Back and side go bare, go bare,'--

he sang,--

    'Both foot and hand go cold;
   But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
     Whether it be new or old.
   I cannot eat but little meat,
     My stomach is not good;
   But sure I think that I can drink
     With him that wears a hood.
   Though I go bare, take ye no care,
     I am nothing a-cold,--
   I stuff my skin so full within
     Of jolly good ale and old.
   Back and side go bare,' &c.

  'Now let them drink till they nod and wink,
     Even as good fellows should do;
   They shall not miss to have the bliss
     Good ale doth bring men to:
   And all poor souls that have scoured bowls,
     Or have them lustily troll'd,
   God save the lives of them and their wives,
     Whether they be young or old!
   Back and side go bare,' &c.

"Oh my father, my father!" cried Catherine, in sudden terror, "for 
what dreadful fate have I given up thy love and protection?"

Her accents, feeble as they were, reached the ears of Sterling; and 
ceasing his song, he looked down upon her face, saying, with a 
ludicrous assumption of gravity,

"How now, fair Titania, queen of moonshine, do you speak? 'Oh, speak 
again, bright angel!' So much for twenty drops of brown Sherry! these 
asses did nothing but talk about cold water."

"What are you, sir? and why--why do you thus hold me?"

"Egad, for no very good reason I know, seeing that I could not hold 
my own prisoner, and am but a milk-livered loon to hold the game of 
young Sparrow-Hawk. Thousand devils! knew I but where to turn White 
Surrey's snout, I should _exit_ by side door, and so vanish, wench 
and all, were it only to give him a Roland for his Oliver."

"I know not what you mean," said Catherine, her terror restoring her 
to full consciousness--"I know not what you mean," she repeated, with 
increasing alarm, as the moon, peeping side-long through a rent in 
the clouds, threw a level and ghastly ray on the countenance of her 
supporter, revealing features which her fears converted into those of 
an evil being;--"but, oh sir! I conjure you to free me. Do me no 
harm,--suffer me to escape,--let me dismount, though it should be but 
to die on the way-side."

Unfortunately,--not for her prayer, for no idea of granting that 
could have ever entered the volunteer's brain,--but unfortunately for 
the maiden herself, the same ray which revealed his visage to her 
gaze fell brightly upon her own, which, although pallid as death, yet 
displayed a pair of eyes to which the excitement of terror gave 
unusual lustre, and which instantly converted the drunken 
indifference of Sterling into admiration. He stared at her for a 
moment, and then burst out, in the words of Romeo, and with an 
emphasis that preserved, along with his usual dramatic extravagance 
of fervour, some little touch of natural approbation,--

  "'Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
   Having some business, do entreat her eyes
   To twinkle in their spheres, till they return!'

Oho, Master Brook, sweet young Hawk! never trust me if I do not take 
thy minion in fair exchange for my own:--

       'Follow your function, go!
  And batten on cold bits.'--

Sweet and beautiful, and thrice beautiful and as many times 
angelical, fair soul!" he added, addressing himself to Catherine, 
"that I have so long remained insensible to thy charms, trust me, it 
was in part owing to the stupidity which I find growing upon me among 
the 'ruthless, vast and gloomy woods,' and in part also to the great 
grief of mind with which I have been mourning the loss of another 
very tenderly beloved damsel; but chiefly because thine eyes refused 
their light, and yonder moon in like manner. But now, 'by yonder 
blessed moon I swear,' I perceive you are ten times handsomer than 
the other, ass that I was to suppose the contrary; but, however, I 
was then thinking of the lieutenant and sour grapes.--Sweet, 
angelical soul, you said something about escaping, and doing you 
harm, and so on? Now, as to the harm, rest easy; but look as 
frightened as you please,--for what's so pretty in a maid as pretty 
fear? But as to escaping,--you would escape, then? go free from these 
villanous, green-coated, axe-handed, ox-headed, timber-tongued Hawks 
of the Hollow, eh? You would give them the slip, eh?"

"Assist me but to escape,--nay, only permit me to fly; heaven will 
bless you for ever, and my father--oh, my father!--he will never 
think he has sufficiently rewarded you."

Such were Catherine's eager expressions,--for although frighted at 
the strange, and, to her, inexplicable apologies and commendations of 
the man, she caught at his closing words as at those of a friend. 
What, therefore, was her terror, when the drunken ruffian, 
exclaiming, "Why then, '_Sessa_, let the world slide!' we will give 
Monsieur the Hawk Junior the go-by, and roam the world together," 
added other words to make yet more plain the sudden design he had 
formed of carrying her off for his own exclusive benefit, and 
concluded by attempting to draw his arms more closely around her.

"Yes, thou adorable, delectable creature!" he cried, overflowing with 
affection, "I am tired of these rude vagabonds, who give one nothing 
to drink but brook-water, with which trout, eels, sunfish, terrapins, 
and other vermin, have been making free the lord knows how long; and 
beds of leaves on a rock, where one may feel snakes creeping under 
him all night long. Wherefore I will decamp, and thou shalt decamp 
with me, and be my love; and I will love thee to thy heart's content; 
and we shall lead the merriest, drollest moonlight life of it under a 
bush, that was ever dreamed of in romance or enacted in tragedy. We 
will laugh and play, and drink and dance--

  'Nor will we miss to have the bliss
     Good ale doth bring men to'--

and will be the most loving turtles that ever cooed in a greenwood."

As he spoke, he again attempted (for White Surrey, charmed with the 
melody of his master's tongue, and knowing well, when it was running, 
he might take such a liberty, had changed a jog-trot into a 
contemplative walk,) to cast his arms round the maid, who, now awake 
to the wretchedness of her situation, uttered a shriek, and making a 
sudden effort, succeeded in throwing herself to the ground; after 
which, she fled away with all her speed. The object of her terror was 
not slow to follow; he uttered an oath and a laugh, and leaping down, 
pursued her with such vigour that he was soon at her side; for the 
ground was rough with rocks and bushes, and her strength almost 
immediately failed her.

It is not certain that the wretch meditated any purpose beyond the 
mere recovery of his prize; for, however rude and familiar his 
new-born admiration, he had hitherto betrayed no inclination to carry 
it to the point of absolute rudeness. On the contrary, he seemed 
rather to be enacting a part, according to his constant custom, only 
that the wine he had drunk rendered him in all things more 
extravagant than usual.

But harmless or not as his intentions might have been, it is certain 
that the fear of them drove the unhappy Catherine to desperation, and 
filled another, now fast approaching, with the most dreadful alarm. 
This was Hyland Gilbert, who, hearing her cries from afar, came 
rushing up in time to see her, in the dull light of the moon, drop on 
her knees before the volunteer, beseeching him, in tones that might 
have melted a heart of stone, to have pity on her.

"Villain! you die!" cried Hyland; and leaping from his horse, and 
rushing forward, he clapped a pistol to his ear, and drew the 
trigger. It flashed in the pan; but before Sterling could take 
advantage of the failure, the young man dashed it in his face, and 
drew another.

"Hell and darkness!" cried Sterling, furiously, "young malapert, I 
will twist your neck." And seizing him by the throat, he cast him 
violently to the earth. Of a joyous, and even good-humoured 
temperament, there was yet a spice of devilish vindictiveness in the 
man's breast; and while boiling under the indignity of the blow, and 
smarting with rage at such high-handed interference in his humours by 
a pragmatic boy, he did not fail to remember that this was not the 
first time he had been baffled by him during the night. Besides, he 
was inflamed with liquor, which was enough of itself to goad him into 
any act of vengeance.

But he was not destined, that night, to shed the blood of Hyland 
Gilbert. The shrieks of Catherine had been heard by others as well as 
her unhappy lover, and the flash of the pistol hastened them to the 
spot, where he lay struggling in the grasp of Sterling. A hand more 
mighty than his own was soon laid upon Sterling's neck, and as he was 
lifted aloft, and then tossed among the flints, like some mean but 
vicious beast, which the hunter disdains to kill with a weapon, he 
heard the voice of the tory captain exclaim,

"What, you dog! touch your officer, and a sick man!--What means all 
this, Hyland? What! has he harmed the girl? If he have but touched
her with a finger----Paugh!--Away with you, men! why stand you here 
gaping? On, and quickly."

The party rode on, leaving, however, besides the group already in 
front, one man who led the horse on which Catherine had been mounted 
before. The refugee cast a look to the maiden,--she was sobbing in 
the arms of his brother. He strode to Sterling and assisted him to 
rise, not however without saying, with the sternest accents of a 
voice always savage,

"But that heaven, or some other power, has made me to-night cold to 
blood, I should strike you, villain, where you stand!"

"You may do it," said the other, with great tranquillity. "Take your 
fill to-night; we will run up the reckoning at another time."

"How, drunken fool! do you threaten me!"

"Faith, not I. Henceforth, I am a man of peace--that is, when we have 
played the play out. You're a hard manager--but, now I remember, we 
are not on the boards! We will forget and forgive."

"Forgive, rogue! you struck him that was feebler than a child; and 
you----By heaven! if you have touched that girl but rudely, you were 
better fling you into the river, than await the thanks in store for 
you."

"A pest upon girls, and the devil take the whole sex!" said Sterling, 
devoutly.

"Peace! and get you to your horse."

"Ay, presently," replied Sterling; and as Oran leaped on his own 
black steed, Catherine having been already lifted to the saddle, he 
pulled a pistol from his bosom, and aimed it at the unsuspecting 
outlaw. Oran Gilbert bounded forward, and Sterling lowered his hand.

"A miss were certain death," he muttered, "and the shadow was on the 
moon. '_Sessa_, let the world slide'--to-morrow comes after to-day, 
and the longer we fast the richer the feast.

  'Nor shall we miss to have the bliss
     Good ale'----

Good ale? good devils!----

  'Nor shall we miss to have the bliss
     Good _blood_ doth bring men to!'--

Now were White Surrey but visible, I should know what to do: but the 
beast lifted up his heels, and was gone a-larking the moment I 
dismounted.----And these dogs have left me to shift for myself, 
without even a horse to help me! Wisdom is at as low an ebb among 
them as gratitude. Necessity and vengeance harp on the same string. 
Fare thee well, Oran the Hawk; but fly as high and as wildly as thou 
wilt, I see the little bee-bird that shall bring thee to the ground, 
bleeding."

With these words, he sat down upon a stone, and there remained until 
the tramp of the retreating horsemen was no longer brought to his 
ear.




CHAPTER X.

  If you have ears that will be pierced, or eyes
  That can be open'd, a heart that may be touch'd,
  Or any part that yet sounds man about you;
  If you have touch of holy saints or heaven,
  Do me the grace to let me 'scape: If not,
  Be bountiful, and kill me. You do know,
  I am a creature hither ill betray'd
  By one whose shame I would forget it were.
                  BEN JONSON--_Volpone, or the Fox_.


Catherine was now so far recovered as to be able to comprehend her 
situation in full; and although Hyland Gilbert rode at her side, thus 
assuring her of protection from all further rudeness, her terrors 
increased, and were mingled with the most insupportable anguish of 
spirit. It was in vain that he conjured her to be composed, and 
vainer yet when he sought to pacify her by expressions indicative of 
affection and tenderness.

"Take me to my father, Herman," she cried, clasping her hands, and 
even endeavouring to grasp his own. "Oh, take me but back, and I will 
forgive you--I will forgive all!"

"Be composed, Catherine, I entreat you"---- But her only answer was, 
"My father! my poor father!"

"You shall see him, Catherine. I take you not from him, but from 
Henry Falconer."

"I will never marry him," cried the unhappy girl: "take me but back 
and I will tell them all, and it shall go no further. Take me but 
back, and I will forget all,--I will forgive all. Take me but back, 
and let me die."

In this manner, her mind overcome by but one thought and one feeling, 
she murmured prayer after prayer, and adjuration after adjuration, 
until her entreaties became almost frenzied, and Hyland, alarmed and 
shocked, half repented the act which had brought her to such a pass. 
Her agitation was not diminished, when Oran, who rode at the other 
side, and had for a long time maintained a stern silence, and 
apparent disregard of what passed between them, at last uttered an 
interjection of impatience, and bade Hyland ride away, and leave her 
to him.

"The folly but grows upon her in your presence," he said: "it must be 
checked."

"Leave me not, Herman!" she cried, starting so wildly from the rude 
Oran, that, had he not arrested the effort, she would have leaped 
from the horse, in the effort to reach him whom she felt to be her 
truest protector: "leave me not, Herman, for the sake of the mother 
who bore you!--leave me not in the hands of any of these rude men!"

"Fear not," said Hyland, and he conjured Oran himself to depart. "Let 
the girl come to her," he added; "perhaps Phoebe's appearance may 
relieve her."

But even the presence of Phoebe, now quite content with captivity, 
(so successful had been the arguments of her wooer,) failed to banish 
her agitation; and at last, bewildered and in despair, incapable of 
devising any other means to give her comfort, Hyland checked his 
horse and hers, and assisted her to dismount.

"Do with me what you will, Catherine Loring," he said--"I am a fool, 
a wretch, perhaps a villain."

"Oh no, no!" said the maiden; "only take me back, and all will again 
be well--all will be forgotten."

"Nothing again will be well with me," said the young man, "and 
nothing, I fear me, with you. Catherine, there is but a moment to 
decide. In snatching you from the altar, I did the only thing in my 
power to secure happiness to both,--or at least, to secure us from 
the misery that was falling on us like a mountain. You hated Henry 
Falconer"----

"I did--No, no! not _hate_; it was not hate," murmured the Captain's 
daughter.

"You hated him, Catherine, and--why should I fear to speak it?--you 
loved another--you loved _me_, Catherine--By heaven, it is true! I 
felt it, and I knew it; else how could I have done this thing? It is 
true--and hide it not from yourself, since your own weal, as well as 
mine, depends upon your resolution this moment."

"Speak not to me so, oh, for heaven's sake do not," cried Catherine, 
weeping--"I never gave you cause. Take me only to my father."

"To wed with Henry Falconer, and pronounce a vow your heart 
forswears?"

"I will never marry him--never, never!" said Catherine, with 
vehemence: "I would have told him so, only that my father stood by, 
and I knew it would kill him."

"Catherine, hear me--I am neither traitor nor outlaw, and though 
associated with such for a moment, it is for your sake only.--I have 
wealth, Catherine,--substance enough and a fair name. Share these 
with me."--

"No, no! oh speak not so," said Catherine; "speak to me only of my 
father, and take me to him. He loved you well, Mr. Hunter, and you 
have not well repaid him."

"Choose, Catherine," said Hyland, gloomily; "if you will return to 
him, it shall be so:--I am not the ruffian to force you a step 
further against your will."

"Heaven for ever bless you!" cried the maiden. "Oh be quick, lest it 
be too late--Take me back, take me back!"

"Yes, take us back, take us back!" cried Phoebe, whose weak mind, 
yielding with facility to the contagion of Catherine's example, was 
now as full of terror as before.

"Think once more, Catherine," said the young Gilbert, with a 
faltering voice--"Of myself I speak not--I will not think what your 
return may cause me; but think of what wretchedness it must 
inevitably bring to you.--Catherine, there is sunshine for us in the 
island.--Say but the word--you will fly with me!"

"Never!--Oh my father! take me, Herman, to my father!"

"It is well," said the youth, sullenly; but motioning as if to assist 
her to the saddle, "you shall return to him."

"What fool's play is this? and why do you loiter?" cried Oran 
Gilbert, riding back to the group, who had been left by their sudden 
pause far behind: "To horse and to the river!"

"It cannot be," said Hyland: "we have erred,--we have done a great 
wrong, and must repair it. Brother, this maiden must be returned to 
her friends."

"Madman! what do you say? Have her silly, girlish whimsies so 
frightened you? Away with you to the front, and I will fetch her!"

"I have said it, Oran," rejoined Hyland, in a firm, though deeply 
dejected voice. "I have agreed to take her back, and I will do so. If 
you will allow me a guard, I will not delay the band a moment; and 
will answer for the lives of those entrusted to me."

"Fool and madman!" exclaimed the brother, in a fury, "must I force 
you to your senses? What ho, there, Hawks! two of you return; and 
Dancy Parkins, lift that girl to the saddle, and bear her off."

"Fear not," said Hyland to Catherine, who, with woman's 
inconsistency, threw herself into his arms, the moment she heard the 
dreaded order.--"You but frighten her, brother!--Make me not more 
wretched than I am, by forcing me to shed the blood of any of your 
people.--I will shoot any one who touches her."--

"Myself, boy?" cried his savage brother, leaping from his horse. Then 
pausing, for at his approach, Hyland lowered the weapon he had raised 
to make good his words, he said sternly,

"Choose for yourself.--Bear her along, and be rewarded by smiles in 
the morning; take her back and die, like a mad wolf, in the trap that 
has before maimed you. Mount horse, Dancy Parkins, and begone; and 
you, Hyland Gilbert, mount and follow, or stay where you are and 
perish.--Will you on?" he added, with inexpressible fierceness.

"When I have put this lady in safety, but not before," replied 
Hyland.

"Die then for a fool, or help yourself as you may," said the elder 
brother; and mounting his horse, he instantly galloped out of sight.

None now remained with Hyland save the two maidens; for even Dancy, 
awed by the voice of the refugee, had deserted the once-willing 
Phoebe. He turned his eyes towards the retreating figures, as if 
doubting whether they could wholly desert him; but he heard the tramp 
of the steeds ring farther and fainter each moment, and it was plain 
that the incensed Oran had abandoned him to his fate. He assisted 
Catherine to mount, and Phoebe likewise; then taking Catherine's 
bridle in his hand, he turned the horse's head, and began to retrace 
his steps without uttering a word. A moody silence possessed him, and 
even Catherine's voice, now sobbing out her broken gratitude, failed 
to draw from him more than a few sullen monosyllables.

"It shall be as you will," he said; "but let us speak no more.--What 
matters it now to utter vain words?"

The dejection, nay the despair, of spirit conveyed by every tone, 
smote Catherine to the heart; and had he possessed the art, or the 
will, to take advantage of the feeling which his evident desolation 
produced in her bosom, he might yet have won her to his purpose, and 
borne her afar from parent and friend. But he had neither; he heard 
her trembling attempts at kindly utterance, (for it was now her part 
to play the soother,) with apparent indifference; and even when she 
turned her weeping face towards him, and, in the impulse of real 
affection, laid her hand upon his, he drew away as with scorn or 
anger.

Their flight had carried them almost to the base of the mountain; 
and, obscure as was the night, it was plainly distinguishable at that 
spot where the convulsions of chaotic ages have riven it from the 
summit to the base, thus hollowing a pathway for a broad river under 
the shade of its majestic crags. As they turned from it, a pale light 
glistened among the pines and oaks of the eastern hill, but so faint 
and dim that one could scarce pronounce it the peep of day-spring. 
Such, however, it was; fast as had been the flight, it had been over 
a road where absolute rapidity is, even at this day, rather to be 
desired than expected; and, had she continued with the wild band, 
Catherine would have seen the sun steal into the sky, ere they had 
buried her in the savage recesses where they found their own cities 
of refuge.

As the day dawned, however, and long before the sun was yet seen, 
wreaths of mist began to curl along the mountain top, and even to 
creep over the river; and before they had ridden much more than a 
mile, it was seen rolling along these lesser uplands that give such 
beauty to the whole district, and settling upon the moist woodlands.

This was a circumstance which one in Hyland's situation might have 
deemed providential, if desirous of avoiding observation. But it is 
questionable whether, while brooding over his melancholy thoughts, he 
gave much reflection to the peril that might attend his return to the 
haunts of men. Peril should, at least, have been anticipated; for 
whatever had been the check given by the band of outlaws to the first 
pursuers, it was not a moment to be doubted, from the audacity of the 
pursuit, as well as the greatness of the outrage, that the chase 
would be resumed the moment the pursuers could add to their numbers. 
But dejected as was his spirit, he was not yet reduced to such a 
state of stupor as to be wholly unmindful of his safety; and of this 
he gave proof by suddenly halting upon a naked hill, strown over with 
rocks, and wholly desolate, though breathing into the mist a world of 
rich odour. It was, in fact, covered with a growth of sweet-fern,--a 
shrub around which the early thoughts of affection had shed an 
interest not to be attached even to the rose or violet, though 
henceforth that interest was to be of a melancholy and painful 
character. It was the hill on whose summit he had, scarce an hour 
before, preserved her from the grasp of a villain; though this she 
knew not, for the mists concealed objects from the eye, and it was 
not yet sunrise.

As he paused, he bent forward to listen, and drew a pistol from his 
saddle-bow, but instantly returned it, muttering, "It is no 
matter--if they take me, let it be without bloodshed."

"Herman,--Mr. Hunter, what is it?" cried Catherine. "You will not 
pause now?"

"Now I must, or never," he said. "You are safe,--your friends are at 
the bottom of the hill; and unless you would have them murder me in 
your sight, I must begone. Farewell, Catherine Loring: if you can be 
happy, God grant that you may be so. I have done you a great wrong; 
but I bear that in my bosom which will avenge you. Farewell, 
Catherine,--farewell, and for ever."

"Herman, Herman!" murmured the maiden, turning upon him a countenance 
of death, and gasping for utterance.

"Farewell, Catherine," he said, wringing her hand; "they are upon us. 
God bless you--farewell."

He rode away--it was but a step: the trample of a body of horse was 
now plainly heard--he looked back upon her--his countenance was 
bathed in tears. She stretched forth her arms, and murmuring, in a 
broken voice, "I will go with you--take me, Herman, take me!"--was in 
a moment locked in his own embrace. He snatched her from the saddle, 
and, as she clung to his neck, dashed the spurs into his good roan 
steed. Had the words been pronounced a moment earlier, nay, but an 
instant, he might have made his escape, and borne her off in safety. 
But the decision was as late as it proved to be fatal. Phoebe had 
already heard the trampling of the approaching horsemen, and Hyland 
had called them friends. She could scarce repress a cry of delight; 
but when, catching Catherine's last words, she looked round and 
beheld her, as she thought, in the act of being again snatched away, 
she raised her voice in a scream that was heard by the most distant 
of the approaching party, and was echoed by a shout coming from fifty 
voices.

Again Hyland struck the spurs into his horse, and the fire sparkled 
from his hoofs as he dashed down the hill; but fire flashed 
immediately after from the hoofs of twenty others, fresher and 
perhaps fleeter.

"Shoot not, or you will kill the lady!" roared a voice in his ear.

"Surrender, dog, or die!" shouted another, who was indeed no other 
than Henry Falconer; and almost in the same instant, as three or four 
closed upon the unfortunate fugitive, a strong arm snatched the 
fainting Catherine from his grasp, and a pistol, held by Falconer, 
was thrust into his face.

The young Gilbert was weak with wounds and sickness, and worn out 
with toil, watching, and grief; his native spirit was thus in a 
manner crushed and prostrated; and he would perhaps have yielded 
himself passively up, if not too bitterly goaded by the taunts and 
violence of his captors. Such was the opinion of two of them, who, 
supposing he had already yielded, withdrew their hands, that they 
might give assistance to the fainting Catherine, whom captain Caliver 
had so fortunately redeemed from the midst of the fray. But Gilbert 
had not yet rendered himself. The sight of his rival, exulting in his 
capture, and menacing him with voice and weapon, inflamed his dying 
passions. He turned with sudden fierceness, checked and spurred his 
steed at the same time, and thus caused him to vault into the air 
with a violence which would have speedily released him from 
Falconer's grasp, had not his purpose been rather to attack than fly. 
As he executed this feat, he presented his own pistol, and drew the 
trigger. The explosion of two pistols at once was followed by the 
rush of a dozen men to separate the combatants; and the next moment 
both were seen rolling upon the ground, Falconer lying clear of the 
melée, and Hyland in the hands of the vengeful Sterling, whose horse, 
White Surrey, had overthrown the youth, together with his roan steed.

"'Sessa! let the world slide!'" cried the renegade, with a voice of 
thunder, but a countenance ashy pale. "Here's work for the hangman--I 
have him fast enough._ Victoria!_"----

But at this moment, a sudden alarm was sounded, and all who could 
starting up, they heard a wild yell sound from the base of the hill 
to the north, and the words, pronounced by a voice strong and clear 
as a trumpet, "Royal Refugees! charge! and bear them to the ground!"

"Huzza!" shouted the captain of cavalry, "here's the rat running at 
the lion! Now open your mouths and swallow 'em! By the eternal 
Jupiter, we are five to their one; and more fools they for not 
knowing it. Sweep them from the earth! charge them! on!"

The refugee had relented; the sound of the pistols had quickened his 
steps; but he dreamed not of the force now arrayed betwixt him and 
his abandoned brother. A sheet of fire from twenty pistols blazed 
through the mist, as twice as many enemies rushed against his little 
band. They broke at the first fire, and the sounds of pursuit, both 
hot and fierce, were soon lost in the distance.--It was not until 
many hours had elapsed that the result of the contest, although it 
could be easily imagined, was fully known. Two of the refugees had 
been killed, and one was taken prisoner; while the others, abandoning 
their horses, which were worn out, and hence easily captured, 
succeeded in making their escape to the woods.

In the meanwhile, those who remained upon the hill busied themselves 
in securing the unfortunate Hyland, who was unhurt save by the fall 
of his horse, aiding the maidens, and raising young Falconer from the 
earth. This unlucky youth muttered a few words as they lifted him, 
but, to their horror, almost instantly expired. A pistol bullet had 
penetrated his throat, dividing the great jugular, and even 
shattering the spine. His battles were fought, and his dream of folly 
over.

In the recovery of Catherine and the serving-maid, the company of 
pursuers had effected the chief object of the expedition; but it was 
still felt to be a matter of great importance to destroy the relics 
of the refugee band which had haunted the county so long. The greater 
number of the pursuers, accordingly, devoted themselves to this 
object, while enough remained on the hill to take charge of the 
rescued females, the prisoners, and the dead.

The life of Hyland Gilbert, whom his captors, exasperated by the 
murder, as they called it, of Falconer, were at one time on the point 
of tearing to pieces, was saved through the firmness of lieutenant 
Brooks; but he was treated with much indignity, and even cruelty, 
being straightway bound both hand and foot to his horse, and thus 
carried away like the meanest and most desperate of felons. A pair of 
rude litters were hastily constructed, in one of which was carried 
the Captain's daughter, while the other supported the clayey corpse 
of the bridegroom.

These things effected, and the honest Mr. Sterling assuming the 
station assigned him in the centre of the party, where, although 
enjoying all appearance of liberty, he was yet esteemed a kind of 
honourable--or, as the phrase should be, dishonourable--prisoner, the 
melancholy cavalcade pursued its way back to Hawk-Hollow, within a 
few miles of which, its leaders stumbled upon Captain Loring and a 
party of footmen, over whom he had assumed the command. It consisted 
of no less, indeed, than that identical company of volunteers who had 
won such immortal distinction on the fourth of July, by their valiant 
attack, with empty muskets, upon the flying Oran. The reappearance of 
their enemy was enough to recall them to the field of battle, though 
they came somewhat of the latest; and uniting themselves with a party 
of countrymen and domestics whom Captain Loring had previously 
assembled, and whom he was now gallantly leading to the field of 
honour, they yielded to his energy the obedience he seemed to 
consider a matter of right, and thus constituted him 
commander-in-chief, without much regard to the claims of their own 
elected officers.

The morning was still misty, so that lieutenant Brooks and his party 
stumbled upon this formidable detachment without seeing it, or 
suspecting its existence; and had it not been for the sharpness of 
his ears in detecting the tones of Captain Loring's voice upon a hill 
he was just ascending, it is highly probable the magnanimous 
volunteers would have wiped out the disgrace of their flight before a 
single enemy, by pouring a warm and well-directed fire into a 
superior body of friends.

He paused a little,--for he rode at some distance in front of his 
party,--and distinctly heard Captain Loring's voice giving the 
following orders to his volunteers:--

"Hark!" said the veteran; "adzooks, you may hear their horse now as 
plain as the cocking of a sentinel's musket at midnight. Halt, ye 
vagabonds, and prepare for action. When I say _prepare_, I mean, 
adzooks, be ready to swinge 'em. You, Dan Potts, John Small, and 
Peter Dobbs, detach yourselves to the right, six rods from the road, 
and lay by to flank 'em: Dick Sturgem, Sam King, and Absalom Short, 
wheel to the left, and do the same thing--and mind you, you 
scoundrels, don't any of you be frightened; for, adzooks, I despise a 
coward above all created things. And harkee, you scoundrels, no 
gabbling; hold your tongues like soldiers, and talk with your 
muskets: that's what old general Spitfire used to tell us--'Sons,' 
said he, 'a soldier should always keep his tongue in his musket.' So 
be off, and stand fast, flanks; and bang away as soon as you see any 
thing to bang at. Centre, attend: as soon as you hear the flanks at 
it, you are to crack away, and give no quarter--no quarter, you 
scoundrels, do you hear!"

At any other moment, the young lieutenant would have been amused at 
the enthusiasm and tactics of the veteran of the Indian wars; but 
this was not a moment for jest. He rode forward, hailing the Captain 
by name; and the old soldier soon forgot his rage and his followers 
together, to weep in the arms of his recovered child.




CHAPTER XI.

  _2d Clown_. But is this law?
  _1st Clown_. Ay, marry is 't; crowner's-quest law.
                                              HAMLET.


We draw a curtain over the scene of distress displayed in Gilbert's 
Folly, when the body of Henry Falconer, late the gayest of its 
inmates, was laid at the feet of his father and sister; and pass to 
that which followed, when a justice of the peace, acting in the place 
of a coroner, assembled a jury of inquest around the bloody couch, to 
determine from the melancholy story of the dead, the fatal 
responsibility of the living. The official was a personage who 
exercised, along with the duties of a magistrate, the equally 
dignified functions of mine host of the Green Tree Tavern; and was, 
indeed, no less a man than that rival of Elsie Bell, whose formidable 
opposition, many years before, had completed the downfall of the 
Traveller's Rest. He was now a man of substance, portly in person, 
and inflated by the dignity of office into a certain dignity of 
manner; his step was like the roll of a ship, and when he breathed, 
it was with a forcible and majestic expiration of breath, like the 
snort of a war-horse. He had been noticed, as he advanced in the 
world, for the independence,--or, to speak more strictly, the tyranny 
with which he conducted himself among his guests; not, indeed, that 
he ever beat, or even committed them, as, in virtue of his office, he 
might have done; but because, as he said, he heartily 'despised peing 
pottered mit 'em.' He was not austere or quarrelsome of disposition, 
but he was a lover of his ease in his inn; and his despotism was 
shown less in violent opposition than in contemptuous indifference of 
all humours save his own. He abhorred all fault-finding, but as he 
equally detested the trouble of reprehending it, he devised a scheme 
by which discontent was either nipped in the bud, or severely 
reproved as soon as made manifest, and all without any labour on his 
own part. He caused to be painted on his sign-board, having daubed 
off the green tree to make room for it, the following cabalistic 
legend,--

  _Der ist glücklich, welcher zufrieden ist._

which he was accustomed to translate, _viva voce_, to all incapable 
of understanding it, in a quaternion as remarkable for its expressive 
simplicity as for its philosophic comprehensiveness:

  He vich is vise
  Neffer grumples nor cries;
  He vich is neither vise nor ciffil
  May go to the diffil.

This,--that is to say, the original morceau,--as he justly conceived, 
contained a standing answer for all grumblers, and by being in such a 
conspicuous situation, served as a warning to them beforehand; while, 
at the same time, if a guest chanced to forget its existence, it only 
needed the philosophic Schlachtenschlager (for that was the 
dignitary's name,) to point to it with his finger, and demand, 'Fat 
does that mean?' to bring him to reason. At all events, his 
translation was always at hand, in case of extremity, and was of such 
supreme efficacy in laying all evil spirits by the heels, that he 
used to declare with triumph, 'It fas neffer needs to say it twice.'

Such was the functionary who now introduced his assistants into the 
chamber of death, exulting in his own importance and his success in 
completing the number against all the difficulties resulting from the 
confusion into which the county had been thrown by the second 
appearance of the refugees.

"I do afer, on my faith, gentlemen," he said, wiping his brows, as he 
entered, "I had more trouple making you up than is goodt for nothing. 
As for that Jake Sheeps fat run afay, I fill commit him, the 
fillain."

"Ay, Squire, when you catch him," said one of the party, who, 
although as coarse in appearance as the others, (all being, save 
himself, ordinary farmers and ignoramuses, such as could be picked up 
in a hurry,) but who soon proved himself possessed of more brain than 
all the others together,--"when you catch him, Squire. But harkee, 
Schlachtenschlager; concerning this forcing _me_ on a jury of 
inquest,--'tis a sort of a breach of privilege. As an attorney at 
law, I should be considered exempt; for if there's no statute for 
exemption, why there's custom, my old boy, and I'll mulct you in 
damages. Botheration, Squire, you should know enough law to steer 
clear of a lawyer."

"T'at for your law!" said the magistrate, "and your lawyer too: I 
knows my pusiness. And if you grumples and calls me 'old poy,' it 
vill pe vorse for you; for old poy means the tyfel, and if you calls 
me tyfel, mine friend Affidafy"----

"Tush," said the lawyer, "it means no such thing. But as you have 
nabbed me, why make haste with this stupid business, and be done. 
Look at the body, guess your guess out, and let me be gone."

  "'He vich is vise,'"--

muttered the justice; but was interrupted by Mr. Affidavy crying, 
bluffly,

"The devil take your verses. Come, let's to business. Now, Squire, 
you 'know your business,'--you never, I reckon, held an inquest 
before in your life;--how do you begin?"

"How do I pegin?" said the official, scratching his head; "fy, I 
reckons, ve must have a talk apout it, and then say, the man vas 
murdtered."

"The deuce you must? Why that's prejudging the case altogether. How 
do you know the man was murdered? where's your witnesses?"

"Vitnesses!" said Schlachtenschlager; "fy, I reckons the case is 
clear enough mitout 'em."

"Ah, I thought you'd say so," cried the other; "but that won't do. 
Where's the murderer?"

"Vy, I committed him."

"Where's the prisoner, Dancy Parkins?"

"Vy, I committed him along mit the other."

"Where's the informant, that vagabond--(I reckon, he'll be a witness 
for the Commonwealth)--that stripe-coat fellow, 
Stirk--Stick,--no,--Sterling's his name?"

"Vy, I committed him, too."

"The devil you did? Well, where are the officers, the soldiers, the 
volunteers, and all the rest that were present?"

"Vy, chasing the refugees, to pe sure."

"Well, so I thought. Now, I'll tell you what you'll have to do: just 
send off as fast as you can for that fellow Sterling, and Dancy, and 
half a dozen others, and adjourn till they come; which will give me 
time to run down to the Traveller's Rest, and administer on old Elsie 
Bell's estate, or see what there is to administer on."

"Administer on old Elsie? fat the tyfel! is the old fitch teadt?"

"As dead as a herring," said Affidavy; "and there's another job for 
you. They say, some one told her, the defunct here, Colonel 
Falconer's son, was shot by young Gilbert; and the harridan 
screeched, and fell dead with fright."

"Mine soul!" said the justice, "they're all tying. There's the 
Captain's daughter here,--they say she's tying too. I vant to take 
her teposition; but Dr. Muller says she can n'ither speak nor hear."

"Well," said the attorney, "you see there's nothing to be done here 
at present. So, adjourn's the word, and down to hold an inquest on 
old Elsie. She has been looking up in the world lately, and they say 
she'll leave something. I intend therefore to administer, or see 
about it--and by the way, Squire, we may discover something there in 
relation to the murderer. He lived in her house; and, there's no 
doubt, the tories made it a place of rendezvous. We can come up here 
and finish afterwards."

"Fell, I don't know," said Schlachtenschlager; "it's all vone, except 
for the trouple of going and coming. But fere's Jake Musser?" he 
added, in sudden alarm; "I declare ve're not all here!--Fy, Jake, 
fere have you peen?" he continued, as the individual, whose absence 
he had just discovered, entered the apartment.

"Vy, at Elsie Pell's;--I stopped a moment to get a trink; but old 
Elsie vas sick, and the plack girl vas in a fear, and"----

"Sick!" cried Affidavy, "a'n't the old goose dead? 'Pshaw! why then 
we'll go on with the inquest, and say no more about it. I thought 
there was a job there for somebody; but, it seems, it is only for the 
doctor. Well, Squire, are you ready?"

"Yes," said the official; "but now, Mr. Affidafy, fat shall we do for 
witnesses?"

"Tush," said the man of law, "that's neither here nor there."

"Fy, you said, it wouldn't do mitout 'em!"

"Oh, that's according to circumstances, and here we have 
circumstances enough to hang the whole county."

"Fell, then," said the magistrate, "we'll pring it in a case of 
murder. Are you all agreedt? Fat says you, Peter Pork?"

"Why, I dunna," said Peter, "but I reckon so."

"Fat says you, Thomas Pork?"

"Why, I dunna; but I go with Peter."

"Fat says you, Jacob Musser?"

"Fy, the same: but I reckon the Captain mought send us up something 
to dtrink.--It's a very pretty pody."

"Never mind the pody, Jacob. Fat says you, Jack Darpy?"

"Why, I'm no so clear in the matter;--I'm ag'in' all hanging."

"Fy, that's none on your pusiness," said the magistrate, assuming an 
air of dignity; "for you see, John, the coroner's jury is not the 
hanging jury."

"Well, Squire," said the nonconformist, "I reckon I know that as well 
as any body. But, you see, I've had a talk with the quakers on this 
matter, and I'm coming to think it's ag'in' the law of scriptur' to 
bring a man to the gallows. And you see, the matter all rests on our 
shoulders; for if we say murder for our 'quest, why then the grand 
jury sings the same song for their indictment, and the petty jury 
just follows suit. It's just like sticking three bricks on an end; if 
you kick one, why down goes the second, and clack goes t'other. And 
moresomover, what Squire Affidavy says I stick to: I don't know the 
man's murdered, not an iota, without some one to swear on black and 
white."

"Fy, take a look at him, John," said the Squire in a heat; "he's 
deadt, a'n't he? and he has a pig hole in his neck, ha'n't he? and 
fat more fould you haff? You're always preeding trouble, John Darpy!"

"Well, I dunna," said John; "the man mought ha' shot himself; for 
they say he was a peeler at the bottle, for such a young un; and when 
folks drinks, there's no saying what'll come of it: it's just as much 
as saying, 'Clear the course, here goes for the devil!--Squire 
Affidavy, what do you say to that?"

"Hem"--replied the man of law, looking at his elbows, which were 
somewhat of the whitest, with an attempt at humour, that faded in a 
moment before a look of sullenness and anger, "I say, that you're a 
fool, though you stumble upon wisdom now and then by accident. But 
none of your sly winks and blinks: we all know you have not brain 
enough for drinking. But stop; we've carried this joke far enough, 
and the fun is over. Send down stairs for the girl Phoebe Jones: she 
was on the ground when the shot was fired, and we must take her 
testimony."

"Fy, now I remember, so she fas," muttered the magistrate; but added, 
with a sigh like the sough of north-wester, "Put it is a great 
trouple to swear a voman."

The testimony of Phoebe was, however, by no means so satisfactory as 
was expected. It is true, she professed herself able to swear that 
Mr. Hunter Hiram Gilbert shot Mr. Falconer; but it soon appeared she 
was as ready to swear he had shot herself, and some dozen other 
unfortunate persons into the bargain. In truth, the dreadful 
conclusion of an adventure which she had been brought, at one moment, 
almost to consider an innocent and agreeable frolic,--the condition 
of her mistress, from whose bed-side she had been summoned,--and the 
spectacle of the ghastly corse of the bridegroom before her eyes, 
more than half turned her brain. She answered therefore by yea and 
nay, and just as the question indicated the reply; until Mr. 
Affidavy, a man of some little tact in his profession, although low 
and debauched habits had ruined his prospects and reputation 
together, thought fit to interfere, and by a little management, made 
it obvious, even to the dull brain of Schlachtenschlager, that the 
girl, although an actor in the tragedy, knew no more of its details 
from her own observation, than they themselves.

They were relieved from their dilemma, however, by the sudden 
appearance of lieutenant Brooks, who delivered a brief and clear 
account of the catastrophe, as far as he had witnessed it himself; 
and his testimony left it no longer to be doubted that the 
unfortunate defunct had fallen in consequence of a pistol-shot fired 
from a weapon in the hands of Hyland Gilbert. He produced the 
instrument, which, as well as the pistol discharged by the deceased, 
he had picked from the ground, and now delivered, along with their 
fellows, and a pair taken from Sterling, to the magistrate, averring 
that they were in the condition in which he had found them.

"A very pretty pistol," said the official; "but how is this Mr. 
Lieutenant? did the young fellow fire them all?"

The soldier stared his honour in the face, and smiled; but his eye 
fell on the body of his friend, and the flash of humour faded into 
clouds.

"This weapon," said he, touching one, "I presume to be that by which 
Mr. Falconer was slain. It was picked from the ground by Mr. 
Gilbert's side; the fellow to it, was found in the holsters attached 
to Gilbert's saddle. This," he added, pointing to another, "belonged 
to my unfortunate friend, and was that with which he shot at the 
prisoner."

"Fat!" cried the official, "did _he_ shoot, too?"

"Undoubtedly: I plainly distinguished two explosions, the one 
immediately after the other."

"Fy then, mine Gott!" said Schlachtenschlager, looking round upon his 
assistants with an air of unutterable sagacity, "this, mine friends, 
does ferry much alter the case. It vas not murder, but a fight. Who 
fires the pistol first?"

"Sir, that is impossible to say. But allow me to suggest a doubt 
whether that is necessary to be inquired into. With deference, I 
should suppose the object of this inquest would be simply to 
determine who shot the pistol that killed the deceased; leaving all 
other questions to be determined by other tribunals."

"'Pshaw!" said Affidavy, who seemed to derive no little private 
amusement from the ignorance of the magistrate, when suffered to run 
its own course; "you have spoiled the sport. The young gentleman is, 
however, right, Squire, and"--

"Holdt your tongue, Mr. Affidafy, and let me mindt mine own 
pusiness," said the magistrate, in some wrath; "sure I know fat I am 
about! And hark ye, Mr. Witness, you are a very goodt young man, and 
an officer, and a gentleman; put you must not tell me fat I am to do, 
nor fat I am not to do."

"Surely not," replied the witness; "I will not be so presumptuous."

"Right; you are a very goodt young man, and an officer, and a 
gentleman; and you have very goodt sense.--Fat do you think I must 
say in this case? for, mine Gott, it puzzles me! Mine own opinion is, 
that somepody shot this young man."

"It cannot be doubted, sir."

"And that that somepody fas him fat shot the pistol fat fas _not_ 
shot by the young man fat fas shot."

"Very true, sir."

"Ferry fell, sir," continued the official, with dignity; "now show me 
the man, and you shall hear fat I have to say for mine inquest in no 
time."

"The man you speak of is by this time lodged in the county prison 
under a warrant issued by yourself. There were two pistols 
discharged, one by the deceased, the other, as I can swear to the 
best of my belief, by the prisoner; and I can bear witness in like 
manner, that my unfortunate friend owes his death to the pistol 
discharged by the prisoner."

"Fy then, the case is clear enough, and I vonder you couldn't say so 
much before. Do you swear to all this?"

"I do."

"Fell now, come;--fat fas the reason of all this running afay, and 
murdering?"

"That, I beg leave to suggest, is a question entirely irrelevant."

"Is it? Fell then, fy don't you answer it?"

"'Pshaw!" mumbled Affidavy, who was perhaps wearying of a sport he 
did not himself direct. "Squire, you may discharge the witness: we 
have laid our heads together and agreed upon a finding."

"Fat! mitout me?"

"Certainly. You don't think _you_ are to make the verdict?--The 
witness will be pleased to retire," he added, and the lieutenant, 
looking once more on the dead, immediately withdrew.

"We find, Squire," the attorney went on, "that the deceased came to 
his death in consequence of a pistol-bullet shot into his neck by 
Hyland Gilbert, otherwise called Herman Hunter. If you want to be 
learned about jugulars, carotids, parotids, and so on, we will call 
in Dr. Muller, and have him examine the wound."

"Fy, I don't know any thing about them things; put I don't see that 
you say any thing apout murder?"

"Not a word: as you said yourself to Jack Darby here, the coroner's 
jury is not the hanging jury."

"Fell now, the matter's finished, and I am ferry glad. I suppose it 
is all right?"

"Entirely--the young Hawk is as dead as a chicken."

"It is a clear case then, Mr. Affidafy," said the dignitary, with a 
long and tempestuous breath, indicating the satisfaction he felt at 
being released from labours so overpowering, "they fill hang the 
young fillain?"

"Why that depends upon circumstances, Squire."

"Oh the tyfel! it is all 'upon circumstances' mit a lawyer?"

"It is a good case on either side," said Affidavy; "and not so bad on 
the prisoner's as might be supposed,--that is, if he had but money to 
make it an object to take up his cause."

"Mine Gott, he has money! There fas his fatch; 'twas goldt, and worth 
forty pound."

"Eh! indeed? has he a gold watch?"

"And there fas a purse of guineas"----

"Of guineas!"

"And there fas a--fat you call it?--a pill of exchange on New York, 
and a letter of credit,--mine Gott, it fas mitout limit, except time; 
put I toubt me, it fas not goodt."

"Botheration!" cried the man of law, in a fervour, "who'll lend me a 
horse to ride to town? I remember now, there was a story that the 
youngest son of the Gilberts had a rich aunt in Jamaica."

"Fell, if he had?"

"Why then, I'll certainly volunteer him the aid of my professional 
skill; and, murder or no murder, I'll bring him off."

"You don't say so, Mr. Affidavy?"

"Botheration, I do. A letter of credit without limit? Who has it? did 
you save it?"

"No; I gave it pack to him; put I took an inventory of all in his 
pockets."

"Well, Squire, you're an honour to the profession. Lend me a horse."

"Fy, if I had you put down to the Creen Tree, and you fould promise 
to keep soper"----

"Tush, I will. But let's be off, and in a hurry. You are a merciful 
man, Squire Schlachtenschlager--It is a pity this poor friendless 
young fellow should be hanged for nothing."

"That is, mitout paying nothing to the lawyer? Ho, ho!----Put it 
toesn't do to laugh by a teadt pody, fen his fader, and moder, and 
all his friends is feeping and crying. Fat is to pe done mit these 
Hawks? Can't nopody catch pig Oran? I fill give one pound of mine own 
money for refard; for, I do afer, he toes give me much trouple. Fell, 
gentlemen, all is right. Now fill ve all go to the Creen Tree, and ve 
shall have some prandy to dtrink. Fere is some pody to light mine 
pipe? A fery padt piece of pusiness, and fery pottersome. I vonder 
fere they fill pury the young man? Fell, gentlemen, let us pegone."




CHAPTER XII.

  Your mountain Sack, your Frontignac,
    Tokay, and twenty more, sir,
  Your Sherry and Perry, that make men merry,
    Are deities I adore, sir;
      And well may Port
      Our praise extort,
    When from his palace forth he comes,
    And glucks and gurgles, fumes and foams.
      Gluck, gluck,
        Hickup, gurgle and gluck.
                                       OLD SONG.


If one were to judge the traits of the vulgar from the indulgence 
they exhibit towards certain vices, or certain instances of their 
occurrence, it would be easy to show that man is, at bottom, a 
good-natured animal. It is certain that he betrays an extraordinary 
leniency in the case of a vice which all unite, in the abstract, to 
condemn; and that many men derive an importance from the sacrifice of 
reputation and mind to the Imp of the Bottle, which they might have 
failed to purchase by a life of wisdom and sobriety. It is not 
uncommon to find, in some rural districts, men of gross and degraded 
habits, whom a rational creature would spurn from him with contempt, 
and who are indeed the butts of ridicule or objects of commiseration, 
even among their own immediate neighbours; but who, strange to say, 
are regarded with a species of admiration, growing directly out of 
their profligacy. Such, we are sorry to say, are some of the rustic 
professors of law and physic, who, possessing a little talent, but no 
industry, prefer whiling the period of probationary idleness at the 
door, or in the bar-room, of the village tavern, to devoting it in 
the closet to that labour which is the only stepping-stone to 
distinction and fortune; and thus contracting a love for something 
more than idleness, and slipping, little by little, towards the 
bottom of the hill, are seen at last, downdraughts, with swollen 
visages and seedy garments, mingling among the coarse and base, 
themselves perhaps the coarsest and basest. You will see such a man 
gibed and laughed at by the lowest of his companions, as something 
that even they can despise; for whatever may be the hatred with which 
the humble regard the more lofty, they are the first to appreciate 
the degradation of a downfall; but the next moment you will hear them 
talk of him with praise. Is it 'the poor doctor at the Cross-Roads?' 
'Oh, he is a ruined man, to be sure, and a sot; but he cures, when 
another man fails; somewhat dangerous now and then, when too "far in 
for it," but a marvellous hand at "rheumatisms and the fever."' Is it 
'crusty Ned Jones, the lawyer?' 'Drinks like a fish, but with more 
sharp stuff in his brain than all the bar beside; a devil of a fellow 
to corner a witness, break a will, pick a flaw in an indictment, and 
set a jury a-sobbing: great pity he drinks,--but he's a tremendous 
orator, and all the better for a glass or two, in a hard case.' We 
have heard of a lawyer, a lover of his glass, who reformed his 
habits, and lost his practice.

The worthy Affidavy, who played so prominent a part in the jury of 
inquest, was one of this unfortunate class of beings, although he had 
commenced the world with as fair prospects as could be derived from a 
moderate share of talent, and some native energy of character, and 
was yet in the prime of his years. He had sunk into poverty and 
neglect, was any man's fellow, and every man's scorn; yet the lower 
he sunk, the loftier became men's opinions of his natural parts and 
his professional knowledge; and Squire Schlachtenschlager was wont to 
say, 'he pelieved Affidafy mate petter speeches now than he tidt 
afore, fen he fas a soper man.' While such generous opinions 
prevailed, the lawyer had still 'something to do' in the way of his 
profession; but the sad condition of his outward man showed that this 
was far from being profitable. Indeed, if the truth must be told, his 
admirers, though of humours sufficiently litigious, were oftener 
inclined to employ than able to pay; and those of better estates, 
however they marvelled at the sagacity, and applauded the speeches of 
the man of buckram, were rather shy of applying to him for 
assistance, until they felt their cases to be growing desperate. The 
consequence of this state of things was, that Mr. Theophilus Affidavy 
was compelled to resort to many shifts to obtain a subsistence, that 
added little to his reputation; and would indeed have been hooted 
from the county, had he not been protected by the armour of imputed 
genius, which his habits seemed to fasten around him.

The account he received of the wealth of the unfortunate Hyland 
produced a strong effect upon his acquisitive propensities; and he 
saw at a glance, that if his counsel could be of no benefit to the 
prisoner, it might undoubtedly be of some to himself. "He is a Hawk 
of the Hollow," he muttered to himself, "and so every one will be 
against him. Good! There will be much apparent merit therefore in 
undertaking his defence. His case is bad,--awful bad--better! To 
volunteer in such a case, will infer at once the possession of 
extraordinary skill, worthy of extraordinary reward. He has 
money--excellent! But, botheration, the other Jack-brains will find 
that out, and dive at him before me. Must have Schlachtenschlager's 
horse, if I have to steal him--nobody else will lend me one. An old 
ass; but can twist him round my thumb as easily as a tape of 
tobacco."

Such were the reflections of the attorney, as with his brother 
jurors, one of whom had given him a seat in his little Jersey wagon, 
he followed Schlachtenschlager, to share the feast this worthy had 
prepared for his associates at the Green Tree.

The soliloquy of the lawyer seemed to infer a doubt of the 
performance of the promise Schlachtenschlager had so generously made 
of lending him a horse. This doubt was engendered by a sudden change 
in the sky, which, from having been perfectly clear and placid, 
suddenly began to be covered with clouds, and these of an appearance 
so gloomy and menacing that full half the jurors became alarmed, and, 
excusing themselves from accepting the proffered hospitality, hurried 
to their homes, leaving the revels to be shared by those who dwelt in 
the Squire's immediate neighbourhood. The attorney, wonderful to be 
said, had as strong an impulse to be gone as others, although fully 
sensible of the excellence of the magistrate's potables, and of the 
painful sacrifice he should make in tearing himself away; but on the 
other hand, he perceived that a violent thunderstorm was brewing, and 
he knew the Squire to be a prudent man, who loved his beast as he 
loved his wife, and indeed a great deal better, and would be loath to 
lend him after the storm had once set in. For this reason, as soon as 
he had reached the inn, he reminded the Squire of his promise, swore 
he would drink but a single glass, and then be off, without waiting 
for the rain.

The Squire scratched his head, and replied,

"Vy, Mr. Affidafy, I don't know. The veather vill be padt, and I 
don't like it: it vill pe padt on the horse. So, Affidafy, ve vill 
vait a little and see; and, pesides, my poy," added the dignitary, 
clapping him on the shoulder, as if to atone by condescension for the 
disappointment he inflicted, "ve fill not forget the dtrinking, and 
the jolly-making. Py mine heart, my poy, ve fill have petter fun for 
you than trampling about in the rain mit a stumpling horse. Fat, man, 
fy we're all Deutschers put you! Here's Jake Musser, and Hans 
Fackeltrager, and Alberick Klappermuhle, and Franz Beschwerlich, and 
Simson Kleiber, and mineself; and then there's you. Mine Gott, ve 
fill be jolly; for I will proach a parrel of Nierensteiner,--mine 
soul! it is as goodt as any in the whole Rheingau! and I do keep it 
for mineself. And ve fill dtrink and ve fill sing, as if ve fas all 
in the Rheingau itself; for my voman, Gott pless her, she is cone to 
the fillage, and the poys is out a looking after the ploodty Hawks. 
Aha, Affidafy, my poy! you shall see fat it is to dtrink Rhine wine, 
mit six goodt Deutschers to help you. Fat do you say, poys? can you 
sing the Rheinweinlied in a t'under-storm? Aha, you see, Affidafy! 
Fell, if ve are few, vy ve fill be merry."

It was in vain to pursue his desire, at such a moment; and indeed the 
attorney's blood tingled with joy at the thought of the flowing 
bowls, offered in such an oration. "Very well, you old fool," he 
muttered to himself, "I will drink till your cursed sour old cider 
trash, that you call Rhine wine, has opened your heart; and then, 
botheration, I will bubble you out of the best horse in your stable. 
Well, it is well it's no worse: it _will_ rain, and that cats and 
dogs."

The indications of the weather were not falsified by the event. In 
less than half an hour after all were safely housed, the heavens were 
covered with pitchy clouds, from which were discharged dazzling 
thunderbolts. Then came a terrific blast of wind, rending boughs from 
the trees, and making the chimneys rock on the housetop; and this 
again was followed by a furious driving rain, falling in such 
torrents as promised in a few hours to swell the smallest brooks into 
impassable rivers. This continued until nightfall, and was then only 
terminated to be succeeded by deceitful intervals of calm, broken in 
upon, even when least expected, by violent gusts of wind and rain.

It is not our design to pursue the conversation, nor to describe the 
revels of the six Deutschers and their American companion, under the 
roof of the Herr Schlachtenschlager. Secure from the tempest, they 
defied its rage, and made even the roar of the thunder and the plash 
of the rain contribute to their enjoyment. Armstrong has described, 
in a few lines that find a responsive chord in every bosom, the 
luxurious addition to the comfort of a warm bed, produced by the 
tumult of a midnight tempest:

  "Oh! when the growling winds contend, and all
   The sounding forest fluctuates in the storm,
   To sink in warm repose, and hear the din
   Howl o'er the steady battlements, delights
   Beyond the luxury of vulgar sleep."

The same cause is said by those who are philosophic in such matters, 
to add peculiar zest to the hissing of the tea-kettle, and the rattle 
of the punch-bowl. Perhaps, then, it was the violence of the storm, 
rather than the excellence of the liquor, which betrayed the worthy 
Schlachtenschlager and his guests into a degree of conviviality 
somewhat inconsistent with the melancholy duties they had just 
rendered to the commonwealth and the dead. But whatever was the 
cause, it is very certain they forgot the dead and the commonwealth 
together, and by nightfall were seven of the happiest men in all the 
rebellious colonies of America. By that time Affidavy was as 
glorified in his spirit as the rest; and suddenly starting up in the 
midst of a crashing peal of thunder, he hiccuped, and then roared,

"Success to the Rhine wine, sweet or sour! and the devil take him 
that won't sing its praises as loudly as e'er a rascal of the 
Rheingau itself! So up, you German pigs, and let's sing! up, you 
Hanz, Franz, Alberick, Jake, and Simson! up, you old rogue 
Schlachtenschlager, for you can sing like a cherubim! and up, you 
jolly dog, Teff Affidavy, who is up already, and can sing as well as 
the best! join hands, bring flowers, crown the cup, and sing the 
Rheinweinlied like seven angels--the Rheinweinlied, you hard-headed, 
jolly dogs, in broad Deutsch! and after that, we'll sing it in my own 
translation, botheration, which is better than the original, for all 
that ass, Jingleum, says _he_ made it. Are you ready?"

"Ready!" responded the happy six; and in an instant every man was 
singing, at the top of his voice, the famous Rheinweinlied--a song of 
such noble and heart-stirring capacity, at least so far as the music 
is concerned, that if it be objected to it, that it has sometimes set 
a singer beside himself, it may be wondered how any one can hear it 
and keep sober at all. The winds blew, the rain fell, and the 
lightning flashed, while this jolly company rose round the table, and 
sang in concert the praises of old father Rhine.

THE RHEINWEINLIED.

I.

  Bekränzt mit Laub den lieben vollen Becher,
    Und trinkt ihn fröhlich leer.
  In ganz Europia, Ihr Herren Zecher!
    Ist solch ein Wein nicht mehr.

II.

  Ihn bringt das Vaterland ans seiner Fülle:
    Wie wär er sonst so gut?
  Wie wär er sonst so edel, wäre stille
    Un doch voll Krafft und Muth?

III.

  Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre Reben;
    Gesegnet sei der Rhein!
  Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben
    Uns diesen Labewein.

IV.

  So trinkt ihn denn, und lasst uns alle Wege
    Uns freum und fröhlich seyn!
  Und wüsster wir wo iemand traurig läge,
    Wir gäben ihm den Wein.

"Bravo! bravissimo! bravississimo!" cried Affidavy. "Here's to you, 
you dogs--'_Ihr Herren Zecher!_' And now for _my_ paraphrase. All you 
that don't know it, why you may sing the German lingo over again: the 
two will go very well together."

So saying, he burst forth on the following _rifacimento_ of the 
original; the others, in general, holding fast to their own more 
sonorous expressions; the effect of which Babel-like intermixture of 
languages was to increase the noise, if it did not add to the spirit 
of the author.

I.

  The right Rhine wine!
    We'll crown the cup with roses,
      And quaff about, and laugh about,
        Till all eyes wink!
  Such joys divine
    Sure mother Nature owes us:
      So laugh about, and quaff about,--
        Come, drink, boys, drink!

II.

  Our Father-land!
    'Tis that the vine produces:
      How else should be this jolly wine
        So good, so good?
  Long as we stand,
    We'll put it to its uses:
      So laugh about, and quaff about,
        As true souls should!

III.

  Oh Rhine! old Rhine,
    With milk and honey flowing!
      There grows the tree so well love we,
        The Vine, the Vine!
  There clusters shine
    On branches ever growing:
      So laugh about, and quaff about
        The good Rhine wine!

IV.

  Come, drink, ha! ha!
    And, sure, we'll all be merry;
      Come, drink, ha, ha! come, laugh, ha, ha!
        Oh! ha, ha, ha!
  As full are we
    As e'er a Rhine-wine berry:
      So laugh about, and quaff about,--
        Oh! ha, ha, ha!

It may be supposed that Affidavy had long since, in the joy of 
revelry, discharged from his mind all memory of the case which had so 
inflamed his fancy, and was content to leave it to be snapped up by a 
more fortunate rival. How far this was from the truth may be inferred 
from a phenomenon that presented itself about an hour after 
nightfall, at which period he appeared on the porch, followed by 
Schlachtenschlager and the rest, all singing with as much zeal as 
before, but vastly out of time and tune. A saddled horse stood at the 
door, on whose back some assisted the attorney to clamber, while 
others were seen holding by railing and pillar, and venting much good 
counsel with a deal of bad music. The Squire himself stood embracing 
a pillar, now poking forth his bare noddle to the drops trickling 
from the porch-roof, and now withdrawing it, to utter divers 
'teufels!' and 'donners!' as the cold element profaned his visage of 
dignity, yet still maintaining his stand, and expatiating on the 
merit of the service he was rendering his guest.

"You see, Affidafy, man," he cried, "I'm a goodt-natured fellow: put 
there's my horse, my pest horse, and it's a padt night; and, 
Affidafy, man, you're as dtrunk as a chudge, poor man. But ho, ho! 
that's no matter, for ve're all so:

  'As full are ve
   As ever vas a Rhine-fine perry:'

Very goodt that, Affidafy!--Fell, ve're all mortal sinners; and, mine 
Gott, there is but little left in mine parrel, and Nierensteiner 
costs money. Fell! goodt pye, Affidafy, my poy, goodt night. Take 
goodt care of the horse, for he's my pest horse, Affidafy, for I'm a 
goodt-natured fellow as ever it vas. Goodt night, Affidafy!"----And 
"Goodt night, Affidafy!" muttered all, as the attorney, fetching a 
desperate reel in the saddle, waved a graceful adieu, and turned to 
depart. Instead of replying, however, to the farewell, he burst out 
again with

  'The right Rhine wine!'

and the others obeying the invitation, again opened their lips, and 
chanted _Bekränzt mit Laub_, till he was out of sight. Then they 
staggered back into the house, to continue their orgies; where we 
will leave them, to follow the course of the attorney.




CHAPTER XIII.

If thou beest a man, show thyself in thy likeness: if thou beest a 
devil, take 't as thou list.
                                                   TEMPEST.


The violence of the storm was over, but the ferment in the elements 
was not yet allayed. The clouds had broken, and ever and anon, 
through their ragged gaps, the eye might trace fields of blue sky, 
studded with stars, which were as suddenly swept out of sight, as 
gusts came roaring from the tops of distant hills, discharging brief 
but furious showers.

On such occasions, it was not easy to pick a way along the road, 
which was washed into gullies and scattered over with the riven 
branches of trees, besides being, in the hollow places, converted 
into pools; so that it might have been considered difficult to 
proceed, even by the light of day.

It was fortunate, perhaps, for Affidavy, that he was in no condition 
to be daunted, either by difficulties or dangers, of which, indeed, 
it is most probable he remained profoundly unconscious, from the 
beginning of his ride to the end. He set forth on his dark journey, 
trolling at the top of his voice some snatches of the jolly chorus, 
in which he had borne no mean part, and plying his heels about the 
ribs of his horse in such a way as to drum out a kind of barrel-head 
accompaniment, as agreeable to himself as it was perhaps advantageous 
to the animal;--for this, instead of being Schlachtenschlager's best 
horse, as he had said, was a drowsy, lazy, pacific, and somewhat 
worthless beast, which the Squire's man, supposing that any one might 
serve the lawyer's turn on such an occasion, had considerately 
substituted for the better one which his master really designed to 
provide. On this animal, then, Affidavy departed, bidding defiance to 
storm and peril, and singing as he went. Sometimes, however, he 
launched into harangues, as if declaiming before a court and jury, 
especially when, as was sometimes the case, the beast he bestrode 
took advantage of his abstraction, to pause before some gully or pool 
of water, and even, now and then, to stand stock-still in the middle 
of the road, where there was no obstruction whatever. Nay, he once or 
twice, relying upon the indifference of his rider, took the liberty 
of turning his head, and jogging backwards; and how the manoeuvre was 
detected and counteracted by one in Affidavy's happy condition, we 
are wholly unable to say. But counteracted it was, and by 
midnight,--that is to say, after a ride of three hours, the attorney 
found that his steed had borne him the full distance of two and a 
half miles from his master's house; at which rate of travel, it was 
quite evident, he might expect to reach the village, perhaps three or 
four miles further, some time before noon of the following day. At 
midnight, however, the horse was brought to a stand by an unforeseen 
difficulty. It was in a hollow place or glen, thickly wooded, that 
was crossed by the road at right angles; at the bottom of it flowed a 
water-course, small and shallow on all ordinary occasions, but which 
the violent rains, assisted by certain accidental obstructions, had 
now swelled into a broad and formidable pool. The trunks and branches 
of trees, swept down by the earlier wash of the flood, and lodged 
among rocks and the standing stems of other trees on the lower side 
of the road, had made a sort of dam, through which the waters could 
not escape so rapidly as they collected; and, in consequence, they 
had swelled so high, as to be already heard falling over it like a 
cataract.

When Affidavy arrived at the brink of this flood, his steed came to a 
sudden halt, of which the rider took no notice for a considerable 
time, his mind being wrapped up in the remembrance of the joyous 
potations from which nothing on earth, save the prospect of a good 
case, could have drawn him, and his ears still tingling with the 
uproar of the Rheinweinlied. This he trolled over with great fervour, 
and in the midst of it, plying his heels as usual, the horse, after 
one or two snorts by way of remonstrance, took heart of grace, and 
crept into the water.

"Botheration," cried the attorney, as he felt the cold element 
sweeping over his legs, "will it never have done raining? H--h--hip, 
Durgan.--Gentlemen of the jury, I appeal, not to your hearts, for I 
disdain taking advantage of,--of your weakness,--nor to your heads, 
for--for--who the devil ever supposed a juryman had 
one?--Botheration, it rains cats and dogs all round, and my legs are 
growing marvellous cold. That old Schlachtenschlager! he, he! a great 
old ass, and his Nierensteiner nothing but sour old crab-cider.--A 
gold watch worth forty pounds,--a purse of guineas--bills of 
exchange--long credits.--Dispute the jurisdiction of the 
court--Hillo! what's all that smashing in the court? I insist upon 
order--Who says I am out of order? Drunk! I despise the thing! Hillo, 
Schlachtenschlager! what's the matter? Never mind the rain--strike 
up: let it blow its worst,--strike up, old boy.

  'Come, drink, ha, ha!
     And, sure, we'll all be merry;
       Come, drink, ha, ha! come laugh, ha, ha!'--

Botheration!"----

In the midst of the attorney's song, and just when he had reached the 
middle of the pool, there happened a catastrophe, which might have 
frightened any other man out of his propriety. This was nothing less 
than the sudden giving way of the dam of logs, the disruption of 
which was followed by the escape of the whole accumulated body of 
waters, and that with a fury that nothing could resist. In an instant 
the attorney was swept from his horse, soused head over ears in the 
flood, and would have been drowned had he not been luckily dashed 
into the crotch of a low and twisted buttonwood, and there left 
astride a horizontal bough, by the retreating waters. The whole thing 
was effected in a trice, indeed with such magical celerity, that he 
failed to notice the main point of the casualty, which was the loss 
of his horse; and supposing himself still at ease in the saddle, he 
plied his heels with their accustomed vigour against the regardless 
trunk, wondering somewhat at the immobility of his charger, and the 
rush of the current at his feet.

"Botheration," he cried; "hip, Durgan, get up; dzick! dzick! That's a 
fine fellow! Will it never be done raining?

  'Come, drink, ha, ha! come laugh, ha, ha!
   Oh, ha!'----

Hip, horsey, hip!" And thus he went on, now spurring the timber 
flanks of his charger, and now trolling forth the drunken chorus, in 
the midst of the stream, where he would perhaps have remained until 
morning, or until sleep had caused him to relax his hold, had not his 
extraordinary outcries reached the ears of a traveller, who rode to 
his assistance, the water being already reduced to its ordinary 
level, and finding him incapable of helping himself, pulled him from 
his seat, and dragged him to the other side of the stream.

"Botheration, what's the matter?" cried the attorney, who seemed to 
recover his senses a little, upon finding himself on his feet; 
"where's Durgan? Sure, o' my life, I did'nt come here on foot! Odds 
bodikins! where's Schlachtenschlager?--Hillo, there! botheration, you 
sir! what are you doing with my horse?"

"_Your_ horse!" exclaimed the traveller. "Are you drunk yet?"

"Drunk! I defy the insinuation," cried Affidavy, "and demand 
protection of the court.--Down, you rogue, or I'll indict you for 
horse-thieving. A pretty prank to play upon an honest man, riding for 
life and death! Botheration, Sir Sauce-box, whoever you are, give me 
my horse, or I shall lose the best case was ever entrusted to a 
lawyer--a gold watch worth forty pounds--bills of exchange--letters 
of credit--and a purse of guineas!"

"Now were you not drunk," said the traveller, "and more of a beast 
than the animal that bore you, I could tell you of a case much more 
to your interest to be engaged in."

"Hah! a case? what sort of a case? Odds bodikins, I'm your man!"

"You are drunken Tef Affidavy?"

"Drunken! That's actionable. Tef! _Tef_ Affidavy! Theophilus 
Affidavy, Esq.--_Esquire_, do you hear?"

"Ay, it is all one. Theophilus Affidavy, sober, might be the man for 
my money, with twenty guineas to begin upon; but Theophilus Affidavy, 
drunk"--

"Twenty guineas!" cried the lawyer: "God bless all our souls! twenty 
guineas for a retaining fee! Why then I'll be Theophilus Affidavy, 
sober, or Tef Affidavy, drunk, or any thing else that can be wished 
of man or angel. Out with your money, and state the case."

"Ay,--when you are sober."

"Sober! Twenty guineas would fetch me to, if I had been swimming in 
Schlachtenschlager's whiskey-barrel for two weeks on a stretch. 
Botheration, I'll take another dip in the slough there, and come out 
as clean as a peeled orange. But are you sure that a'n't my horse?"

"Quite; and if your beast belongs to the Squire, you may make your 
mind easy that he is now safe in his master's stables. I saw a 
saddled horse on the road, galloping as if a wild-cat was on the back 
of him."

"Good!" cried the attorney at law; "if I had drowned him, there would 
have been the devil to pay with old Schlachtenschlager. Hold fast, 
till I duck the devil out of me." And without waiting to say another 
word, he ran into the brook, where he began to splash about him with 
great spirit, the stranger, all the time, sitting by and observing 
him in silence.

There is, in all cases of drunkenness, a certain degree of voluntary 
intoxication, as it may be called, in which the mind yields itself a 
prisoner, before it is entirely overcome by the strength of the 
enemy. This is evinced by the rapidity with which many good souls, in 
jovial company, work themselves into frenzy; but still more by the 
facility with which they shake it off, when there is any special call 
for sobriety. In half the instances, even where the conduct is most 
extravagant, the individual retains a consciousness, more or less 
perfect, of his absurd acts, is aware that they proceed from a 
madness partly simulated, and sensible of some power in himself of 
controlling them, though not easily disposed to the labour of 
exercising it. We will not pretend to say that Mr. Affidavy, while he 
sat bestraddling the sycamore, was altogether conscious of his 
situation; but it is quite certain, he retained so much power of 
curing his folly, even in that extremity, that a less counter 
stimulus than the offer of a twenty-guinea fee would have sufficed to 
bring him to his senses. He frisked about in the water for a few 
minutes, dipped his head under two or three times, and came out, not 
entirely sober indeed, but, as he said himself, 'as fit for business 
as he ever was.'

"If you doubt, stranger, whoever you are," he said, "I'll sing you a 
song, or--No, hang it, we've had enough of _that_,--I'll make you a 
speech to court and jury extempore, and right to the point. But come 
now, jingle your money, and let's begin: or, if it's all one to you, 
we'll jog back to Schlachtenschlager's and borrow a dry shirt, and so 
give counsel like a gentleman."

To this proposal the traveller demurred, and requesting the lawyer to 
follow him, rode up to the brow of the hill, where he dismounted, and 
suffered his horse to range at will through the bushes, he himself 
taking a seat on a stone, and inviting Affidavy to do the same.

"A botheration strange fancy this, of yours, certainly," said the 
lawyer: "are we to sit here, like two stray ducks, and be soaked for 
nothing?"

"Look over your head," said the stranger: "there is not a cloud left 
in the heaven. No, not one," he muttered as if to himself; "and come 
weal or wo, come death or come life, the sun will shine to-morrow as 
bright as ever."

"Tush, you're right; the storm has given us the go-by," said the 
lawyer. "But concerning the case, and that twenty-guinea 
fee----What's your name?"

"Guineas," said the other, rattling a purse apparently well filled 
with his namesakes, upon the stone.

"Excellent!" said the lawyer; "but that won't do for a jury. Come, 
sir, your cognomination, compellation, and so forth? your _proprium 
vocamen_, style and title,--Tom, Dick, or Harry, as the case may be? 
and then for _the_ case! _Quisnam homo est? unde et quo?_ No man is 
drunk who can quote Latin, for it is cursed hard stuff to remember. 
In the king's lingo, who are you? and what's the case in question?"

"Who I am, we will pass," said the traveller, "that having nothing to 
do with the case. As for the case itself, I am told, it is one of 
murder."

"The devil it is!" cried Affidavy. "Why here's hanging work 
thickening in the county! But what are the circumstances? Who's 
killed? and who is the killer?"

"The first was a young man, named Henry Falconer,--the second another 
young man, called Hyland Gilbert"----

"Hah! why, that's _my_ case, that I've been labouring after all 
night! and I assure you----But God bless our two souls!" he added 
suddenly, springing to his feet as if in alarm, "who are _you_ sir? 
An honest man, sir? I hope, an honest man, sir, and no bloody-minded 
Hawk, sir! for if you are, sir, I give you warning, sir, if you make 
an attack upon me, sir, that I carry pistols, sir, and, sir"----

"Peace, fool," said the other, with a stern voice. "Sit down, and 
fear nothing. If you had twenty pistols, what care I for them?--I," 
he added, with a laugh both jocose and bitter, "that am armed with 
twenty--guineas?"

"Right, sir; but if you are a tory, sir--I don't mean to insult you, 
sir,--but as to aiding and abetting a gentleman of the tory party, 
sir: why, sir, I am a man of principle, sir, and I must have time to 
reflect."

"Go to the brook and wallow again: you shall have five minutes to 
reflect, or rather to sober, for you are not yet in your senses. Why, 
fool, do you think I will hurt you? or hark! is there a tory bullet 
in the clink of an English guinea? Come, sit down, and listen. You 
have nothing to do with tories, save to take their money.--There is 
one lying in prison in yonder village below, who needs the help of a 
lawyer. Yourself then, Affidavy, or another."

"Oh, if there be no treason in the matter," said the attorney, "why 
then----that is, if you will take that cursed tomahawk away, for I 
dare say you've got one about you, Mr.----that is to say, 
captain----Zounds, Mr. Oran Gilbert! I know you very well; and I hope 
you won't murder me, or do me any mischief, if it were even for old 
times' sake; for we were very good friends in old times."

"Ay," said the refugee; "and for that reason, I have offered you 
twenty guineas, and employment on a business that may bring you as 
many--perhaps five times as many more, which any one else will be as 
happy to accept."

"Botheration, there is no occasion," said Affidavy, creeping 
timorously back. "I see what it is; I'm not afraid of you, but you 
have a cursed bad name. I don't agree with you in principles, that 
is, in politics; but it sha'nt be said, I refused my professional 
services to an old friend in distress"----

"With twenty guineas in his hand," said the tory.

"Ay; and with as many, or five times as many at the back of them"----

"In case of success."

"Oh, yes, certainly. I understand the case now: your brother, 
captain"----

"We will drop all titles,--brother, captain, and every one else," 
said the tory. "The young man, Hyland Gilbert, is a prisoner."

"Ay; and"----

"Was he hurt?"

"A bruise or so."

"And he shot Henry Falconer?"

"As dead as a herring: I sat on the body myself."

"And he will be tried for that, as for a murder?"

"Ay, faith, and hanged too, unless"----

"Unless _what_?"

"Unless we can prove him innocent, or establish a legal 
irresponsibility."

"Or snatch him out of his den, some such bright midnight as this?"

"Tush," said the lawyer, waxing in courage, "I have nothing to do 
with that. But cheer up. There's a way of managing these cases, and I 
have thought of it already. But concerning that bill of exchange and 
letter of credit? They say, the younker has money enough--a rich 
estate in the Islands?"

"Fear not for your reward," said Oran Gilbert. "Do what's expected of 
you, and you shall have gold enough to content you."

"Here then is the state of the case," said Affidavy: "if the young 
man be tried in this county, were it but for killing a farmer's dog, 
he will die. The name--saving your presence--the name of Gilbert will 
be hanging matter with any jury. But I'll be short--he bears the 
king's commission, does he not? the commission of a lieutenant among 
the royal refugees?"

"And what then?"? said Oran.

"Why then, he must dispute the jurisdiction of the civil tribunal, 
and claim to be considered a prisoner of war. The attack upon the 
Folly is somewhat of a civil offence, to be sure; but he was taken, 
as we may say, in battle; and, in battle, he killed the man for whose 
murder he will be certainly arraigned, if proceedings are not quashed 
in the beginning. As a commissioned officer of the crown, 
however"----

"And what if he be _not_ a commissioned officer," said the refugee, 
with a low voice.

"Why then," replied Affidavy, "I have to say, gentlemen of the 
jury----Pshaw! that is,--hemp seed and a white shirt--you understand 
me? But with the commission--we will produce that, and then"----

"You shall have it," said the refugee; but added,--"It will do no 
good. A court civil or a court martial,--how should a Gilbert look 
for mercy from either? What turn would the king's commission serve 
_me_, if a prisoner? Look you, Affidavy, there are better ways of 
ending the matter. An hundred guineas are clinking in the bag these 
came from: it is but the opening of a jail-door to earn it."

"Ay! are you there, Truepenny?--Sir, I'm a lawyer and a gentleman; 
and as to aiding and abetting in any jail-breaking--zounds, sir! for 
what do you take me?"

"For a wiser man than you would have your neighbours believe,--for a 
man _too_ wise to boggle long at a choice betwixt a hundred guineas 
held in comfort at home, and empty pockets, with hands and heels tied 
together, in a cave of the mountains."

"God bless our two souls," said Affidavy, "what do you mean?"

"To have your help, or take good care no one else has it," said Oran, 
laughing. Then, laying his hand upon the lawyer's arm, he added, with 
the same untimely accompaniment to accents full of sternness, "Look 
ye, Affidavy, you have heard too much for your own comfort, unless 
you are ready to hear all. You are a friend, or--a prisoner."

At these words, the lawyer was filled with dismay, and indeed struck 
dumb. The terror that beset him, when he first conceived with whom he 
was confronted on the dark and lonely hill, recurred with double 
violence; he thought of nothing less than being tomahawked and 
scalped on the spot, and would have taken to his heels without 
further ceremony, had his strength availed him to shake off the grasp 
of his companion.

"Fear naught," said Oran, detaining him on his seat, and speaking 
decisively: "We were old friends once, as you say, Affidavy: I 
remember, you robbed Elsie Bell's strawberry-patch, when you were a 
boy, and I thumped you for it. So, fear nothing.--Why, man, am I a 
snake, or a beast, that I should hurt such a creature as _you_? Know 
me better."

"Well, I will," said the attorney, still trembling. "But, 
botheration, sir, this is a strange way of stating a case to a 
lawyer! As to opening jail-doors, Mr. Oran Gilbert, why I won't 
oppose: if you were to bribe Bob Lingo, the jailer, why, I say, I'm 
mum. But what more can you expect? Botheration, sir, I'm no turnkey! 
I'll be mum, sir; but as to joining you in any such prank, God bless 
our two souls, why that would ruin me! And why should you think of 
such a thing? 'Tis needless, sir,--as needless as dangerous. The 
king's commission is our pillar of safety: with that in his hand, the 
prisoner can demand, ay, and force his claim to be admitted, to be 
treated as a prisoner of war; and then, sir, if the matter comes to a 
court-martial"----

"When it comes to that," said Oran, "what is to save him from being 
tried and condemned as a spy?"

"What?" said the lawyer; "why a very simple thing. We will hire some 
one to swear he did not receive the commission until after his flight 
from Hawk-Hollow: and as for the change of name, intentions, and all 
that, why we shall have time to coin any lies that may serve our 
purpose. As to treason, we escape all arraignment there, his domicile 
being clearly within a foreign jurisdiction."

"In a word," said Oran Gilbert, "and to end your scheme at once, he 
is _not_ a commissioned officer. Fool that he was," continued the 
brother, bitterly, "he refused, and to the last, the warrant that 
would have been his best friend."

"Whew!" said Affidavy, "this alters the case with a vengeance. 
Refused the commission?"

"Ay; and it is now in my own hands."

"Oho, is it? Why then, all's one. We'll clap it into his hands,--fill 
up the blanks, if it needs, produce it in court, and who is the 
wiser?

"You can, at least, try him with it," said the refugee; "but I know 
what it will end in. You will see him refuse it, even in prison."

"Why then," said Affidavy,--"Hum, ha--we won't be particular. 
Jail-doors _will_ open sometimes; and in case of an hundred guineas 
down on the nail--(a dangerous business, captain!)--and something 
more in prospect--(you understand, captain?)--Reputation, captain, 
reputation! 'T may bring me by the heels, captain.--Another hundred 
therefore, (say, to be paid at New York; for I don't care if I turn 
tory along with you, provided I am not set to fighting:) an hundred 
on the nail, and another at York city, and I don't care if I close 
with you. And then, we must have fifty or so for Bob Lingo; (no 
managing such an affair without money.) A deused dull county this, 
and business all worn out. So, captain, an hundred on the nail, 
and"----

"It is enough," said the refugee; "you talk now like a man of sense; 
and here are the twenty for earnest. Let us proceed; I have more to 
tell you."

Then rising, and whistling to his horse, which obeyed the summons, 
and followed him with great docility, he led the way with Affidavy 
along the road, exchanging counsels with this precious limb of the 
law, on the subject that had drawn him so near to the head quarters 
of his foes.




CHAPTER XIV.

  What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies,
  Whom thou, in terms so bloody, and so dear,
  Hast made thine enemies?----
  Therefore, by law thou art condemn'd to die.
                                       SHAKSPEARE.


On the following morning, Affidavy presented himself at the prison, 
and demanded access to his client.

"Client!" said the jailer, with a stare. "Why now, Affidavy, man, 
(begging your pardon for being familiar,) there's none of your birds 
roosting in my hen-house."

"A smaller on that, Lingo,--come, what will you lay?" said the man of 
law, seizing upon the official's hand, and shaking it with great 
apparent friendship. "Come, stir about, Lingo; clink, clink, stir 
bolt, clash key, and open. It's long since we've had a crack 
together; but we'll have a jolly rouse yet. Ah! that knotty old 
Schlachtenschlager! my head is in a reel yet; must have something to 
steady my nerves."

"Well, squire," said Lingo, a coarse-featured, shag-headed personage, 
with a fist like the butt of an oak-tree, and altogether a low and 
mean look which might have been supposed to sink him below the notice 
of the attorney, had not Affidavy's habits made him long since a 
fitting associate for even a meaner man; "Well, squire," he said, 
with an air as if even he regarded his visiter with some little 
contempt, "I don't care if I treat you to a drop; though my whiskey's 
none of the smoothest, neither."

"Curse your whiskey!" said the man of law, pulling a guinea from his 
pocket. "Do you see this yellow boy, my lad of knuckles? Botheration 
upon you, I came here to spend the day with you, and I intend to 
treat you royally. So, call your boy, Hanschen, and let him fetch me 
a quart of cognac from old Brauntweinpunsch's, for he keeps the best 
in all Hillborough. And do you take care of the change for me, and 
help yourself, if you like, while I am holding counsel with the 
prisoner."

"Icod," said Lingo, balancing the coin in his hand, "I never stick at 
a good offer; but I should like to know where this little feller came 
from. Howsomever, 'tis none of my business; and so Hans shall go. 
But, who's your client, squire? I'm glad you've got a job, for you're 
a devil of a feller at a speech,--I always said that for you. Which 
prisoner do you wish to see?"

"Why, the young Hawk of the Hollow, to be sure."

"Odds bobs, squire," said Lingo, scratching his head, "you're too 
late for that cock-robin, I'm thinking."

"Too late! He ha'n't broke jail already!" tried the alarmed attorney.

"Broke jail _already_!" echoed Lingo, with a grin. "I dunna what you 
mean by that; but if he breaks jail at any time, while I'm king of 
the ring, you may call me Jack Robinson. No, the matter's not so bad 
as that: but he sent yesterday for young Pepperel"----

"God bless our two souls!" ejaculated the lawyer.

"And they say," continued Lingo, "he is to have old Timberkin 
likewise; for, it seems, the younker has money."

"What! old Long-tongue Timberkin? Zounds, we'll have the whole 
crow's-nest at the picking! Oons, man, let me in to him."

"Well, I dunna," muttered Lingo, leading the way, however, to the 
prisoner's cell; "I reckon, 'twere as well to save his money for 
something else; for it's a clear case with him, eh, squire?" And as 
he spoke, he made a gesture with his finger around his throat, the 
meaning of which was not to be mistaken. "Howsomever, here you are. 
When you're done with him, just knock at the door, and I'll let you 
out."

The next moment, Affidavy found himself alone with the prisoner. He 
sat, apparently half stupified, on a low bed, beneath a grated 
window, from which a silvery light fell upon the crown of his head, 
his shoulders, his knees, and his hands that were clasped upon them, 
while his visage, and nearly all his person, were lost in dusky 
shadow. A little table with food and water was at his side, but both 
were left apparently untouched. His limbs were unfettered; and this 
circumstance Affidavy might have referred to the humanity of the 
jailer, had he not perceived at a glance how unnecessary was such a 
precaution with one whose bodily powers were as much enfeebled as 
those of his spirit. Indeed, there was a look of such utter 
wretchedness about the unfortunate youth as might have softened a 
harder heart than the jailer's; and even Affidavy began to survey him 
with a touch of pity. He raised his eyes, when the door was opened, 
but cast them again on the floor; for indeed there was so little in 
Affidavy's appearance to excite attention, that he supposed him to be 
some assistant of the jailer, or perhaps a common officer, come on 
some errand of duty, with which he would be soon made acquainted. 
This suspicion was dispelled by the attorney; who no sooner heard the 
bolt shoot back into the stone door-post, than he advanced, declaring 
his name and character.

"Affidavy?" muttered the youth, with a dejected voice: "I thought it 
was Mr. Timberkin, that Mr. Pepperel was to bring me."

"Pshaw, botheration," said the lawyer, "you were a goose to send for 
such ninnies; we can do better without them. And what can these 
fellows do for you? Where will you find them riding about of a stormy 
night, picking up evidence, laying plans, and so on? However, we can 
find them something to do: I'll sort them; I know what they are 
fitted for. You stare at me--Very well; I understand what you mean. I 
come from your friends, sir, and"--

"From my friends?" cried Hyland, starting up, wildly: "from whom? I 
have no friends here--none, at least, but _one_; and, oh God of 
heaven! they tell me I have killed her too!"

"Oh, you mean old Elsie," said the attorney: "hang her, (that is, 
poor old soul!) she's not dead yet."

"But Catherine?--Miss Loring?--Captain Loring's daughter?" cried the 
youth, with a voice and countenance of despair; "what news of her?"

"Aha! I understand," muttered Affidavy. "But don't be alarmed; 
there's no death there.--A little fright and grief, sir,--that's all; 
they never kill one." Hyland clasped his hands, and buried his face 
between them; and the lawyer continued,--

"Quite a small matter, I assure you, and will blow by, when we get 
you safely off."

"Get me off!" cried Hyland, again starting to his feet, in the 
greatest agitation. "Is there any hope of that? No, there is none!" 
he exclaimed, vehemently: "I am a blood-stained man, I have taken 
life, I am a murderer"--

"Tush and botheration, hush!" said Affidavy, clapping his hand over 
the prisoner's mouth; "why need you be blabbing? That was confession 
enough to end the matter, without plea or witness: 'tis just a charge 
to the jury, a verdict in the box, and then a long face and the 
hangman."

"Misery! misery!" cried the unhappy youth: "and to this I have 
brought myself! the death, the ignominy, of a felon! I know it, I see 
it very clearly," he added with indescribable emotion, "I see how it 
must end--good God, upon the gallows! But it shall not be; I will die 
first--thank heaven, I am dying already! Put but the trial off--they 
say the court opens this day!--put it off but a week; you shall have 
an hundred guineas, five hundred, a thousand, all that I have!--only 
put off the trial a week, that I may die before they drag me into the 
light again! I deserve to die, I am willing to die, but not, oh 
heaven! not upon a gibbet!"

"Zounds!" cried Affidavy, who strove in vain to interrupt this burst 
of frenzied feelings, "you are taking the best way to reach a gibbet, 
notwithstanding. You are mad, I believe; botheration, sir, if you 
talk this way, there will be no saving you"--

"Saving me! Can I be saved? that is, not from death, but from 
ignominious death? Hark you, sir,--they have taken away my money, but 
I have enough more. Get me a knife, a pistol, a rope, a dose of 
poison"----

"Tush; if you do not cease this mad raving, and let me speak, I will 
be gone; you are making the case desperate. Be silent, and listen. 
Your case is bad, sir, very bad, I must confess, sir. But you have 
friends, sir; and you may hope; yes, you may hope--if you are wise, 
sir, you may hope.--You have----Now don't start, or cry out, or I'll
leave you--Ehem, sir, I must whisper--you have relations,--a brother, 
sir"--

"Oran!" cried the prisoner, who would have again started up, had he 
not been held in his seat by Affidavy: "oh, heaven be thanked! he has 
not deserted me! Have you seen him? where is he? what can he do for 
me? will he rescue me?"

"Tush, you must be quiet. If you will speak, let it be in a whisper. 
As for the trial, why we will stop that if we can. A British officer, 
with a king's commission in his hand, taken in arms, cannot be 
shuffled into a cart by a civil tribunal, for following his vocation, 
and slitting a throat or two. Now, Mr. Lieutenant Gilbert, you 
understand me? You have a commission."

"No, by heaven! I refused it: I am no officer, and this will not 
avail me. I am no officer, I was none; nor was I so much even as a 
volunteer. I refused the commission up to the last moment, and this 
is the end of it: I would not be the enemy of what was my native 
country,--of my countrymen; and now they are all enemies of mine! I 
was not a member of the band; I never acted with it,--never save that 
fatal once, and then I went not to make war,--no, not even upon the 
poor wretch I killed--Would to God the pistol had been turned against 
my own breast!"

"Tush," said Affidavy, interrupting what bade fair to end in another 
violent paroxysm, "that's wide of the question. The band looked upon 
you as officer; and unless that fellow, Sterling"--

"The villain! it is he has ruined me!"

"Unless he can swear to the contrary, which he can't, (and, 
botheration, there's a way of stopping his mouth altogether;) who 
will be the wiser? Now if we could get Dancy Parkins admitted, along 
with Sterling, as evidence for the commonwealth--However, we can't; 
and we'll say no more about it: the prosecuting attorney swears he'll 
hang him. His mouth is, at all events, sealed. We are safe enough. 
Here is the commission: Now, sir, you will put a bold face on the 
matter, insist upon your privilege, and"----

"Perjure myself with a lie? avow myself the enemy of my native land? 
and so die worse and more degraded than I am? Never! Duplicity has 
made me what I am; a deception that I thought innocent and harmless, 
has brought me to this pass. Had I come without concealment, then I 
had left without disgrace, without crime. Oh fool, fool that I was! 
Talk of this no more: it was on this ground Mr. Pepperel thought of 
defending me; but on this ground I will not be defended."

"Oho! and young ninny has been before me there, too?" muttered the 
lawyer. "Well, botheration," he continued, falling into a deep study, 
in which he held counsel only with himself,--"there is but the one 
shift in which the rascals won't join me,--but one path in which I 
can walk this goose-head off alone. Well now, all depends upon Lingo: 
the rogue has a head as thick as a mountain, and a considerable deal 
harder. 'Twere a shame to waste gold upon such a clod-headed pig. 
Give him fifty guineas! God bless our two souls! it were a mere 
casting of pearls before swine, and, in some sort, a robbing of my 
own pockets. A shilling's worth of laudanum were a better fee, 
besides being cheaper. But we'll see."

Having concluded his meditations, he turned to the prisoner, who sat 
surveying him with an anxious countenance, as if expecting some 
better comfort from his thoughts, and then said,--

"Well, botheration, we'll have to think of another thing. It is well 
you are not fettered."----

The young man writhed as if struck with a lash; but before he could 
speak, Affidavy continued, though with an emphatic gesture for 
silence,--"For that saves us all the vexation and danger of sawing. 
You see this little instrument?" he said, displaying a file. "Now, be 
quiet on your life, sir. You will understand from this, that there is 
something in the wind boding you good. You are sick and wasted--you 
were hurt in the scuffle, too; but put you beyond these stone walls, 
with a saddled horse under you, could you ride him?--Why, 
botheration, what makes you tremble so?"

"Oh heaven!" cried Hyland, "do not mock me! Nay, I will whisper. Give 
me the file: I will cut the grating through."

"It does not need," said Affidavy, "and I have no notion of running 
any risk by leaving it in your hands. But you must understand, sir, 
(hold your ear close,) that this is a very ugly piece of business, 
especially for _me_: if discovered, sir, I am a ruined man; the 
penalty, sir, is the very next thing to hanging; ay, sir, and in my 
estimation, somewhat worse; but that's according as we think of it. 
Now, sir"----

"I understand you," muttered Hyland. "You shall name your own 
reward--half of my estate, if you will; nay, all--_all_, so you get 
me but to the woods, where I can die in peace, and undishonoured!"

"Tush, we'll not think of death: you'll live and be happy. Then as 
for reward, why, sir, I would not have you think me extortionate, or 
capable of taking advantage of your distress. No, sir, by no means; I 
am a lawyer, sir, but an honest man."

"For God's sake, take what you will. Say nothing more; you shall have 
your wish."

"Oh, sir," said Affidavy, "there is no hurry. As for taking all your 
estate, or even half of it, sir,--sir, do not believe I will think of 
that! No, sir; I am neither a buzzard nor a niggur's dog. But I must 
be indemnified for losses: I ruin myself, sir,--I must sacrifice an 
excellent practice, sir,--my reputation, sir, and my prospects. In a 
word, sir, I must e'en take to my heels along with you; for after 
such a prank as a jail-breaking, the county will be too hot to hold 
me. Sir, I remember your father: he was a wronged man, sir; and my 
feelings will not suffer me to see his youngest son too severely 
handled. I once knew your brothers, sir, and I always thought they 
were badly treated. Sir, I feel much grieved to see poor old Mr. 
Gilbert's son brought to such a pass. Sir, my regard for your 
deceased parent makes me do what I do; and, (not to whip the devil 
round the stump any longer, sir,) I must confess, sir, that what I do 
is a very scoundrelly piece of business, sir; which if any body had 
proposed to me in behalf of any other person in the world, I should 
certainly, sir, have knocked the proposer over the mazzard,--I would, 
sir, botheration."

"What needs more words?" said Hyland, too much agitated to think of 
weighing the motives of his new ally in the balance of conscience or 
interest. "Make your demand, and have it."

"Ah! sir," said Affidavy, with a snuffle through the nose, "it is a 
sorrowful thing to be driven from home and friends, to wander an 
exile over the earth! There's my poor Mrs. Affidavy,--the thing will 
break her heart. However," he added, for the prisoner began to wax 
frantic with impatience, "I don't believe in breaking hearts, after 
all,--especially Mrs. Affidavy's. Sir, you are a rich man, and a 
young man, and a man without family or cares. I will not sell my 
humanity, sir; no, botheration, I'm above that; but I will accept of 
your superfluity what will indemnify me for the losses I endure in 
your service. Your case is very bad, sir; and indeed, if you were 
even a commissioned officer, it could not be much better. The 
indictment is already framed, and will this day, or at furthest 
to-morrow, be returned a true bill by the grand jury. You are a rich 
man, sir--had I pleaded your cause and saved your life, I should have 
expected a fee of five hundred guineas, (a small sum for a rich man's 
life;) and there's old Long-tongue and Pepperel would have demanded 
as much more, each. But, sir, I'll save you five hundred guineas; and 
leave these fellows to whistle. We'll say a thousand guineas, then, 
and"----

"All, I tell you, all, all!" cried the unhappy prisoner. "Take any 
thing, take every thing"----

"God forbid!" cried Affidavy, devoutly; "I will not prey upon you. If 
you, from your own generosity, should think of adding five hundred 
more to the fifteen hundred, why sir, I should thankfully receive 
them. But I leave that to yourself, sir. At present, sir, I shall be 
content with what I have named; and will take your note of hand for 
the amount. You see, sir," he added, drawing from a huge and well 
thumbed pocket-wallet, a slip of paper, which with an ink-horn, he 
immediately deposited on the table, "I have drawn this entirely in 
your favour, payment not to be demanded unless upon the successful 
completion of a certain service not mentioned, and then in such way 
as will suit your convenience. If I fail, sir, I am ruined, sir, and 
yet receive nothing. Allow me to fill the blanks, sir, and then, sir, 
you can sign. I will fill them first, sir, in order that you may see 
I take no advantage of you, sir. Two thousand guineas, sir, is a 
small sum, a very small sum, when one thinks of a gallows.--Sir, be 
not alarmed--your hand trembles, sir; but I trust to your honour to 
recognise the signature--yes, sir, I prefer your honour to twenty 
witnesses, sir. You shall escape, sir; or damn it, sir," added the 
harpy, in the enthusiasm of gratitude, "I will hang along with you!"

It was fortunate the worthy Affidavy had some bowels of compassion; 
for had he filled up the blanks of his villanous contract with an 
amount comprehending the whole worldly wealth of the poor prisoner, 
it would have been subscribed with equal alacrity. What was gold in 
the balance with life? what price could be held dear that procured a 
remission from ignominy? Hyland clutched at the pen as at the bolt of 
his prison-door; and, in the same frenzy, subscribed, in addition, an 
order committing his good roan horse to the disposition of his 
counsel, which Affidavy declared to be necessary, Hyland neither 
asked or sought to know how, to the success of the enterprise. This 
accomplished, and the papers safely deposited away in the wallet, the 
attorney wrung his client by the hand, and that somewhat wildly, 
giving him to understand that he was to hold himself in readiness 
that very night to escape, and recommending him to sleep a little 
during the day, the better to support the toil of flight. He charged 
him, twenty times over, to be silent and wary, to look as wo-begone 
and despairing as possible, and above all things to hold no 
conversation that could be avoided, with his other counsel. Then 
wringing his hand again, with the most convulsive sympathy, he 
knocked at the cell-door, was let out, and would have run into the 
open air without uttering a word, so big was his mind with the 
conception of his vast fee, had he not been arrested by the 
astonished jailer.

"Ods bobs!" said Lingo, "have you forgot the brandy, squire?"

"Botheration!" cried Affidavy, with a wild stare.

"Ods bobs!" re-echoed Lingo, "is the man mad? Why, Affidavy, what 
ails you? You look as white and wild as the prisoner!"

"Oh! ah! ay! the prisoner? yes, the prisoner," said the attorney, 
rubbing his nose and chin with great zeal, and recovering his wits. 
"Oh, ay, I remember: the prisoner, poor fellow! Ah, Lingo, Lingo! 
'tis a hard case, a sorrowful case, a heart-aching case. I declare, 
Lingo, I could sit down and blubber; I could, botheration, I could!" 
and here the sympathetic counsel, to Lingo's amazement, burst into a 
loud uproarious laugh, such as he had never been known to give vent 
to before.

"The devil's in the man, sure enough," said Lingo. "But I see, I 
see," he muttered, surveying Affidavy sagaciously, "he has been 
blowing it a little too hard, and now he's getting a touch of the 
_Horrors_. Well, well, brandy's the best cure for that; and he shall 
have a snap at his own medicine."

So saying, the jailer poured out a glass of cognac, the rich odour of 
which had no sooner reached Affidavy's nostrils than his spirits 
became composed, he stretched forth his hand, and the smacking of his 
lips proclaimed the fervour of his satisfaction.

"Old Brauntweinpunsch for ever!" he cried. "Ah, Lingo, you dog! you 
know what's what! Ehem, sir, botheration and tush! God bless our two 
souls, but I'm monstrous sleepy! Out all last night, Lingo, in the 
rain; was upset in the brook up at old Schlachtenschlager's, and half 
drowned, and hadn't a wink of sleep. I believe, I was dreaming all 
the time the poor fellow up there was telling his story. Must go home 
and nap a little--But no, I can't! Will finish the jug there, Lingo, 
before the day's out, ehem. Can give us a bed, here, Lingo, man, in 
case of necessity? What d'ye say? Rather full at Mrs. Affidavy's, and 
a wash-day, too. Oh, you dog, botheration, we'll have a rouse under 
lock and key to-night, won't we? Have something to tell you, and must 
be near the prisoner. But mum, boy, mum's the word! We'll have a 
rouse to the health of my client."

With that, the attorney made another long face, fell into a second 
roar of merriment, and went flying from the prison.




CHAPTER XV.

                             If this should fail,
  And that our drift look through our bad performance,
  'Twere better not essay'd: therefore this project
  Should have a back, or second, that might hold,
  If this should blast in proof.
                                                HAMLET.


It was night before Affidavy returned again to the prison; a 
circumstance that might be supposed to puzzle the brain of the jailer 
not a little, whenever he happened to cast his eyes upon the bottle 
provided at the lawyer's own expense, and considered the notorious 
degree of attraction existing between the material spirits of the 
one, and the immaterial spirit of the other. Before he had yet 
determined whether the phenomenon should be attributed to the 
disorder of mind he was first disposed to suspect on the part of 
Affidavy, or to some uncommon display of his zeal on the prisoner's 
behalf, Affidavy made his appearance, and notwithstanding the 
lateness of the hour, was immediately admitted,--not so much, 
however, as a man of law visiting his client, as an old friend and 
crony, whom Lingo introduced for his own private satisfaction. The 
attorney, nevertheless, after squeezing the jailer's hand, and giving 
way to a grin of extraordinary friendship, averred he must see his 
client, before indulging a moment in pleasure; and assuring Lingo, 
with uncommon spirit and generosity, that he designed treating him 
like a prince, bade him, out of the funds he had placed in his hands, 
lay in a store of all drinkables he could devise, with pipes and 
tobacco, and so forth, so that they might have a jolly time of it 
together. Then, after remaining half an hour with the prisoner, he 
returned to the jailer's private quarters, snapped his fingers, as if 
exulting at being delivered from toil and restraint, swore he was the 
busiest dog that ever slaved at a case, but would take his comfort 
and his ease, without troubling himself farther for the night, were 
all the gallows-dogs in the world calling on him for assistance. 
"Drink, Lingo, you rogue," said he; "give me a pipe, and snuff the 
candle; for I abhor taking the first whiff out of a greasy old 
cotton-wick. Drink, you big-fisted, honest old sly-boots; and I'll 
tell you all about the case."

"Well, squire, I'm for you," said Lingo, swallowing a draught that 
showed him to be serious; "but I reckon I know all about the case; 
and it's a clear hanging matter, as you must own."

"If I do, botheration on me!" said the lawyer. "There's two sides to 
every case; and all killing a'n't murder, nor manslaughter neither, 
for the matter of that."

"Well, it's well to keep a good heart--I always said you had good 
pluck, Affidavy, especially in desperate cases: but there was old 
Timberkin here this afternoon, who went off with a long face; and 
there was Pepperel, who as much as confessed there was no hope for 
the young one. And why should there be? For my part, I don't reckon 
it any great matter to have plumped a bullet into one of the Falconer 
kidney; but when it comes to a bloody refugee playing such outdacious 
tricks, why there, Affidavy, I stick; it's clear ag'in all principle; 
and there's ne'er a man of any jury you can pack in the county, but 
will say--_Hang!_"

"Tush, drink--here's to you. You've been gabbling with Pepperel and 
Timberkin--numskulls, Lingo--between you and me, numskulls. What do 
they know about the case? what have they been doing to study it? Here 
have they been all day laying their fool's pates together over it, 
like two owls at mid-day over a dead bull-frog, not knowing what to 
make of it. Drink, you rascal. Now had you but been at old 
Schlachtenschlager's last night! Ah!--However, that's neither here 
nor there. Now, I, my boy, botheration, I study my cases in another 
manner, and I have been studying this hard all day. But how? Ay, 
there's the question, tush. Riding about, hunting witnesses from post 
to pillar, serving _subpoenas_, and all that, and smelling out the 
intents of the prosecution."

"What witnesses do you want?" said Lingo: "it's a clear case, and the 
younker owns to it. I'm to swear myself, that he admitted the murder: 
he made no denial"----

"He's an ass," said Affidavy; "a fool and a madman, who would knock 
his head against a post, sooner than go round it, were his skull no 
thicker even than a pumpkin-shell."

"Oh, ay!" said Lingo, nodding over his glass, "I see what you're at: 
you'll make it out a _non cumpuss_ case? But that won't do, squire; I 
swear ag'in' you there: there's no mad in him; there's more in some 
of the witnesses. But I suppose you have been raking up for witnesses 
about old Elsie Bell's? The lad begged I would send for her; but, 
they say, she is in a dying way?"

"Bad enough, bad enough," said the lawyer: "and a good witness, too; 
but we can do without her."

"Well, I reckon you'll want all you have," said the jailer; "for 
they're strong for the commonwealth. There's Dancy Parkins, they've 
taken him for state's evidence, along with this here gallivanting 
fellow, Sterling, that came in for quarter, and a power of others 
beside. I dunna why they're so easy on Dancy; but they say, he's not 
deep in for't; and the prosecution's ag'in' hanging him. They say, 
Colonel Falconer has sworn he will have the youngster's blood, if it 
costs him the price of Hawk-Hollow twice over."

"Tush, what care we? The devil take Falconer, and the witnesses 
too,--as undoubtedly the devil will. As for your Sterling, I can 
smash his testimony as I would a rotten apple. Botheration, the man 
has a neck of his own."

"Oh, ay, in the matter of the spying?" said Lingo: "but they say, 
they will wink and let him off, if Colonel Falconer be so minded; and 
they say, too, he was promised protection by the soldiers, and a 
clear pardon, on condition he fetched 'em into all Oran Gilbert's 
hiding-places. I don't see, for my part, how a soldier can promise 
any such thing, seeing that a soldier is neither a judge nor a 
governor. And moresomover, there's the matter of the attempt to do 
murder on Colonel Falconer; for, I reckon, that can be proved on him; 
and how he is to get clear of that, if the Colonel pushes him, I 
don't know. Howsomever, his case is bad--the man has a bad 
conscience; though, perhaps, 'tis only a small touch of the 
horrors,--for he has been drinking hard ever since he has been in 
prison."

"Oh, the devil take him, base turncoat and betrayer," said Affidavy: 
"I hold honour among thieves to be as good a rule as honesty between 
friends. And between you and me, Lingo, he has served the Hawks a 
turn they will not forget. You know how they hanged that soldier, 
Parker? Well now, two pigs to a pound of butter, as the saying is, 
you'll hear of this fellow swinging in a swamp, some time before 
doomsday."

"Ay; when they get him," said Lingo, "and with all my heart. But, you 
see, there's no talk of proceeding against him; and when the trial's 
over, I reckon he'll show the county a clean pair of heels--that is, 
if he ever gets over his hurts; for, you must know, there's something 
of the staggers about him,--a sort of horrors, as I said,--but I 
don't know; and if you stay here long enough, you'll hear him squeal 
out in his sleep, like a choking dog. Ods bobs! he made a squeak last 
night, and I thought the devil had him: so I runs into his room, and 
there I sees him sitting on his bed-side, all of a shiver, and as 
white as a sheet, singing out, as if he was talking to old Nicodemus,

  'Shake not your jolly locks at me,'

or something of that natur', I dunna what, but it was about locks and 
bolts, and the lord knows what; but I fetched him a box on the ear; 
and that brought him to, and he fell to groaning. And now, Affidavy, 
here's to you; and I don't care if I do you a bit of a service, 
though I don't see what good can come of it. If it will do your cause 
any service, to knock this here testimony on the head, why a hint's 
as good as a long sermon, as the saying is. Just 'validate him on the 
p'int of his upper story, and call me and Hanschen to swear to his 
doings and sayings; for I reckon, he's a clearer _non cumpuss_ case 
than the prisoner. Howsomever, that can't do no good; for I'm clear 
in for swearing to the youngster's admitting he killed the deceased, 
which is quite a settler of the whole hash."

"Tush," said Affidavy, "let him swear, and swear his best. There is 
testimony enough to do the business, if we trust to that. The devil 
take the case; I won't bother my brains with it any further. However, 
Lingo, my boy, it was a queer thing of yours, that letting the 
prisoner go clear of gloves and garters. He might break jail,--eh, my 
boy!"

"As how?" said Lingo. "No, squire, you don't come over me there. I 
clapped the irons on him at first; but, you see, poor fellow, I saw 
he was sick, and just as weak and heavy-hearted as a pipped poult, 
and no more fear of dodging in him than an old horse: so I knocked 
the clinkers off, and let him have the swing of the room, poor 
fellow; and there he's safe enough. Moresomover, I never heard tell 
of his being much of a Hawk, only in blood and name; and I have a 
sort of pity on him."

"Ah, yes," said Affidavy, with a melancholy stare; "if you were to 
hear his story, Lingo, it would melt your heart; for you have a soft 
heart, Lingo, a merciful heart, Lingo; and it will go well with you, 
Lingo; for there's something said in the Bible about the merciful."

"Well," said Lingo, "I don't set up for much of that, nor for much 
religion neither; but I never beats a prisoner, except when he's 
contrary; and this here youngster seems much of a gentleman; and I 
have a notion, if he's well treated, he may leave me something; for 
he has a gold watch, (howsomever, the Sheriff's got it;) and, they 
say, he's well-to-do in the world.--But, squire, drink on; it's 
getting late."

"Let it," said Affidavy; "here am I fixed for the night; for how do I 
know but that you may be in trouble before morning, and may want a 
friend to help you?"

"Trouble! and help!" said Lingo, looking up with surprise. "If you 
mean that Sterling and his squeaking, why, ods bobs, it only needs a 
cuff or two to bring him about. Ods bobs, Affidavy," he added, with a 
grin, "if you stay, I reckon, it's _you_ may want a friend to help 
you. I don't say nothing; but he that's got a speech to make before 
court and jury to-morrow, should not be too free of the creatur' 
to-night."

Affidavy, who had not yet betrayed any strong symptoms of being 
affected by his good cheer, shook his head mysteriously, and then 
replied,

"There's no telling what might happen, Lingo. These refugees are 
devils incarnate, as far as daring goes. The whole regiment here is 
out in chase of them, and all the able-bodied men of the village in 
company; so that there's nothing left to keep guard over us but old 
women and young ones. Now, Lingo, we'll suppose a case--how many men, 
armed with muskets and axes, would it take to sack your stone jug 
here, smash open a door, and let out the prisoners?"

"Ods bobs!" said Lingo, "I don't know: but I reckon I could hold out, 
me and Hanschen, until we had assistance. But, howsomever, that's 
supposing a case that can't happen."

"Don't be too secure," said the attorney, with a solemn voice; "for 
there's no saying what may happen, when there's such a man as Oran 
Gilbert in the case. I reckon, an axe and a few crowbars, with an 
auger or two, might soon make way through the yard-gate; and then, 
the back-door would be but a mere joke; and then, Lingo, why 
surrender, or hard axe and soft head would be the end of it."

"Ods bobs!" said Lingo, "what puts such a notion as that into your 
head? There's ne'er a tory, now, within forty miles of us!"

"Ah, Lingo! This is a wicked world, with a good many crooked ways in 
it; and there's a deal of 'em lead to the jail-door. My own notion 
is, that Oran Gilbert is lying where no one would think of disturbing 
him. Now, Lingo, you and I are friends. You're an honest fellow, 
Lingo, but, botheration, you're mortal. And so, Lingo, I shouldn't 
trust you too far, if Oran Gilbert came to the wall-gate, about the 
time of cricket-cry, chucked you over a purse with a matter of ten
guineas or so in it, while you stood peeping at the key-hole."

"Oho!" said Lingo, staring at the attorney with that sort of 
perplexity which a stupid man betrays when endeavouring to fathom the 
point of a jest, which he is sensible ought to be laughed at; "Oho, 
squire, I see what you are after,--he, he, he!" he said, beginning to 
giggle, and lifting a glass as he laughed. "I'm a mortal man, sure 
enough, and might take a fee, as well as e'er a lawyer in the land. 
But ten guineas is a small sum, Affidavy; and as for opening a 
jail-door for such a small matter, why, Affidavy, that's only--he, 
he, he! And so you've been retained by the tories? he, he, he! Well, 
I was wondering where the yallow boy came from,--he, he, he!"

"Tush! retained by the tories? _I!_" said the man of law, somewhat 
disconcerted.

"Oh, squire, a joke for a joke's all fair; tit for tat, you know,--

           'Tit for tat,
            Butter for fat,
  Kick my dog, and I'll kill your cat,'

as the saying is;" and the worthy Lingo again burst into a peal of 
mirth, which allayed the sudden alarm of his companion. Affidavy 
looked him in the face, and became satisfied from the air of stupid 
glee which invested the jailer's features, that the liquor was 
suddenly beginning to fill his noddle; and in this conceit he was 
confirmed by Lingo adding, after another preliminary giggle,

"Well now, Affidavy, I'm an honest feller,--as you say, but I scorn 
being a fool. I know what's what; and I wish somebody would chuck me 
ten guineas over the wall-gate; I wouldn't ask him whether he was a 
tory or true American; for, you see, a guinea's a guinea, and clean 
stuff, no matter what pocket it comes from. But then, squire, as to 
opening the gate for such a small matter, he, he, he! why, I'm too 
honest for that. I'm a poor man, but, as I said, he, he, he! I scorn 
being a fool; and so, he, he, he! as you and me is friends, Affidavy, 
why, if the man was to chuck about fifty more to the back of 'em, 
why, he, he, he! I don't know what might become of my prisoners."

"Fifty guineas!" cried Affidavy, grinning in return, but with a sort 
of scorn; "that's putting your honesty at a higher price than your 
soul, for which, botheration, I would not give half the money."

"He, he!" said Lingo, slapping his boon companion on the knee, and 
nodding and winking in a manner meant to be exceedingly significant; 
"but come now, what'll they give? for I'll stand to reason."

"Give! _who_ give?" said Affidavy, affecting surprise. "Oh! the 
tories, you mean. Tush, how do I know? Perhaps you might get twelve 
or thirteen guineas out of them; and that's a good round sum."

"He, he, he!" said Lingo; "but what do you get yourself?"

"I!" said Affidavy, again alarmed. His trepidation was however driven 
to flight by another fit of laughter, in which Lingo's honest 
countenance indicated the most expressive innocence of all suspicion.

"Ods bobs!" said he, "I wouldn't sell a prisoner under fifty pounds; 
and if they'd talk to me about that, he, he, he!"--and here he could 
scarce proceed for laughing: "No, no; if you'll strike a bargain for 
me for fifty pounds, in hard money, why then, he, he! they may take 
my prisoners, and hang them, if they will. But it's all one; there's 
no such luck for poor Bob Lingo: honesty won't fetch any thing worth 
having now-a-days. Fifty guineas! a small sum: why one could get more 
for letting a tory _in_ jail. But, he, he, he! it's all one to Bob 
Lingo. I'm 'mazing sleepy, squire! But I know what'll keep me awake, 
he, he! I've got a barrel of wonderful fine cherry bounce; and, he, 
he! I'll go fetch a pitcher of it, and we'll make a night of it, I 
warrant me."

With these words, he left the apartment.

"Bravissimo!" said the attorney, as soon as he had departed; "I'll 
cheat the unconscionable rascal out of every penny. He's as drunk as 
a pig already."

He stole to the door, peeped out, and then, satisfied that Lingo was 
beyond observation, proceeded to pour into a glass, from a little 
vial he drew from his pocket, a goodly dose of laudanum, to which he 
forthwith added sugar and brandy, muttering to himself all the while, 
"Here's a dose for the dog will make him sleep like a wood-chuck at 
Christmas; but 'twont hurt him. Botheration, I'm sleepy myself, the 
lord knows: but two thousand guineas! Two thousand devils! I'm a made 
man, even if the young ass repents his bargain and makes me 'bate one 
half!--Give _him_ fifty guineas! pearls before swine! He'll sleep 
like a top; and as for Hanschen, why he's fast already----Devils!
what's that?--Oh, the drunken fool has tumbled over a chair, and 
smashed the pitcher!--Could hear the clink and clatter together. Am 
somewhat drunk myself; but a little does me good."

Having completed the soporific potion so kindly designed for Lingo, 
and not without producing some clattering of glasses, for he was far 
from being sober, he sat down and prepared a second glass as much 
like the first as possible, except that he took good care not to 
qualify it from the vial, which he restored to his pocket. He then 
began to hum, and kick his heels together, wondering what kept the 
jailer away so long. "The town is already fast asleep," he grumbled, 
"and my three jolly tories will be whistling at the gate like seven 
thousand katydids. Poor Mrs. Affidavy! how she will stare and scold 
in the morning! Odd rabbit her, she has a tongue might suit a judge 
on the bench; and, botheration, it will be a lucky day for me, when 
I'm well quit of her."

While he rejoiced over his prospect of deliverance, Lingo re-entered 
the apartment, bearing a huge pitcher, from which he contrived, at 
every step, to discharge, so wide and uncertain was his gait, no mean 
quantity of its purple contents. Indeed, if appearances were to be 
trusted, he was already so far gone in intoxication, that it needed 
but one glass more to stretch him on the floor; and Affidavy hailed 
his infirmity as the herald of success.

"Ods bobs!" said the jailer, staggering up to the table, and 
depositing his burthen with so little dexterity that half its 
contents went splashing over his friend, "here's stuff for you! But a 
jail's a bad place to keep liquor. Ods bobs, I broke my shin over a 
fetter-bolt, and, ods bobs, I broke my new blue pitcher; but, ods 
bobs, who cares for expense?"

"Botheration," said Affidavy, "here I've mixed you a brandy 
cock-tail, and you've spilled the bounce into it. However, I warrant, 
it's all the better."

"Ay, I warrant me, old Teff," said Lingo, giving him an affectionate 
hug round the neck, "and we'll drink it, my boy, like a lord and a 
true-hearted American. But, ods bobs, my boy, gi' me a chair; for, 
d'ye see, I sprained my leg, and it's weak under me."

"Oh, ay," said Affidavy, dragging the jailer's chair round to his own 
end of the table.--"But stop there, you fool, you've got _my_ glass!"

"Hic--cup--where's the difference? he, he!" said Lingo, yielding, 
however, the glass he had taken, and receiving that which Affidavy 
had so craftily prepared. "Here's to you, old Teff Affidavy!"

"Here's to you!" said the lawyer; and both raised the glasses to 
their lips. The attorney watched his victim with the eyes of a mouser 
intent upon her prey. He saw him swallow one mouthful, and then a 
second, and then--the jailer withdrew the vessel from his lips.

"Botheration!" murmured Affidavy to himself, "does the villain taste 
it?"

He was soon relieved from his fear. Lingo laid the glass on the 
table, and turning to Affidavy, burst into a fit of maudlin weeping, 
betraying, at the same time, a strong disposition to repeat the 
fraternal embrace. As Affidavy felt no inclination to balk this 
friendly intention, he laid down his own glass, and was instantly 
taken round the neck by the jailer, who exclaimed, in the most 
pathetic manner in the world,

"Ods bobs, old Teff, I don't know what will become of me!"

"Why, what's the matter?" said Affidavy.

"Why, ods bobs," blubbered the other, "one day, when I was a little 
boy, I licked my father; and there's no good can come of it."

"Tush, you ass," said the attorney, "you might have trounced your 
mother too, if you had been so minded. But, botheration on you, let 
me go, and drink your cock-tail."

"Well, I will," said Lingo; "but it's a murdering piece of business 
to whip one's father; and I've a notion to give myself up, and let 
'em hang me. But I can't hang without counsel, and I can't spare 
money to pay a fee. Now, old Teff, my boy, you're my friend, and if 
you'll make a speech for me for nothing----I always stuck up for your 
being the cutest lawyer in the county, and I'll lick any body that 
says No to it----now if you'll make me a speech, I reckon I may get 
off for nothing, with a clear 'quittal."

"Drink, you fool," said Affidavy; "I'll take the case, and charge you 
nothing."

"He, he!" said Lingo, snatching up his glass, "we'll go 'em, then, 
slick as a snake in a new skin. Here's to you, Teff, my old boy! and 
the devil eat his liver that don't drink smash down to the bottom! 
Hic--cup,--here's to you."

He swallowed his potation, and the attorney, without a moment's 
hesitation, drained his own at a single draught. But scarce had he 
withdrawn the glass from his lips, before he started up, exclaiming,

"God bless our two souls! what was in the glass? Ah, Lingo, you fool, 
'twas that cursed bounce you spilled in it! Vile trash, you dog, vile 
trash!"

"What! my bounce?" cried Lingo, indignantly; "as good bounce as was 
ever brewed, and, ods bobs, a good deal better. But now, you jolly 
old Teff, let's sing a song. Don't sit there staring at me, like a 
starved cat; but sing, you old rascal; let's sing 'Vain Britons.'"

"The oddest taste in the world," said Affidavy, in obvious 
bewilderment: "sure there must have been some mistake!"--And, in 
effect, there was; for at the very moment when the jailer was 
embracing his friend, and beseeching the favour of his counsel, he 
slid one hand behind him to the table, and there kept it until he had 
effected a mutual interchange of places between the two glasses; the 
consequence of which was, that when the fondling fit was over, and 
the vessels resumed, he himself got possession of the innocent 
draught, while Affidavy caught up and swallowed that designed for his 
companion. Had Lingo been in any condition but that in which he 
appeared, the attorney would have conceived the trick in a moment; 
but a look at the jailer's innocent visage was sufficient to banish 
all suspicion of foul play; and in consequence, he could only stare 
about him in wonder and perplexity, nodding his head up and down in a 
manner the most ludicrous in the world, while Lingo testified his 
indifference and patriotism together, by lanching out, in a 
quavering, drunken voice, upon a camp-song, said to be then highly 
popular among the continental soldiers.

  'Vain Britons! boast no longer, with insolence and glee,
   By land your conquering legions, your matchless strength by sea;
   For lo! at length Americans their sword have girded on,
   And sung the loud Huzza! huzza! for war and Washington!'

  'Sent forth by North for vengeance, your gallant champions came;
   With _tea_, with _treason_, and with _George_, their lips were all
         on flame:
   Yet, sacrilegious though it seem, we rebels still live on,
   And laugh to scorn your empty threats, and so does Washington.'

  'Still deaf to mild entreaties, still blind to England's good,
   Your knaves, for thirty pieces, betrayed your country's blood:
   Like Æsop's cur, you'll only gain a shadow for a bone,
   Yet find us dangerous shades, indeed, inspired by Washington.'

The third stanza of this patriotic roundelay (there are a dozen 
stanzas altogether,) was sung by Lingo with especial emphasis, 
particularly the second and third line, and might have conveyed to 
the attorney some inkling of the true state of the question between 
them, had not his senses been already overpowered. The strength of 
the draught, aided not a little by the vigilance of the succeeding 
night, was too much for Affidavy's brain; and before the stanza was 
concluded, he slipped from his chair to the floor, and there lay like 
a log.

The jailer concluded the song; then springing up, he burst into a 
hearty laugh, exclaiming, "Ods bobs, I've outlawyered the lawyer! and 
there he is, as fast as a poker. Now, you old fool," he added, 
without a vestige of intoxication remaining, (and indeed his 
drunkenness had been all assumed) "if there was too much stuff in the 
mixing, why e'en take the consequence, for it was all of your own 
brewing."

Then stooping down, he examined Affidavy's pockets. The first thing 
he laid hands on, was the vial of laudanum, which he smelt at with 
great glee; he then filched out a leathern purse, containing, 
according to his own verbal inventory, "sixteen guineas in gold, two 
Spanish dollars, a French crown-piece, and an English shilling--Oho 
old Teff!" The next thing discovered was the pocket-wallet, from 
which he drew to light the note of hand which the cormorant had 
caused the prisoner to sign in the morning. All these different items 
he deposited under lock and key, in a closet, from which he also drew 
a pair of horse-pistols, and an old horseman's sword, all of which he 
proceeded to buckle round his body.

While thus engaged, some one softly approached, tapped at the door, 
and being bidden to enter, disclosed the features of his assistant 
Hanschen.

"Done him up!" said Lingo, pointing to the prostrate figure; and then 
demanded, "All ready?"

"Yaw."

"How many?"

"Fy, dtare's Sturmhausen, Schnapps, and tree oders, mit guns and 
pistols."

"Ods bobs, then, we'll nab 'em; for they can't muster half so many. 
Have you chained the prisoner?"

"Yaw; and he turned pale, and fainted afay. Then I put polts on Tancy 
Parkins; and now I fill go fix the t'oder, Shterling."

"Never mind him; he's safe. Now, Hans, you must fight like a 
bull-dog, if there's any fighting at all. But not a word about the 
lawyer here. Here's a pistol: take a swig at the bounce, and we'll 
carry it down to the boys, to warm their hearts a little. If we catch 
that Oran, ods bobs, I don't know what the reward is, but it will be 
the making of us."

"Yaw," said Hans; and picking up the pitcher, he followed the jailer 
into the yard. Here they found five stout men, with whom the jailer 
conversed in whispers, and then, after all had drunk of the pitcher, 
he led them towards the gate, saying, as he bade them lie down on 
either side of it,--"Now mind ye, men; I hold to the lock, and here's 
my cue: If any enters, why I claps the gate to behind them, and then 
outs with the key; and then you're to jump up and on 'em, taking 'em 
alive, if you can. But mind ye, you're not to stir, till you hear me 
give the signal to fall on; and the signal is, _You're welcome, 
gentlemen_. Don't forget it. Now, 'taint sure they'll come; but if 
they do, ods bobs, we've got 'em!"

Having thus received their instructions, the whole party squatted 
down on the ground, and awaited the issue of their adventure in 
silence. The village jail was a small, though strong, building of 
stone, and the yard, therefore, on the rear, in which the prisoners 
were sometimes allowed to air themselves, was of no great extent. It 
was surrounded, however, by a high and strong wall, the gate to which 
was of heavy double planking, strengthened with bars of iron; and the 
lock was of weight sufficient to make any prisoner despair of forcing 
it.

It was perhaps midnight, when these silent guards,--seven in number, 
including the jailer and his assistant,--took their places. The night 
was perfectly clear, and so far unfavourable to the assailants, if 
assailants they really were; of which, it must be confessed, honest 
Lingo could not affect to be certain, his whole information amounting 
to no more than the few ambiguous phrases he had caught from 
Affidavy. But then this fellow, under a stupid countenance, concealed 
an astonishing fund of quickness and cunning, of which the attorney 
little dreamed; and long before Affidavy had opened his lips on the 
subject, Lingo had seen and noted enough to give edge to the native 
suspiciousness of his character. The appearance of Affidavy himself, 
claiming to be one of the prisoner's counsel, instantly set his wits 
to work; he marvelled who had retained him, since he knew he had not 
yet seen the prisoner. Then the appearance of the guinea, a rare coin 
in such hands, and devoted with such magnificent nonchalance to the 
purpose of doing honour to _him_, was not without its virtue in 
stirring his conjectures, especially when it came to be added to the 
invitation Affidavy so coolly gave himself to repeat his visit, and 
spend the night in the jail. He ascertained without trouble, that the 
attorney soon after leaving the prisoner, had ridden into the 
country, where he remained all day, without once seeking a conference 
with either of the prisoner's original counsellors; and one or two 
other little circumstances he discovered, which prepared him to 
understand, and make the most of what Affidavy afterwards divulged in 
the form of supposition.

All his discoveries, however, went no further than to induce a belief 
that some design for rescuing the young Gilbert was on foot; but 
where, and in what manner, the enterprise was to be attempted, he was 
left to infer as he could. He did not doubt, indeed, that the attempt 
was expected to be made with his connivance, and that Affidavy had 
been bought to bribe him into compliance; though the covetousness of 
this unworthy and degraded limb of the law had led him upon a device 
for dispensing with the jailer's services, and so clapping the 
additional reward into his own pocket. This circumstance convinced 
him the force of the conspirators could not be very great; and 
besides, he had good reason to suppose that not more than two or 
three could succeed, whatever might be their boldness, in making 
their way to the village, while the band was so closely beset at a 
distance. "At all events," he muttered to himself, as he sat by the 
gate, listening for the sound of footsteps, "if there should come 
even a dozen of them, and there's not so many left in the gang, I can 
let in just as many as will serve my turn, and then slap the door to 
on the rest.--Hist! It sounded like the tramp of a horse; yet 'twas 
only the splash of the river over the stones. Well now, if they 
shouldn't come, here's so much trouble for nothing, and the lord 
knows how much cherry-bounce. Silence there, you Hanschen! you're 
asleep. Ods bobs, men, don't scratch your heads so hard!"

He kept watch for perhaps the space of an hour, without hearing the 
stir of man or beast, or indeed any other sound besides the rush of 
the river, which rolls down a pebbly declivity hard by, and the 
chirping of numerous field-crickets on the trees of neighbouring 
gardens; when suddenly one of these insects, tired, as it seemed, of 
its dewy perch, which it had exchanged for the dry planks of the 
gate, or perhaps just waked up in the key-hole, began its nocturnal 
cry with a zeal and energy that instantly captivated the jailer's 
attention. It now struck his recollection that the attorney had, in 
some way or other, drawn these minstrels of the night into his 
suppositions; and he began to fancy the sound might be a signal made 
by the tories, though he could not imagine how the organs of a human 
being could be ever taught to imitate a cry so peculiar. He felt his 
own inability to answer it in the same tone; and not knowing how 
otherwise to bring the affair to a point, he replied by a goodly 
whistle, which his companions supposed to be the signal of the enemy, 
and therefore prepared to start up at a moment's warning. The whistle 
was instantly followed by a slight tap on the gate, and Lingo, waving 
his hand to his backers to be silent, boldly turned the key. Then 
slipping the bolt aside, he saw three human figures on the outside, 
ready to enter. "Two to one," he muttered to himself, opening the 
gate wide enough to admit one to pass at a time. One actually 
entered, and was moving aside, without speaking, to make way for the 
others, when Lingo's scheme was defeated by a sudden rattling of 
chains at the window of Hyland's cell, and by a voice crying out, 
"Beware! beware! you are betrayed!"--"Up and on 'em!" cried 
Lingo--"_Gentlemen, you are welcome!_" and as he spoke, he made a 
grasp at the first comer, which was answered so effectually, that he 
instantly found himself sprawling on his back, with such a blaze of 
lights dancing in his eyes, that he thought his whole brain had been 
converted into a ball of fire. The next instant, there was a loud cry 
of voices, and a roar of pistols, which, reverberating from wall to 
wall, filled the narrow yard with the most dreadful din; and Lingo 
started up just in time to behold a tall figure darting through the 
gate into the open air.

"Fire and furies!" he cried, rushing after the fugitive; "I'll pay 
you for that touch of the tomahawk, you bloody tory!" and the next 
moment coming up with his chase, he struck him a blow with his heavy 
sword, that brought him to the ground. Then pouncing upon him, and 
assisted by another who ran to his assistance, crying that 'all were 
taken,' he dragged the prisoner into the yard and secured the gate. 
"Lights, Hanschen!" he cried, "Yaw," said Hanschen; "but fat's the 
use? Here's one teadt, and anoder tying. And here's Sturmhausen has 
his headt proke; and here's me mit my finkers chopped off by the tamt 
_schelm_ rogues. But I have kilt vone, mine Gott be thank'd! and I 
fill hang the t'oders!"

Before Hanschen had wholly delivered himself of his private ills and 
triumphs, a loud huzza was set up by the others, upon hearing that 
all the three assailants were secured. Lights were instantly brought 
into the yard, and, sure enough, there lay three men on the ground, 
one of whom was stone dead, his head blown to atoms by Hanschen's 
pistol, a second writhing to all appearance in the agonies of death, 
and a third--but what were the surprise and mortification of the 
jailer, when in this third, the man he had cut down with his own 
hands, he beheld the visage of his prisoner, Sterling.

Upon this discovery being made, all was again confusion; the gate was 
a second time thrown open, but only that they might behold the whole 
village in commotion, the alarm having been given by the previous 
tumult. It was plain that the third individual, and he perhaps the 
most important of all, had made his escape. To add to the confusion 
of the scene, the wounded tory, upon hearing some of those who raised 
him pronounce the name of Sterling, suddenly snatched a pistol from 
one, and discharged it at this unlucky personage, with a bitter oath. 
It was struck from his hands, however, so that it did no hurt to any 
one.

The jailer, now in fear lest the other prisoners might have broken 
from their cells, ran to those occupied respectively by Hyland 
Gilbert and Dancy Parkins, both of whom he found in fetters, the 
former, in truth, secured by a bolt to the floor, so that, although 
he had some freedom of motion, he could not approach the window near 
enough to look out, and must therefore have been led to give the 
alarm to the rescuers by hearing the crash of the bolt in the gate. 
This was additional evidence of the guilt of Affidavy; but at that 
moment, the jailer did not trouble himself to think of that 
discomfited personage. He stared at the prisoner, heard his 
beseeching demand, 'Who had been taken? who had been hurt?' answered 
it by a profane oath, and then ran to Parkins's cell. He then stepped 
to that occupied by Sterling, and found that this individual, seduced 
perhaps by the sounds of wassailing below, had employed his time in 
removing with a knife a hinge from his door, by which means he had 
made his way into the yard, where he took advantage of the commotion 
so unexpectedly displayed, to make a bold dash for freedom. What had 
seduced this wretch, who was in no immediate peril of death, or even 
trial, and who had freely rendered himself into the hands of justice, 
to attempt his escape, Lingo could not imagine; and in truth he did 
not attempt to solve the mystery. He satisfied himself that he had 
given him a severe, perhaps a serious cut, betwixt the neck and 
shoulder, and then had him carried into his cell, not without some 
very hearty curses upon his enterprise, and its effects in robbing 
him of a more valuable prize. These were borne by the adventurer 
without any reply save ghastly looks; and indeed Mr. Sterling was a 
greatly altered man, presenting an appearance even more wo-begone and 
wretched than that of Hyland, the victim of his anger. As if to mark 
the jailer's indignation in the strongest way, the wounded refugee 
was deposited in the same chamber, as well as the body of his 
comrade.

Upon examining into the condition of the defenders, it was found that 
Hanschen had received a cut over the hand, which, as was discovered 
afterwards, had been inflicted not by a foe, but by one of his 
fellow-defenders; and this had deprived him of a finger, and perhaps 
of the service of two others. Another man had been hurt by a bullet 
in the leg, and a third had been stunned, like Lingo, by a stroke on 
the head. As for Lingo himself, he discovered, with some surprise, 
that the blow which prostrated him had left a wide and ugly gash on 
his crown, though not one from which he had cause to apprehend 
serious consequences. The only ill effect it produced was, to sour 
his temper to an uncommon degree; so that after peace was restored in 
his dominions, and his aiders and abettors all discharged for the 
night, he betook himself to the sleeping Affidavy, and bestowed some 
three or four such kicks upon his ribs, that it was a wonder he left 
a sound one in his body. But even these failed to rouse the stupified 
attorney; and at last, calling to Hanschen for assistance, he dragged 
him up into Sterling's cell, where he deposited him on the floor, 
betwixt the dead man and the dying.

"Now here are four bites for the devil together," he said; "and if 
they all die before morning, it's all one to Bob Lingo."

With these words, he descended to look after his wound, which was 
bleeding freely.




CHAPTER XVI.

    _Jaff_. Ha!
    _Pierre_.    Speak; is't fitting?
    _Jaff_.                           Fitting!
    _Pierre_.                                  Yes; is't fitting?
    _Jaff_. What's to be done?
    _Pierre_.                  I'd have thee undertake
  Something that's noble to preserve my memory
  From the disgrace that's ready to attaint it.
                                                     OTWAY.


The attorney's sleep was long and sound; and, by and by, 
notwithstanding the exciting nature of the midnight events, sleep 
visited the eyes of all others in the prison, even those of the 
hapless Hyland. The misery of his situation was complete. His hopes 
of escape, confirmed almost to certainty by Affidavy in his last 
visit, in which the whole plan was explained to him by this honest 
gentleman, threw him into a frenzy of joy; and it was with 
unspeakable agitation that he listened to the subdued murmurs below, 
which told him the first and most critical scene of the conspiracy 
had already begun. How the attempt of Affidavy upon the head of the 
jailer terminated has been already seen; how the scheme might have 
eventuated, had this rapacious wretch followed out the plan he had 
proposed to the others, which was to bribe the jailer into 
connivance, it is not so easy to say, Lingo being perhaps too much of 
a philosopher in his way, to refuse a good price for his honesty. But 
Affidavy, while he held the bone in his mouth, hungered exceedingly 
for the shadow, or, to speak more strictly, for that smaller morsel 
destined for the jaws of his friend; and, in consequence, adopted the 
foolish device of the 'hocussed' cup, in which he encountered so 
signal a failure. While Hyland sat in his cell, devoured by 
expectation, the door was opened, and the jailer's assistant entered, 
bearing a heavy set of fetters, which he forthwith proceeded to 
fasten upon his limbs. This was the first moment they were ever thus 
dishonoured; but the unhappy youth thought not of the disgrace; he 
saw at once that the scheme of flight was defeated, and that his 
hopes had been encouraged, only to be blasted. The agitation of his 
spirits threw him into a swoon; rousing from which, he gave himself 
up to despair, until his thoughts were diverted into a new channel by 
an unexpected commotion below, which was indeed caused by nothing 
less than the entrance into the prison of the five men whom Hanschen 
had secretly summoned to his assistance. He heard them pass into the 
yard, and inferred at once that the scheme for his escape was 
intended to be turned against his unsuspecting friends. For this 
reason, he gave the alarm, the instant he heard the gate swinging on 
its hinges, and would have done so sooner, had he been able to 
approach the window, so as to look out upon the proceedings of the 
jailer. Let his sufferings be imagined, when he heard the sudden din 
of pistols and voices, followed by execrations and groans, without 
knowing aught of the result of the rencounter, except that it had 
been fatal to his own hopes. He saw the jailer look into the 
apartment, his visage stained with blood, and then depart without 
satisfying his painful curiosity; and then followed a long period of 
silence, equally oppressive and distracting. Great as was his 
distress, however, it contributed in the end to stupify his mind; and 
towards morning, he fell into an uneasy slumber, to add the tortures 
of the ideal to those of the material world. From this he was aroused 
by a noise, as it seemed, at his window; and starting up, he 
distinctly heard a voice pronounce his name. It was but a whisper, 
and that fainter than the lowest chirping of the insects; but he 
recognized at once the tones of Oran; and, scarce repressing a cry of 
joy, he rushed towards the window. The chain was still upon his body, 
and its clash, with the rattling of the ring by which it was attached 
to the floor, told to Oran, as well as to his own spirit, how vain 
was the effort. The cell which he inhabited was in a corner of the 
building, and the wall of the yard was perhaps within six or seven 
feet of the window, which was more elevated, and therefore overlooked 
it. It was possible for a man, standing on the top of the wall, and 
of sufficient strength of body to support himself, lizard-like, while 
leaning towards the window, almost to reach it with his arms; and 
Hyland, who had noted these circumstances before, easily understood 
the situation of his visiter, which besides being extremely 
dangerous, was also exposed to observation.

"I cannot approach, Oran," he cried in the same whispering tones; "I 
am chained to the floor."

"Hold forth your hand," muttered the refugee, "and cast me the end of 
your neckcloth. You shall have files and aquafortis; and to-morrow 
night you shall be free. Cast out the neckcloth."

"I cannot," replied the prisoner, with a voice of despair; "I cannot 
reach the bars, even if I had files to cut them. What shall I do? Oh, 
brother, brother! why did you leave me? Speak, brother, for Heaven's 
sake, speak! Can you help me?"

The refugee remained silent, apparently struck dumb, either by the 
reproach of his brother, or by the discovery of his inability to help 
himself; and Hyland, imagining that his silence was owing to some 
sudden alarm, held his own peace, awaiting the event. In a short 
time, however, the refugee spoke again: the whisper was as low as 
before, but it was broken by some strong tumult of feeling.

"I can _not_ help you, Hyland," he said,--"unless, unless----But 
hold; I will fling a file through the bars, and you can saw yourself 
free. Throw your bed on the floor under the window, that it may make 
no noise. Are you ready?"

"I am," said Hyland; and the next instant he heard the steel 
instrument strike upon the bars of the grating, whence it fell 
ringing among the stones in the yard. A second was cast with better 
effect, and entering the window, fell upon the couch. But as if fate 
now designed to tantalize the unhappy youth into distraction, he no 
sooner sought to obtain it by dragging the bed towards him, than he 
heard it fall off upon the floor, where it remained beyond his reach, 
and must remain until discovered by the jailer. This mishap being 
communicated to Oran, drew from him an exclamation, in which Hyland 
was made aware of his hopeless situation:

"God help you!" he cried, "I can do no more."

"Yes, Oran, yes!" exclaimed the prisoner, "you can help me yet. Throw 
me a knife"----

"Hah!" said Oran, "and you will use it on the jailer? ay! as he bears 
you to the court house, in the morning! Strike him in the throat--I 
will be by, and, perhaps--Well, well, you will at least die like a 
man, not like a dog. Will you kill him?"

"No!" said the youth; "God pardon me the blood I have shed already: I 
will never more harm a human being--no, not even to save my wretched 
body from shame. Yet throw it to me, throw it to me!"

"And for what?" muttered Oran, in tones scarce audible.

"For what?" replied the prisoner. "Oh God, do you ask me, brother?"

"For your own bosom then? Ay, can we do no more? And the lawyers, 
then, can give you no hope, not even for money?"

"None, none: I am condemned already--The knife, the knife!"

"The dream's out!" said Oran, with what seemed a laugh. "When I was a 
little boy, and the rest were but babes about me, I dreamed, one 
night, that there were seven of us together, though there were but 
four of them born, and that I killed them. And so they say _I have_ 
indeed! Well, boy, I have killed you, as well as the rest, and now I 
am alone. You shall have the knife--yet be not in a hurry. Something 
may turn up: Sir Guy may demand a military trial--But no, I am lying 
to my own heart: you must die, Hyland, you must die! for even I 
cannot help you."

"The knife will help me."

"Take it!" said the refugee, with a voice so loud as to show his 
feelings had got the better of his caution,--and indeed his accents 
betrayed the most vehement agitation; "take it!" he cried, flinging 
it against the window with a motion so reckless or perturbed, that it 
did not even strike the bars, but coming in contact with the stone 
framework, it rebounded and fell, like the file, to the ground below. 
"Ha ha! you see, brother! there is no hope for you,--no, not even in 
the knife!"

"Brother!" cried Hyland, "you can help me yet."

"It is false!" said the other: "my band is broken, my body bleeding, 
and now, if they would send a boy against me, why a boy might take 
me."

"Listen, brother--it is my dying prayer," said Hyland, "and nothing 
else can be done. Before midnight of the coming day--perhaps 
earlier--I shall be a doomed man--doomed to death--doomed to the 
gallows? Brother, don't let me die on the gallows! Where is Staples? 
He can send a bullet through the eye of a leaping buck; I have seen 
him kill a night-hawk on the wing. Brother, you will be my heir--give 
him what you will, give him _all_, and let him come to-morrow night 
on the square, and when he sees a candle held at this window, let him 
fire at it,--let him aim well,--at the candle, brother, at the 
candle! Oh heaven! do you not hear me?"

"I hear," said Oran. "A wild freak that, but good! ay, boy, good, 
good, good! But Staples--ha, ha! Choose another: take the whole band; 
one will be as ready to serve you as another."

Had not the prisoner been prevented by his own feelings from giving 
note to any thing save the mere words of the refugee, he might have 
detected the traces of some extraordinary emotion in the unusual 
abruptness of his expressions. He even failed to observe the 
incongruity between Oran's invitation to choose an executioner from 
his whole band, and the late declaration he had made, that the band 
was broken up. He repeated the name of Staples, adding, "Let it be 
Staples, brother, for he is the boldest and truest: he fears nothing, 
and he misses nothing."

"Call him out of the yard then," said Oran; "he lies there cold as a 
stone."

"Ashburn then, Tom Ashburn!" cried Hyland, after an exclamation of 
dismay at the intelligence; "he is the next boldest, and a true 
shot."

"Another, another! They fished him out of the river at the Foul Rift, 
yoked fast to the carcass of his horse."

"Bettson, then!"

"He lies, with Staples, dead in the yard here."

"Good God! is there none left then to save me from this horror. Oh 
brother, send any one. Is there not one?"

"There is _one_," said Oran, and his teeth chattered as he spoke; 
"there is one, and only one; but he shoots well too, and is as bold 
as any. Farewell, young brother--the streaks are in the sky: we will 
never see one another more. Reach forth your hand, brother, and let 
me touch it."

"Alas, Oran, I am chained to the floor."

"Ay,--I forget: 'tis all one. Say that you beg God to forgive me, and 
that you forgive me yourself--let me hear you say it."

"Wherefore, Oran? Alas, wherefore?"

"For what I have done to you; for what--But it is nothing. But say 
it, though; say it, or hope for no friend in the thing you speak of."

"God forgive you then, Oran," muttered the brother, almost 
mechanically; "I forgive you myself."

"It is enough," said Oran--"Farewell." And these were the last words 
Hyland ever heard him utter. He descended from the wall--_how_ the 
prisoner knew no more than how he had climbed it,--and that so 
suddenly, that although Hyland called to him again, the moment the 
farewell had past his lips, he was already beyond hearing. Finding 
that he was really gone, the prisoner fell upon his knees, and strove 
to invoke forgiveness of the act he meditated: for he rightly felt 
that it must be but a form of self-murder.

He then threw himself on his couch, looked back upon the events that 
had marked his existence in the valley, and wept over the misery they 
had entailed upon one whom his love had wrapped in the same 
destruction with himself.




CHAPTER XVII.

  Convict by many witnesses and proofs,
  And by thine own confession.
                               MARINO FALIERO.


The Master of Fiction has compared the course of a supposititious 
history to the career of a stone, rolled down the side of a mountain; 
which, at first, labouring and stumbling along, in a slow and 
hesitating manner, as if on the point of being arrested by every 
petty obstruction, gathers force as it descends, and at last pitches 
onwards with impetuous leaps, which soon conduct it to the bottom. To 
give the figure the completeness of an allegory, it may be added, 
that when the moving body has once acquired a little superfluous 
momentum of its own, it communicates it to other stones, and these 
again to others, which, increasing in number as they grow in 
velocity, are at last seen rattling down to the vale below, in a 
perfect avalanche, as confounding to the senses as it is hurrying to 
the spirits. In this manner, a single incident begins its weary 
course along the declivity of story, stirring up others as it rolls 
onward; until, in the end, there is such a mass in motion, that, if 
all were to be described as fully as at the starting, it would 
require a Briareus himself to do them justice. It is, then, difficult 
to keep pace even with the original event, the course of which is as 
violent as the others; and this can be done only by imitating the 
hurry of the moving body, and marching, in great leaps, to the end.

We must pass by, with a word, the confusion caused throughout the 
whole village by the rencounter in the prison-yard; the steps that 
were taken in consequence to follow the refugee who had escaped; the 
proceedings that were had in relation to the bodies, (for the wounded 
Staples expired within a few hours after his surrender;) and, 
finally, those that paved the way for the trial of the unfortunate 
Hyland.

The morning broke; the hour of trial approached; the village was 
thronged with the idle and the curious; the court was opened, the 
grand jury empannelled and charged, and in a short time returned into 
court a formal bill of indictment against Hyland Gilbert, with some 
two or three _aliases_, for the wilful murder of Henry Falconer.

The details of the trial it is not our purpose to narrate. There were 
the usual preliminary flourishes, thrusts, and counter-thrusts, on 
the part of the counsel, with those applications for postponement and 
arguments against it, that weary the patience of the good citizens 
who come to a tribunal of life and death as to a raree-show, and 
perhaps with some such feelings as conducted the ancient Romans to 
the amphitheatre. There was even an attempt made by the prisoner's 
counsel (of whom the unlucky Affidavy was _not_ one--at least, he did 
not make his appearance,) to oppose the jurisdiction of the court, 
precisely as Affidavy had boasted he would do, but with so little 
zeal and energy, that it was soon seen the prisoner was to derive no 
benefit from such a plea. In fact, from the beginning to the end, the 
counsel for the prisoner conducted the case in so spiritless and 
desponding a manner, as to convey the most melancholy prognostic to 
those who judge of the goodness or badness of a cause by the colour 
of a counsellor's complexion. It seemed as if they were themselves 
too well satisfied of his guilt to think of contending for his 
innocence; and it was soon seen that they had good cause to despair; 
for the prisoner, upon being formally arraigned at the bar, rose up, 
and despite the opposition of his counsel, insisted upon pleading 
_Guilty_ to the indictment.

From the consequences of this rashness--a result of mingled remorse 
and despair--the unhappy young man was saved by the humanity of his 
judges, who directed the plea of Not Guilty to be entered, as, we 
believe, is usual, or at least frequent, in such cases.

Upon being asked 'How he would be tried?' he answered, with the same 
readiness, "By God and my country;" and the elder of his counsel 
making some trivial remark on the latter word, coupled with the hint 
that his _domicil_ was strictly within a foreign territory, he 
repeated the word with great vehemence, insisting 'that he was born 
upon the soil on which he stood, and whether he lived or died, and 
whether it owned the sway of the royal government, or assumed the 
state of a free Republic, it was still as much _his_ country as 
before, since still the land of his birth.'

He was directed to resume his seat; but the readiness with which he 
seemed to abandon all the little hopes remaining to him softened the 
hearts of his judges, and brought tears into the eyes of many who 
came to see, in a Gilbert and refugee, some dread-looking monster, 
and beheld only an emaciated youth, evidently nurtured on the lap of 
gentleness. Indeed, there was no little confusion produced on several 
occasions, by the compassion his appearance excited; one instance of 
which happened, when Captain Loring, summoned entirely without the 
knowledge of Hyland, along with two or three others, for no 
imaginable purpose, but to testify to the mildness of his disposition 
and the excellence of his previous character, entered the witness's 
box, and laid eyes on the youth for the first time since his arrest. 
He no sooner beheld his wretched plight, than forgetting half his own 
wrongs, he began to blubber and stretch out his arms, and declare, 
'after all, adzooks, he didn't believe his young Herman had committed 
the murder, for all they said of him.' Then being reproved, and 
something in the rebuke reminding him of his daughter, he burst into 
a rage, reproaching the young man for his deceit and base outrage, 
from which he was only diverted by a second rebuke, to begin to 
blubber and defend as before. In short, it was soon found that his 
testimony was not to be obtained, and as his wits were pretty 
generally thought to be infirm, he was directed to be removed. This 
was, however, at a later stage of the trial, and after the more 
important witnesses had been examined. These comprehended those 
individuals who were present at the scene of blood, the chief of whom 
were captain Caliver, lieutenant Brooks, and the adventurer Sterling. 
The evidence of the two former might have been esteemed sufficient of 
itself to convict the prisoner, and there seemed a degree of cruelty 
in bringing into the court, merely to confirm their testimony, a man 
enduring so much bodily suffering as this wretched Sterling. It 
seemed, that he had received some serious injury, when hurled so 
roughly by Oran Gilbert among the rocks; for it was remarked, soon 
after the cavalcade was formed that conducted the body of young 
Falconer to Hawk-Hollow, that he became wan and troubled, and 
occasionally a little wandering in his behaviour. He had grown worse 
during the three days he was confined in prison, and had caused no 
little trouble by his groans at night. In addition to all this, he 
had bled freely from the cut he received from the jailer, while 
attempting to escape; that attempt, as he averred on a previous 
occasion, having been made in his sleep, he being occasionally 
afflicted with the infirmity of somnambulism. When he appeared in 
court, all were struck with his haggard appearance; the light of 
cunning had departed from his eyes and mouth, being superseded in the 
one by a certain wild, yet torpid and smouldering ray, such as might 
be looked for in the organs of an expiring maniac, while the other 
was distorted with pain, of which it was hard to say whether it 
existed most in mind or body. Upon being called upon to declare what 
he knew in relation to the prisoner and the deceased, he swore, to 
the surprise of every one, 'that he knew nothing to prove the 
prisoner's guilt, but much that spoke in favour of his innocence.'

Even Hyland, who had leaned his head down in passive despair, was 
startled at a declaration so unexpected; his counsel became a little 
animated, and the Deputy Attorney General reminded the witness, 'that 
he was now in a court of justice, speaking to truth upon oath, and 
not upon the boards of a theatre, delivering the tricksy paradoxes of 
a play-wright.'

"Very true," said Sterling, with a ghastly smile; "but that day is 
over."

Upon being asked what he meant by the last expression, he replied, 
'that he alluded to his original profession of the stage, on which he 
once had his day, like others.' He then proceeded to state, that 
while pursuing his vocation, some years before, in the island of 
Jamaica, he had several times seen the prisoner, then a young man of 
eighteen or twenty, the heir of a rich widow, his kinswoman, and 
occupying a highly favourable situation in society, and being, as far 
as he knew, of estimable character. He next encountered him in the 
month of May, at the tavern of Elsie Bell; although he did not 
immediately recognise him. The third time he saw him was at the 
Terrapin Hole, among, or near to, the refugees, among whom, as he 
caused it to appear, he had himself stumbled by accident; the 
consequence of which was that he was induced to join the band, to 
protect himself from a peculiar peril in which he was placed. On the 
evening of that day, he accompanied the leader of the band to the 
park of Gilbert's Folly, where the prisoner was found struggling in 
mortal combat with the deceased. A conflict ensuing, of which he 
could say but little, having spent several hours previously in 
drinking, he did himself attack the deceased with a pistol, scarce 
knowing, in his intoxication, what he did, and would have killed him, 
had he not been restrained by the prisoner, who took the pistol from 
his hand, and assisted the deceased to make his escape; "and this the 
prisoner did," added the witness, with a firm voice, "although, at 
that moment, he was bleeding from a pistol-shot, received but a 
moment before from the deceased, with whom he had fought a duel, and 
by whom he had been treated with some unfairness and much barbarity."

He then continued to state, that the design having been communicated 
to him of carrying off Miss Loring, he himself, esteeming it rather a 
wild frolic than a serious outrage, had obtained permission to 
co-operate in an assumed character; and that what confirmed him in 
the belief that no wrong was meditated to any one, was his 
overhearing a conversation betwixt the prisoner and Oran Gilbert, in 
which the former insisted that no one should be injured, particularly 
naming the deceased and his father, Colonel Falconer. At the time the 
band broke into the house, he, being again overcome by wine and in a 
mischievous mood, knocked down the deceased with a fiddle; and had 
the prisoner been moved by any malicious impulse, he could have 
easily killed him at that time. As for the murder itself, all that he 
could say was, that at the moment the pistols were discharged, he was 
himself nearer to the prisoner than was any other person on the 
ground; and yet he could neither swear upon his knowledge nor to the 
best of his belief, that the prisoner had fired the pistol that 
terminated the deceased's career. There were several pistols fired, 
he knew not by whom, nor did he believe any man could say by whom, 
for the morning was still dark, and all were in confusion. It was as 
likely that the deceased had been killed by his own (the deceased's) 
pistol, as by the prisoner's; for being notoriously an expert shot, 
nothing but accident could have caused him to miss the prisoner, at 
whom he aimed, and who was so nigh at hand; and the accident that 
diverted the pistol from the prisoner, might have turned it against 
the neck of the deceased himself. Finally, he was convinced, that, be 
the matter as it might, there could have been no malice aforethought 
on the prisoner's part, or he would have taken advantage of those 
moments to execute his purpose when he could have done so without 
risk or discovery.

This testimony, which was justly esteemed extraordinary, coming as it 
did from one who had been admitted as evidence against the prisoner, 
produced a remarkable effect throughout the whole court and jury, as 
well as the spectators; and was indeed more like a harangue designed 
for the prisoner's benefit than any thing else. It was delivered with 
pain, but still firmly, and at the close, the witness appearing to be 
exhausted, he was allowed to retire, while the Deputy, saying, 'he 
was gratified to hear such mitigating circumstances advanced in the 
prisoner's favour,' added that he would summon two witnesses to prove 
the murder from the prisoner's own voluntary confession, and would 
then produce two pistols, the only ones discharged, one of which he 
would prove had been fired by the deceased, the other by the 
prisoner.

The jailer and his assistant were called, and both swore, that the 
prisoner had repeatedly called himself a murderer.

Honest Schlachtenschlager, who had officiated as coroner, was then 
summoned, and appeared in court, bearing five pistols, being those 
delivered to him by Brooks, while sitting on the inquest. These being 
handed to the latter gentleman, he immediately identified one as the 
weapon discharged by the deceased; the second, he averred, he had 
taken from the ground at the prisoner's side, and the other, its 
fellow, from his holsters: the remaining pair belonged to Sterling, 
and had been taken from him before or after the murder, he knew not 
which, and had been by the witness given into the possession of 
Schlachtenschlager.

"Yes," said Schlachtenschlager, "that fas fat the young man said. 
T'at pistol mit the colden star on the preech, and the plue parrel, 
fas the ploodty feapon."

Here the worthy magistrate was directed to hold his tongue, his 
evidence not having been required, and his commentaries being wholly 
superfluous. But he had said enough to give a new and unexpected turn 
to the whole proceedings; for the prisoner, who had been staring from 
the pistols to the witness, with a sort of passive recklessness, no 
sooner heard the words 'golden star,' and 'blue barrel,' uttered than 
he started up as if seized with a fit of madness, his eyes staring 
out of his head, his arms outstretched, and his whole figure 
displaying the influence of some extraordinary conception.

"The golden star! the blue barrel!" he cried, in a voice that 
thrilled every bosom. "Oh heaven! have I been mad up to this moment? 
Ha, ha, ha! what a fool! what a dolt! Give me the pistol!"

"Sit down," said one of the judges; and even his own counsel 
endeavoured to force him back on his seat.

"I won't sit down," he cried in the same tones. "The pistol! the 
pistol! my life depends upon it! Oh, heaven be thanked! I am an 
innocent man. The pistol! look at the pistol: there is a shot in the 
vent, and it will not fire! I remember now, it flashed when aimed at 
Sterling. Call Dancy Parkins--examine it, look at it, prick it with a 
needle,--blow in it, pour water in it--it could not harm him! No! 
heaven be thanked! no, no, no!" And so great became his agitation, 
that he fell to the floor in a fit of convulsions.

This singular announcement produced unspeakable agitation. The court 
was ordered to be cleared, and the prisoner to be withdrawn a moment, 
until restored to his senses. Dancy Parkins was then called, and upon 
being shown the pistol, swore positively to the effect, that one of 
them (he knew not which,) had become useless in consequence of a 
leaden shot, or some other substance, getting into the vent; that the 
day before the attempt upon Gilbert's Folly, he had been directed by 
the prisoner, upon whom he attended, to remove the obstruction; that 
he had received it for that purpose, but finding the removal more 
difficult than he anticipated, and being hurried by other 
circumstances, he returned it to the prisoner's holsters, intending 
to resume the task at another time; and then being separated from 
him, for the purpose of intercepting the clergyman, had forgotten it 
entirely. He knew not which of the two pistols it was; but if, as he 
supposed, the prisoner had not attempted to fire both, one would be 
found charged: the other, that is to say, the one out of order, he 
had himself taken care to empty of its contents before attempting to 
remove the shot from the vent.

The pistols were immediately examined, and one found well charged. 
The other was empty; and, as had been said, and as was hoped by 
almost every man present, it was discovered that there was some 
foreign body in the vent, which rendered it wholly unserviceable.

"This is indeed extraordinary!" said a judge on the bench.

"With your honour's permission," said the Deputy, who had been 
whispering to one of the under functionaries of justice, and now 
looked up in some perplexity, "I will recall the witness Sterling to 
the stand; though I humbly submit, I know no more than your honour 
what he has to say more. Yet he desires to be recalled."

"Ay, let him come," said Hyland, clasping his hands with joy. "He 
remembers the circumstance; for I showed him the pistol, and he told 
me the shot could be only taken out by a drill."

At this moment, the current of feeling was strongly in the prisoner's 
favour, and the condition of his weapon rendering it impossible that 
_it_ could have discharged the fatal bullet, there was scarce a man 
present who did not believe him innocent, and believe so with 
pleasure, notwithstanding his unhappy connexion with the outlaws. But 
it was destined to be seen upon what a reed they had based their 
commiseration and belief, when Sterling, appearing again, craved to 
mention a circumstance which was now recalled to his memory by the 
turn of proceedings, and of which his previous forgetfulness should 
be rightly attributed to illness and disorder of mind. He remembered 
well the conversation of which the prisoner spoke; he _had_ said, 
that nothing but a drill would remove the obstruction; _but_--and 
here he spoke with a degree of agitation that showed his reluctance 
to advance any thing against the prisoner--it happened that the 
conversation terminated in himself offering to remove the difficulty, 
by taking the pistol with him to Elsie Bell's, where some instrument 
might be found to serve the purpose; that he _had_, accordingly, 
taken it, leaving one of his own pistols with the prisoner, but had 
found neither leisure nor opportunity to repair it; that the 
circumstances of flight had prevented a re-exchange; and finally, 
that the incident had not been again thought of by him until the 
present moment. He was not himself disarmed until after Falconer's 
death; he had a pistol in his hand at the moment, which he dropped, 
while seizing upon the prisoner; and taking it up again (as he 
supposed) afterwards, it was probable he had then, without observing 
it, regained his own; and _this_ might perhaps be the weapon with 
which the unfortunate shot had been fired. He was disarmed a few 
moments afterwards, and was then seized with indisposition, which 
prevented his examining into the matter, or indeed thinking of it.

This testimony was as decisive as it was wholly unexpected. It struck 
the prisoner dumb, and his looks of horror were esteemed the best 
proofs of guilt. It was in vain that he afterwards exclaimed that the 
witness had sworn falsely; he had no testimony to disprove the story, 
and it was one that all others found apt and true, especially when 
Sterling's pistols having been examined, one of them was discovered 
to be empty. No one had dreamed of doubting the prisoner's guilt, 
until the moment when his sudden burst of animation at the sight of 
the weapons, threw all into confusion; and such was the change of 
feeling produced by Sterling's testimony, that it soon became the 
general impression that the prisoner had been playing a part in first 
acknowledging himself guilty, and then affecting to be surprised into 
a belief of his own innocence. Such an opinion as this could not, 
indeed, long prevail; for it was manifest, upon considering the 
circumstances, that the prisoner must have been as ignorant as others 
of the true condition of the pistols, unless he had previously, as if 
in anticipation of arrest, founded his whole scheme of bloodshed upon 
the accident of the obstruction; in which case he must have fired the 
other pistol, which was still loaded, or used some third one, which 
he had cast out of sight, although instantly surrounded by many 
different persons. The testimony of Sterling afforded the only and 
the best solution of the riddle, as far as it related to the crime; 
while in regard to the prisoner himself, all that could be imagined 
to account for his change of deportment, was to suppose that even 
_he_ had forgotten the original exchange of weapons,--that he was 
inspired with the hope of escape, upon the presentation of his own as 
that by which the murder had been committed,--and that that hope, 
thus accidentally excited, still nerved him to assert his innocence.

The contest was however over, the hour of grace was past, and the 
jury, after being charged in a manner highly unfavourable to him, 
were sent out to form a verdict, the character of which no one 
thought of doubting. It was even supposed that a few moments would 
suffice to terminate their deliberations, and that they would shortly 
return, to pronounce the word of doom. In this, however, the 
spectators were disappointed: some merciful, or doubting member of 
the panel had thrown a difficulty in the way of others; and, the 
prisoner being remanded, the court was adjourned until such time as 
they should be found to have agreed upon a verdict.

In the meanwhile, expectation was still on the stretch; the 
spectators from a distance still lingered in the village, the 
villagers themselves wandered up and down, or collected together at 
their doors in groups, all awaiting the tap of the bell that should 
call the court together to receive the verdict, and all agitated by 
the thousand rumours that were supposed to have made their way from 
the jury-room. It was twenty times, at least, in the course of the 
night, reported that the jury had already agreed, and twenty times 
there was a rush of people towards the court-doors, anxious and eager 
to behold the bearing of the prisoner, while listening to the word 
that should consign him to the death of a felon; but twenty times 
curiosity was disappointed; and the morning came without bringing the 
jury from their place of deliberation.

But long before the night had passed away, a new feature was added to 
the story of Hyland's fate, and new characters mingled in the drama, 
bringing with them new revelations.




CHAPTER XVIII.

  Peace: thou hast told a tale, whose every word
  Threatens eternal slaughter to thy soul.
  ------Heaven is angry, and, be thou resolved,
  Thou art a man remark'd to taste of mischief:
  Look for't; though it come late, it will come sure.
                                                  FORD.


The appearance of the refugees, with the fierce though unavailing 
contest they had attempted with the pursuers on the night of the 
outrage, had spread the alarm far and wide; and this was not 
diminished by the daring assault on the prison, as it was called, the 
real character of that enterprise not having yet generally 
transpired. One consequence of the alarm was, to draw to the scene of 
commotion the governor, or President as he was then called, of the 
commonwealth, who happened in the neighbourhood upon some tour of 
duty, and arrived after nightfall, so that his person was not 
generally known before day. One of the first persons upon whom he 
laid his eyes, after entering the hotel, was his old and 
distinguished acquaintance Colonel Falconer, with whose unhappy loss 
he was already acquainted, as well as with many incidents of the 
trial. Upon saluting him by name, the Colonel became greatly 
agitated, and besought him not to repeat the word, if he would not 
have him murdered before his eyes; with other expressions indicative 
of a disordered mind, which the dignitary attributed at once to his 
melancholy bereavement. He then accompanied him to a private 
apartment, where he attempted to soothe him by condoling with him on 
his loss, but found him incapable of listening to argument or 
entreaty. The death of his son did not seem to affect him so deeply 
as the malice of the murderer, of whom he spoke with a bitterness and 
vindictiveness of feeling that shocked his hearer. It has been seen 
how his heart softened over this unhappy youth, when he met him at 
the water-fall, and deemed that he owed a life to his virtue. The 
death of his son had, however, converted his feelings into a new 
channel; and he saw in the humanity that drove him from the Hollow, 
only the evidence of a cold-blooded design to withdraw him from the 
scene, that his son might perish unaided; and this design he 
contrasted with his own friendly resolutions. In short, the demon of 
revenge had entered his spirit, along with that of fear; for, it 
seemed, the repeated discoveries of Oran Gilbert penetrating even to 
the haunts of his foes, had infected him with terror on his own 
account. The sight of the governor, in whose hands lay the power of 
life and death, seemed to throw him into alarm, lest he had come with 
the design of pardoning the murderer; and he lanched at once into a 
strain of vehement complaint, in which he mingled denunciations 
against the prisoner with personal calls upon the governor for 
justice.

In the midst of this scene, which the magistrate strove in vain to 
bring to an end, the door of the chamber was thrown open, and the 
figure of Elsie Bell entered the apartment. She had risen from a bed 
of sickness,--it might have been supposed from a bed of death, for 
her appearance was more like that of a moving corse than a living 
being: and as she tottered up to Colonel Falconer, who stood aghast 
at the spectacle, her bloodless cheeks, livid lips, and eyes shining, 
almost without speculation, through the gray locks that had escaped 
from her head-dress, filled even the governor with awe.

"Where is Richard Falconer?" she cried, "I heard his voice but now; 
and it called for justice!"

Her looks wandered from the governor, upon whom they were first 
fixed, to the object of her inquiry; and it is impossible to describe 
the expression of mingled triumph and horror with which she surveyed 
him. She raised her shrivelled hands, and shaking them with a fierce 
but palsied motion, cried,--

"Yes, Richard Falconer, you called for justice, and now you have it. 
It has come, at last, in blood, and in blood richer than that of your 
own bosom. The death-bed curse of a ruined woman will not be 
forgotten,--it curses forever!"

"For God's sake, governor," cried Falconer, trembling from head to 
foot, "leave me, or take the wretched creature away."

"Yes, leave us," said the widow: "let no one look upon him more, let 
no one look upon him now. Away, if you have pity for him who has none 
for himself."

The governor looked at Falconer, and perceiving that, although 
incapable of utterance, he made earnest gestures to him to depart, he 
left the chamber without speaking a word, but with a look indicating 
amazement and suspicion. He was no sooner gone than Elsie, stepping 
up to Falconer, laid her hand on his arm, now seemingly as palsied as 
her own, and said, with accents that sounded in his ear like the cry 
of a raven,--

"You asked for justice--ay, I heard the words with my own ears! you 
asked for blood,--the blood of him who has shed that of your son! You 
called for justice--it was for justice on your own head! Richard 
Falconer," she continued, "well may you tremble; the curse of Jessie 
Gilbert is now upon your soul, and it will be on it for ever."

"Woman," said Falconer, endeavouring to shake her off, but in vain, 
"you will drive me distracted."

"I will do you no such mercy," said Elsie: "Hearken--the last words 
of Jessie Gilbert were a curse,--the curse of a broken-hearted woman 
upon her betrayer: she died cursing you, and now the curse you feel, 
without knowing half its dreadfulness. Richard Falconer, you ask for 
the blood of Henry Falconer's murderer. Miserable man!" she added, 
relaxing her grasp, and clasping her hands with horror, "it is the 
blood of your own son,--the blood of the child of Jessie Gilbert!"

"Hah!" said Falconer,--but said no more. He gazed in the face of the 
speaker, and read a dreadful confirmation of her words, while she 
continued to utter, as in a kind of insane exultation,

"Is not this revenge for Jessie Gilbert? The brother kills the 
brother, and the father kills the son!--ay, as he before killed the 
mother! Now, Richard Falconer, repent and die--the victim is avenged! 
It is true!"

"It is false! false as hell!" said Falconer, recovering speech; "or 
what, oh God of heaven! what am I!"

"The avenger of your own black and heartless villany," said the 
woman. "Hearken, Richard Falconer, and you shall know all. When Oran 
Gilbert knew the shame of his sister, he swore its miserable fruit 
should never see the light; and I knew he would slay it, even out of 
hatred of the father. That night! that night! it was a night of 
horror. Jessie Gilbert lay dead, with a babe wailing on her bosom; 
and the mother, the broken-hearted step-mother gave to my hands her 
own untimely and still-born offspring--the brothers raved at the 
door, calling for the child of shame. I had mercy--mercy on your 
child,--not because it was yours, but because it was the babe of 
Jessie. I laid it in the arms of the step-mother, and it lived. She 
kept the secret, and the father of her you betrayed kept it also, 
though he sent it afar from his sight. Thus was it saved--thus was 
the child of sorrow preserved, that he might imbrue his hands in the 
blood of his brother, and then perish at the call of his father!"

"Wretch!" said Falconer, sinking on a seat, "and this dreadful secret 
you kept, that _I_ might be made the most miserable of men? And you 
incited on the unhappy Hyland to the murder of his brother?"

"I did what I could to save him,--not for your sake, though, Richard 
Falconer, but for the love of Jessie. I warned the boy of his 
danger--nay, I would have told him of his birth, but that I knew it 
would kill him; and I loved him for his goodness. Why should I have 
filled him with shame, staining him who was innocent of his father's 
crimes, with the disgrace of his birth?"

"Elsie Bell," said Falconer rising and advancing towards her, "I am a 
villain.--My poor Harriet! my poor Harriet!" he added, and as the 
widow looked into his face, she was amazed to see it streaming with 
tears. "But for her, but for _her_," he added, "but for her and my 
wretched Henry--but for my children, Elsie, I might, I _would_ have 
done justice to Jessie's memory. Oh God! had I but known of this 
thing before! But why, _now_, should it be known? You revenge the 
murdered Jessie not on me, Elsie, but on my poor Harriet. The stain 
you feared to cast on the name of Hyland, you fling on the forehead 
of my daughter. Elsie Bell, Elsie Bell," he exclaimed, in unspeakable 
agitation, while drops of sweat rolled from his temples and mingled 
with his tears, "if I tell you what you know not, though it show me 
to have done worse by Jessie Gilbert than you dream, it will destroy 
my remaining child. And why should I destroy her? Why fling her 
before the world as a creature to be scorned, for the sake of a 
wretched fratricide? I will not do it,--I will say no more--what 
_have_ I said? When they are dead,--when all are dead, then let me 
lay bare my baseness, and think of the memory of Jessie. But this 
child,--this wretched, this blood-stained Hyland,--I will save his 
life,--the governor shall grant me his pardon; it cannot be that he 
will refuse me--But I will never see him, no, never--Hah! hear! what 
is this? They are bringing him forth! Hark! they are shouting aloud 
for his condemnation!--Oh heaven support me! To this I--I have 
brought him!"

But we have not the courage to pursue further the agonies of the 
wretched father, whom a sudden commotion in the street, with loud 
cries of "To the court! to the court! the jury have made a verdict!" 
one of twenty false rumours to which expectation gave birth,--threw 
into new transports of anguish. At last, moved by an irresistible 
impulse, he started up and ran into the streets, through which he 
made his way to the prison.

In the meanwhile, Hyland strode (for though securely fettered, he was 
no longer chained to the floor,) to and fro in his cell, a changed, 
we might almost say, a happy, man. The sight of his pistols in the 
court had introduced a new set of associations, from which he 
perceived clearly, that, although he had so long esteemed himself the 
author of Falconer's death, that young man had, in truth, fallen by 
some other hand. The story told by Sterling of the exchange of 
pistols between him and the prisoner, was, as Hyland had pronounced 
it, a sheer fabrication; although he was unable to devise any reason 
Sterling could have for swearing falsely; his original testimony 
having made it clear, that he was not actuated by motives of malice. 
He remembered that he had raised a weapon against his rival, which, 
as others were discharged at the same moment, he did not dream had 
failed to go off; although he now recalled to mind that the same 
one--he had taken it from the same side of the saddle--had flashed in 
his hands, when aimed at the head of Sterling. Remembering these 
circumstances in connexion with Dancy's declaration that he had 
restored the pistol, entirely empty, to the holsters, he saw at once, 
however others failed to see it, that Providence had interposed to 
save him from the crime of bloodshed, and that he was therefore, save 
in intent, wholly innocent. This persuasion was enough to banish his 
despair, which was founded chiefly on remorse; and perhaps, in great 
measure, also, his apprehensions; although in a cooler moment, he 
would have perceived upon how weak a foundation he built his hope of 
escape, so long as the falsehood of Sterling was not exposed.

Twenty times he endeavoured to throw himself upon his knees, to thank 
Heaven for its signal interposition in his favour; but his devotions 
were checked by the tumult of his mind, which increased at last into 
such distraction, that although he received a visit from his jailer, 
whose errand had no unimportant bearing upon his interests, he failed 
to take any advantage of Lingo's good will, or even to understand the 
purport of his communications. The fact was, the note of hand which 
he had drawn from Affidavy's pocket, besides affording confirmatory 
evidence of that worthy individual's connexion with the attempted 
rescue, had made a strong impression upon Lingo's cupidity; and his 
object in the visit was nothing less than to intimate _his_ 
willingness to serve the prisoner in the same way, and on much more 
reasonable terms. But he found the prisoner in no condition to treat 
with him on such a delicate subject; and after unmasking his battery, 
and uttering several broad hints in regard to his friendly 
intentions, he was forced to give over in despair, resolving, 
however, to open negotiations at a more favourable moment.

In the meanwhile, Hyland still paced to and fro through his dungeon, 
till his feeble limbs refused to support him longer. He then threw 
himself upon his couch, and becoming more collected, pondered 
bitterly over his situation. He heard the rush of the people towards 
the court-house, which was at no great distance, as well as their 
shouts 'that the jury had descended!' and he felt at once, with a 
thrill of fear, that he still lay hovering on the brink of a 
precipice. He started up in an agony of mind not to be controlled, 
and throwing himself upon his knees, began to invoke heaven with wild 
exclamations; when the door of his cell was thrown open, a bright 
lamp flashed in his face, and looking up, his eye fell upon that of 
Colonel Falconer, who entered the room, followed by the tottering 
Elsie. The door was closed behind them, and Falconer stood rooted to 
the floor, surveying his wretched offspring, who seemed petrified at 
his appearance, while Elsie stepping up to him, held the lamp to his 
face, and bade the father look upon the features of his son.

"It is Jessie's face over again," she muttered, "and as pale, as 
ghastly, and as distracted as when she cursed her betrayer. She 
cursed him, but do not _you_, Hyland--the curse has fallen upon all. 
Now, Richard Falconer, behold your son, and remember Jessie Gilbert!"

"His son!" cried Hyland, starting to his feet; "_his_ son! Are you 
mad? Oh, Elsie, I am half distracted myself. Why do you bring that 
man to me?"

"Because," said Elsie; "he claims to see his offspring."

"His offspring! Vain old woman!"

"Would that you were not," said Colonel Falconer, with clasped hands. 
"I am now punished enough. Alas, wretched boy, you have killed your 
father's son. Hearken to this woman, and then add to the crime that 
already stains you, a malediction upon your parent."

"It is true, Hyland, it is true," said Elsie. "As there is a heaven 
above you, you look upon your own father, and you have killed your 
half-brother."

"I have killed nobody," said the youth, impetuously; "and if you 
would have me still innocent, drive that man away. His son! sooner 
make me the way-side beggar's--nay, make me believe myself a murderer 
rather. His son!"

"Ay," said Colonel Falconer, with deep emotion, "the sinful son of a 
sinful parent."

"Stand away! approach me not!" said Hyland, for Falconer was 
approaching. "Your misfortune has turned your brain. Touch me not, 
for I remember my sister!"

"Your mother, boy, your mother!" said Elsie.

"Be it my mother, if you will: what then have I but more cause to 
curse the author of her shame?"

"The author of her death, not shame," said Falconer, with a smothered 
voice. "Murderer of your brother, even for your sake I will take that 
veil of disgrace from your mother's memory that must be hung round 
the brows of my daughter. Do not curse me, my son--Elsie Bell, I 
deceived you all, and it was the deceit that killed my poor Jessie. 
This boy was born in wedlock,--the child of the abandoned and 
broken-hearted, yet wedded, wife of her destroyer."

"Your wife! gracious heaven, your wife!" said Elsie, on whom these 
words produced as strong an effect as upon the bewildered Hyland. 
"Now, Richard Falconer, if you have spoken the truth, you are indeed 
a blacker villain than ever men believed you."

"I am," said Falconer; "for with the lie I killed my wife and laid 
her in a grave of dishonour. You were made to believe it was but a 
mock ceremony that united us: it was a legal and honourable tie, and 
broken only by the death of Jessie. And for what purpose? You know, 
Elsie Bell, you know very well, yes, surely you know," he added, with 
much agitation, and as if afraid to speak further. But Elsie sternly 
affirming her ignorance of any cause he had for destroying the peace 
and good name of her whom he acknowledged his lawful wife, and Hyland 
now regarding him with a look of mingled fear and entreaty, he 
essayed to speak; and again the sweat-drops, oozing from his temples, 
betrayed the anguish and shame of mind with which he exposed an act 
of unexampled duplicity and baseness. His confession was indeed one 
which no light remorse could have wrung from his spirit; but it was 
made, and made without concealment or attempted extenuation, although 
it undoubtedly revealed a strong if not just reason for his failure 
to rescue from shame the memory of his betrayed wife. He had begun 
the world as a needy adventurer; but was early patronized by a 
gentleman of great wealth, with whose daughter, an only child, he 
soon presumed to fall deeply in love; the consequence of which was 
the withdrawal of his patron's favour, and immediate expulsion from 
his house. It appeared, that he had not failed to make some 
impression upon the lady's heart; but she was a spoiled child and 
coquette, and he left her with but little hope of ever deriving any 
advantage from her tenderness. He betook himself to the army, was 
transferred, in course of time, to the frontiers, and in less than 
two years after his departure, found himself recovering from the 
wounds he had received at the Moravian town, under the roof of 
Gilbert's Folly. The youth and beauty of Jessie, his gratitude for 
her kindness, and still more, perhaps, for her affection, which the 
simple-hearted maiden gave him almost at first sight, and had not the 
power to conceal, touched his imagination, if not his feelings; and 
in a moment of excitement, and folly, he proffered her his hand, and 
was married. The marriage was secret--it might be added, accidental; 
for the freedom of manners, at that day, and in that country, 
allowing such license, he often, as he recovered, found himself 
galloping with the merry maiden on visits among the settlements a 
dozen or more miles distant; and it was upon one of these occasions 
that he gave his love and faith together to the thoughtless maiden. 
The knot was, however, no sooner tied, than he was seized with fears 
and regrets: he had already received overtures towards a 
reconciliation by his old patron, and without well conceiving in what 
manner he could profit by a return of friendship in such quarter, he 
persuaded himself, and his bride also, that his interest demanded 
some temporary concealment of their union. To this Jessie was easily 
induced to accede; for having no distrust in her lover, she saw in 
such concealment only an additional frolic, such as she esteemed her 
marriage to be. She feared no censure from her parent, who had indeed 
long since signified the pleasure with which he would receive so 
gallant a gentleman for his son-in-law; and she looked forward with 
merry anticipation to the hour when she should present herself to him 
as a bride of a month's standing. She consented therefore, not merely 
with readiness, but alacrity, to preserve the wedding a strict 
secret; and in that fatal consent paved the way for her own ruin and 
untimely end. We will speak the remainder of the mournful story in a 
word. The overtures from the patron were renewed, and were 
accompanied by the smiles of his daughter. Falconer looked upon 
Jessie with anger, perhaps with abhorrence,--she stood in the way of 
his fortune. The old love smiled again, and forgetting that now the 
smile came too late, he yielded to the intoxication of his original 
passion, threw himself at her feet, and became, even with her 
father's consent, an accepted lover. The state of his mind can be now 
better imagined than described; love, avarice, and ambition together, 
as well as a consciousness that he had involved himself beyond all 
retreat, urged him to persevere in a suit both dishonourable and 
criminal; and Jessie was now thought of only to be hated. Months 
passed by, and the jest of the frolic was over; yet the marriage was 
not divulged; the young bride begged to disclose the secret, and 
every entreaty filled him with new alarm and anger; until the 
accidental death of the regimental chaplain by whom they had been 
united, and the previous decease of the only witnesses to the 
ceremony, put him upon a scheme for relieving himself from his bonds 
worthy rather of a fiend than a human being. His witnesses were two 
soldiers of his company, whom he had bribed to silence so liberally, 
that they quarrelled together in their cups, and fought, and that 
with such fury, that one was killed on the spot, and the other died 
before he could be brought to a trial. The chaplain was drowned five 
months after in attempting to cross a flooded river. There remained 
therefore no witness of the union, and the only testimony remaining, 
to wit, the certificate signed by the unfortunate chaplain, was 
already in Falconer's hands. Opportunity--the devil that seduces 
beyond all other fiends--destroyed every vestige of honour and 
humanity in his bosom; he fled from his betrayed wife, leaving her to 
believe that the ceremony of marriage between them had been only a 
brutal mockery, contrived by a villain for her ruin. He left her to 
believe this, to madden, and to die; and before she had drawn her 
last sigh,--nay, upon the morning of that dreadful midnight that saw 
her expire,--he had yielded to the fate he had encouraged, and taken 
a second wife to his bosom.

"I lived, I prospered," he cried, when he had brought his dark 
confession to a close; "and two fair infants sat upon my knee; but 
their looks were curses to me--their birth was _infamous_; and I 
myself, though men knew it not, was in the eye of God and the law, a 
_felon_!--Now, Hyland, son of the wronged Jessie, I have defended 
your mother's memory; but I am not less a villain. Expose me to the 
world, curse me, for I deserve it--yes!" he added, with wildness, and 
even falling upon his knees before the horror-struck son,--"expose me 
and curse me, but have pity upon my child,--have mercy upon your 
sister,--the sister of the brother you slew,--my poor, wretched, 
dishonoured Harriet."

"God forgive you, sir," said Hyland, with tears. "Leave me--I cannot 
call you _father_: but I will not disgrace your daughter. No, I will 
not--but my mother----And she _was_ my mother then?--my mother's name 
must rest no longer in infamy. Go, sir; I forgive you--that is, I 
will not upbraid you; but I cannot, I cannot call you father. I am
innocent of Henry's--of my brother's death----Yes, I will call him 
brother, for surely _he_ never wronged my poor mother. Take this much 
comfort--_my_ hand never fired the pistol that killed him; and, 
whether I live or die, it will soon be seen that I am innocent of his 
blood."

"God grant it," said Colonel Falconer, but with an accent showing how 
vaguely the thought of Henry now sat on his bosom. "God grant 
it--but--hark! what is that? They cry again! It is the descent of the 
jury! Oh Heaven, I am punished indeed for that act of baseness! 
Farewell, my son: I do not ask you for forgiveness--but touch my 
hand, grasp my hand but once"----

"I cannot," said Hyland, recoiling with such horror, that the unhappy 
father bowed his head with shame. He then snatched up the light, 
unconscious of what he did, and moved towards the door, as if to 
depart; but a louder cry from the street striking his ear, he again 
turned round, and looked Hyland in the face.

"They are calling for your blood," he said, "but they do not know you 
killed your brother!--What! not touch my hand? Well, it is but 
justice.--I will not trouble you more."

With these words, he turned to depart, still holding the lamp; but 
had scarce moved his foot, before there was heard, at a little 
distance without, the sound, as it seemed, of a rifle, or other small 
arms.

"Oh Heaven! my father!" cried Hyland, starting up, with a voice that 
thrilled Elsie to the brain,--"I have killed my father!"

The lamp fell from Colonel Falconer's hands, and all was in darkness. 
As Hyland rushed to where he had stood, his foot struck against a 
prostrate body; and reaching down, he found his hand slipping in a 
puddle of warm blood.

"Elsie! Elsie!" cried the distracted youth, "a light for God's sake! 
It was meant for _me_, but it has struck my father! Why did I forget? 
Oh, I thought not of my folly.--Help me, Elsie--he groans."

"Enough,--let me lie where I am," said Falconer, with a voice almost 
inaudible. "There is retribution for all."

"Call the jailer!--Quick, jailer, quick!" cried Hyland, as the door 
opened, disclosing the broad and wondering visage of Hanschen: "help 
me to place him upon the bed; and then, oh for God's sake, quick for 
a surgeon!"

But Hanschen answered only by slapping to the door, without uttering 
a word; and making his way as fast as he could towards the cell of 
Sterling, in which was, at that moment, presented a scene of not less 
fearful character than that which had passed before Hyland's eyes.




CHAPTER XIX.

  Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow.
                               KING RICHARD III.


It was not until long after noon of the day of trial that Affidavy 
woke from the stupefaction into which he was plunged by the cup he 
had so craftily qualified; and then it was some time before he could 
summon his recollection, and conceive where he was. He found himself 
in a cell obviously of the prison; for the single window that lighted 
it was strongly grated, and the door fast bolted on the outside. 
There was a bed hard by, in which, as was apparent from its 
condition, some one had passed the night; but who that might have 
been he knew not, no one being now visible. As for himself, he found 
that his couch had been nothing better than the hard floor; and close 
by where he lay, he discovered a pool of coagulated blood. He was 
seized with alarm, and finding the door refuse all egress, he ran to 
the window, and beheld in the yard which it overlooked, a sight that, 
besides filling him with new terror, conveyed an inkling to his mind 
of his true situation and its cause. This was nothing less than the 
dead bodies of two men, lying stiff and gory upon a bench, without 
even a cloth to conceal them from the light of day.

"Botheration, and God bless my soul!" he cried, "I'm a ruined man!"

"Done up,--as clean as a skinned eel," said a voice at his back; and, 
looking round, he beheld his friend, the jailer, enter the cell, with 
a grim smile on his visage, which was not much improved in beauty by 
a red handkerchief, that swathed it round from jaw to top-knot. "Done 
up, Teffy, my boy, as slick as a new bolt. Who'll you have for your 
counsel?--or do you think of pleading your own cause? Ods bobs, you 
can make a good speech;--I always said that for you."

"Counsel!--cause!--speech!" echoed the man of law;--"God bless our 
two souls!"

"Amen,--or e'er a one of 'em," said Lingo, with solemn utterance; 
"for I'm thinking it will go hard with one of us. Howsomever, I'm 
glad to see you in your senses. Sorry you had so hard a bed of it; 
but howsomever, when they hang your client up there, I'll give you 
better quarters. I reckon, it will be imprisonment for life with you; 
though some says, they are to try you on the capital charge of aiding 
and 'betting with the tories, which is clean hanging treason."

"God bless our two souls!" said Affidavy, with an air of wo and 
terror so irresistibly ludicrous, that Lingo, perceiving his 
utterance failed to supply any further expressions, burst into a loud 
laugh, and threw himself on the vacant bed, where he rolled over and 
over, giving way to mirth and triumph together.

"Blarney and ods bobs!" he cried, after he had amused himself awhile 
in this fashion; "and so you thought to come the humbug over _me_, 
old Teff! Ha, ha, ha! I always said you could make a good speech, and 
so you can; but as to pulling straws with Bob Lingo, why I never said 
no such thing, for I won't lie for no man. How did you like the 
cock-tail, with the cherry-bounce and doctor's stuff in it? Ods bobs, 
did you think I could go any such liquor as that? But now you see 
what you've come to,--clean done up, broke, smashed, pounded into 
hominy, and cribbed under lock and key. So much for not playing fair, 
and making honest snacks of the plunder! Where's them seventeen 
guineas in goold? and the note for two thousand more? Oh, you old 
ox-fly! would you have sucked the poor young feller's blood?"

At the mention of these valuables, Affidavy, who stood mute with 
surprise and dismay, clapped his hands into his pockets, first into 
one and then the other, and groaned to find them empty. "You've 
robbed me, Bob Lingo!" he said.

"As clean as ever I curried a horse," said the jailer, betaking 
himself to his own pockets, and displaying both the money and the 
treacherous note, the latter of which he moved before Affidavy's eyes 
with peculiar glee, saying,

"Here's evidence that'll be a smasher; and then the bottle of 
laudanum! Oh, you old Teff," he cried, shaking his fist, but more in 
exultation than anger, "when you mean to p'ison any of your friends, 
don't you go for to get the p'ison the same day; lay it up a month 
before-hand. Ods bobs, if you wasn't as poor as a rat, I'd have an 
action ag'in you on my own account, for an attempt to murder. But, 
ods bobs, I do think now you look like a singed cat,--I do, 
Affidavy!"

Here he burst into another roar, having indulged which, he rose, and 
satisfied with the terror he had inflicted, proceeded very coolly to 
inform the discomfited prisoner that his case was not so bad as he 
thought; that he had not 'blowed him' yet; and that he didn't know 
whether he would, for he was a merciful man in his way. "I smoked 
you, Affidavy," said he, "as soon as I heard you talk of _your_ 
client, and saw you show that 'ere guinea,--'specially when you fell 
so much in love with me of a sudden, and with the jail here. I sent 
Hans after you, and he saw you ride out on the prisoner's horse; and, 
ods bobs, I thought of sending some so'diers to dog after you; but 
they was all out in the bushes already. Then I went to the doctor's 
shop, to get some laudanum for an aching tooth, and said he, 'Vy 
there's Affidafy has peen pying laudanum for an aching tooth, 
too!'--Oho! said I; and then, old boy, I was ready for you. And you 
see the end! while you was lying snorting here like a corn-fed pig, 
we was knocking the tories on the head at the yard-gate. And then we 
had the coroner on 'em, and you no wiser; and the magistrates and all 
the town inquiring into the fuss, and you no wiser; and there, 
indeed, there's your client, poor fellow, they're trying in court as 
hard as they can, the evidence all over, the speeches half done, and 
still, Affidavy, my boy, you no wiser. Ha, ha! I do think you look 
like an apple-dumpling that's tumbled out of the pot, and staring up 
out of the ashes!"

"Well, Bob," said Affidavy, with an attempt at a laugh, that ended in 
a groan, "I knock under to you: you've beat me hollow. But now, if 
you please, and with many thanks to you for not blabbing, I'll take 
that wallet, and the guineas; and as for the silver, why I don't care 
if you keep it."

"No, I reckon not," said Lingo, with a grin. "But, I'm thinking, 
you'll just take the silver yourself, and be thankful I let you off 
so easy. What, man, do you suppose I'll run the risk of defending you 
from a prosecution--a criminal prosecution, d'ye see--by holding my 
tongue, for nothing? Don't go to be such a fool."

"Well then," said Theophilus, with a groan, "do as you like, and let 
me out."

"Not so fast, neither," said Lingo; and then added, with a nod of the 
head, "I reckon there's more of the shiners where these come from?"

"Well," said Affidavy, "what then?"

"Why then," said Lingo, "I don't care if I run a risk with you, and 
go snacks."

"Will you?" said Affidavy. "Then, ehem, humph!--You know what I mean; 
and there's a thousand a-piece on that note!"

"The ready, old boy, the ready! hang all your paper promises; I go 
for the ready."

"Well then, let me out, and I'll state the case to one we know of. 
But, I fear, the ready's not to be had--We'll take a second note of 
the prisoner."

"Ods bobs! are you there with your notes still? Now if you come to 
that, I reckon I can do all that without assistance, and no snacks 
neither. And so good by to you."

With that the jailer, giving the attorney another nod, flung out of 
the cell, taking good care, however, to lock the door behind him; 
leaving Affidavy to suspect, as he did, that Lingo was resolved to 
manage the case, and reap the harvest, on his own account.

"Oh the villain!" sighed the disconsolate attorney. "But I'll be even 
with him yet. Let me see--hum--good! the rascal is already 
implicated, having concealed my--faugh! So he will not dare to accuse 
me now. Well, I'll see through it by and by. That cursed laudanum! I 
do think it has turned my brain into a dough-cake--Very well--Was 
there ever such an ass!--That I should let such a jolterhead get the 
upper hand of me!--I wonder what's the matter with my ribs!--Nothing 
to drink!--no, botheration, nor to eat, neither.--Very well, Bob 
Lingo; I'll remember you."

He then sought to relieve the perplexity of his mind by walking 
about; but the excessive and unnatural debauch had bereft him of 
strength, so that he was soon compelled to sit down upon the bed, 
where he found the stupor, which had not yet entirely deserted his 
faculties, returning and growing upon him, in spite of all his 
efforts to resist it. In a word, he became again very drowsy, and 
fearing lest some additional evil should befall him if caught again 
napping, he rose up and looked from the window, to divert his mind 
from its lethargy. He saw, from the ruddy hue of the sunshine on the 
neighbouring roofs, and the golden tinge of the floating clouds, that 
the day was already declining; by which he perceived how long he had 
already slept, and wondered that, after such a siege of slumber, he 
should so soon feel any inclination to sleep again. But, while he 
wondered, he found the clouds and house-tops blending their outlines 
together on his vision, while the hum of the village grew confused in 
his ear. He stalked about again, then again sat down on the bed; 
when, fearing lest that should seduce him into slumber, and being 
incapable of remaining longer upon his feet, he betook himself to a 
corner, where he sat down on the floor, pursuing his meditations; and 
there, after much nodding, musing, and scratching of head, he fell, 
in spite of all efforts to the contrary, fast asleep.

He slept long and soundly; and the shadows of night had been long 
gathered over the earth, before certain sounds in the narrow 
apartment, mingling with his dreams, imparted to them the horrors of 
nightmare, and then suddenly dispelled them. He was awakened by a 
human groan, hollow and sepulchral, but so loud that he deemed it was 
breathed just at his ear; and looking up, he beheld a spectacle that 
caused his hair to bristle with terror. It was, as he perceived, dark 
night; but a lamp, standing upon a little table near the bed, poured 
a dim and ghastly light over the cell, sufficient to reveal the few 
objects it contained. Upon the bed sat a tall man, in his night-gear, 
with a visage of death-like hue, and eyes staring out of his head, 
which he rolled now to the right hand and now to the left, as if 
gazing upon objects invisible to the attorney; although Affidavy was 
accustomed to declare afterwards, when good cheer made him 
communicative, that he distinctly saw at the right hand of the sick 
man, and not fifteen feet from himself, a figure as of a man swathed 
in a bloody sheet, that stood gazing the other in the face, and 
gradually melted into the obscurity, as he himself surveyed it more 
intently. Be that as it may, there was enough of the ghostly and 
terrific in the appearance and expressions of the sick man, to keep 
the attorney cowering with fear in his corner, without any addition 
of horrors from the world of spirits; and accordingly, Affidavy sat 
looking on and listening, without the power to move, or even to rise.

The sick man continued to roll his eyes, occasionally uttering deep 
groans, and now and then muttering expressions that showed the horror 
of his mind, without, at first, clearly disclosing the cause.

"Ay, wave your hand," he heard him say, as if addressing some phantom 
revealed only to his own senses; "wave your hand, and point to the 
bloody throat: it was well aimed, boy, well aimed, and it was well 
done. I care not for _you_: it is the other that moves me; for him I 
killed with a lie, and there he sits smiling! His face is black and 
swollen, yet he smiles; his arms are bound behind, yet he smiles; a 
rope is round his neck, yet he smiles.--Ay, smile, boy, smile! that 
smile is heavier on my heart than the frown of the soldier!--A smile! 
men would call that poor revenge; but we, boy, ha, ha! we know 
better!"

He then fell back upon the bed, and lay for a moment quiet; so that 
Affidavy had leisure to recall his spirits, and penetrate the 
mystery, which had at first so deeply appalled him. His first thought 
was, that he was enclosed with some wounded refugee, captured in the 
toils to which he himself had unwittingly brought him; but 
remembering presently that he had seen two bodies stretched in the 
yard below, and had good reason, from Lingo's expressions, to believe 
the third man had made his escape, he perceived that this must be 
some prisoner of an earlier date; and he knew that, the night before, 
there were but three in Lingo's charge. With the person of the 
unfortunate Hyland he was already well acquainted, and Dancy Parkins 
was, it might be said, his old acquaintance. His thoughts reverted 
immediately to Sterling, whom he had never seen; and he remembered, 
at the same time, that Lingo had hinted to him the ease with which he 
might weaken this man's testimony, if that were desirable, by 
convicting him of insanity. "Oho, the dog, Lingo!" said he to 
himself; "he has shut me up with a madman then? Now, if he should be 
dangerous, God bless our two souls!--Ha! there, he's rising again! 
God bless our two souls!"

"They are gone then?" muttered the wretch, in whose sunken features, 
hollow voice, and altered spirit, one would with difficulty have 
recognised the humorous, bold, and reckless adventurer; "they are 
gone; but it will not be long. Hah!" he added, fixing his eye, with a 
fearful stare, upon the vacant wall, "you come again, and frowning! 
Yet I fear not: other men have shed blood, and lived happy. It is not 
for you, but for the other--him that lies across my feet smiling! 
Hah, what!" he screamed, rather than said, as his eye, wandering 
towards the foot of the bed, suddenly fell upon the figure of 
Affidavy, in his corner, now cowering low with terror, "are there 
_three_? Devil! you lie!" he exclaimed, leaping out of bed, "there 
were but two--him that I shot, and him that I killed with false 
witness. Ha, ha, ha! these are juggling fiends! devils of 
legerdemain! that make a man worse than he is! You look me in the 
face--Well! I look back:--do you think to fright me? Look at me then, 
and say, if you dare, that _I_ hurt you!"

And with these words, he advanced towards Affidavy, who now perceived 
that his right arm was swathed in bandages across his breast, as if 
maimed by some injury. But his left hand he brandished with menacing 
gesticulation, and his countenance was covered with a ghastly frown; 
so that Affidavy feared nothing less than that he should be 
immediately torn to pieces. From this apprehension, which deprived 
him of the power of raising a finger in self-defence, he was relieved 
by the sudden appearance of the jailer, who, entering the cell with 
an oath, seized upon the madman, and shook him with violence, until 
he groaned with pain, suffering himself to be pushed back upon the 
bed.

"I'll have the law of you, Bob Lingo!" said the attorney, starting up 
from an ecstasy of fear to lanch into a tumult of rage; "I'll have 
the law of you, you villain! and what's more, I'll chouse you out of 
your fees and bribes,--your cheating and tampering with the prisoner, 
Hyland Gilbert: he's an innocent man, you rascal, and you know it! 
and here's this man Sterling has avowed the murder himself."

"Ods bobs!" said Lingo, "what do you mean?"

"I mean what I say," cried Affidavy, whom rage, the desire of 
requiting upon Lingo some of the disappointments he had himself 
endured, and a sudden prospect that seemed to open on him of 
retrieving his lost fortune, had restored to the possession of his 
faculties. "I mean, that my client, Hyland Gilbert, whom you cheated 
out of my services, is an innocent man; and that there lies the true 
criminal. He has confessed the whole matter; murder and 
perjury--murder and perjury, you villain! do you hear that? and I'll 
make him depose the particulars, you cheating, covetous, conniving 
rapscallion! and so chouse you out of all your expected fees, you 
rascal! botheration, I will!--Harkee, you Sterling!" he said, now 
advancing boldly towards the object of his late fears, "you've 
blabbed all, and so you may as well confess at once. I overheard all 
you said; and my testimony will settle the matter; so, for the good 
of your soul, confess. You're a dying man; the devil's as good as got 
you already--you'll not last a day longer; so confess, confess, and 
don't damn yourself for ever, by hanging an innocent man. What! do 
you pretend to deny it?" he continued, adopting a course of 
persuasion founded on what he had witnessed of the prisoner's 
hallucinations--"do you see that young man there, with the bloody 
throat, frowning? Look--I know him well--it is young Harry Falconer!"

"Ay," said Sterling, rolling his eyes to the wall; "but where is the 
other?"

"Why, they are hanging him; and all because you swore falsely against 
him."

"Is he alive yet?" muttered Sterling; "I thought he was dead. Send me 
a priest, and I'll confess."

"A priest! A magistrate, you mean."

"It is all one--I am a dying man; there is something wrong 
here,--_here_," he murmured, striking his forehead. "I will do 
reparation--ask me what you will; but drive Henry Falconer out of the 
room; ay, and take that young Hawk off my feet--he chills them to the 
marrow."

"It was _your_ pistol killed Henry Falconer?" cried the lawyer.

"Ay; I shot him over Gilbert's shoulder. I fired at both; either 
would have served me. But who was the _third_ one? Old Falconer did 
not die!"

"A justice of the peace, Lingo! do you hear?" said Affidavy, grinning 
with triumph. "I reckon I'll sort you, you covetous, cheating dog!"

"Come, squire, don't be mad," whispered the jailer, with two or three 
significant winks: "We'll go snacks yet."

"What, you rascal, do you think to bribe me to keep silence? Oho! you 
cormorant, I've got the play now in my own hands; and we _won't_ go 
snacks: I work on my own foundation. You've heard the man's words 
here; deny them if you can. Send for a squire, or refuse at your 
peril: I'll bawl out the window, and raise the town."

"There's no need of being contractious," said Lingo, coolly. "I sent 
Hanschen for old Squire Leger an hour ago; for I reckon I was a 
leetle before you! The man asked for him of his own accord, while you 
was a snoozing in the corner; for it's a gone case with him, and he 
knows it."

The lawyer was petrified at this announcement; it was a new and 
mortal disappointment; for he designed to make profitable use to 
himself of his discovery; and to complete his confusion, the door was 
opened at that moment, and Hanschen entered, ushering in the worthy 
Schlachtenschlager, whom he had lighted upon by accident, after 
searching in vain for the other magistrate, after whom he had been 
sent an hour before. The attorney groaned; with one hand he grasped 
the Squire's extended palm, and the other he shook in the face of 
Lingo, who grinned, and winked, and nodded at him, with the most 
provoking good-humour. But Affidavy was not a man to be disheartened 
even in such an extremity; he no longer dreaded an exposure of his 
extra-professional services on the prisoner's behalf; and he 
perceived that there was still a field, although a narrow one, on 
which to display his zeal. Trusting therefore to his skill to make 
his client sensible of the full merit of his labour, he addressed 
himself to the task of shriving the discovered felon, with a tact and 
sagacity that were soon perceived to be as useful as they were really 
indispensable.

It was found that Sterling was in a very critical state, his bodily 
powers being completely wrecked, and his mind so much unhinged that 
he could scarce answer two consecutive questions without wandering. 
The causes that had brought him to this condition it was not easy to 
imagine, unless by supposing he had received some fatal internal 
injury during his struggle with Oran Gilbert; or by referring all at 
once to the horror of mind with which, it seemed, he had been 
affected from the moment he felt himself a homicide. A homicide he 
was, as was soon made apparent; for being led on and assisted by the 
questions of Affidavy, he confessed, without any reluctance or 
attempt at equivocation, that he had sworn falsely in regard to the 
exchange of pistols betwixt himself and Hyland, such exchange never 
having taken place; and that he, and no other, had shot the pistol 
that killed young Falconer. The reasons for this act were but 
imperfectly developed; and the strongest seemed to be a bitter hatred 
he had conceived against the deceased, in consequence of an indignity 
offered him long since in the theatre, from which he had been hissed, 
chiefly through Falconer's instrumentality. Such a cause for 
vengeance may be understood by those who remember the rivers of blood 
poured out at Lyons, ten years after, to satiate the rankling fury of 
a Collot d'Herbois. It will be remembered in what manner he 
volunteered, while in the swamp with Oran Gilbert, to take the life 
of this unlucky youth; as well as the attempt he made upon it the 
following night, in the park, when he discovered him struggling with 
Hyland. It appeared, besides, that after having rendered himself into 
the hands of the pursuers, and confessed his true name and character, 
the reckless lieutenant pursued him with divers jests and jeers, 
which were the more intolerable that his quarrel with the Gilberts 
had left his mind in a state of furious passion; and an additional 
incentive was offered by the scuffle between the two rivals, in which 
any execution of vengeance would be so readily imputed to accident, 
if traced to him at all. He succeeded beyond his expectations; the 
object of his hatred lay a corpse before him--but from that moment 
Sterling was another and a changed man. His mind was filled with 
horror--not remorse, for to the last he testified nothing like 
penitence--but with a nameless and oppressive dread, which was 
increased tenfold by the reflection that this act had, or would in 
the end, deprive a second fellow being of life, that second being the 
unfortunate youth whom an extraordinary accident had imbued with a 
belief that he was himself the murderer. Hence the singular turn of 
his testimony, and his attempt to throw a doubt upon the prisoner's 
guilt; until the sudden discovery of the damaged pistol struck him 
with a fear, until then unfelt, for his own safety. He dreaded lest 
his own weapons, which had been taken from him immediately after the 
catastrophe, and from which, in the agitation of his spirits, he had 
forgotten to remove the evidences of guilt, should be examined, and 
thus suspicion diverted upon himself. To prevent this, he invented 
the falsehood concerning the exchange, and thus screened himself from 
suspicion, at the expense of a second act of murder. But from that 
moment his horror became insupportable; and after struggling with it 
in vain, and becoming persuaded that his own fate was drawing nigh, 
he summoned Lingo, made a deliberate confession of his villany, and 
desired that his deposition might be taken, before his madness, of 
whose approaches he seemed conscious, should render reparation 
impossible.

It was now taken, and with difficulty, but it was conclusive; and so 
intent became all present upon the strange and impressive story, and, 
after it was concluded, so eager were all to confirm it by inducing 
repetitions of the most important circumstances, that even the sudden 
sound of fire-arms on the square, followed by the outcries in 
Hyland's cell, were unheard and unnoticed, until Hanschen suddenly 
rushed among them, with the intelligence, as he expressed it, 'that 
there fas murdter going on in the Hawk's room.'

All started up, leaving Sterling to rave, perhaps to die, alone, and 
made their way to the prisoner's apartment, where Colonel Falconer 
was found weltering in blood in the arms of Elsie and his son, a 
rifle-bullet having penetrated his side, and lodged in the body; and 
it was soon gathered, from the remorseful expressions of Hyland, that 
it had been shot by a refugee--the last act of friendship that could 
be rendered to a helpless and hopeless comrade.

"It was shot by Oran Gilbert," said Elsie Bell, "for there is none 
left but him! Yes, Richard Falconer, I said it would come sooner or 
later! It is well for you, too,--you will not see the death of your 
son's murderer!"

"He is innocent!" said Affidavy, snatching at his client's hand. 
"Botheration, my boy, we've found the true murderer! He has 
confessed, and you are an innocent man. The pistol was shot by 
Sterling! We'll clear you, or secure a free pardon."

"By Sterling!" murmured Colonel Falconer. "Then, oh heaven! then is 
my son guiltless of his brother's blood!"

"I am, father, I am!" said Hyland; "but, wretch that I am, my madness 
and folly have killed my father!"

"I die content.--I will do you justice, my son--I am not so faint as 
before--They shall carry me to--to--I forget--it is no matter--Well, 
well"--

With these words he fell into a swoon, in which he was at first 
esteemed dead; but a surgeon having been sent for, and now entering 
the cell, he declared, upon a hasty inspection of the wound, that it 
was by no means mortal, and that there was every reason to 
prognosticate a speedy recovery. The sufferer was then carried to the 
inn, and put to bed; but with no such assurances of life as had been 
pronounced in the prison. A consultation was called, the result of 
which was a more rational declaration, that his days were already 
numbered.




CHAPTER XX.

  Farewell ye dungeons dark and strong,
    The wretch's destiny;
  M'Pherson's time will not be long
    On yonder gallows-tree.
                         M'PHERSON'S FAREWELL.


The singular discovery of Hyland's innocence was long before morning 
bruited over the village, and besides exciting a double interest in 
his fate, produced no little curiosity in regard to the movements of 
the jury, who were still deliberating over the charge, as well as to 
the course to be pursued by the court, in such a strange conjuncture 
of circumstances.

Expectation was not, however, kept long at stretch. An early and 
formal representation of the discovery being made by the prisoner's 
counsel to the presiding judge, the court was straightway convened, 
and the jury ordered to be recalled, for the purpose of receiving the 
new testimony. This, consisting of Sterling's deposition and the 
evidence of witnesses as to its authenticity, it may be supposed, was 
sufficient to terminate their deliberations in a moment. Had the 
confession been made at a later period, it would undoubtedly have 
saved the prisoner's life; but it occurred at a time to save his good 
name,--to save it, at least, from the reproach, which, however 
undeserved, must ever follow upon even unjust conviction. His true 
story and character, and, in fact, his real parentage, were now 
becoming generally known; new friends, as well as many an old one, 
were labouring in his service, and all were desirous to see the end 
of a prosecution, that had caused him so much unmerited suffering. 
The trial was therefore despatched without difficulty; the evidence 
was given; a few brief and impressive words, indicative of their 
gratification at the defendant's happy escape from his difficulties, 
and their own from a share in wrong-doing, were pronounced by the 
bench; after which the whole matter was submitted to the jury, who, 
without leaving their seats, immediately returned a verdict of 
acquittal. The defendant was then discharged, in the ordinary way, by 
proclamation, and shed tears of genuine transport to find himself 
released from the ignominy that had before, as strongly almost as his 
remorse, crushed him to the earth. He had scarce stepped from the bar 
before he found himself in the arms of Captain Loring, who hugged and 
blubbered, and swore 'adzooks, he always thought him an honest 
fellow, for all of their talking; and adzooks, it was no wonder he 
loved him, since he was of his own blood and bone, though he didn't 
like his having so much Gilbert blood in him; and if he had only told 
him as much before, it would have been much better for him, and, 
adzooks, for his poor Kate, and, adzooks, for the picture!'

At the bed-side of the dying Falconer he found his father's daughter. 
His sister!--With what strange and contradictory emotions he received 
the hand of the being, to whose unhappy hostility he owed the long 
series of sufferings and indignities that had brought him almost to 
the grave. And she,--with what feelings she must have herself seen in 
the object of her greatest hate, one to whom nature had given the 
strongest claims on her love. But the place in which they met called 
for other than selfish emotions: it was at the death-bed of their 
common parent.

It is not our design to pursue further in detail the history of this 
unfortunate man. The bullet of Oran Gilbert (for it was now known 
that the shot could have been fired by no other, all the members of 
his band having been either killed or captured,) had been well aimed, 
though he who fired it deemed it was speeded against the breast of 
his own brother. The better victim lingered but a few days, and then 
expired; so that the same grave which received his unlucky son closed 
over the guilt and sorrow of the parent. He lived long enough to 
remove the veil of shame from the sepulchre of the betrayed wife, and 
to do her reparation in the person of her son; but it was, as he had 
before declared, at the expense of his daughter. She never more 
lifted up her head. A sense of her parent's baseness, and the 
disgrace now attached to her own origin, with perhaps the bitter 
consciousness that her cruel design upon the happiness of her friend 
had caused the ruin that surrounded her, weighed her to the earth; 
and two years after her father's death, she was herself borne to the 
grave, the last victim of the retribution which so often visits the 
sins of the father upon the heads of his children.

It remains but to reveal the fate of two other prominent persons in 
the story, before exchanging the gloom pervading the last act of the 
tragedy, for the sunshine that should mark the close.

The prisoner Sterling, notwithstanding his own expectations of a 
speedy dissolution, lingered a full month before he expired; and in 
all that time displayed the workings of the hallucination which had 
been the consequence of his crime. He saw before him continually--for 
day and night were now alike to him--the ghastly figure of young 
Falconer, frowning at his bed-side; and frequently the phantom of the 
elder brother was added, in imagination, to the terrors of the other. 
He died in this fearful frame of mind; and thus carried to the 
after-tribunal the guilt which escaped the punishment of man.

The fate of Oran Gilbert remained for many months wrapped in 
obscurity. He must have fired the shot that struck a bosom he had so 
often coveted to pierce, from the open square behind the prison; yet 
he effected his escape from the village without pursuit and almost 
without observation, the discharge of the rifle having excited but 
little notice at a moment when all the crowded throngs in the streets 
were rushing towards the court. The alarm, however, being soon given, 
many men armed themselves and started in pursuit, though without any 
knowledge of the direction in which he had fled, and, indeed, without 
at first being aware whom they followed. The first traces of him were 
discovered in the Hollow, at Elsie Bell's cottage, which it seems he 
had entered before day, and there rested for awhile, to the great 
terror of the little negro girl Margery, who was at that time the 
only inmate of the hovel, and to whom he appeared little short of a 
demon, his countenance being wild and dreadful, and his words and 
actions, at least in her opinion, distracted. It was from the 
circumstances developed here, that the pursuers found they were upon 
the track of Oran Gilbert himself, now deprived of all followers, and 
flying with the dreadful persuasion at his spirit, that his hand had 
slain the last of his father's children.

It appeared from little Margery's account, that, after wildly 
searching the house over, he asked for Elsie, and being told she was 
in the village, sat down upon a chair, whence the girl soon saw blood 
fall upon the floor; and, in fact, upon examination, it was found 
that a considerable quantity of gore still lay by the chair on which 
he had rested. He then called for water, and a napkin, the latter of 
which he put upon his right side, securing it under a leathern belt; 
after which he drank freely of the water, and going into Elsie's 
private apartment, he took from the wall a little sampler, a relic, 
as it appeared, of his deceased sister, tore it to pieces, and 
scattered it over the floor. He then proceeded to the chamber so long 
inhabited by Hyland, where finding many little sketches, and other 
neglected scraps, he destroyed them in like manner. After this, he 
descended to the room below, took up his gun, which he charged with 
great care, and hunted about until he had found a strong and 
sharp-pointed knife, which he stuck in his belt; and then, drinking 
again from the pitcher, he left the hovel, without uttering a single 
word, and Margery heard him ride away, apparently towards the 
mountain.

This was enough for the pursuers, whose numbers had been increased by 
volunteers along the way; and they instantly resumed the road, though 
with no great hope of coming up with the fugitive, who had foiled 
them so many times already. They knew, however, that the land was 
full of parties still in search of him, none of which had perhaps 
been so close upon his track as themselves. They were also inspired 
by a discovery that was made when they came to examine the marks of 
his horse's feet in the moist earth bordering the runlet in the 
oak-yard, and this was, that the animal had cast a shoe; for which 
reason, they supposed, the rider would be soon compelled to abandon 
him, and seek shelter in some fast place among the woods, where he 
might be surrounded, and perhaps taken alive. They rode on therefore 
with new spirit, and coming at an early hour in the morning upon the 
river bank, led by the tracks of his horse, which did not seem once 
to have left the road, they descried him, or at least a horseman they 
supposed to be him, riding along the bluff, at a slow gait, 
indicative of the daring or recklessness of his character.

He rode a black horse, apparently of great native strength and 
spirit; but, it was now obvious, the animal had been of late taxed 
severely, and beyond his powers; for which reason, it was not 
doubted, the fugitive could be overtaken, before he reached the 
mountain, which was still distant three or four miles. The party 
proclaimed their discovery and their hopes, by setting up a great 
shout. At this, to their surprise, the refugee checked his wearied 
steed, and turned round, as if for the purpose of making battle,--a 
display of audacity and resolution that went far to cool the ardour 
of many who had been, a moment before, the bravest of the whole 
party. They saw him fling the rifle he carried into the hollow of his 
left arm, and then, with his right hand, remove from his visage the 
long locks of black hair that had, a moment before, swung wildly in 
the wind; and they fancied they beheld, even at the distance which 
separated them from him, a smile writhing over his pallid features, 
like that of the panther at bay.

"Well done, old Oran the 'Awk!" cried one of the party, taking a long 
rifle from his shoulder, and advancing to the head of the others, who 
had come to an universal halt. He was a man of middle age, with a 
face as bleak and weather-worn as the rocks at the river's edge, tall 
and gaunt of frame, but sinewy, and of a certain bully-like look 
about the fists and eyes, that showed him to be no inconsiderable man 
in his degree. "Well done, old Oran the 'Awk!" he cried; "I up'old 
you to be game, chock-full; and so, if you're for a pull ag'in 
current, why, I'm clear for showing fair play. So men, just 'old by, 
like honest fellers; and, my logs 'gin' his, I'll show him what long 
shots is; for he and me was good friends of old."

"Go it, Dan Potts, the raftsman!" cried several of his companions, 
handling their own arms, as if to try their virtues at a distance, 
while others cried out, to advance in a body without further delay, 
but set no example themselves, the appearance of the outlaw being 
uninviting to all save the bold raftsman, who continued to move 
onwards, though slowly and cautiously, as if well aware of the danger 
of a personal contest with one who had been, as he said, his good 
friend in old times. But the refugee, without regarding the challenge 
of the raftsman, took advantage of the hesitation of his companions 
to change his own plans, and by suddenly turning his horse and 
spurring off with unexpected speed, he gained a considerable space 
before they could recover from their surprise and follow. They darted 
after him, however, with what activity they could; and cheering one 
another with their voices, they rode on at such a pace that, in a few 
moments, the whole party was sweeping betwixt the yawning jaws of the 
Gap, up the course of which he directed his flight.

The mountain is here perhaps two thousand feet or more, in elevation. 
Its course is oblique to the river, which itself is bent and twisted 
out of its path by the irregular protrusion and retrogression of 
cliffs and promontories. The right bank of the river, looking to the 
east, is fenced by a dizzy and inaccessible wall of crags; while the 
mountain on the other side, presenting a similar wall to the south, 
dips down, westward, to the water in an angle more practicable to 
human daring, though the whole declivity is covered over with loose 
rocks, the remnants of some stony avalanche, tumbled from pinnacles 
above by the same convulsion that thrust the mountain from the bowels 
of the earth, or shivered it, already uprisen, asunder. A few 
withered hemlocks are here and there seen springing from between 
these disjointed fragments, which are, in other places, veiled by 
patches of flowering-raspberry, alder, and other shrubs; though, in 
general, the eye reposes on rocks entirely bald and naked, or, at 
best, tufted with mosses, lichens, and ferns. It presents a scene of 
dreary sterility and gloom; but its savage wildness can be only 
appreciated by those who clamber up to its summit over those loose 
and ever-precarious rocks, which afford the only footing.

Into the gorge bounded by these frowning limits the refugee was seen 
to urge his steed; when suddenly, to the amazement of the pursuers, 
he turned from the road, dashed through a wall of rosebays that 
hedged it in, and the next moment plunged into the river, swimming 
his horse right towards the opposite mountain. The cause of this 
extraordinary step was soon perceived; for the next instant a troop 
of horse in the continental uniform, came dashing down the Gap, 
uttering a wild hurrah, that made the rocks ring. It was one of the 
many parties of military by whom all the passes of the county were 
guarded; and it seemed the fugitive had rushed almost amongst them, 
before he discovered their presence. Nothing remained for him, thus 
checked in front, and retreat cut off behind, but to fling himself 
into the river, and seek refuge among the dens of the eastern 
mountain; and this he attempted, though the chances were ten to one 
that he should be shot from his horse, before he reached the opposite 
bank. In fact, he had scarce swum beyond the middle of the stream, 
before the two parties rushed to the water's edge and let fly a 
volley, which, had it not been fired almost altogether from pistols, 
must have brought his flight to a bloody close. The water was seen 
bubbling around him, as the bullets pattered like rain-drops over its 
surface; but he still swam on, as if unhurt, and some dozen or more 
of the boldest riders present spurred their horses into the river to 
follow.

"Well done, old Oran the 'Awk!" cried Dan Potts, waving over his head 
the long rifle he had not thought fit yet to discharge; "it's agin my 
conscience to shoot an old friend in the back, 'specially when 
there's no tree to cover him."

"Bang away, Dan Potts," cried others; "shoot, for the honour of the 
county."

"The county be d----d," said Dan Potts; "I shoots from my own raft." 
And with that, he raised his weapon, and taking deadly aim right 
betwixt the refugee's shoulders, drew the trigger. But at that 
moment, the horse, which had until now breasted his way gallantly 
through the deep water, flung himself aloft in terror or in agony, 
and rolling backwards, plunged his rider into the water, so that he 
escaped the shot entirely, as perhaps the animal did also, though 
that could never be known with certainty.

"I swog! and may I wreck my next raft on the Foul Rift, if I didn't!" 
said Dan Potts, "but I hit the 'oss on the 'ead, and cuss the bit of 
his master! Neversomever, I'll try for a spell ag'in, and the next'll 
be a right-down rusty!"

With these words he spurred his horse into the river, with which his 
employment as a raftsman had doubtless made him familiar; for, 
whether it proceeded from this circumstance, or some other advantage 
he possessed over the others, he was soon at the head of the 
swimmers, and leading the pursuit.

In the meanwhile, Oran Gilbert was seen to spring erect on his 
horse's back; but the animal never raised his head again from the 
water, and Oran, abandoning him entirely, trusted to his own courage 
and strength of arm to reach the rocks that were now close at hand. 
In this attempt he succeeded. He was seen to issue from the water, 
and aim his rifle, which he still retained, at the advancing Potts.

"Try it ag'in, old 'Awk!" roared Dan, as he saw the imperfect flash 
expire, without being followed by any explosion; "try it ag'in, old 
boy; or out knife and be ready!"

The only answer the tory deigned the bravado was, to fling his now 
unserviceable and burdensome piece into the river, and then rush up 
the mountain with all his speed. He was soon lost sight of among the 
rocks and bushes; a piece of good fortune which he owed to a simple 
expedient. As he clambered up, he took care to spurn from its 
lodgment every stone that shook under his foot, which rolling down 
the declivity, became a source of extreme confusion and peril to the 
pursuers, (as such are indeed yet to the laggards in a mere party of 
pleasure,) who were thus forced to loiter in the ascent, after having 
previously lost some time in securing their horses at the bottom of 
the hill, until there remained little hopes of overtaking him. The 
raftsman was the only individual who, in this conjuncture, was able 
to proceed with any spirit. He pressed upward, dodging the descending 
rocks with infinite address and agility, and was soon lost sight of; 
until, finally, even his voice, with which he continued to cheer the 
others, was no longer heard.

The mountain was, however, climbed at last; but the refugee had 
vanished. The only practicable path conducts you to the summit of the 
hill along the edge of the southern precipices; and the last step is 
from a shelf that overhangs the wooded abyss below, whence, peeping 
over the brink of the cliffs at their most tremendous height, the eye 
looks over many a league of blue hill and misty hollow, of living 
wood and winding river,--a scene whose loveliness is made more 
impressive by contrast with the savage desolation that reigns around 
the point of view. A broad table of stone, shelving downwards, and in 
part overhanging the abyss, lies like a parapet upon the extreme 
brink of the precipice; and it is from this, lying upon his breast, 
clinging with foot and hand to its crevices and the stunted bushes 
that grow upon its surface, and advancing his head beyond the naked 
verge, that the adventurous spectator looks down into the dizzy gulf 
below,--if he have indeed the courage to look.

Upon this platform the raftsman was found reposing, his elbows 
resting upon the parapet stone, and his countenance betraying wonder 
mingled with perplexity. Upon being asked what had become of the 
fugitive, he pointed to certain marks of fresh blood that lay on the 
stones where he stood, hard-by the parapet, which was itself dabbled 
with blood; and, in addition, the black lichens with which it was 
overgrown, were torn up, as by the struggles of some human being 
sliding down its inclined surface towards the horrible abyss beneath; 
and a shrub springing from the verge, was snapped off, as if broken 
by a human hand.

"I once," said the raftsman, "chased a two-year buck off this here 
very rock; and I reckon, you may see some of his bones among the 
bushes below. I was hunting with Oran Gilbert; we were boys together; 
and, I remember, he said, 'It was a brave jump for a hard-pushed 
beast, and a wise one, too.' Now let any man run his nose over the 
rock's edge, and tell me what he sees swinging to a bush some fifty 
or sixty fathoms below; for, to my eyes, it has much the look of a 
green hunting-shirt, or a big rag of it. There's a stream of blood 
running up along the rocks, and here's the ending of it. There was 
some old wound bursting out on him afresh, and, to my thought, the 
man was not able to run further; and so he remembered the deer, and 
took a jump;--and I must say, it was a brave fancy of his, and a wise 
one too."

To this conjecture confirmation was given, when one of the party, 
having peered over the rock, declared that he saw the flutter of some 
garment, hanging on a bush many a weary foot below. The stones were 
hunted over again; a track of blood was plainly distinguished, and 
had been remarked before, staining the rocks for some distance below; 
and on this platform it ended. The closest search could not detect 
any mark to show that the fugitive had proceeded a step further; it 
was believed at once, that, having reached this spot, and found 
himself incapable of proceeding further, the pursuers, headed by 
Potts, pressing him close, he had thrown himself from the rocks, 
preferring a death in keeping with his savage career, to falling 
alive into the hands of his foes. There was no other way to account 
for his disappearance, the presence of blood on the parapet, and the 
wave of the garment below; and, indeed, a second, and then a third 
person, looking down, they swore they could see, among the bushes at 
the bottom of the cliffs, something that looked like a human form, as 
they doubted not it was. It was accordingly resolved to descend the 
mountain without delay, which, after uttering a loud shout of triumph 
they did, with the single exception of the raftsman; who, declaring 
himself overcome with fatigue, sat down upon a stone on the platform 
to rest, and was soon lost sight of by the others. As the last man 
left the shelf, he beckoned to him with his hand, nodded his head, 
and took other means to arrest his attention; but these being 
disregarded, or perhaps unperceived, he ceased his signals, and 
muttered half to himself, half aloud,--

"Well done, Tom Wolf; you're no fox, and a man must ha' said, 'Fifty 
guineas!' aloud, to fetch you. But I was a fool to think on't; no 
'alves and no quarters, is my cry; and a man mought as well take the 
money and the credit into his own hands, without sharing; for, I 
reckon, the creatur's clean done up, and can make no more fight than 
a 'possum. Neversomever, there's no varmint of the woods or water can 
stand by him for a trick; and so we'll look sharp, Dan Potts, and see 
what'll come out of it. I reckon I shall make them 'ere fellers 
stare! They say, the governor has offered five hundred dollars for 
him, hard money, dead or alive. Five hundred dollars isn't to be 
made, every day, a-rafting. There's a big hole under that stone; and, 
I remember, he boasted he had been down in it afore; which was like 
enough, for he was always a ventur'ing devil."

It may be gathered from these expressions what cause had prevented 
the raftsman leaving the shelf with his companions. Immediately 
beneath the projecting portion of the table-rock, so often mentioned, 
there is a cavity or niche in the face of the cliff, visible, on a 
clear day, even from the foot of the mountain, and inaccessible from 
the top only because there are few men in the world of sufficient 
nerve to attempt reaching it, by climbing over the face of the 
cliff,--an exploit the very thought of which is appalling. It 
occurred to the ancient comrade of the refugee, that the latter, 
persuaded he must be captured, unless he could throw his pursuers off 
the scent, or delay the chase for a time, might have bethought him of 
the stratagem of causing them to believe he had thrown himself from 
the rocks, while, all the time, he was lying snugly and safely in the 
cavity beneath the shelving rock, from which he might be expected to 
sally out, the moment the pursuers had descended. This was rather a 
conceit in the raftsman's mind than a positive suspicion; but it was 
sufficient to impel him upon a new course of action, a main incentive 
to which was the prospect it seemed to open to him of securing the 
rewards that had been offered for the apprehension of the noted 
outlaw.

He sat down therefore upon a stone opposite to the parapet, and 
scarce twenty feet from it, holding his rifle ready cocked upon his 
knee, his knife loosened in the sheath, and his little hunting-axe 
lying at his feet; and he sat thus without fear, knowing that, even 
if the refugee were armed and in the pride of his strength and 
daring, he could not ascend to the shelf, without being entirely at 
his mercy. He sat in silence, expecting each moment to see the fierce 
eyes of the outcast peering over the rock, or to hear the rattling of 
stones along the face of the cliff, denoting that he had left his 
hiding-place, and was beginning to ascend. He sat watching, however, 
a long time in vain;--and was beginning to believe that his suspicion 
was groundless, and that the desperate Oran had in truth leaped from 
the cliff, when suddenly there rose beyond the verge of the rock the 
apparition of a human head, but so spectral, so pale, so ghastly with 
blood, and so wildly unnatural of expression, that he was seized with 
a sudden fear, and beheld the whole body succeed it, and the refugee 
himself (for it was he) stand erect upon the parapet, before he could 
raise his piece, and charge him to surrender.

"I have you, Oran, old friend!" he said, at last; "so down knife, and 
take quarter. If you move foot or hand, I'll fire upon you."

The outlaw heard his voice, and beheld the threatening weapon, 
without any manifestation of surprise. He bent his eyes upon him with 
a stare that curdled the raftsman's blood. "Fire!" he said, and 
laughed; and then suddenly drawing the knife he had taken from 
Elsie's cottage, he made a fierce spring from the rock right against 
the uplifted rifle. The attack was so unexpected and energetic that 
Potts had scarce time to pull the trigger, before the tory lighted on 
the shelf at his feet. He drew it, however, with the certainty that 
the next moment the assailant would be lying dead at his foot--he 
drew it, and not even a flash burst from the treacherous powder; it 
snapped in his hands; and before he could exchange it for another 
weapon, nay, before he could even draw his knife, he found the blade 
of his opponent glimmering at his breast. He caught at his wrist, the 
only expedient that saved him from a mortal thrust: and being of 
great nerve, he strove, at the same time, to hurl the tory upon the 
rock. But great as was his strength, and feeble as he had supposed 
the powers of Oran to be, the attempt was foiled, and he began in his 
heart to curse the covetousness, that had deprived him of a helper, 
in such a time of need. As he caught the wrist of Oran in his left 
hand, he sought, with the other, to snatch his own knife from the 
sheath; but the motion was anticipated, and his own right hand 
grasped in Oran's left; so that the two stood for an instant facing 
one another, entangled, as it might be said, like two wild bucks, 
that have, at the first blow, interlocked their antlers together, and 
thus remain glaring at each other, waging battle only with their 
eyes. In that instant, the raftsman beheld enough to make him repent 
the temerity with which he had sought to bring the refugee to bay. 
Instead of being weakened by loss of blood, or exhausted by the toil 
of ascending the mountain, it seemed as if he was suddenly imbued 
with new strength, as well as additional fury, by the mere presence 
of a foe; and there was that in his countenance, which expressed, 
along with a native love of conflict, the malignant ferocity of a 
maniac. Indeed, his appearance was so fearful, and his ability to 
resist to the uttermost so manifest, that the raftsman felt strongly 
moved to call for a parley and propose a mutual release; but the 
desire came too late. The tory perceived the fainting of his heart, 
and laughed:

"I never did harm to you or yours, Dan Potts," he said; "but you 
shall never say so more. You would sell the blood of a dying man--you 
must first win it."

With that, he relaxed his grasp on the raftsman's right hand, as if 
for the purpose of seizing him by the throat; and Potts took instant 
advantage of the motion, to snatch his knife from its sheath. The 
motion was a trick of juggling, such as the outlaw had learned among 
the red associates of his boyhood, and perhaps practised in similar 
encounters before. The next instant, he had thrown the whole weight 
of his body upon the raftsman's breast, and directing the half-drawn 
blade at the same time with his hand, Potts fell upon the rock, his 
own weapon buried to the handle in his side.

"Go!" shouted the victor, leaping up, and dragging his victim towards 
a corner of the shelf, where no parapet intervened betwixt them and 
the abyss,--"to your fellow bloodhounds below!--Something in memory 
of Hyland Gilbert!"

He struck the body with his foot,--it rolled crashing over the 
slender twigs and decaying flakes of stone on the brink of the 
precipice, and then disappeared, with not a sound to indicate its 
fall upon the shivered rocks below. The next moment, the victor ran 
from the platform, and was buried among the forests that darken the 
long and desolate summit of the ridge.

It was perhaps two hours, or more, before the party of pursuers, 
descending the mountain to the river, and making their way along the 
lesser elevation of rocks, heaped at the foot of the great southern 
precipice, from which they have fallen, reached the spot where they 
expected to find the mangled corse of the outlaw. Their astonishment 
and horror may be conceived, when, instead of that, they lighted upon 
the body of the raftsman, known by his garments, for scarce a vestige 
of humanity remained, and sought to penetrate the mysterious cause of 
his fall. The true reason was rather supposed than inferred; but 
their suspicions were confirmed when the mountain was re-ascended, 
and his axe and cap found lying on the shelf, as well as a new track 
of blood, leading along the ridge. This was followed, until it led 
them to a spot, where, it was evident, the fugitive had rested awhile 
and bound up his wounds. But here the trace entirely failed, and was 
never again recovered. The mountains were hunted over and over for 
weeks, but not the slightest vestige of the refugee rewarded the 
search.

In the course of the ensuing winter, a party of hunters, following a 
wolf, were led to the banks of one of those little lakes, that lie, 
like dots of sapphire and crystal, along the broken ridges of the 
mountain. In this remote nook, in a hollow, surrounded by jagged 
rocks and hemlock-trees, were found several rude huts, or wigwams, of 
boughs, now in ruins, such as the hunters make, when they 'camp out' 
in the wilderness, with the remains of fires in front of each. This 
place was supposed to have been one of the chief retreats of the 
refugees. At some distance from the huts, on the edge of the lake, 
they fell upon the bones of a human being, scattered about among the 
stones and bushes, as if rent asunder by wild beasts; and near them 
was discovered a rusted rifle, which, being taken to the valley, was 
recognised as the weapon of Potts, the raftsman, which had not been 
found either upon the platform where the party of pursuers had left 
him, or near his body. This circumstance induced a suspicion that the 
bones were those of Oran Gilbert, who had armed himself with the 
raftsman's piece, before leaving the platform. There remained no 
other memorial of his fate, and no other circumstance was found to 
identify the skeleton with the man once so much dreaded and detested; 
but it was not doubted that hither, into the savage wilderness, he 
had dragged his mangled frame, and perished miserably.

The close of Hyland's story may be readily imagined. His sufferings 
he might have considered as being retributive in their nature,--since 
his return to the land of his birth had no worthier cause than a 
desire to take part in the conflict against her liberties. This 
desire had been indeed cooled by personal observation of the feelings 
and principles which supported his countrymen through a long period 
of disaster and suffering; and the last blow was given to the 
unworthy ambition by the love for one of his country's daughters that 
soon entangled his spirit. The giving way to wrath and the lust of 
blood, though but for a moment, had been followed by the last and 
heaviest of his griefs, not the lightest of which was his temporary 
belief in his own guilt, and his consequent remorse. But the shadow 
had now departed from him, and for ever; and it was soon perceived by 
all who chose to ponder over his history, that his greatest crime had 
been his affection, and the ill-judged deed of violence into which it 
had led him.

His meeting with the Captain's daughter, after his liberation, was 
one of mingled joy and grief; but it was the last one marked with 
tears. The bloom returned again to Catherine's cheek, and, in course 
of time, the gay and merry spirit, native to her bosom, revisited its 
former cell; and if a shadow ever again darkened her countenance, it 
was only when, sometimes wandering along the brook and by the 
waterfall, (whence the bones of Jessie had been long since removed, 
to be deposited near those of her step-mother in the village 
church-yard,) she remembered the trials of sorrow, and the scenes of 
blood, through which she had been conducted to final happiness. She 
wept, indeed, when Harriet died, for she had forgiven her; but that 
was the only grief that clouded a long period of peace and sunshine.

Our inquiries after the fate of the less important personages of our 
tradition have never been very satisfactory in results. Americans are 
a race of Utilitarians, all busied in the acquisition of profitable 
knowledge, and just as ready, if not as anxious, to forget all lore 
of an useless character. The little anecdotes of a district last but 
for a generation; the fathers tell them to the children, but the 
children find something better to think about, and so forget them. We 
know nothing of the latter years of Elsie Bell, but can readily 
believe they passed in comfort and peace. Her little cottage has long 
since vanished from the earth, the running of newer and better roads 
in other places having long since diverted all travel from the 
precincts of Hawk-Hollow.

Dancy Parkins, we suppose, under the auspicious patronage of the new 
master of the valley, pursued his claims to the love of the fair 
Phoebe; but as that was a matter of much more consequence to him than 
the reader, we never cared much to inquire his fate.

Our curiosity in relation to the career of the unworthy limb of the 
law, Theophilus Affidavy, Esq., has been somewhat stronger; yet we 
could never find that a single act of his life, or even his name, has 
been retained by those who dwell near the scene of his exploits. His 
adventure in the brook, with his ride on the back of the buttonwood 
tree, has, by some strange accident, travelled into an adjacent 
county, where it is told as a very good story, though the honour is 
supposed to attach to an individual of another name and profession. 
But it is with a strange story as with an old pun; it finds fathers, 
as it travels.

As for Captain Loring, all we have to say of him is, that he lived 
long enough to rejoice over the union of his daughter with Hyland 
Falconer as much as he would perhaps have mourned over her early 
grave, had her destiny wedded her to the unlucky younger brother. He 
lived also to see, with a rapture that lasted to his dying day, the 
painter resume the brush, and put the last finish to 'the grand 
picture of the Battle of Brandywine, and Tom Loring, dying.'




THE END.