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Hansford:

A TALE OF BACON'S REBELLION.




BY ST. GEORGE TUCKER.




    Rebellion! foul dishonouring word—
      Whose wrongful blight so oft has stained
    The holiest cause that, tongue or sword
      Of mortal ever lost or gained.
    How many a spirit, born to bless,
      Hath sank beneath that withering name;
    Whom but a day's, an hour's success,
      Had wafted to eternal fame!
                                      MOORE.




RICHMOND, VA.:
PUBLISHED BY GEORGE M. WEST
BOSTON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO.
1857.




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857,
BY GEORGE M. WEST,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Virginia.




PREFACE.


It is the design of the author, in the following pages, to illustrate
the period of our colonial history, to which the story relates, and to
show that this early struggle for freedom was the morning harbinger of
that blessed light, which has since shone more and more unto the perfect
day.

Most of the characters introduced have their existence in real
history—Hansford lived, acted and died in the manner here narrated, and
a heart as pure and true as Virginia Temple's mourned his early doom.

In one of those quaint old tracts, which the indefatigable antiquary,
Peter Force, has rescued from oblivion, it is stated that Thomas
Hansford, although a son of Mars, did sometimes worship at the shrine of
Venus. It was his unwillingness to separate forever from the object of
his love that led to his arrest, while lurking near her residence in
Gloucester. From the meagre materials furnished by history of the
celebrated rebellion of Nathaniel Bacon the following story has been
woven.

It were an object to be desired, both to author and to reader, that the
fate of Thomas Hansford had been different. This could not be but by a
direct violation of history. Yet the lesson taught in this simple story,
it is hoped, is not without its uses to humanity. Though vice may
triumph for a season, and virtue fail to meet its appropriate reward,
yet nothing can confer on the first, nor snatch from the last, that
substantial happiness which is ever afforded to the mind conscious of
rectitude. The self-conviction which stings the vicious mind would make
a diadem a crown of thorns. The _mens sibi conscia recti_ can make a
gallows as triumphant as a throne. Such is the moral which the author
designs to convey. If a darker punishment awaits the guilty, or a purer
reward is in reserve for the virtuous, we must look for them to that
righteous Judge, whose hand wields at once the sceptre of mercy and the
sword of justice.

And now having prepared this brief preface, to stand like a portico
before his simple edifice, the author would cordially and respectfully
make his bow, and invite his guests to enter. If his little volume is
read, he will be amply repaid; if approved, he will be richly rewarded.




HANSFORD.




CHAPTER 1.

    “The rose of England bloomed on Gertrude's cheek;
    What though these shades had seen her birth? Her sire
    A Briton's independence taught to seek
    Far western worlds.”
                        _Gertrude of Wyoming._


Among those who had been driven, by the disturbances in England, to seek
a more quiet home in the wilds of Virginia, was a gentleman of the name
of Temple. An Englishman by birth, he was an unwilling spectator of the
revolution which erected the dynasty of Cromwell upon the ruins of the
British monarchy. He had never been able to divest his mind of that
loyal veneration in which Charles Stuart was held by so many of his
subjects, whose better judgments, if consulted, would have prompted them
to unite with the revolutionists. But it was a strong principle with
that noble party, who have borne in history the distinguished name of
Cavaliers, rarely to consult the dictates of reason in questions of
ancient prejudice. They preferred rather to err blindly with the long
line of their loyal forbears in submission to tyranny, than to subvert
the ancient principles of government in the attainment of freedom. They
saw no difference between the knife of the surgeon and the sword of the
destroyer—between the wholesome medicine, administered to heal, and the
deadly poison, given to destroy.

Nor are these strong prejudices without their value in the
administration of government, while they are absolutely essential to the
guidance of a revolution. They retard and moderate those excesses which
they cannot entirely control, and even though unable to avoid the
_descensus Averni_, they render that easy descent less fatal and
destructive. Nor is there anything in the history of revolutions more
beautiful than this steady adherence to ancient principles—this
faithful devotion to a fallen prince, when all others have forsaken him
and fled. While man is capable of enjoying the blessings of freedom, the
memory of Hampden will be cherished and revered; and yet there is
something scarcely less attractive in the disinterested loyalty, the
generous self-denial, of the devoted Hyde, who left the comforts of
home, the pride of country and the allurements of fame, to join in the
lonely wanderings of the banished Stuart.

When at last the revolution was accomplished, and Charles and the hopes
of the Stuarts seemed to sleep in the same bloody grave, Colonel Temple,
unwilling longer to remain under the government of a usurper, left
England for Virginia, to enjoy in the quiet retirement of this infant
colony, the peace and tranquillity which was denied him at home. From
this, the last resting place of the standard of loyalty, he watched the
indications of returning peace, and with a proud and grateful heart he
hailed the advent of the restoration. For many years an influential
member of the House of Burgesses, he at last retired from the busy
scenes of political life to his estate in Gloucester, which, with a
touching veneration for the past, he called Windsor Hall. Here, happy in
the retrospection of a well spent life, and cheered and animated by the
affection of a devoted wife and lovely daughter, the old Loyalist looked
forward with a tranquil heart to the change which his increasing years
warned him could not be far distant.

His wife, a notable dame of the olden time, who was selected, like the
wife of the good vicar, for the qualities which wear best, was one of
those thrifty, bountiful bodies, who care but little for the government
under which they live, so long as their larders are well stored with
provisions, and those around them are happy and contented. Possessed of
a good mind, and of a kind heart, she devoted herself to the true
objects of a woman's life, and reigned supreme at home. Even when her
husband had been immersed in the cares and stirring events of the
revolution, and she was forced to hear the many causes of complaint
urged against the government and stoutly combatted by the Colonel, the
good dame had felt far more interest in market money than in ship
money—in the neatness of her own chamber, than in the purity of the
Star Chamber—and, in short, forgot the great principles of political
economy in her love for the more practical science of domestic economy.
We have said that at home Mrs. Temple reigned supreme, and so indeed she
did. Although the good Colonel held the reins, she showed him the way to
go, and though he was the nominal ruler of his little household, she was
the power behind the throne, which even the throne submissively
acknowledged to be greater than itself.

Yet, for all this, Mrs. Temple was an excellent woman, and devoted to
her husband's interests. Perhaps it was but natural that, although with
a willing heart, and without a murmur, she had accompanied him to
Virginia, she should, with a laudable desire to impress him with her
real worth, advert more frequently than was agreeable to the heavy
sacrifice which she had made. Nay more, we have but little doubt that
the bustle and self-annoyance, the flurry and bluster, which always
attended her domestic preparations, were considered as a requisite
condiment to give relish to her food. We are at least certain of this,
that her frequent strictures on the dress, and criticisms on the manners
of her husband, arose from her real pride, and from her desire that to
the world he should appear the noble perfection which he was to her.
This the good Colonel fully understood, and though sometimes chafed by
her incessant taunts, he knew her real worth, and had long since learned
to wear his fetters as an ornament.

Since their arrival in Virginia, Heaven had blessed the happy pair with
a lovely daughter—a bliss for which they long had hoped and prayed, but
hoped and prayed in vain. If hope deferred, however, maketh the heart
sick, it loses none of its freshness and delight when it is at last
realized, and the fond hearts of her parents were overflowing with love
for this their only child. At the time at which our story commences,
Virginia Temple (she was called after the fair young colony which gave
her birth) had just completed her nineteenth year. Reared for the most
part in the retirement of the country, she was probably not possessed of
those artificial manners, which disguise rather than adorn the gay
butterflies that flutter in the fashionable world, and which passes for
refinement; but such conventional proprieties no more resemble the
innate refinement of soul which nature alone can impart, than the
plastered rouge of an old faded dowager resembles the native rose which
blushes on a healthful maiden's cheek. There was in lieu of all this, in
the character of Virginia Temple, a freshness of feeling and artless
frankness, and withal a refined delicacy of sentiment and expression,
which made the fair young girl the pride and the ornament of the little
circle in which she moved.

Under the kind tuition of her father, who, in his retired life,
delighted to train her mind in wholesome knowledge, she possessed a
great advantage over the large majority of her sex, whose education, at
that early period, was wofully deficient. Some there were indeed (and in
this respect the world has not changed much in the last two centuries),
who were tempted to sneer at accomplishments superior to their own, and
to hint that a book-worm and a bluestocking would never make a useful
wife. But such envious insinuations were overcome by the care of her
judicious mother, who spared no pains to rear her as a useful as well as
an accomplished woman. With such a fortunate education, Virginia grew up
intelligent, useful and beloved; and her good old father used often to
say, in his bland, gentle manner, that he knew not whether his little
Jeanie was more attractive when, with her favorite authors, she stored
her mind with refined and noble sentiments, or when, in her little check
apron and plain gingham dress, she assisted her busy mother in the
preparation of pickles and preserves.

There was another source of happiness to the fair Virginia, in which she
will be more apt to secure the sympathy of our gentler readers. Among
the numerous suitors who sought her hand, was one who had early gained
her heart, and with none of the cruel crosses, as yet, which the young
and inexperienced think add piquancy to the bliss of love; with the full
consent of her parents, she had candidly acknowledged her preference,
and plighted her troth, with all the sincerity of her young heart, to
the noble, the generous, the brave Thomas Hansford.




CHAPTER II.

    “Heaven forming each on other to depend,
    A master, or a servant, or a friend,
    Bids each on other for assistance call,
    Till one man's weakness grows the strength of all.
    Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally
    The common interest, or endear the tie.
    To these we owe true friendship, love sincere,
    Each homefelt joy that life inherits here.”
                                            _Essay on Man._


Begirt with love and blessed with contentment, the little family at
Windsor Hall led a life of quiet, unobtrusive happiness. In truth, if
there be a combination of circumstances peculiarly propitious to
happiness, it will be found to cluster around one of those old colonial
plantations, which formed each within itself a little independent
barony. There first was the proprietor, the feudal lord, proud of his
Anglo-Saxon blood, whose ambition was power and personal freedom, and
whose highest idea of wealth was in the possession of the soil he
cultivated. A proud feeling was it, truly, to claim a portion of God's
earth as his own; to stand upon his own land, and looking around, see
his broad acres bounded only by the blue horizon walls,[1] and feel in
its full force the whole truth of the old law maxim, that he owned not
only the surface of the soil, but even to the centre of the earth, and
the zenith of the heavens.[2] There can be but little doubt that the
feelings suggested by such reflections are in the highest degree
favorable to the development of individual freedom, so peculiar to the
Anglo-Saxon race, and so stoutly maintained, especially among an
agricultural people. This respect for the ownership of land is
illustrated by the earliest legislation, which held sacred the title to
the soil even from the grasp of the law, and which often restrained the
freeholder from alienating his land from the lordly but unborn
aristocrat to whom it should descend.

Next in the scale of importance in this little baronial society, were
the indented servants, who, either for felony or treason, were sent over
to the colony, and bound for a term of years to some one of the
planters. In some cases, too, the poverty of the emigrant induced him to
submit voluntarily to indentures with the captain of the ship which
brought him to the colony, as some compensation for his passage. These
servants, we learn, had certain privileges accorded to them, which were
not enjoyed by the slave: the service of the former was only temporary,
and after the expiration of their term they became free citizens of the
colony. The female servants, too, were limited in their duties to such
employments as are generally assigned to women, such as cooking, washing
and housework; while it was not unusual to see the negro women, as even
now, in many portions of the State, managing the plough, hoeing the
maize, worming and stripping the tobacco, and harvesting the grain. The
colonists had long remonstrated against the system of indented servants,
and denounced the policy which thus foisted upon an infant colony the
felons and the refuse population of the mother country. But, as was too
often the case, their petitions and remonstrances were treated with
neglect, or spurned with contempt. Besides being distasteful to them as
freemen and Cavaliers, the indented servants had already evinced a
restlessness under restraint, which made them dangerous members of the
body politic. In 1662, a servile insurrection was secretly organized,
which had well nigh proved fatal to the colony. The conspiracy was
however betrayed by a certain John Berkenhead, one of the leaders in the
movement, who was incited to the revelation by the hope of reward for
his treachery; nor was the hope vain. Grateful for their deliverance,
the Assembly voted this man his liberty, compensated his master for the
loss of his services, and still further rewarded him by a bounty of five
thousand pounds of tobacco. Of this reckless and abandoned wretch, we
will have much to say hereafter.

Another feature in this patriarchal system of government was the right
of property in those inferior races of men, who from their nature are
incapable of a high degree of liberty, and find their greatest
development, and their truest happiness, in a condition of servitude.
Liberty is at last a reward to be attained after a long struggle, and
not the inherent right of every man. It is the sword which becomes a
weapon of power and defence in the hands of the strong, brave, rational
man, but a dangerous plaything when entrusted to the hands of madmen or
children. And thus, by the mysterious government of Him, who rules the
earth in righteousness, has it been wisely ordained, that they only who
are worthy of freedom shall permanently possess it.

The mutual relations established by the institution of domestic slavery
were beneficial to both parties concerned. The Anglo-Saxon baron
possessed power, which he has ever craved, and concentration and unity
of will, which was essential to its maintenance. But that power was
tempered, and that will controlled, by the powerful motives of policy,
as well as by the dictates of justice and mercy. The African serf, on
the other hand, was reduced to slavery, which, from his very nature, he
is incapable of despising; and an implicit obedience to the will of his
master was essential to the preservation of the relation. But he, too,
derived benefits from the institution, which he has never acquired in
any other condition; and trusting to the justice, and relying on the
power of his master to provide for his wants, he lived a contented and
therefore a happy life. Improvident himself by nature, his children were
reared without his care, through the helpless period of infancy, while
he was soothed and cheered in the hours of sickness, and protected and
supported in his declining years. The history of the world does not
furnish another example of a laboring class who could rely with
confidence on such wages as competency and contentment.

In a new colony, where there was but little attraction as yet, for
tradesmen to emigrate, the home of the planter became still more
isolated and independent. Every landholder had not only the slaves to
cultivate his soil and to attend to his immediate wants, but he had also
slaves educated and skilled in various trades. Thus, in this busy hive,
the blaze of the forge was seen and the sound of the anvil was heard, in
repairing the different tools and utensils of the farm; the shoemaker
was found at his last, the spinster at her wheel, and the weaver at the
loom. Nor has this system of independent reliance on a plantation for
its own supplies been entirely superseded at the present day. There may
still be found, in some sections of Virginia, plantations conducted on
this principle, where the fleece is sheared, and the wool is carded,
spun, woven and made into clothing by domestic labor, and where a few
groceries and finer fabrics of clothing are all that are required, by
the independent planter, from the busy world beyond his little domain.

Numerous as were the duties and responsibilities that devolved upon the
planter, he met them with cheerfulness and discharged them with
faithfulness. The dignity of the master was blended with the kind
attention of the friend on the one hand, and the obedience of the slave,
with the fidelity of a grateful dependent, on the other. And thus was
illustrated, in their true beauty, the blessings of that much abused
but happy institution, which should ever remain, as it has ever been
placed by the commentators of our law, next in position, as it is in
interest, to the tender relation of parent and child.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] The immense grants taken up by early patentees, in this country,
justifies this language, which might otherwise seem an extravagant
hyperbole.

[2] _Cujus est solum, ejus est usque ad cœlum._




CHAPTER III.

    “An old worshipful gentleman, who had a great estate,
    That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,—
      With an old lady whose anger one word assuages,—
              Like an old courtier of the queen's,
              And the queen's old courtier.”
                                          _Old Ballad._


A pleasant home was that old Windsor Hall, with its broad fields in
cultivation around it, and the dense virgin forest screening it from
distant view, with the carefully shaven sward on the velvet lawn in
front, and the tall forest poplars standing like sentries in front of
the house, and the venerable old oak tree at the side, with the rural
wooden bench beneath it, where Hansford and Virginia used to sit and
dream of future happiness, while the tame birds were singing sweetly to
their mates in the green branches above them. And the house, too, with
its quaint old frame, its narrow windows, and its substantial furniture,
all brought from England and put down here in this new land for the
comfort of the loyal old colonist. It had been there for years, that old
house, and the moss and lichen had fastened on its shelving roof, and
the luxuriant vine had been trained to clamber closely by its sides,
exposing its red trumpet flowers to the sun; while the gay humming-bird,
with her pretty dress of green and gold, sucked their honey with her
long bill, and fluttered her little wings in the mild air so swiftly
that you could scarcely see them. Then there was that rude but
comfortable old porch, destined to as many uses as the chest of drawers
in the tavern of the Deserted Village. Protected by its sheltering roof
alike from rain and sunshine, it was often used, in the mild summer
weather, as a favorite sitting-room, and sometimes, too, converted into
a dining-room. There, too, might be seen, suspended from the nails and
wooden pegs driven into the locust pillars, long specimen ears of corn,
samples of grain, and different garden seeds tied up in little linen
bags; and in the strange medley, Mrs. Temple had hung some long strings
of red pepper-pods, sovereign specifics in cases of sore throat, but
which seemed, among so many objects of greater interest, to blush with
shame at their own inferiority. It was not yet the season when the broad
tobacco leaf, brown with the fire of curing, was exhibited, and formed
the chief staple of conversation, as well as of trade, with the old
crony planters. The wonderful plant was just beginning to suffer from
the encroaches of the worm, the only animal, save man, which is
life-proof against the deadly nicotine of this cultivated poison.

In this old porch the little family was gathered on a beautiful evening
towards the close of June, in the year 1676. The sun, not yet set, was
just sinking below the tall forest, and was dancing and flickering
gleefully among the trees, as if rejoicing that he had nearly finished
his long day's journey. Colonel Temple had just returned from his
evening survey of his broad fields of tobacco, and was quietly smoking
his pipe, for, like most of his fellow colonists, he was an inveterate
consumer of this home production. His good wife was engaged in knitting,
an occupation now almost fallen into disuse among ladies, but then a
very essential part of the duties of a large plantation. Virginia, with
her tambour frame before her, but which she had neglected in the reverie
of her own thoughts, was caressing the noble St. Bernard dog which lay
at her feet, who returned her caresses by a grateful whine, as he licked
the small white hand of his mistress. This dog, a fine specimen of that
noble breed, was a present from Hansford, and for that reason, as well
as for his intrinsic merits, was highly prized, and became her constant
companion in her woodland rambles in search of health and wild flowers.
With all the vanity of a conscious favorite, Nestor regarded with well
bred contempt the hounds that stalked in couples about the yard, in
anxious readiness for the next chase.

As the young girl was thus engaged, there was an air of sadness in her
whole mien—such a stranger to her usually bright, happy face, that it
did not escape her father's notice.

“Why, Jeanie,” he said, in the tender manner which he always used
towards her, “you are strangely silent this evening. Has anything gone
wrong with my little daughter?”

“No, father,” she replied, “at least nothing that I am conscious of. We
cannot be always gay or sad at our pleasure, you know.”

“Nay, but at least,” said the old gentleman, “Nestor has been
disobedient, or old Giles is sick, or you have been working yourself
into a sentimental sadness over Lady Willoughby's[3] troubles.”

“No, dear father; though, in reality, that melancholy story might well
move a stouter heart than mine.”

“Well, confess then,” said her father, “that, like the young French
gentleman in Prince Arthur's days, you are sad as night only for
wantonness. But what say you, mother, has anything gone wrong in
household affairs to cross Virginia?”

“No, Mr. Temple,” said the old lady. “Certainly, if Virginia is cast
down at the little she has to do, I don't know what ought to become of
me. But that's a matter of little consequence. Old people have had their
day, and needn't expect much sympathy.”

“Indeed, dear mother,” said Virginia, “I do not complain of anything
that I have to do. I know that you do not entrust as much to me as you
ought, or as I wish. I assure you, that if anything has made me sad, it
is not you, dear mother,” she added, as she tenderly kissed her mother.

“Oh, I know that, my dear; but your father seems to delight in always
charging me with whatever goes wrong. Goodness knows, I toil from Monday
morning till Saturday night for you all, and this is all the thanks I
get. And if I were to work my old fingers to the bone, it would be all
the same. Well, it won't last always.”

To this assault Colonel Temple knew the best plan was not to reply. He
had learned from sad experience the truth of the old adages, that
“breath makes fire hotter,” and that “the least said is soonest mended.”
He only signified his consciousness of what had been said by a quiet
shrug of the shoulders, and then resumed his conversation with Virginia.

“Well then, my dear, I am at a loss to conjecture the cause of your
sadness, and must throw myself upon your indulgence to tell me or not,
as you will. I don't think you ever lost anything by confiding in your
old father.”

“I know I never did,” said Virginia, with a gentle sigh, “and it is for
the very reason that you always make my foolish little sorrows your own,
that I am unwilling to trouble you with them. But really, on the present
occasion—I scarcely know what to tell you.”

“Then why that big pearl in your eye?” returned her father. “Ah, you
little rogue, I have found you out at last. Mother, I have guessed the
riddle. Somebody has not been here as often lately as he should. Now
confess, you silly girl, that I have guessed your secret.”

The big tears that swam in his daughter's blue eyes, and then rolling
down, dried themselves upon her cheek, told the truth too plainly to
justify denial.

“I really think Virginia has some reason to complain,” said her mother.
“It is now nearly three weeks since Mr. Hansford was here. A young
lawyer's business don't keep him so much employed as to prevent these
little courteous attentions.”

“We used to be more attentive in our day, didn't we, old lady?” said
Colonel Temple, as he kissed his good wife's cheek.

This little demonstration entirely wiped away the remembrance of her
displeasure. She returned the salutation with an affectionate smile, as
she replied,

“Yes, indeed, Henry; if there was less sentiment, there was more real
affection in those days. Love was more in the heart then, and less out
of books, than now.”

“Oh, but we were not without our little sentiments, too. Virginia, it
would have done you good to have seen how gaily your mother danced round
the May-pole, with her courtly train, as the fair queen of them all; and
how I, all ruffs and velvet, at the head of the boys, and on bended
knee, begged her majesty to accept the homage of our loyal hearts. Don't
you remember, Bessy, the grand parliament, when we voted you eight
subsidies, and four fifteenths to be paid in flowers and candy, for your
grand coronation?”

“Oh, yes!” said the old lady; “and then the coronation itself, with the
throne made of the old master's desk, all nicely carpeted and decorated
with flowers and evergreen; and poor Billy Newton, with his long, solemn
face, a paste-board mitre, and his sister's night-gown for a pontifical
robe, acting the Archbishop of Canterbury, and placing the crown upon my
head!”

“And the game of Barley-break in the evening,” said the Colonel, fairly
carried away by the recollections of these old scenes, “when you and I,
hand in hand, pretended only to catch the rest, and preferred to remain
together thus, in what we called the hell, because we felt that it was a
heaven to us.”[4]

“Oh, fie, for shame!” said the old lady. “Ah, well, they don't have such
times now-a-days.”

“No, indeed,” said her husband; “old Noll came with his nasal twang and
puritanical cant, and dethroned May-queens as well as royal kings, and
his amusements were only varied by a change from a hypocritical sermon
to a psalm-singing conventicle.”

Thus the old folks chatted on merrily, telling old stories, which,
although Virginia had heard them a hundred times and knew them all by
heart, she loved to hear again. She had almost forgotten her own sadness
in this occupation of her mind, when her father said—

“But, Bessy, we had almost forgotten, in our recollections of the past,
that our little Jeanie needs cheering up. You should remember, my
daughter, that if there were any serious cause for Mr. Hansford's
absence, he would have written to you. Some trivial circumstance, or
some matter of business, has detained him from day to day. He will be
here to-morrow, I have no doubt.”

“I know I ought not to feel anxious,” said Virginia, her lip quivering
with emotion; “he has so much to do, not only in his profession, but his
poor old mother needs his presence a great deal now; she was far from
well when he was last here.”

“Well, I respect him for that,” said her mother. “It is too often the
case with these young lovers, that when they think of getting married,
and doing for themselves, the poor old mothers are laid on the shelf.”

“And yet,” continued Virginia, “I have a kind of presentiment that all
may not be right with him. I know it is foolish, but I can't—I can't
help it?”

“These presentiments, my child,” said her father, who was not without
some of the superstition of the time, “although like dreams, often sent
by the Almighty for wise purposes, are more often but the phantasies of
the imagination. The mind, when unable to account for circumstances by
reason, is apt to torment itself with its own fancy—and this is wrong,
Jeanie.”

“I know all this,” replied Virginia, “and yet have no power to prevent
it. But,” she added, smiling through her tears, “I will endeavor to be
more cheerful, and trust for better things.”

“That's a good girl; I assure you I would rather hear you laugh once
than to see you cry a hundred times,” said the old man, repeating a
witticism that Virginia had heard ever since her childish trials and
tears over broken dolls or tangled hair. The idea was so grotesque and
absurd, that the sweet girl laughed until she cried again.

“Besides,” added her father, “I heard yesterday that that pestilent
fellow, Bacon, was in arms again, and it may be necessary for Berkeley
to use some harsh means to punish his insolence. I would not be at all
surprised if Hansford were engaged in this laudable enterprise.”

“God, in his mercy, forbid,” said Virginia, in a faint voice.

“And why, my daughter? Would you shrink from lending the services of him
you love to your country, in her hour of need?”

“But the danger, father!”

“There can be but little danger in an insurrection like this. Strong
measures will soon suppress it. Nay, the very show of organized and
determined resistance will strike terror into the white hearts of these
cowardly knaves. But if this were not so, the duty would be only
stronger.”

“Yes, Virginia,” said her mother. “No one knows more than I, how hard it
is for a woman to sacrifice her selfish love to her country. But in my
day we never hesitated, and I was happy in my tears, when I saw your
father going forth to fight for his king and country. There was none of
your 'God forbid' then, and you need not expect to be more free from
trials than those who have gone before you.”

There was no real unkindness meant in this speech of Mrs. Temple, but,
as we have before reminded the reader, she took especial delight in
magnifying her own joys and her own trials, and in making an invidious
comparison of the present day with her earlier life, always to the
prejudice of the former. Tenderly devoted to her daughter, and deeply
sympathizing in her distress, she yet could not forego the pleasure of
reverting to the time when she too had similar misfortunes, which she
had borne with such exemplary fortitude. To be sure, this heroism
existed only in the dear old lady's imagination, for no one gave way to
trials with more violent grief than she. Virginia, though accustomed to
her mother's peculiar temper, was yet affected by her language, and her
tears flowed afresh.

“Cheer up, my daughter,” said her father, “these tears are not only
unworthy of you, but they are uncalled for now. This is at last but
conjecture of mine, and I have no doubt that Hansford is well and as
happy as he can be away from you. But you would have proved a sad
heroine in the revolution. I don't think you would imitate successfully
the bravery and patriotism of Lady Willoughby, whose memoirs you have
been reading. Oh! that was a day for heroism, when mothers devoted their
sons, and wives their husbands, to the cause of England and of loyalty,
almost without a tear.”

“I thank God,” said the weeping girl, “that he has not placed me in such
trying scenes. With all my admiration for the courage of my ancestors, I
have no ambition to suffer their dangers and distress.”

“Well, my dear,” replied her father, “I trust you may never be called
upon to do so. But if such should be your fate, I also trust that you
have a strong heart, which would bear you through the trial. Come now,
dry your tears, and let me hear you sing that old favorite of mine,
written by poor Dick Lovelace. His Lucasta[5] must have been something
of the same mind as my Virginia, if she reproved him for deserting her
for honour.”

“Oh, father, I feel the justice of your rebuke. I know that none but a
brave woman deserves the love of a brave man. Will you forgive me?”

“Forgive you, my daughter?—yes, if you have done anything to be
forgiven. Your old father, though his head is turned gray, has still a
warm place in his heart for all your distresses, my child; and that
heart will be cold in death before it ceases to feel for you. But come,
I must not lose my song, either.”

And Virginia, her sweet voice rendered more touchingly beautiful by her
emotion, sang the noble lines, which have almost atoned for all the
vanity and foppishness of their unhappy author.

    “Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,
      If from the nunnery
    Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
      To war and arms I fly.

    “True, a new mistress now I chase,
      The first foe in the field,
    And with a stronger faith embrace
      The sword, the horse, the shield.

    “Yet, this inconstancy is such
      As you too shall adore;
    I had not loved thee, dear, so much,
      Loved I not honour more!”

“Yes,” repeated the old patriot, as the last notes of the sweet voice
died away; “yes, 'I had not loved thee, dear, so much, loved I not
honour more!' This is the language of the truly noble lover. Without a
heart which rises superior to itself, in its devotion to honour, it is
impossible to love truly. Love is not a pretty child, to be crowned with
roses, and adorned with trinkets, and wooed by soft music. To the truly
brave, it is a god to be worshipped, a reward to be attained, and to be
attained only in the path of honour!”

“I think,” said Mrs. Temple, looking towards the wood, “that Virginia's
song acted as an incantation. If I mistake not, Master Hansford is even
now coming to explain his own negligence.”


FOOTNOTES:

[3] I have taken these beautiful memoirs, now known to be the production
of a modern pen, to be genuine. Their truthfulness to nature certainly
will justify me in such a liberty.

[4] The modern reader will need some explanation of this old game, whose
terms seem, to the refined ears of the present day, a little profane.
Barley-break resembled a game which I have seen played in my own time,
called King Cantelope, but with some striking points of difference. In
the old game, the play-ground was divided into three parts of equal
size, and the middle of these sections was known by the name of hell.
The boy and girl, whose position was in this place, were to attempt,
with joined hands, to catch those who should try to pass from one
section to the other. As each one was caught, he became a recruit for
the couple in the middle, and the last couple who remained uncaught took
the places of those in hell, and thus the game commenced again.

[5] The lady to whom the song is addressed. It may be found in Percy's
Reliques, or in almost any volume of old English poetry.




CHAPTER IV.

    “Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
    Fresh as a bridegroom.”
                                          _Henry IV._


In truth a young man, well mounted on a powerful bay, was seen
approaching from the forest, that lay towards Jamestown. Virginia's
cheek flushed with pleasure as she thought how soon all her fears would
vanish away in the presence of her lover—and she laughed confusedly, as
her father said,

“Aye, come dry your tears, you little rogue—those eyes are not as
bright as Hansford would like to see. Tears are very pretty in poetry
and fancy, but when associated with swelled eyes and red noses, they
lose something of their sentiment.”

As the horseman came nearer, however, Virginia found to her great
disappointment, that the form was not that of Hansford, and with a deep
sigh she went into the house. The stranger, who now drew up to the door,
proved to be a young man of about thirty years of age, tall and
well-proportioned, his figure displaying at once symmetrical beauty and
athletic strength. He was dressed after the fashion of the day, in a
handsome velvet doublet, trussed with gay-colored points at the waist to
the breeches, which reaching only to the knee, left the finely turned
leg well displayed in the closely-fitting white silk stockings. Around
his wrists and neck were revealed graceful ruffles of the finest
cambric. The heavy boots, which were usually worn by cavaliers, were in
this case supplied by shoes fastened with roses of ribands. A handsome
sword, with ornamented hilt, and richly chased scabbard, was secured
gracefully by his side in its fringed hanger. The felt hat, whose wide
brim was looped up and secured by a gold button in front, completed the
costume of the young stranger. The abominable fashion of periwigs, which
maintained its reign over the realm of fashion for nearly a century, was
just beginning to be introduced into the old country, and had not yet
been received as orthodox in the colony. The rich chestnut hair of the
stranger fell in abundance over his fine shoulders, and was parted
carefully in the middle to display to its full advantage his broad
intellectual forehead. But in compliance with custom, his hair was
dressed with the fashionable love-locks, plaited and adorned with
ribands, and falling foppishly over either ear.

But dress, at last, like “rank, is but the guinea's stamp, the man's the
gowd for a' that,” and in outward appearance at least, the stranger was
of no alloyed metal. There was in his air that easy repose and
self-possession which is always perceptible in those whose life has been
passed in association with the refined and cultivated. But still there
was something about his whole manner, which seemed to betray the fact,
that this habitual self-possession, this frank and easy carriage was the
result of a studied and constant control over his actions, rather than
those of a free and ingenuous heart.

This idea, however, did not strike the simple minded Virginia, as with
natural, if not laudable curiosity, she surveyed the handsome young
stranger through the window of the hall. The kind greeting of the
hospitable old colonel having been given, the stranger dismounted, and
the fine bay that he rode was committed to the protecting care of a
grinning young African in attendance, who with his feet dangling from
the stirrups trotted him off towards the stable.

“I presume,” said the stranger, as they walked towards the house, “that
from the directions I have received, I have the honor of seeing Colonel
Temple. It is to the kindness of Sir William Berkeley that I owe the
pleasure I enjoy in forming your acquaintance, sir,” and he handed a
letter from his excellency, which the reader may take the liberty of
reading with us, over Colonel Temple's shoulder.

     “Bight trusty old friend,” ran the quaint and formal, yet familiar
     note. “The bearer of these, Mr. Alfred Bernard, a youth of good and
     right rare merit, but lately from England, and whom by the especial
     confidence reposed in him from our noble kinsman Lord Berkeley, we
     have made our private secretary, hath desired acquaintance with
     some of the established gentlemen in the colony, the better for his
     own improvement, to have their good society. And in all good faith,
     there is none, to whom I can more readily commend him, than Colonel
     Henry Temple, with the more perfect confidence in his desire to
     oblige him, who is always as of yore, his right good friend,

                                                “WILLIAM BERKELEY, Kn't.
                  “_From our Palace at Jamestown, June 20, A. D. 1676._”

“It required not this high commendation, my dear sir,” said old Temple,
pressing his guest cordially by the hand, “to bid you welcome to my poor
roof. But I now feel that to be a special honour, which would otherwise
be but the natural duty of hospitality. Come, right welcome to Windsor
Hall.”

With these words they entered the house, where Alfred Bernard was
presented to the ladies, and paid his devoirs with such knightly grace,
that Virginia admired, and Mrs. Temple heartily approved, a manner and
bearing, which, she whispered to her daughter, was worthy of the old
cavalier days before the revolution. Supper was soon announced—not the
awkward purgatorial meal, perilously poised in cups, and eaten with
greasy fingers—so dire a foe to comfort and silk dresses—but the
substantial supper of the olden time. It is far from our intention to
enter into minute details, yet we cannot refrain from adverting to the
fact that the good old cavalier grace was said by the Colonel, with as
much solemnity as his cheerful face would wear—that grace which gave
such umbrage to the Puritans with their sour visages and long prayers,
and which consisted of those three expressive words, “God bless us.”

“I have always thought,” said the Colonel, apologetically, “that this
was enough—for where's the use of praying over our meals, until they
get so cold and cheerless, that there is less to be thankful for.”

“Especially,” said Bernard, chiming in at once with the old man's
prejudices, “when this brief language contains all that is
necessary—for even Omnipotence can but bless us—and we may easily
leave the mode to Him.”

“Well said, young man, and now come and partake of our homely fare,
seasoned with a hearty welcome,” said the Colonel, cordially.

Nor loth was Alfred Bernard to do full justice to the ample store before
him. A ride of more than thirty miles had whetted an appetite naturally
good, and the youth of “right rare merit,” did not impress his kind host
very strongly with his conversational powers during his hearty meal.

The repast being over, the little party retired to a room, which the old
planter was pleased to call his study, but which savored far more of the
presence of the sportive Diana, than of the reflecting muses. Over the
door, as you entered the room, were fastened the large antlers of some
noble deer, who had once bounded freely and gracefully through his
native forest. Those broad branches are now, by a sad fatality, doomed
to support the well oiled fowling-piece that laid their wearer low.
Fishing tackle, shot-pouches, fox brushes, and other similar evidences
and trophies of sport, testified to the Colonel's former delight in
angling and the chase; but now alas! owing to the growing infirmities of
age, though he still cherished his pack, and encouraged the sport, he
could only start the youngsters in the neighborhood, and give them God
speed! as with horses, hounds, and horns they merrily scampered away in
the fresh, early morning. But with his love for these active, manly
sports, Colonel Temple was devoted to reading such works as ran with his
prejudices, and savored of the most rigid loyalty. His books, indeed,
were few, for in that day it was no easy matter to procure books at all,
especially for the colonists, who cut off from the great fountain of
literature which was then just reviving from the severe drought of
puritanism, were but sparingly supplied with the means of information.
But a few months later than the time of which we write, Sir William
Berkeley boasted that education was at a low ebb in Virginia, and
thanked his God that so far there were neither free schools nor printing
presses in the colony—the first instilling and the last disseminating
rebellious sentiments among the people. Yet under all these
disadvantages, Colonel Temple was well versed in the literature of the
last two reigns, and with some of the more popular works of the present.
Shakspeare was his constant companion, and the spring to which he often
resorted to draw supplies of wisdom. But Milton was held in especial
abhorrence—for the prose writings of the eloquent old republican
condemned unheard the sublime strains of his divine poem.




CHAPTER V.

    “A man in all the world's new fashion planted,
    That hath a mint of phrases in his brain;
    One, whom the music of his own vain tongue,
    Doth ravish like enchanting harmony;
    A man of compliments.” _Love's Labor Lost._


“Well, Mr. Bernard,” said the old Colonel as they entered the room,
“take a seat, and let's have a social chat. We old planters don't get a
chance often to hear the news from Jamestown, and I am afraid you will
find me an inquisitive companion. But first join me in a pipe. There is
no greater stimulant to conversation than the smoke of our Virginia
weed.”

“You must excuse me,” said Bernard, smiling, “I have not yet learned to
smoke, although, if I remain in Virginia, I suppose I will have to
contract a habit so general here.”

“What, not smoke!” said the old man, in surprise. “Why tobacco is at
once the calmer of sorrows, the assuager of excitement; the companion of
solitude, the life of company; the quickener of fancy, the composer of
thought.”

“I had expected,” returned Bernard, laughing at his host's enthusiasm,
“that so rigid a loyalist as yourself, would be a convert to King
James's Counterblast. Have you never read that work of the royal
pedant?”

“Read it!” cried the Colonel, impetuously. “No! and what's more, with
all my loyalty and respect for his memory, I would sooner light my pipe
with a page of his Basilicon, than subscribe to the sentiments of his
Counterblast.”

“Oh, he had his supporters too,” replied Bernard, smiling. “You surely
cannot have forgotten the song of Cucullus in the Lover's Melancholy;”
and the young man repeated, with mock solemnity, the lines,

    “They that will learn to drink a health in hell,
    Must learn on earth to take tobacco well,
    For in hell they drink no wine, nor ale, nor beer,
    But fire and smoke and stench, as we do here.”

“Well put, my young friend,” said Temple, laughing in his turn. “But you
should remember that John Ford had to put such a sentiment in the mouth
of a Bedlamite. Here, Sandy,” he added, kicking a little negro boy, who
was nodding in the corner, dreaming, perhaps, of the pleasures of the
next 'possum hunt, “Run to the kitchen, Sandy, and bring me a coal of
fire.”

“And, now, Mr. Bernard, what is the news political and social in the big
world of Jamestown?”

“Much to interest you in both respects. It is indeed a part of my duty
in this visit, to request that you and the ladies will be present at a
grand masque ball to be given on Lady Frances's birth-night.”

“A masque in Virginia!” exclaimed the Colonel, “that will be a novelty
indeed! But the Governor has not the opportunity or the means at hand to
prepare it.”

“Oh, yes!” replied Bernard, “we have all determined to do our best. The
assembly will be in session, and the good burgesses will aid us, and at
any rate if we cannot eclipse old England, we must try to make up in
pleasure, what is wanting in brilliancy. I trust Miss Temple will aid us
by her presence, which in itself will add both pleasure and brilliancy
to the occasion.”

Virginia blushed slightly at the compliment, and replied—

“Indeed, Mr. Bernard, the presence which you seem to esteem so highly
depends entirely on my father's permission—but I will unite with you in
urging that as it is a novelty to me, he will not deny his assent. I
should like of all things to go.”

“Well, my daughter, as you please—but what says mother to the plan? You
know she is not queen consort only, and she must be consulted.”

“I am sure, Colonel Temple,” said the good lady, “that I do as much to
please Virginia as you can. To be sure, a masque in Virginia can afford
but little pleasure to me, who have seen them in all their glory in
England, but I have no doubt it will be all well enough for the young
people, and I am always ready to contribute to their amusement.”

“I know that, my dear, and Jeanie can testify to it as well as I. But,
Mr. Bernard, what is to be the subject of this masque, and who is the
author, or are we to have a rehash of rare Ben Jonson's Golden Age?”

“It is to be a kind of parody of that, or rather a burlesque;” replied
Bernard, “and is designed to hail the advent of the Restoration, a theme
worthy of the genius of a Shakspeare, though, unfortunately, it is now
in far humbler hands.”

“A noble subject, truly,” said the Colonel, “and from your deprecating
air, I have no doubt that we are to be indebted to your pen for its
production.”

“Partly, sir,” returned Bernard, with an assumption of modesty. “It is
the joint work of Mr. Hutchinson, the chaplain of his excellency, and
myself.”

“Oh! Mr. Bernard, are you a poet,” cried the old lady in admiration;
“this is really an honour. Mr. Temple used to write verses when we were
young, and although they were never printed, they were far prettier than
a great deal of the lovesick nonsense that they make such a fuss about.
I was always begging him to publish, but he never would push himself
forward, like others with not half his merit.”

“I do not pretend to any merit, my dear madam,” said Bernard, “but I
trust that with my rigid loyalty, and parson Hutchinson's rigid
episcopacy, the roundhead puritans will not meet with more favour than
they deserve. Neither of us have been long enough in the colony to have
learned from observation the taste of the Virginians, but there is
abundant evidence on record that they were the last to desert the cause
of loyalty, and to submit to the sway of the puritan Protector.”

“Right, my friend, and she ever will be, or else old Henry Temple will
seek out some desolate abode untainted with treason wherein to drag out
the remainder of his days.”

“Your loyalty was never more needed,” said Bernard; “for Virginia, I
fear, will yet be the scene of a rebellion, which may be but the brief
epitome of the revolution.”

“Aye, you refer to this Baconian movement. I had heard that the
demagogue was again in arms. But surely you cannot apprehend any danger
from such a source.”

“Well, I trust not; and yet the harmless worm, if left to grow, may
acquire fangs. Bacon is eloquent and popular, and has already under his
standard some of the very flower of the colony. He must be crushed and
crushed at once; and yet I fear the worst from the clemency and delay of
Sir William Berkeley.”

“Tell me; what is his ground of quarrel?” asked Temple.

“Why, simply that having taken up arms against the Indians without
authority, and enraging them by his injustice and cruelty, the governor
required him to disband the force he had raised. He peremptorily
refused, and demanded a commission from the governor as general-in-chief
of the forces of Virginia to prosecute this unholy war.”

“Why unholy?” asked the Colonel. “Rebellious as was his conduct in
refusing to lay down his arms at the command of the governor, yet I do
not see that it should be deemed unholy to chastise the insolence of
these savages.”

“I will tell you, then,” replied Bernard. “His avowed design was to
avenge the murder of a poor herdsman by a chief of the Doeg tribe.
Instead of visiting his vengeance upon the guilty, he turned his whole
force against the Susquehannahs, a friendly tribe of Indians, and chased
them like sheep into one of their forts. Five of the Indians relying on
the boasted chivalry of the whites, came out of the fort unarmed, to
inquire the cause of this unprovoked attack. They were answered by a
charge of musketry, and basely murdered in cold blood.”

“Monstrous!” cried Temple, with horror. “Such infidelity will incense
the whole Indian race against us and involve the country in another
general war.”

“Exactly so,” returned Bernard, “and such is the governor's opinion; but
besides this, it is suspected, and with reason too, that this Indian war
is merely a pretext on the part of Bacon and a few of his followers, to
cover a deeper and more criminal design. The insolent demagogue prates
openly about equal rights, freedom, oppression of the mother country,
and such dangerous themes, and it is shrewdly thought that, in his wild
dreams of liberty, he is taking Cromwell for his model. He has all of
the villainy of the old puritan, and a good deal of his genius and
ability. But I beg pardon, ladies, all this politics cannot be very
palatable to a lady's taste. We will certainly expect you, Mrs. Temple,
to be present at the masque; and if Miss Virginia would prefer not to
play her part in the exhibition, she may still be there to cheer us with
her smiles. I can speak for the taste of all gallant young Virginians,
that they will readily pardon her for not concealing so fair a face
beneath a mask.”

“Ah, I can easily see that you are but lately from England,” said Mrs.
Temple, delighted with the gallantry of the young man. “Your speech,
fair sir, savours far more of the manners of the court than of these
untutored forests. Alas! it reminds me of my own young days.”

“Well, Mr. Bernard,” said the Colonel, interrupting his wife in a
reminiscence, which bid fair to exhaust no brief time, “you will find
that we have only transplanted old English manners to another soil.

    “'Cœlum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt.'”

“I am glad to see,” said Bernard, casting an admiring glance at
Virginia, “that this new soil you speak of, Colonel Temple, is so
favourably adapted to the growth of the fairest flowers.”

“Oh, you must be jesting, Mr. Bernard,” said the old lady, “for although
I am always begging Virginia to pay more attention to the garden, there
are scarcely any flowers there worth speaking of, except a few roses
that I planted with my own hands, and a bed of violets.”

“You mistake me, my dear madam,” returned Bernard, still gazing on
Virginia with an affectation of rapture, “the roses to which I refer
bloom on fair young cheeks, and the violets shed their sweetness in the
depths of those blue eyes.”

“Oh, you are at your poetry, are you?” said the old lady.

“Not if poetry extends her sway only over the realm of fiction,” said
Bernard, laying his hand upon his heart.

“Indeed, Mr. Bernard,” said Virginia, not displeased at flattery, which
however gross it may appear to modern ears, was common with young
cavaliers in former days, and relished by the fair damsels, “I have been
taught that flowers flourish far better in the cultivated parterre, than
in the wild woods. I doubt not that, like Orlando, you are but playing
off upon a stranger the sentiments, which, in reality, you reserve for
some faithful Rosalind whom you have left in England.”

“You now surprise me, indeed,” returned Bernard, “for do you know that
among all the ladies that grace English society, there are but few who
ever heard of Rosalind or her Orlando, and know as little of the forest
of Ardennes as of your own wild forests in Virginia.”

“I have heard,” said the Colonel, “that old Will Shakspeare and his
cotemporaries—peers he has none—have been thrown aside for more modern
writers, and I fear that England has gained nothing by the exchange. Who
is now your prince of song?”

“There is a newly risen wit and poet, John Dryden by name, who seems to
bear the palm undisputed. Waller is old now, and though he still writes,
yet he has lost much of his popularity by his former defection from the
cause of loyalty.”

“Well, for my part, give me old wine, old friends and old poets,” said
the Colonel. “I confess I like a bard to be consecrated by the united
plaudits of two or three generations, before I can give him my ready
admiration.”

“I should think your acquaintance with Horace would have taught you the
fallacy of that taste,” said Bernard. “Do you not remember how the old
Roman laureate complains of the same prejudice existing in his own day,
and argues that on such a principle merit could be accorded to no poet,
for all must have their admirers among cotemporaries, else their works
would pass into oblivion, before their worth were fairly tested?”

“I cannot be far wrong in the present age at least,” said Temple, “from
what I learn and from what I have myself seen, the literature of the
present reign is disgraced by the most gross and libertine sentiments.
As the water of a healthful stream if dammed up, stagnates and becomes
the fruitful source of unwholesome malaria, and then, when released,
rushes forward, spreading disease and death in its course, so the
liberal feelings and manners of old England, restrained by the rigid
puritanism of the Protectorate, at last burst forth in a torrent of
disgusting and diseased libertinism.”

Bernard had not an opportunity of replying to this elaborate simile of
the good old Colonel, which, like Fadladeen, he had often used and still
reserved for great occasions. Further conversation was here interrupted
by a new arrival, which in this case, much to the satisfaction of the
fair Virginia, proved to be the genuine Hansford.




CHAPTER VI.

                        “Speak of Mortimer!
    Zounds, I will speak of him; and let my soul
    Want mercy, if I do not join with him.”
                                          _Henry IV._


Thomas Hansford, in appearance and demeanour, lost nothing in comparison
with the accomplished Bernard. He certainly did not possess in so high a
degree the easy assurance which characterized the young courtier, but
his self-confidence, blended with a becoming modesty, and his open,
ingenuous manners, fully compensated for the difference. There was that
in his clear blue eye and pleasant smile which inspired confidence in
all whom he approached. Modest and unobtrusive in his expressions of
opinion, he was nevertheless firm in their maintenance when announced,
and though deferential to superiors in age and position, and respectful
to all, he was never servile or obsequious.

The same kind of difference might be traced in the dress of the two
young men, as in their manners. With none of the ostentatious display,
which we have described as belonging to the costume of Bernard, the
attire of Hansford was plain and neat. He was dressed in a grey doublet
and breeches, trussed with black silk points. His long hose were of
cotton, and his shoes were fastened, not with the gay colored ribbons
before described, but with stout leather thongs, such as are still often
used in the dress of a country gentleman. His beaver was looped with a
plain black button, in front, displaying his fair hair, which was
brushed plainly back from his forehead. He, too, wore a sword by his
side, but it was fastened, not by handsome fringe and sash, but by a
plain belt around his waist. It seemed as though it were worn more for
use than ornament. We have been thus particular in describing the dress
of these two young men, because, as we have hinted, the contrast
indicated the difference in their characters—a difference which will,
however, more strikingly appear in the subsequent pages of this
narrative.

“Well, my boy,” said old Temple, heartily, “I am glad to see you; you
have been a stranger among us lately, but are none the less welcome on
that account. Yet, faith, lad, there was no necessity for whetting our
appetite for your company by such a long absence.”

“I have been detained on some business of importance,” replied Hansford,
with some constraint in his manner. “I am glad, however, my dear sir,
that I have not forfeited my welcome by my delay, for no one, I assure
you, has had more cause to regret my absence than myself.”

“Better late than never, my boy,” said the Colonel. “Come, here is a new
acquaintance of ours, to whom I wish to introduce you. Mr. Alfred
Bernard, Mr. Hansford.”

The young men saluted each other respectfully, and Hansford passed on to
“metal more attractive.” Seated once more by the side of his faithful
Virginia, he forgot the presence of all else, and the two lovers were
soon deep in conversation, in a low voice.

“I hope your absence was not caused by your mother's increased
sickness,” said Virginia.

“No, dearest, the old lady's health is far better than it has been for
some time. But I have many things to tell you which will surprise, if
they do not please you.”

“Oh, you have no idea what a fright father gave me this evening,” said
Virginia. “He told me that you had probably been engaged by the governor
to aid in suppressing this rebellion. I fancied that there were already
twenty bullets through your body, and made a little fool of myself
generally. But if I had known that you were staying away from me so long
without any good reason, I would not have been so silly, I assure you.”

“Your care for me, dear girl, is very grateful to my feelings, and
indeed it makes me very sad to think that I may yet be the cause of so
much unhappiness to you.”

“Oh, come now,” said the laughing girl, “don't be sentimental. You men
think very little of ladies, if you suppose that we are incapable of
listening to anything but flattery. Now, there's Mr. Bernard has been
calling me flowers, and roses, and violets, ever since he came. For my
part, I would rather be loved as a woman, than admired as all the
flowers that grow in the world.”

“Who is this Mr. Bernard?” asked Hansford.

“He is the Governor's private secretary, and a very nice fellow he seems
to be, too. He has more poetry at his finger's ends than you or I ever
read, and he is very handsome, don't you think so?”

“It is very well that I did not prolong my absence another day,” said
Hansford, “or else I might have found my place in your heart supplied by
this foppish young fribble.”[6]

“Nay, now, if you are going to be jealous, I will get angry,” said
Virginia, trying to pout her pretty lips. “But say what you will about
him, he is very smart, and what's more, he writes poetry as well as
quotes it.”

“And has he told you of all his accomplishments so soon?” said Hansford,
smiling; “for I hardly suppose you have seen a volume of his works,
unless he brought it here with him. What else can he do? Perhaps he
plays the flute, and dances divinely; and may-be, but for 'the vile
guns, he might have been a soldier.' He looks a good deal like Hotspur's
dandy to my eyes.”

“Oh, don't be so ill-natured,” said Virginia, “He never would have told
about his writing poetry, but father guessed it.”

“Your father must have infinite penetration then,” said Hansford, “for I
really do not think the young gentleman looks much as though he could
tear himself from the mirror long enough to use his pen.”

“Well, but he has written a masque, to be performed day-after-to-morrow
night, at the palace, to celebrate Lady Frances' birth-day. Are you not
going to the ball. Of course you'll be invited.”

“No, dearest,” said Hansford, with a sigh. “Sir William Berkeley might
give me a more unwelcome welcome than to a masque.”

“What on earth do you mean?” said Virginia, turning pale with alarm.
“You have not—”

“Nay, you shall know all to-morrow,” replied Hansford.

“Tom,” cried Colonel Temple, in his loud, merry voice, “stop cooing
there, and tell me where you have been all this time. I'll swear, boy, I
thought you had been helping Berkeley to put down that d—d renegade,
Bacon.”

“I am surprised,” said Hansford, with a forced, but uneasy smile, “that
you should suppose the Governor had entrusted an affair of such moment
to me.”

“Zounds, lad,” said the Colonel, “I never dreamed that you were at the
head of the expedition. Oh, the vanity of youth! No, I suppose my good
friends, Colonel Ludwell and Major Beverley, are entrusted with the
lead. But I thought a subordinate office—”

“You are mistaken altogether, Colonel,” said Hansford. “The business
which detained me from Windsor Hall had nothing to do with the
suppression of this rebellion, and indeed I have not been in Jamestown
for some weeks.”

“Well, keep your own counsel then, Tom; but I trust it was at least
business connected with your profession. I like to see a young lawyer
give his undivided attention to business. But I doubt me, Tom, that you
cheat the law out of some of the six hours that Lord Coke has allotted
to her.”

“I have, indeed, been attending to the preparation of a cause of some
importance,” said Hansford.

“Well, I'm glad of it, my boy. Who is your client? I hope he gives you a
good retainer.”

“My fee is chiefly contingent,” replied the young lawyer, sorely pressed
by the questions of the curious old Colonel.

“Why, you are very laconic,” returned Temple, trying to enlist him in
conversation. “Come, tell me all about it. I used to be something of a
lawyer myself in my youth, didn't I, Bessy?”

“Yes, indeed,” said his wife, who was nearly dozing over her eternal
knitting; “and if you had stuck to your profession, and not mingled in
politics, my dear, we would have been much better off. You know I always
told you so.”

“I believe you did, Bessy,” said the Colonel. “But what's done can't be
undone. Take example by me, Tom, d'ye hear, and never meddle in
politics, my boy. But I believe I retain some cobwebs of law in my brain
yet, and I might help you in your case. Who is your client?”

“The Colony is one of the parties to the cause,” replied Hansford; “but
the details cannot interest the ladies, you know; I will confer with you
some other time on the subject, and will be very happy to have your
advice.”

All this time, Alfred Bernard had been silently watching the countenance
of Hansford, and the latter had been unpleasantly conscious of the fact.
As he made the last remark, he saw the keen eyes of Bernard resting upon
him with such an expression of suspicion, that he could not avoid
wincing. Bernard had no idea of losing the advantage which he thus
possessed, and with wily caution he prepared a snare for his victim,
more sure of success than an immediate attack would have been.

“I think I have heard something of the case,” he said, fixing a
penetrating glance on Hansford as he spoke, “and I agree with Mr.
Hansford, that its details here would not be very interesting to the
ladies. By the way, Colonel, your conjecture, that Mr. Hansford was
employed in the suppression of the rebellion, reminds me of a
circumstance that I had almost forgotten to mention. You have heard of
that fellow Bacon's perjury—”

“Perjury!” exclaimed the Colonel. “No! on the contrary I had been given
to understand that, with all his faults, his personal honour was so far
unstained, even with suspicion.”

“Such was the general impression,” returned Bernard, “but it is now
proven that he is as capable of the greatest perfidy as of the most
daring treason.”

“You probably refer, sir, to an affair,” said Hansford, “of which I have
some knowledge, and on which I may throw some light which will be more
favorable to Mr. Bacon.”

“Your being able to conjecture so easily the fact to which I allude,”
said Bernard, “is in itself an evidence that the general impression of
his conduct is not so erroneous. I am happy,” he added, with a sneer,
“that in this free country, a rebel even can meet with so disinterested
a defender.”

“If you refer, Mr. Bernard,” replied Hansford, disregarding the manner
of Bernard, “to the alleged infraction of his parole, I can certainly
explain it. I know that Colonel Temple does not, and I hope that you do
not, wish deliberately to do any man an injustice, even if he be a foe
or a rebel.”

“That's true, my boy,” said the generous old Temple. “Give the devil his
due, even he is not as black as he is painted. That's my maxim. How was
it, Tom? And begin at the beginning, that's the only way to straighten a
tangled skein.”

“Then, as I understand the story,” said Hansford, in a slow, distinct,
voice, “it is this:—After Mr. Bacon returned to Henrico from his
expedition against the Indians, he was elected to the House of
Burgesses. On attempting to go down the river to Jamestown, to take his
seat, he was arrested by Captain Gardiner, on a charge of treason, and
brought as a prisoner before Sir William Berkeley. The Governor,
expressing himself satisfied with his disclaimer and open recantation of
any treasonable design, released him from imprisonment on parole, and,
as is reported, promised at the same time to grant him the commission he
desired. Mr. Bacon, hearing of the sickness of his wife, returned to
Henrico, and while there, secret warrants were issued to arrest him
again. Upon a knowledge of this fact he refused to surrender himself
under his parole.”

“You have made a very clear case of it, if the facts be true,” said
Bernard, in a taunting tone, “and seem to be well acquainted with the
motives and movements of the traitor. I have no doubt there are many
among his deluded followers who fail to appreciate the full force of a
parole d'honneur.”

“Sir!” said Hansford, his face flushing with indignation.

“I only remarked,” said Bernard, in reply, “that a traitor to his
country knows but little of the laws which govern honourable men. My
remark only applied to traitors, and such I conceive the followers and
supporters of Nathaniel Bacon to be.”

Hansford only replied with a bow.

“And so does Tom,” said Temple, “and so do we all, Mr. Bernard. But
Hansford knew Bacon before this late movement of his, and he is very
loth to hear his old friend charged with anything that he does not
deserve. But see, my wife there is nodding over her knitting, and
Jeanie's pretty blue eyes, I know, begin to itch. Our motto is, Mr.
Bernard, to go to bed with the chickens and rise with the lark. But we
have failed in the first to-night, and I reckon we will sleep a little
later than lady lark to-morrow. So, to bed, to bed, my lord.”

So saying, the hospitable old gentleman called a servant to show the
gentlemen to their separate apartments.

“You will be able to sleep in an old planter's cabin, Mr. Bernard,” he
said, “where you will find all clean and comfortable, although perhaps a
little rougher than you are accustomed to. Tom, boy, you know the ways
of the house, and I needn't apologize to you. And so pleasant dreams and
a good night to you both.”

After the Colonel had gone, and before the servant had appeared,
Hansford touched Bernard lightly on the shoulder. The latter turned
around with some surprise.

“You must be aware, Mr. Bernard,” said Hansford, “that your language
to-night remained unresented only because of my respect for the company
in which we were.”

“I did not deem it of sufficient importance,” replied Bernard, assuming
an indifferent tone, “to inquire whether your motives for silence were
respect for the family or regard for yourself.”

“You now at least know, sir. Let me ask you whether you made the remark
to which I refer with a full knowledge of who I was, and what were my
relations towards Mr. Bacon.”

“I decline making any explanation of language which, both in manner and
expression, was sufficiently intelligible.”

“Then, sir,” said Hansford, resolutely, “there is but one reparation
that you can make,” and he laid his hand significantly on his sword.

“I understand you,” returned Bernard, “but do not hold myself
responsible to a man whose position in society may be more worthy of my
contempt than of my resentment.”

“The company in which you found me, and the gentleman who introduced us,
are sufficient guarantees of my position. If under these circumstances
you refuse, you take advantage of a subterfuge alike unworthy of a
gentleman or a brave man.”

“Even this could scarcely avail you, since the family are not aware of
the treason by which you have forfeited any claim to their protection.
But I waive any such objection, sir, and accept your challenge.”

“Being better acquainted with the place than yourself,” said Hansford,
“I would suggest, sir, that there is a little grove in rear of the
barn-yard, which is a fit spot for our purpose. There will there be no
danger of interruption.”

“As you please, sir,” replied Bernard. “To-morrow morning, then, at
sunrise, with swords, and in the grove you speak of.”

The servant entered the room at this moment, and the two young men
parted for the night, having thus settled in a few moments the
preliminaries of a mortal combat, with as much coolness as if it had
been an agreement for a fox-hunt.


FOOTNOTES:

[6] A coxcomb, a popinjay.




CHAPTER VII.

    “'We try this quarrel hilt to hilt.'
    Then each at once his falchion drew,
    Each on the ground his scabbard threw,
    Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain,
    As what they ne'er might see again;
    Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,
    In dubious strife they darkly closed.”
                                    _Lady of the Lake._


It is a happy thing for human nature that the cares, and vexations, and
fears, of this weary life, are at least excluded from the magic world of
sleep. Exhausted nature will seek a respite from her trials in
forgetfulness, and steeped in the sacred stream of Lethe, like the young
Achilles, she becomes invulnerable. It is but seldom that care dares
intrude upon this quiet realm, and though it may be truly said that
sleep “swift on her downy pinions flies from woe,” yet, when at last it
does alight on the lid sullied by a tear, it rests as quietly as
elsewhere. We have scarcely ever read of an instance where the last
night of a convict was not passed in tranquil slumber, as though Sleep,
the sweet sister of the dread Terror, soothed more tenderly, in this
last hour, the victim of her gloomy brother's dart.

Thomas Hansford, for with him our story remains, slept as calmly on this
night as though a long life of happiness and fame stretched out before
his eyes. 'Tis true, that ere he went to bed, as he unbelted his trusty
sword, he looked at its well-tempered steel with a confident eye, and
thought of the morrow. But so fully imbued were the youth of that iron
age with the true spirit of chivalry, that life was but little regarded
where honour was concerned, and the precarious tenure by which life was
held, made it less prized by those who felt that they might be called on
any day to surrender it. Hansford, therefore, slept soundly, and the
first red streaks of the morning twilight were smiling through his
window when he awoke. He rose, and dressing himself hastily, he repaired
to the study, where he wrote a few hasty lines to his mother and to
Virginia—the first to assure her of his filial love, and to pray her
forgiveness for thus sacrificing life for honour; and the second
breathing the warm ardour of his heart for her who, during his brief
career, had lightened the cares and shared the joys which fortune had
strewn in his path. As he folded these two letters and placed them in
his pocket, he could not help drawing a deep sigh, to think of these two
beings whose fate was so intimately entwined with his own, and whose
thread of life would be weakened when his had been severed. Repelling
such a thought as unworthy a brave man engaged in an honourable cause,
he buckled on his sword and repaired with a firm step to the place of
meeting. Alfred Bernard, true to his word, was there.

And now the sun was just rising above the green forest, to the eastward.
The hands, as by a striking metonymy those happy laborers were termed,
who never knew the cares which environ the head, were just going out to
their day's work. Men, women and children, some to plough the corn, and
one a merry teamster, who, with his well attended team, was driving to
the woods for fuel. And in the barn-yard were the sleek milch cows,
smelling fresh with the dewy clover from the meadow, and their hides
smoking with the early dew of morning; and the fowls, that strutted and
clucked, and cackled, in the yard, all breakfasting on the scanty grains
that had fallen from the horse-troughs—all save one inquisitive old
rooster, who, flapping his wings and mounting the fence to crow, eyed
askant the two young men, as though, a knight himself, he guessed their
bloody intent. And the birds, too, those joyous, happy beings, who pass
their life in singing, shook the fresh dew from their pretty wings,
cleared their throats in the bracing air, and like the pious Persian,
pouring forth their hymn of praise to the morning sun, fluttered away to
search for their daily food. All was instinct with happiness and beauty.
All were seeking to preserve the life which God had given but two, and
they stood there, in the bright, dewy morning, to stain the fair robe of
nature with blood. It is a sad thought, that of all the beings who
rejoice in life, he alone, who bears the image of his Maker, should have
wandered from His law.

The men saluted one another coldly as Hansford approached, and Bernard
said, with a firm voice, “You see, sir, I have kept my appointment. I
believe nothing remains but to proceed.”

“You must excuse me for again suggesting,” said Hansford, “that we wait
a few moments, until these labourers are out of sight. We might be
interrupted.”

Bernard silently acquiesced, and the combatants stood at a short
distance apart, each rapt in his own reflections. What those reflections
were may be easily imagined. Both were young men of talent and promise.
The one, the favourite of Sir William Berkeley, saw fame and distinction
awaiting him in the colony. The other, the beloved of the people, second
only to Bacon in their affections, and by that great leader esteemed as
a friend and entrusted as a confidant, had scarce less hope in the
future. The one a stranger, almost unknown in the colony, with little to
care for in the world but self; the other the support of an aged mother,
and the pride of a fair and trusting girl—the strong rock, on whose
protection the grey lichen of age had rested, and around which the green
tendrils of love entwined. Both men of erring hearts, who in a few
moments might be summoned to appear at that dread bar, where all the
secrets of their hearts are known, and all the actions of their lives
are judged. The two combatants were nearly equally matched in the use
of the sword. Bernard's superior skill in fence being fully compensated
by the superior coolness of his adversary.

Just as the last labourer had disappeared, both swords flashed in the
morning sun. The combat was long, and the issue doubtful. Each seemed so
conscious of the skill of the other, that both acted chiefly on the
defensive. But the protracted length of the fight turned to the
advantage of Hansford, who, from his early training and hardy exercise,
was more accustomed to endure fatigue. Bernard became weary of a contest
of such little interest, and at last, forgetting the science in which he
was a complete adept, he made a desperate lunge at the breast of the
young colonist. This thrust Hansford parried with such success, that he
sent the sword of his adversary flying through the air. In attempting to
regain possession of his sword, Bernard's foot slipped, and he fell
prostrate to the ground.

“Now yield you,” cried the victor, as he stood above the prostrate form
of his antagonist, “and take back the foul stain which you have placed
upon my name, or, by my troth, you had else better commend yourself to
Heaven.”

“I cannot choose but yield,” said Bernard, rising slowly from the
ground, while his face was purple with rage and mortification. “But look
ye, sir rebel, if but I had that good sword once more in my hand, I
would prove that I can yet maintain my honour and my life against a
traitor's arm. I take my life at your hands, but God do so to me, and
more also, if the day do not come when you will wish that you had taken
it while it was in your power. The life you give me shall be devoted to
the one purpose of revenge.”

“As you please,” said Hansford, eyeing him with an expression of bitter
contempt. “Meantime, as you value your life, dedicated to so unworthy an
object, let me hear no more of your insolence.”

“Nay, by my soul,” cried Bernard, “I will not bear your taunts. Draw and
defend yourself!” At the same time, with an active spring, he regained
possession of his lost sword. But just as they were about to renew the
attack, there appeared upon the scene of action a personage so strange
in appearance, and so wild in dress, that Bernard dropped his weapon in
surprise, and with a vacant stare gazed upon the singular apparition.

The figure was that of a young girl, scarce twenty years of age, whose
dark copper complexion, piercing black eyes, and high cheek bones, all
proclaimed her to belong to that unhappy race which had so long held
undisputed possession of this continent. Her dress was fantastic in the
highest degree. Around her head was a plait of peake, made from those
shells which were used by the Indians at once as their roanoke, or
money, and as their most highly prized ornament of dress. A necklace and
bracelets of the same adorned her neck and arms. A short smock, made of
dressed deer-skin, which reached only to her knees, and was tightly
fitted around the waist with a belt of wampum, but scantily concealed
the swelling of her lovely bosom. Her legs, from the knee to the ancle,
were bare, and her feet were covered with buckskin sandals, ornamented
with beads, such as are yet seen in our western country, as the
handiwork of the remnant of this unhappy race. Such a picturesque
costume well became the graceful form that wore it. Her long, dark hair,
which, amid all these decorations, was her loveliest ornament, fell
unbound over her shoulders in rich profusion. As she approached, with
light and elastic step, towards the combatants, Bernard, as we have
said, dropped his sword in mute astonishment. It is true, that even in
his short residence in Virginia, he had seen Indians at Jamestown, but
they had come with friendly purpose to ask favors of the English. His
impressions were therefore somewhat similar to those of a man who,
having admired the glossy coat, and graceful, athletic form of a tiger
in a menagerie, first sees that fierce animal bounding towards him from
his Indian jungle. The effect upon him, however, was of course but
momentary, and he again raised his sword to renew the attack. But his
opponent, without any desire of engaging again in the contest, turned to
the young girl and said, in a familiar voice, “Well, Mamalis, what
brings you to the hall so early this morning?”

“There is danger there,” replied the young girl, solemnly, and in purer
English than Bernard was prepared to hear. “If you would help me, put up
your long knife and follow me.”

“What do you mean?” asked Hansford, alarmed by her manner and words.

“Manteo and his braves come to take blood for blood,” returned the girl.
“There is no time to lose.”

“In God's name, Mr. Bernard,” said Hansford, quickly, “come along with
us. This is no time for private quarrel. Our swords are destined for
another use.”

“Most willingly,” replied Bernard; “our enmity will scarcely cool by
delay. And mark me, young man, Alfred Bernard will never rest until he
avenges the triumph of your sword this morning, or the foul blot which
you have placed upon his name. But let that pass now. Can this
creature's statement be relied on?”

“She is as true as Heaven,” whispered Hansford. “Come on, for we have
indeed but little time to lose; at another time I will afford you ample
opportunity to redeem your honour or to avenge yourself. You will not
find my blood cooler by delay.” And so the three walked on rapidly
towards the house, the two young men side by side, after having sworn
eternal hostility to one another, but yet willing to forget their
private feud in the more important duties before them.

The reader of the history of this interesting period, will remember
that there were, at this time, many causes of discontent prevailing
among the Indians of Virginia. As has been before remarked, the murder
of a herdsman, Robert Hen by name, and other incidents of a similar
character, were so terribly avenged by the incensed colonists, not only
upon the guilty, but upon friendly tribes, that the discontent of the
Indians was wide spread and nearly universal. Nor did it cease until the
final suppression of the Indian power by Nathaniel Bacon, at the battle
of Bloody Run. This, however, was but the immediate cause of
hostilities, for which there had already been, in the opinion of the
Indians, sufficient provocation. Many obnoxious laws had been passed by
the Assembly, in regard to the savages, that were so galling to their
independence, that the seeds of discord and enmity were already widely
sown. Among these were the laws prohibiting the trade in guns and
ammunition with the Indians; requiring the warriors of the peaceful
tribes to wear badges in order that they might be recognized;
restricting them in their trade to particular marts; and, above all,
providing that the _Werowance_, or chief of a tribe, should hold his
position by the appointment of the Governor, and not by the choice of
his braves. This last provision, which struck at the very independence
of the tribes, was so offensive, that peaceable relations with the
Indians could not long be maintained. Add to this the fact, which for
its inhumanity is scarcely credible, that the English at Monados, now
the island of New York, had, with a view of controlling the monopoly of
the trade in furs and skins, inspired the Indians with a bitter
hostility toward the Virginians, and it will easily be seen that the
magazine of discontent needed but a spark to explode in open hostility.

So much is necessary to be premised in order that the reader may
understand the relations which existed, at this period, between the
colonists and the Indians around them.




CHAPTER VIII.

    “And in, the buskined hunters of the deer,
    To Albert's home with shout and cymbal throng.”
                                            _Campbell._


The surprise and horror with which the intelligence of this impending
attack was received by the family at Windsor Hall may be better imagined
than described. Manteo, the leader of the party, a young Indian of the
Pamunkey tribe, was well known to them all. With his sister, the young
girl whom we have described, he lived quietly in his little wigwam, a
few miles from the hall, and in his intercourse with the family had been
friendly and even affectionate. But with all this, he was still ardently
devoted to his race, and thirsting for fame; and stung by what he
conceived the injustice of the whites, he had leagued himself in an
enterprise, which, regardless of favour or friendship, was dictated by
revenge.

It was, alas! too late to hope for escape from the hall, or to send to
the neighboring plantations for assistance; and, to add to their
perplexity, the whole force of the farm, white servants and black, had
gone to a distant field, where it was scarcely possible that they could
hear of the attack until it was too late to contribute their aid in the
defence. But with courage and resolution the gentlemen prepared to make
such defence or resistance as was in their power, and, indeed, from the
unsettled character of the times, a planter's house was no mean
fortification against the attacks of the Indians. Early in the history
of the colony, it was found necessary, for the general safety, to enact
laws requiring each planter to provide suitable means of defence, in
case of any sudden assault by the hostile tribes. Accordingly, the doors
to these country mansions were made of the strongest material, and in
some cases, and such was the case at Windsor Hall, were lined on the
interior by a thick sheet of iron. The windows, too, or such as were low
enough to be scaled from the ground, were protected by shutters of
similar material. Every planter had several guns, and a sufficient store
of ammunition for defence. Thus it will be seen that Windsor Hall,
protected by three vigorous men, well armed and stout of heart, was no
contemptible fortress against the rude attacks of a few savages, whose
number in all probability would not exceed twenty. The greatest
apprehension was from fire; but, strange to say, the savages but seldom
resorted to this mode of vengeance, except when wrought up to the
highest state of excitement.[7]

“At any rate,” said the brave old Colonel, “we will remain where we are
until threatened with fire, and then at least avenge our lives with the
blood of these infamous wretches.”

The doors and lower windows had been barricaded, and the three men,
armed to the teeth, stood ready in the hall for the impending attack.
Virginia and her mother were there, the former pale as ashes, but
suppressing her emotions with a violent effort in order to contribute to
her mother's comfort. In fact, the old lady, notwithstanding her boast
of bravery on the evening before, stood in need of all the consolation
that her daughter could impart. She vented her feelings in screams as
loud as those of the Indians she feared, and refused to be comforted.
Virginia, forgetful of her own equal danger, leant tenderly over her
mother, who had thrown herself upon a sofa, and whispered those sweet
words of consolation, which religion can alone suggest in the hour of
our trial:

“Mother, dear mother,” she said, “remember that although earthly
strength should fail, we are yet in the hands of One who is mighty.”

“Well, and what if we are,” cried her mother, whose faith was like that
of the old lady, who, when the horses ran away with her carriage,
trusted in Providence till the breeching broke. “Well, and what if we
are, if in a few minutes our scalps may be taken by these horrible
savages?”

“But, dear mother, He has promised—”

“Oh, I don't know whether he has or not—but as sure as fate there they
come,” and the old lady relapsed into her hysterics.

“Mother, mother, remember your duty as a Christian—remember in whom you
have put your trust,” said Virginia, earnestly.

“Oh, yes, that's the way. Of course I know nothing of my duty, and I
don't pretend to be as good as others. I am nothing but a poor, weak old
woman, and must be reminded of my duty by my daughter, although I was a
Christian long before she was born. But, for my part, I think it's
tempting Providence to bear such a judgment with so much indifference.”

“But, Bessy,” interposed the Colonel, seeing Virginia was silent under
this unusual kind of argument, “your agitation will only make the matter
worse. If you give way thus, we cannot be as ready and cool in action as
we should. Come now, dear Bessy, calm yourself.”

“Oh, yes, it's well to say that, after bringing me all the way into this
wild country, to be devoured by these wild Indians. Oh, that I should
ever have consented to leave my quiet home in dear old England for this!
And all because a protector reigned instead of a king. Protector,
forsooth; I would rather have a hundred protectors at this moment than
one king.”

“Father,” said Virginia, in a tremulous voice, “had we not better retire
to some other part of the house? We can only incommode you here.”

“Right, my girl,” said her father. “Take your mother up stairs into your
room, and try and compose her.”

“Take me, indeed,” said his worthy spouse. “Colonel Temple, you speak as
if I was a baby, to be carried about as you choose. I assure you, I will
not budge a foot from you.”

“Stay where you are then,” replied Temple, impatiently, “and for God's
sake be calm. Ha! now my boys—here they come!” and a wild yell, which
seemed to crack the very welkin, announced the appearance of the enemy.

“I think we had all better go to the upper windows,” said Hansford,
calmly. “There is nothing to be done by being shut up in this dark hall;
while there, protected from their arrows, we may do some damage to the
enemy. If we remain, our only chance is to make a desperate sally, in
which we would be almost certainly destroyed.”

“Mr. Hansford,” said Virginia, “give me a gun—there is one left—and
you shall see that a young girl, in an hour of peril like this, knows
how to aid brave men in her own defence.”

Hansford bent an admiring glance upon the heroic girl, as he placed the
weapon in her hands, while her father said, with rapture, “God bless
you, my daughter. If your arm were strong as your heart is brave, you
had been a hero. I retract what I said on yesterday,” he added in a
whisper, with a sad smile, “for you have this day proved yourself worthy
to be a brave man's wife.”

The suggestion of Hansford was readily agreed upon, and the little party
were soon at their posts, shielded by the windows from the attack of the
Indians, and yet in a position from which they could annoy the enemy
considerably by their own fire. From his shelter there, Bernard, to whom
the sight was entirely new, could see rushing towards the hall, a party
of about twenty savages, painted in the horrible manner which they adopt
to inspire terror in a foe, and attired in that strange wild costume,
which is now familiar to every school-boy. Their leader, a tall,
athletic young Indian, surpassed them all in the hideousness of his
appearance. His closely shaven hair was adorned with a tall eagle's
feather, and pendant from his ears were the rattles of the rattlesnake.
The only garment which concealed his nakedness was a short smock, or
apron, reaching from his waist nearly to his knees, and made of dressed
deer skin, adorned with beads and shells. Around his neck and wrists
were strings of peake and roanoke. His face was painted in the most
horrible manner, with a ground of deep red, formed from the dye of the
pocone root, and variegated with streaks of blue, yellow and green.
Around his eyes were large circles of green paint. But to make his
appearance still more hideous, feathers and hair were stuck all over his
body, upon the fresh paint, which made the warrior look far more like
some wild beast of the forest than a human being.

Brandishing a tomahawk in one hand, and holding a carbine in the other,
Manteo, thus disguised, led on his braves with loud yells towards the
mansion of Colonel Temple. How different from the respectful demeanour,
and more modest attire, in which he was accustomed to appear before the
family of Windsor Hall.

To the great comfort of the inmates, his carbine was the only one in the
party, thanks to the wise precaution of the Assembly, in restricting the
sale of such deadly weapons to the Indians. His followers, arrayed in
like horrible costume with himself, followed on with their tomahawks and
bows; their arrows were secured in a quiver slung over the shoulder,
which was formed of the skins of foxes and raccoons, rendered more
terrible by the head of the animal being left unsevered from the skin.
To the loud shrieks and yells of their voices, was added the unearthly
sound of their drums and rattles—the whole together forming a
discordant medley, which, as brave old John Smith has well and quaintly
observed, “would rather affright than delight any man.”

All this the besieged inmates of the hall saw with mingled feelings of
astonishment and dread, awaiting with intense anxiety the result.

“Now be perfectly quiet,” said Hansford, in a low tone, for, by tacit
consent, he was looked upon as the leader of the defence. “The house
being closed, they may conclude that the family are absent, and so,
after their first burst of vengeance, retire. Their bark is always worse
than their bite.”

Such indeed seemed likely to be the case, for the Indians, arrived at
the porch, looked around with some surprise at the barred doors and
windows, and began to confer together. Whatever might have been the
event of their conference, their actions, however, were materially
affected by an incident which, though intended for the best, was well
nigh resulting in destruction to the whole family.


FOOTNOTES:

[7] This fact, which I find mentioned by several historians, is
explained by Kercheval, in his history of the Valley of Virginia, by the
supposition that the Indians for a long time entertained the hope of
reconquering the country, and saved property from destruction which
might be of use to them in the future. See page 90 of Valley of Va.




CHAPTER IX.

    “Like gun when aimed at duck or plover,
    Kicks back and knocks the shooter over.”


There was at Windsor Hall, an old family servant, known alike to the
negroes and the “white folks,” by the familiar appellation of Uncle
Giles. He was one of those old-fashioned negroes, who having borne the
heat and burden of the day, are turned out to live in comparative
freedom, and supplied with everything that can make their declining
years comfortable and happy. Uncle Giles, according to his own account,
was sixty-four last Whitsuntide, and was consequently born in Africa. It
is a singular fact connected with this race, that whenever consulted
about their age, they invariably date the anniversary of their birth at
Christmas, Easter or Whitsuntide, the triennial holydays to which they
are entitled. Whether this arises from the fact that a life which is
devoted to the service of others should commence with a holyday, or
whether these three are the only epochs known to the negro, is a
question of some interest, but of little importance to our narrative. So
it was, that old uncle Giles, in his own expressive phrase was, “after
wiking all his born days, done turn out to graze hisself to def.” The
only business of the old man was to keep himself comfortable in winter
by the kitchen fire, and in summer to smoke his old corn-cob pipe on the
three legged bench that stood at the kitchen door. Added to this, was
the self-assumed duty of “strapping” the young darkies, and lecturing
the old ones on the importance of working hard, and obeying “old massa,”
cheerfully in everything. And so old uncle Giles, with white and black,
with old and young, but especially with old uncle Giles himself, was a
great character. Among other things that increased his inordinate
self-esteem, was the possession of a rusty old blunderbuss, which, long
since discarded as useless by his master, had fallen into his hands, and
was regarded by him and his sable admirers as a pearl of great price.

Now it so happened, that on the morning to which our story refers, uncle
Giles was quietly smoking his pipe, and muttering solemnly to himself in
that grumbling tone so peculiar to old negroes. When he learned,
however, of the intended attack of the Indians, the old man, who well
remembered the earlier skirmishes with the savages, took his old
blunderbuss from its resting-place above the door of the kitchen, and
prepared himself for action. The old gun, which owing to the growing
infirmities of its possessor, had not been called into use for years,
was now rusted from disuse and neglect; and a bold spider had even dared
to seek, not the bubble reputation, but his more substantial gossamer
palace, at the very mouth of the barrel. Notwithstanding all this, the
gun had all the time remained loaded, for Giles was too rigid an
economist to waste a charge without some good reason. Armed with this
formidable weapon, Giles succeeded in climbing up the side of the low
cabin kitchen, by the logs which protruded from either end of the wall.
Arrived at the top and screening himself behind the rude log and mud
chimney, he awaited with a patience and immobility which Wellington
might have envied, the arrival of the foe. Here then he was quietly
seated when the conference to which we have alluded took place between
the Indian warriors.

“Bird flown,” said Manteo, the leader of the party. “Nest empty.”

Two or three of the braves stooped down and began to examine the soft
sandy soil to discover if there were any tracks or signs of the family
having left. Fortunately the search seemed satisfactory, for the
foot-prints of Bernard's and Hansford's horses, as they were led from
the house towards the stable on the previous evening, were still quite
visible.

This little circumstance seemed to determine the party, and they had
turned away, probably to seek their vengeance elsewhere, or to return at
a more propitious moment, when the discharge of a gun was heard, so
loud, so crashing, and so alarming, that it seemed like the sudden
rattling of thunder in a storm.

Luckily, perhaps for all parties, while the shot fell through the poplar
trees like the first big drops of rain in summer, the only damage which
was done was in clipping off the feather which was worn by Manteo as a
badge of his position. When we say this, however, we mean to refer only
to the effect of the _charge_, not of the _discharge_ of the gun, for
the breech rebounding violently against old Giles shoulder, the poor
fellow lost his balance and came tumbling to the ground. The cabin was
fortunately not more than ten feet high, and our African hero escaped
into the kitchen with a few bruises—a happy compromise for the fate
which would have inevitably been his had he remained in his former
position. The smoke of his fusil mingling with the smoke from the
chimney, averted suspicion, and with the simple-minded creatures who
heard the report and witnessed its effects the whole matter remained a
mystery.

“Tunder,” said one, looking round in vain for the source from which an
attack could be made.

“Call dat tunder,” growled Manteo, pointing significantly to his moulted
plume that lay on the ground.

“Okees[8] mad. Shoot Pawcussacks[9] from osies,”[10] said one of the
older and more experienced of the party, endeavouring to give some
rational explanation of so inexplicable a mystery.

A violent dispute here arose between the different warriors as to the
cause of this sudden anger of the gods; some contending that it was
because they were attacking a Netoppew or friend, and others with equal
zeal contending that it was to reprove the slowness of their vengeance.

From their position above, all these proceedings could be seen, and
these contentions heard by the besieged party. The mixed language in
which the men spoke, for they had even thus early appropriated many
English words to supply the deficiencies in their own barren tongue, was
explained by Mamalis, where it was unintelligible to the whites. This
young girl felt a divided interest in the fate of the besieging and
besieged parties; for all of her devotion to Virginia Temple could not
make her entirely forget the fortunes of her brave brother.

In a few moments, she saw that it was necessary to take some decisive
step, for the faction which was of harsher mood, and urged immediate
vengeance, was seen to prevail in the conference. The fatal word “fire”
was several times heard, and Manteo was already starting towards the
kitchen to procure the means of carrying into effect their deadly
purpose.

“I see nothing left, but to defend ourselves as we may,” said Hansford
in a low voice, at the same time raising his musket, and advancing a
step towards the window, with a view of throwing it open and commencing
the attack.

“Oh, don't shoot,” said Mamalis, imploringly, “I will go and save all.”

“Do you think, my poor girl, that they will hearken to mercy at your
intercession,” said Colonel Temple, shaking his head, sorrowfully.

“No!” replied Mamalis, “the heart of a brave knows not mercy. If he gave
his ear to the cry of mercy, he would be a squaw and not a brave. But
fear not, I can yet save you,” she added confidently, “only do not be
seen.”

The men looked from one to the other to decide.

“Trust her, father,” said Virginia, “if you are discovered blood must be
shed. She says she can save us all. Trust her, Hansford. Trust her, Mr.
Bernard.”

“We could lose little by being betrayed at this stage of the game,” said
Temple, “so go, my good girl, and Heaven will bless you!”

Quick as thought the young Indian left the room, and descended the
stairs. Drawing the bolt of the back door so softly, that she scarcely
heard it move, herself, she went to the kitchen, where old Giles, a prey
to a thousand fears, was seated trembling over the fire, his face of
that peculiar ashy hue, which the negro complexion sometimes assumes as
an humble apology for pallor. As she touched the old man on the
shoulder, he groaned in despair and looked up, showing scarcely anything
but the whites of his eyes, while his woolly head, thinned and white
with age, resembled ashes sprinkled over a bed of extinguished charcoal.
Seeing the face of an Indian, and too terrified to recognize Mamalis, he
fell on his knees at her feet, and cried,

“Oh, for de Lord sake, massa, pity de poor old nigger! My lod a messy,
massa, I neber shoot anudder gun in all my born days.”

“Hush,” said Mamalis, “and listen to me. I tell lie, you say it is
truth; I say whites in Jamestown; you say so too—went yesterday.”

“But bress your soul, missis,” said Giles, “sposen dey ax me ef I shot
dat cussed gun, me say dat truf too?”

“No, say it was thunder.”

At this moment the tall dark form of Manteo entered the room. He started
with surprise, as he saw his sister there, and in such company. His dark
eye darted a fierce glance at Giles, who quailed beneath its glare.
Then turning again to his sister, he said in the Indian tongue, which
we freely translate:

“Mamalis with the white man! where is he that I may drown my vengeance
in his blood.”

“He is gone; he is not within the power of Manteo. Manitou[11] has saved
Manteo from the crime of killing his best friend.”

“His people have killed my people for the offence of the few, I will
kill him for the cruelty of many. For this is the calumet[12] broken.
For this is the tree of peace[13] cut down by the tomahawk of war.”

“Say not so,” replied Mamalis. “Temple is the netoppew[14] of Manteo. He
is even now gone to the grand sachem of the long knives, to make Manteo
the Werowance[15] of the Pamunkeys.”

“Ha! is this true?” asked Manteo, anxiously.

“Ask this old man,” returned Mamalis. “They all went to Jamestown
yesterday, did they not?” she asked in English of Giles, who replied, in
a trembling voice,

“Yes, my massa, dey has all gone to Jimson on yestiddy.”

“And I a Werowance!” said the young man proudly, in his own language.
“Spirits of Powhatan and Opechancanough, the name of Manteo shall live
immortally as yours. His glory shall be the song of our race, and the
young men of his tribe shall emulate his deeds. His life shall be
brilliant as the sun's bright course, and his spirit shall set in the
spirit land, bright with unfading glory.”

Then turning away with a lofty step, he proceeded to rejoin his
companions.

The stratagem was successful, and Manteo, the bravest, the noblest of
the braves, succeeded after some time in persuading them to desist from
their destructive designs. In a few moments, to the delight of the
little besieged party, the Indians had left the house, and were soon
buried in the deep forest.

“Thanks, my brave, generous girl,” said Temple, as Mamalis, after the
success of her adventure, entered the room. “To your presence of mind we
owe our lives.”

“But I told a lie,” said the girl, looking down; “I said you had gone to
make Manteo the Werowance of the Pamunkeys.”

“Well, my girl, he shall not want my aid in getting the office. So you,
in effect, told the truth.”

“No, no; I said you had gone. It was a lie.”

“Ah, but, Mamalis,” said Virginia, in an encouraging voice, for she had
often impressed upon the mind of the poor savage girl the nature of a
lie, “when a falsehood is told for the preservation of life, the sin
will be freely forgiven which has accomplished so much good.”

“Ignatius Loyola could not have stated his favourite principle more
clearly, Miss Temple,” said Bernard, with a satirical smile. “I see that
the Reformation has not made so wide a difference in the two Churches,
after all.”

“No, Mr. Bernard,” said old Temple, somewhat offended at the young man's
tone; “the stratagem of the soldier, and the intrigue of the treacherous
Jesuit, are very different. The one is the means which brave men may use
to accomplish noble ends; the other is the wily machinations of a
perfidious man to attain his own base purposes. The one is the skilful
fence and foil of the swordsman, the other the subtle and deceitful
design of the sneaking snake.”

“Still they both do what is plainly a deception, in order to accomplish
an end which they each believe to be good. Once break down the barrier
to the field of truth, and it is impossible any longer to distinguish
between virtue and error.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Temple, “I am the last to blame the bridge which
carries me over, and I'll warrant there is not one here, man or woman,
who isn't glad that our lives have been saved by Mamalis's
falsehood—for I have not had such a fright in all my days.”


FOOTNOTES:

[8] Gods.

[9] Guns.

[10] Heaven.

[11] The good spirit of the Indians.

[12] The pipe of peace.

[13] When a peace was concluded a tree was planted, and the contracting
parties declared that the peace should be as long lived as the tree.

[14] The friend or benefactor.

[15] The Werowance, or chief of a tribe, was appointed by the Governor,
and this mode of appointment gave great dissatisfaction to the Indians.




CHAPTER X.

    “Religion, 'tis that doth distinguish us
    From their bruit humour, well we may it know,
    That can with understanding argue thus,
    Our God is truth, but they cannot do so.”
                                      _Smith's History._


As may be well imagined, the Indian attack formed the chief topic of
conversation at Windsor Hall during the day. Many were the marvellous
stories which were called to memory, of Indian warfare and of Indian
massacres—of the sad fate of those who had been their victims, the
tortures to which their prisoners had been subjected, and the relentless
cruelty with which even the tender babe, while smiling in the face of
its ruthless murderer, was dashed pitilessly against a tree. Among these
narratives, the most painful was that detailing the fate of George
Cassen, who, tied to a tree by strong cords, was doomed to see his flesh
and joints cut off, one by one, and roasted before his eyes; his head
and face flayed with sharp mussel shells, and his belly ripped open;
until at last, in the extremity of his agony, he welcomed the very
flames which consumed him, and rescued his body from their cruelty.[16]

Uncle Giles, whose premature action had so nearly ruined them all, and
yet had probably been the cause of their ultimate safety, was the hero
of the day, and loud was the laugh at the incident of the gun and
kitchen chimney. The old man's bruises were soon tended and healed, and
the grateful creature declared that “Miss Ginny's _lineaments_ always
did him more good than all the doctors in the world;” and in truth they
were good for sore eyes.

It was during the morning's conversation that Bernard learned from his
host, and from Virginia, the intimate relations existing between Mamalis
and the family at Windsor Hall. Many years before, there had been, about
two miles from the hall, an Indian village, inhabited by some of the
tribe of the Pamunkeys. Among them was an old chieftain named
Nantaquaus,[17] who claimed to be of the same lineage as Powhatan, and
who, worn out with war, now resided among his people as their
patriarchal counsellor. In the hostilities which had existed before the
long peace, which was only ended by the difficulties that gave rise to
Bacon's Rebellion, the whole of the inhabitants of the little village
had been cut off by the whites, with the exception of this old patriarch
and his two orphan grand-children, who were saved through the
interposition of Colonel Temple, exerted in their behalf on account of
some kindness he had received at their hands. Grateful for the life of
his little descendants, for he had long since ceased to care for the
prolongation of his own existence, old Nantaquaus continued to live on
terms approaching even to intimacy with the Temples. When at length he
died, he bequeathed his grand-children to the care of his protector. It
was his wish, however, that they should still remain in the old wigwam
where he had lived, and where they could best remember him, and, in
visions, visit his spirit in the far hunting ground. In compliance with
this, his last wish, Manteo and Mamalis continued their residence in
that rude old hut, and secured a comfortable subsistence—he by fishing
and the chase, and she by the cultivation of their little patch of
ground, where maize, melons, pompions, cushaus, and the like, rewarded
her patient labour with their abundant growth. Besides these duties, to
which the life of the Indian woman was devoted, the young girl in her
leisure moments, and in the long winter, made, with pretty skill, mats,
baskets and sandals, weaving the former curiously with the long willow
twigs which grew along the banks of the neighbouring York river, and
forming the latter with dressed deer skin, ornamented with flowers made
of beads and shells, or with the various coloured feathers of the birds.
Her little manufactures met with a ready sale at the hall, being
exchanged for sugar and coffee, and other such comforts as civilization
provides; and for the sale of the excess of these simple articles over
the home demand, she found a willing agent in the Colonel, who, in his
frequent visits to Jamestown, disposed of them to advantage.

Despite these associations, however, Manteo retained much of the
original character of his race, and the wild forest life which he led,
bringing him into communication with the less civilized members of his
tribe, helped to cherish the native-fierceness of his temper. Clinging
with tenacity to the superstitions and pursuits of his fathers, his mind
was of that sterile soil, in which the seeds of civilization take but
little root. His sister, without having herself lost all the peculiar
features of her natural character, was still formed in a different
mould, and her softer nature had already received some slight impress
from Virginia's teachings, which led her by slow but certain degrees
towards the truth. His was of that fierce, tiger nature, which Horace
has so finely painted in his nervous description of Achilles,

    “Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer!”

While her's can be best understood by her name, Mamalis, which,
signifying in her own language a young fawn, at once expressed the grace
of her person and the gentleness of her nature.

Such is a brief but sufficient description of the characters and
condition of these two young Indians, who play an important part in this
narrative. The description, we may well suppose, derived additional
interest to Bernard, from its association with the recent exciting
scene, and from the interest which his heart began already to entertain
for the fair narrator.

But probably the most amusing, if not the most instructive portion of
the morning's conversation, was that in which Mrs. Temple bore a
conspicuous part. The danger being past, the good woman adverted with
much pride to the calmness and fortitude which she had displayed during
the latter part of the trying scene. She never suspected that her
conduct had been at all open to criticism, for in the excess of her
agitation, she had not been aware, either of her manner or her language.

“The fact is, gentlemen,” she said, “that while you all displayed great
coolness and resolution, it was well that you were not surrounded by
timid women to embarrass you with their fears. I was determined that
none of you should see my alarm, and I have no doubt you were surprised
at my calmness.”

“It was very natural for ladies to feel alarm,” said Hansford, scarcely
able to repress the rising smile, “under circumstances, which inspired
even strong men with fear. I only wonder that you bore it so well.”

“Ah, it is easy to see you are apologizing for Virginia, and I must
confess that once or twice she did almost shake my self-possession a
little by her agitation. But poor thing! we should make allowance for
her. She is unaccustomed to such scenes. I, who was, you may say,
cradled in a revolution, and brought up in civil war, am not so easily
frightened.”

“No, indeed, Bessy,” said old Temple, smiling good humouredly, “so
entirely were you free from the prevailing fears, that I believe you
were unconscious half the time of what was going on.”

“Well, really, Colonel Temple,” said the old lady, bristling up at this
insinuation, “I think it ill becomes you to be exposing me as a jest
before an entire stranger. However, it makes but little difference. It
won't last always.”

This prediction of his good wife, that “It,” which always referred to
her husband's conduct immediately before, was doomed like all other
earthly things to terminate, was generally a precursor to hysterics. And
so she shook her head and patted her foot hysterically, while the
Colonel wholly unconscious of any reasonable cause for the offence he
had given, rolled up his eyes and shrugged his shoulders in silence.

Leaving the good couple to settle at their leisure those little disputes
which never lasted on an average more than five minutes, let us follow
Virginia as she goes down stairs to make some preparation for dinner. As
she passed through the hall on her way to the store-room, she saw the
graceful form of Mamalis just leaving the house. In the conversation
which ensued we must beg the reader to imagine the broken English in
which the young Indian expressed herself, while we endeavor to give it a
free and more polite translation.

“Mamalis, you are not going home already, are you,” said Virginia, in a
gentle voice.

“Yes,” replied the girl, with a sigh.

“Why do you sigh, Mamalis? Are you unhappy, my poor girl?”

“It is very sad to be alone in my poor wigwam,” she replied.

“Then stay with us, Manteo is away, and will probably not be back for
some days.”

“He would be angry if he came home and found me away.”

“Oh, my poor girl,” said Virginia, taking her tenderly by the hand, “I
wish you could stay with me, and let me teach you as I used to about God
and heaven. Oh, think of these things, Mamalis, and they will make you
happy even when alone. Wouldn't you like to have a friend always near
you when Manteo is away?”

“Oh yes,” said the girl earnestly.

“Well, there is just such a Friend who will never desert you; who is
ever near to protect you in danger, and to comfort you in distress.
Whose eye is never closed in sleep, and whose thoughts are never
wandering from his charge.”

“That cannot be,” said the young Indian, incredulously.

“Yes, it both can be and is so,” returned her friend. “One who has
promised, that if we trust in him he will never leave us nor forsake us.
That friend is the powerful Son of God, and the loving Brother of simple
man. One who died to show his love, and who lives to show his power to
protect. It is Jesus Christ.”

“You told me about him long ago,” said Mamalis, shaking her head, “but I
never saw him. He never comes to Manteo's wigwam.”

“Nay, but He is still your friend,” urged Virginia earnestly. “When you
left the room this morning on that work of mercy to save us all, I did
not see you, and yet I told my father that I knew you would do us good.
Were you less my friend because I didn't see you?

“No.”

“No,” continued Virginia, “you were more my friend, for if you had
remained with me, we might all have been lost. And so Jesus has but
withdrawn Himself from our eyes that He may intercede with his offended
father, as you did with Manteo.”

“Does he tell lies for us?” said the girl with artless simplicity, and
still remembering her interview with her brother. Virginia felt a thrill
of horror pass through her heart as she heard such language, but
remembering the ignorance of her poor blinded pupil, she proceeded.

“Oh! Mamalis, do not talk thus. He of whom I speak is not as we are, and
cannot commit a sin. But while He cannot commit sin Himself, He can die
for the sins of others.”

“Well,” said the poor girl, seeing that she had unwittingly hurt the
feelings of her friend, “I don't understand all that. Your God is so
high, mine I can see and understand. But you love your God, I only fear
mine.”

“And do you not believe that God is good, my poor friend?” said
Virginia, with a sigh.

“From Manitou all good proceeds,” replied Mamalis, as with beautiful
simplicity she thus detailed her simple creed, which she had been taught
by her fathers. “From him is life, and joy, and love. The blue sky is
his home, and the green earth he has made for his pleasure. The fresh
smelling flowers and the pure air are his breath, and the sweet music of
the wind through the woods is his voice. The stars that he has sown
through heaven, are the pure shells which he has picked up by the rivers
which flow through the spirit land; and the sun is his chariot, with
which he drives through heaven, while he smiles upon the world. Such is
Manitou, whose very life is the good giving; the bliss-bestowing.”

“My sweet Mamalis,” said Virginia, “you have, indeed, in your ignorance,
painted a beautiful picture of the beneficence of God. And can you
not—do you not thank this Giver of every good and perfect gift for all
his mercies?”

“I cannot thank him for that which he must bestow,” said the girl. “We
do not thank the flower because its scent is sweet; nor the birds that
fill the woods with their songs, because their music is grateful to the
ear. Manitou is made to be adored, not to be thanked, for his very
essence is good, and his very breath is love.”

“But remember, my friend, that the voice of this Great Spirit is heard
in the thunder, as well as in the breeze, and his face is revealed in
the lightning as well as in the flower. He is the author of evil as well
as of good, and should we not pray that He would avert the first, even
if He heed not our prayer to bestow the last.”

If Virginia was shocked by the sentiments of her pupil before, Mamalis
was now as much so. Such an idea as ascribing evil to the great Spirit
of the Universe, never entered the mind of the young savage, and now
that she first heard it, she looked upon it as little less than open
profanity.

“Manitou is not heard in the thunder nor seen in the lightning,” she
replied. “It is Okee whose fury against us is aroused, and who thus
turns blessings into curses, and good into evil. To him we pray that he
look not upon us with a frown, nor withhold the mercies that flow from
Manitou; that the rains may fall upon our maize, and the sun may ripen
it in the full ear; that he send the fat wild deer across my brother's
path, and ride on his arrow until it reach its heart; that he direct the
grand council in wisdom, and guide the tomahawk in its aim in battle.
But I have tarried too long, my brother may await my coming.”

“Nay, but you shall not go—at least,” said Virginia, “without something
for your trouble. You have nearly lost a day, already. And come often
and see me, Mamalis, and we will speak of these things again. I will
teach you that your Manitou is good, as well as the author of good; and
that he is love, as well as the fountain of love in others; that it is
to him we should pray and in whom we should trust, and he will lead us
safely through all our trials in this life, and take us to a purer
spirit land than that of which you dream.”

Mamalis shook her head, but promised she would come. Then loading her
with such things as she thought she stood in need of, and which the poor
girl but seldom met with, except from the same kind hand, Virginia bid
her God speed, and they parted; Mamalis to her desolate wigwam, and
Virginia to her labours in the household affairs, which had devolved
upon her.[18]


FOOTNOTES:

[16] Fact.

[17] This was also the name of the only son of the great Powhatan, as
appears by John Smith's letter to the Queen, introducing the Princess
Pocahontas.

[18] In the foregoing scene the language of Mamalis has been purposely
rendered more pure than as it fell from her lips, because thus it was
better suited to the dignity of her theme. As for the creed itself, it
is taken from so many sources, that it would be impossible, even if
desirable, to quote any authorities. The statements of Smith and
Beverley, are, however, chiefly relied upon.




CHAPTER XI.

    “And will you rend our ancient love asunder,
    And join with men in scorning your poor friend.”
                                  _Midsummer Night's Dream._


While Virginia was thus engaged, she was surprised by hearing a light
step behind her, and looking up she saw Hansford pale and agitated,
standing in the room.

“What in the world is the matter?” she cried, alarmed at his appearance;
“have the Indians—”

“No, dearest, the Indians are far away ere this. But alas! there are
other enemies to our peace than they.”

“What do you mean?” she said, “speak! why do you thus agitate me by
withholding what you would say.”

“My dear Virginia,” replied her lover, “do you not remember that I told
you last night that I had something to communicate, which would surprise
and grieve you. I cannot expect you to understand or appreciate fully my
motives. But you can at least hear me patiently, and by the memory of
our love, by the sacred seal of our plighted troth, I beg you to hear me
with indulgence, if not forgiveness.”

“There are but few things, Hansford, that you could do,” said Virginia,
gravely, “that love would not teach me to forgive. Go on. I hear you
patiently.”

“My story will be brief,” said Hansford, “although it may involve sad
consequences to me. I need only say, that I have felt the oppressions of
the government, under which the colony is groaning; I have witnessed the
duplicity and perfidy of Sir William Berkeley, and I have determined
with the arm and heart of a man, to maintain the rights of a man.”

“What oppressions, what perfidy, what rights, do you mean?” said
Virginia, turning pale with apprehension.

“You can scarcely understand those questions dearest. But do you not
know that the temporizing policy, the criminal delay of Berkeley, has
already made the blood of Englishmen flow by the hand of savages. Even
the agony which you this morning suffered, is due to the indirect
encouragement given to the Indians by his fatal indulgence.”

“And you have proved false to your country,” cried Virginia. “Oh!
Hansford, for the sake of your honour, for the sake of your love, unsay
the word which stains your soul with treason.”

“Nay, my own Virginia, understand me. I may be a rebel to my king. I may
almost sacrifice my love, but I am true, ever true to my country. The
day has passed, Virginia, when that word was so restricted in its
meaning as to be confounded with the erring mortal, who should be its
minister and not its tyrant. The blood of Charles the First has mingled
with the blood of those brave martyrs who perished for liberty, and has
thus cemented the true union between a prince and his people. It has
given to the world, that useful lesson, that the sovereign is invested
with his power, to protect, and not to destroy the rights of his people;
that freemen may be restrained by wholesome laws, but that they are
freemen still. That lesson, Sir William Berkeley must yet be taught. The
patriot who dares to teach him, is at last, the truest lover of his
country.”

“I scarcely know what you say,” said the young girl, weeping, “but tell
me, oh, tell me, have you joined your fortunes with a rebel?”

“If thus you choose to term him who loves freedom better than chains,
who would rather sacrifice life itself than to drag out a weary
existence beneath the galling yoke of oppression, I have. I know you
blame me. I know you hate me now,” he added, in a sad voice, “but while
it was my duty, as a freeman and a patriot, to act thus, it was also my
duty, as an honourable man, to tell you all. You remember the last lines
of our favourite song,

    “I had not loved thee dear, so much,
    Loved I not honour more.”

“Alas! I remember the words but too well,” replied Virginia, sadly, “but
I had been taught that the honour there spoken of, was loyalty to a
king, not treason. Oh, Hansford, forgive me, but how can I, reared as I
have been, with such a father, how can I”—she hesitated, unable to
complete the fatal sentence.

“I understand you,” said Hansford. “But one thing then remains undone.
The proscribed rebel must be an outlaw to Virginia Temple's heart. The
trial is a sore one, but even this sacrifice can I make to my beloved
country. Thus then I give you back your troth. Take it—take it,” he
cried, and with one hand covering his eyes, he seemed with the other to
tear from his heart some treasured jewel that refused to yield its
place.

The violence of his manner, even more than the fatal words he had
spoken, alarmed Virginia, and with a wild scream, that rang through the
old hall, she threw herself fainting upon his neck. The noise reached
the ears of the party, who remained above stairs, and Colonel Temple,
his wife, and Bernard, threw open the door and stood for a moment silent
spectators of the solemn scene. There stood Hansford, his eye lit up
with excitement, his face white as ashes, and his strong arm supporting
the trembling form of the young girl, while with his other hand he was
chafing her white temples, and smoothing back the long golden tresses
that had fallen dishevelled over her face.

“My child, my child,” shrieked her mother, who was the first to speak,
“what on earth is the matter?”

“Yes, Hansford, in the devil's name, what is to pay?” said the old
colonel. “Why, Jeanie,” he added, taking the fair girl tenderly in his
arms, “you are not half the heroine you were when the Indians were here.
There now, that's a sweet girl, open your blue eyes and tell old father
what is the matter.”

“Nothing, dear father,” said Virginia, faintly, as she slowly opened her
eyes. “I have been very foolish, that's all.”

“Nay, Jeanie, it takes more than nothing or folly to steal the bloom
away from these rosy cheeks.”

“Perhaps the young gentleman can explain more easily,” said Bernard,
fixing his keen eyes on his rival. “A little struggle, perhaps, between
love and loyalty.”

“Mr. Bernard, with all his shrewdness, would probably profit by the
reflection,” said Hansford, coldly, “that as a stranger here, his
opinions upon a matter of purely family concern, are both unwelcome and
impertinent.”

“May be so,” replied Bernard with a sneer; “but scarcely more unwelcome
than the gross and continued deception practised by yourself towards
those who have honoured you with their confidence.”

Hansford, stung by the remark, laid his hand upon his sword, but was
withheld by Colonel Temple, who cried out with impatience,

“Why, what the devil do you mean? Zounds, it seems to me that my house
is bewitched to-day. First those cursed Indians, with their infernal
yells, threatening death and destruction to all and sundry; then my
daughter here, playing the fool before my face, according to her own
confession; and lastly, a couple of forward boys picking a quarrel with
one another after a few hours' acquaintance. Damn it, Tom, you were wont
to have a plain tongue in your head. Tell me, what is the matter?”

“My kind old friend,” said Hansford, with a tremulous voice, “I would
fain have reserved for your private ear, an explanation which is now
rendered necessary by that insolent minion, whose impertinence had
already received the chastisement it deserves, but for an unfortunate
interruption.”

“Nay, Tom,” said the Colonel, “no harsh words. Remember this young man
is my guest, and as such, entitled to respect from all under my roof.”

“Well then, sir,” continued Hansford, “this young lady's agitation was
caused by the fact that I have lately pursued a course, which, while I
believe it to be just and honourable, I fear will meet with but little
favour in your eyes.”

“As much in the dark as ever,” said the Colonel, perplexed beyond
measure, for his esteem for Hansford prevented him from suspecting the
true cause of his daughter's disquiet. “Damn it, man, Davus sum non
Œdipus. Speak out plainly, and if your conduct has been, as you say,
consistent with your honour, trust to an old friend to forgive you.
Zounds, boy, I have been young myself, and can make allowance for the
waywardness of youth. Been gaming a little too high, hey; well, the
rest[19] was not so low in my day, but that I can excuse that, if you
didn't 'pull down the side.'”[20]

“I would fain do the young man a service, for I bear him no ill-will,
though he has treated me a little harshly,” said Bernard, as he saw
Hansford silently endeavouring to frame a reply in the most favourable
terms, “I see he is ashamed of his cause, and well he may be; for you
must know that he has become a great man of late, and has linked his
fate to a certain Nathaniel Bacon.”

The old loyalist started as he heard this unexpected announcement, then
with a deep sigh, which seemed to come from his very soul, he turned to
Hansford and said, “My boy, deny the foul charge; say it is not so.”

“It is, indeed, true,” replied Hansford, mournfully, “but when—”

“But when the devil!” cried the old man, bursting into a fit of rage;
“and you expect me to stand here and listen to your justification.
Zounds, sir, I would feel like a traitor myself to hear you speak. And
this is the serpent that I have warmed and cherished at my hearth-stone.
Out of my house, sir!”

“To think,” chimed in Mrs. Temple, for once agreeing fully with her
husband, “how near our family, that has always prided itself on its
loyalty, was being allied to a traitor. But he shall never marry
Virginia, I vow.”

“No, by God,” said the enraged loyalist; “she should rot in her grave
first.”

“Miss Temple is already released from her engagement,” said Hansford,
recovering his calmness in proportion as the other party lost their's.
“She is free to choose for herself, sir.”

“And that choice shall never light on you, apostate,” cried Temple,
“unless she would bring my grey hairs in sorrow to the grave.”

“And mine, too,” said the old lady, beginning to weep.

“I will not trouble you longer with my presence,” said Hansford,
proudly, “except to thank you for past kindness, which I can never
forget. Farewell, Colonel Temple, I respect your prejudices, though they
have led you to curse me. Farewell, Mrs. Temple, I will ever think of
your generous hospitality with gratitude. Farewell, Virginia, forget
that such a being as Thomas Hansford ever darkened your path through
life, and think of our past love as a dream. I can bear your
forgetfulness, but not your hate. For you, sir,” he added, turning to
Alfred Bernard, “let me hope that we will meet again, where no
interruption will prevent our final separation.”

With these words, Hansford, his form proudly erect, but his heart bowed
down with sorrow, slowly left the house.

“Are you not a Justice of the Peace?” asked Bernard, with a meaning
look.

“And what is that to you, sir?” replied the old man, suspecting the
design of the question.

“Only, sir, that as such it is your sworn duty to arrest that traitor. I
know it is painful, but still it is your duty.”

“And who the devil told you to come and teach me my duty, sir?” said the
old man, wrathfully. “Let me tell you, sir, that Tom Hansford, with all
his faults, is a d—d sight better than a great many who are free from
the stain of rebellion. Rebellion!—oh, my God!—poor, poor Tom.”

“Nay, then, sir,” said Bernard, meekly, “I beg your pardon. I only felt
it my duty to remind you of what you might have forgotten. God forbid
that I should wish to endanger the life of a poor young man, whose only
fault may be that he was too easily led away by others.”

“You are right, by God,” said the Colonel, quickly. “He is the victim of
designing men, and yet I never said a word to reclaim him. Oh, I have
acted basely and not like a friend. I will go now and bring him back,
wife; though if he don't repent—zounds!—neither will I; no, not for a
million friends.”

So saying, the noble-hearted old loyalist, whose impulsive nature was as
prompt to redeem as to commit an error, started from the room to reclaim
his lost boy. It was too late. Hansford, anticipating the result of the
fatal revelation, had ordered his horse even before his first interview
with Virginia. The old Colonel only succeeded in catching a glimpse of
him from the porch, as at a full gallop he disappeared through the
forest.

With a heavy sigh he returned to the study, there to meet with the
consolations of his good wife, which were contained in the following
words:

“Well, I hope and trust he is gone, and will never darken our doors
again. You know, my dear, I always told you that you were wrong about
that young man, Hansford. There always seemed to be a lack of frankness
and openness in his character, and although I do not like to interpose
my objections, yet I never altogether approved of the match. You know I
always told you so.”

“Told the devil!” cried the old man, goaded to the very verge of despair
by this new torture. “I beg your pardon, Bessy, for speaking so hastily,
but, damn it, if all the angels in Heaven had told me that Tom Hansford
could prove a traitor, I would not have believed it.”

And how felt she, that wounded, trusting one, who thus in a short day
had seen the hopes and dreams of happiness, which fancy had woven in her
young heart, all rudely swept away! 'Twere wrong to lift the veil from
that poor stricken heart, now torn with grief too deep for words—too
deep, alas! for tears. With her cheek resting on her white hand, she
gazed tearlessly, but vacantly, towards the forest where he had so
lately vanished as a dream. To those who spoke to her, she answered
sadly in monosyllables, and then turned her head away, as if it were
still sweet to cherish thus the agony which consumed her. But the
bitterest drop in all this cup of woe, was the self-reproach which
mingled with her recollection of that sad scene. When he had frankly
given back her troth, she, alas! had not stayed his hand, nor by a word
had told him how truly, even in his guilt, her heart was his. And now,
she thought, when thus driven harshly into the cold world, his only
friends among the enemies to truth, his enemies its friends, how one
little word of love, or even of pity, might have redeemed him from
error, or at least have cheered him in his dark career.

But bear up bravely, sweet one; for heavier, darker sorrows yet must
cast their shadows on thy young heart, ere yet its warm pulsations cease
to beat, and it be laid at rest.


FOOTNOTES:

[19] Rest was the prescribed limit to the size of the venture.

[20] To pull down the side was a technical term with our ancestors for
cheating.




CHAPTER XII.

    “Wounded in both my honour and my love;
      They have pierced me in two tender parts.
    Yet, could I take my just revenge,
      It would in some degree assuage my smart.”
                                          _Vanbrugh._


It was at an early hour on the following morning that the queer old
chariot of Colonel Temple—one of the few, by the way, which wealth had
as yet introduced into the colony—was drawn up before the door. The two
horses of the gentlemen were standing ready saddled and bridled, in the
care of the hostler. In a few moments, the ladies, all dressed for the
journey, and the gentlemen, with their heavy spurs, long, clanging
swords, and each with a pair of horseman's pistols, issued from the
house into the yard. The old lady, declaring that they were too late,
and that, if her advice had been taken, they would have been half way to
Jamestown, was the first to get into the carriage, armed with a huge
basket of bread, beef's tongue, cold ham and jerked venison, which was
to supply the place of dinner on the road. Virginia, pale and sad, but
almost happy at any change from scenes where every object brought up
some recollection of the banished Hansford, followed her mother; and the
large trunk having been strapped securely behind the carriage, and the
band-box, containing the old lady's tire for the ball and other light
articles of dress, having been secured, the little party were soon in
motion.

The hope and joy with which Virginia had looked forward to this trip to
Jamestown had been much enhanced by the certainty that Hansford would be
there. With the joyousness of her girlish heart, she had pictured to
herself the scene of pleasure and festivity which awaited her. The Lady
Frances' birth-day, always celebrated at the palace with the voice of
music and the graceful dance—with the presence of the noblest cavaliers
from all parts of the colony, and the smiles of the fairest damsels who
lighted the society of the Old Dominion—was this year to be celebrated
with unusual festivities. But, alas! how changed were the feelings of
Virginia now!—how blighted were the hopes which had blossomed in her
heart!

Their road lay for the most part through a beautiful forest, where the
tall poplar, the hickory, the oak and the chestnut were all indigenous,
and formed an avenue shaded by their broad branches from the intense
rays of the summer sun. Now and then the horses were startled at the
sudden appearance of some fairy-footed deer, as it bounded lightly but
swiftly through the woods; or at the sudden whirring of the startled
pheasant, as she flew from their approach; or the jealous gobble of the
stately turkey, as he led his strutting dames into his thicket-harem.
The nimble grey squirrel, too, chattered away saucily in his high leafy
nest, secure from attack from his very insignificance. Birds innumerable
were seen flitting from branch to branch, and tuning their mellow voices
as choristers in this forest-temple of Nature. The song of the thrush
and the red-bird came sweetly from the willows, whose weeping branches
overhung the neighbouring banks of a broad stream; the distant dove
joined her mournful melody to their cheerful notes, and the woodpecker,
on the blasted trunk of some stricken oak, tapped his rude bass in
unison with the happy choir of the forest.

All this Virginia saw and heard, and _felt_—yes, felt it all as a
bitter mockery: as if, in these joyous bursts from the big heart of
Nature, she were coldly regardless of the sorrows of those, her
children, who had sought their happiness apart; as though the avenging
Creator had given man naught but the bitter fruit of that fatal tree of
knowledge, while he lavished with profusion on all the rest of his
creation the choicest fruits that flourished in His paradise.

In vain did Bernard, with his soft and winning voice, point out these
beauties to Virginia. In vain, with all the rich stores of his gifted
mind, did he seek to alienate her thoughts from the one subject that
engrossed them. She scarcely heard what he said, and when at length
urged by the impatient nudges of her mother to answer, she showed by her
absence of mind how faint had been the impression which he made. A
thousand fears for the safety of her lover mingled with her thoughts.
Travelling alone in that wild country, with hostile Indians infesting
the colony, what, alas! might be his fate! Or even if he should escape
these dangers, still, in open arms against his government, proclaimed a
rebel by the Governor, a more horrible destiny might await him. And then
the overwhelming thought came upon her, that be his fate in other
respects what it might—whether he should fall by the cruelty of the
savage, the sword of the enemy, or, worst of all, by the vengeance of
his indignant country—to her at least he was lost forever.

Avoiding carefully any reference to the subject of her grief, and
bending his whole mind to the one object of securing her attention,
Alfred Bernard endeavored to beguile her with graphic descriptions of
the scenes he had left in England. He spoke—and on such subjects none
could speak more charmingly—of the brilliant society of wits, and
statesmen, and beauties, which clustered together in the metropolis and
the palace of the restored Stuart. Passing lightly over the vices of the
court, he dwelt upon its pageantry, its wit, its philosophy, its poetry.
The talents of the gay and accomplished, but vicious Rochester, were no
more seen dimmed in their lustre by his faithlessness to his wife, or
his unprincipled vices in the _beau monde_ of London. Anecdote after
anecdote, of Waller, of Cowley, of Dryden, flowed readily from his lips.
The coffee-houses were described, where wit and poetry, science and art,
politics and religion, were discussed by the first intellects of the
age, and allured the aspiring youth of England from the vices of
dissipation, that they might drink in rich draughts of knowledge from
these Pierian springs. The theatre, the masque, the revels, which the
genial rays of the Restoration had once more warmed into life, next
formed the subjects of his conversation. Then passing from this picture
of gay society, he referred to the religious discussions of the day. His
eye sparkled and his cheek glowed as he spoke of the triumphs of the
established Church over puritanical heresy; and his lip curled, and he
laughed satirically, as he described the heroic sufferings of some
conscientious Baptist, dragged at the tail of a cart, and whipped from
his cell in Newgate to Tyburn hill. Gradually did Virginia's thoughts
wander from the one sad topic which had engrossed them, and by
imperceptible degrees, even unconsciously to herself, she became deeply
interested in his discourse. Her mother, whom the wily Bernard took
occasion ever and anon, to propitiate with flattery, was completely
carried away, and in the inmost recesses of her heart a hope was
hatched that the eloquent young courtier would soon take the place of
the rebel Hansford, in the affections of her daughter.

We have referred to a stream, along whose forest-banks their road had
wound. That stream was the noble York, whose broad bosom, now broader
and more beautiful than ever, lay full in their view, and on which the
duck, the widgeon and the gull were quietly floating. Here and there
could be seen the small craft of some patient fisherman, as it stood
anchored at a little distance from the shore, its white sail shrouding
the solitary mast; and at an opening in the woods, about a mile ahead,
rose the tall masts of an English vessel, riding safely in the broad
harbour of Yorktown—then the commercial rival of Jamestown in the
colony.

The road now became too narrow for the gentlemen any longer to ride by
the side of the carriage, and at the suggestion of the Colonel, an
arrangement was adopted by which he should lead the little party in
front, while Bernard should bring up the rear. This precaution was the
more necessary, as the abrupt banks of the river, with the dense bushes
which grew along them, was a safe lurking place for any Indians who
might be skulking about the country.

“A very nice gentleman, upon my word,” said Mrs. Temple, when Alfred
Bernard was out of hearing. “Virginia, don't you like him?”

“Yes, very much, as far as I have an opportunity of judging.”

“His information is so extensive, his views so correct, his conversation
so delightful. Don't you think so?”

“Yes, mother,” replied Virginia.

“Yes, mother! Why don't you show more spirit?” said her mother. “There
you sat moping in the carriage the whole way, looking for all the world
as if you didn't understand a word he was saying. That isn't right, my
dear; you should look up and show more spirit—d'ye hear!”

“You mistake,mother; I did enjoy the ride very much, and found Mr.
Bernard very agreeable.”

“Well, but you were so lack-a-daisical and yea, nay, in your manner to
him. How do you expect a young man to feel any interest in you, if you
never give him any encouragement?”

“Why, mother, I don't suppose Mr. Bernard takes any more interest in me
than he would in any casual acquaintance; and, indeed, if he did, I
certainly cannot return it. But I will try and cheer up, and be more
agreeable for your sake.”

“That's right, my dear daughter; remember that your old mother knows
what is best for you, and she will never advise you wrong. I think it is
very plain that this young gentleman has taken a fancy to you already,
and while I would not have you too pert and forward, yet it is well
enough to show off, and, in a modest way, do everything to encourage
him. You know I always said, my dear, that you were too young when you
formed an attachment for that young Hansford, and that you did not know
your own heart, and now you see I was right.”

Virginia did not see that her mother was right, but she was too well
trained to reply; and so, without a word, she yielded herself once more
to her own sad reflections, and, true-hearted girl that she was, she
soon forgot the fascinations of Alfred Bernard in her memory of
Hansford.

They had not proceeded far, when Bernard saw, seated on the trunk of a
fallen tree, the dusky form of a young Indian, whom he soon recognized
as the leader of the party who the day before had made the attack upon
Windsor Hall. The interest which he felt in this young man, whose early
history he had heard, combined with a curiosity to converse with one of
the strange race to which he belonged, and, as will be seen, a darker
motive and a stronger reason than either, induced Bernard to rein up his
horse, and permitting his companions to proceed some distance in front,
to accost the young Indian. Alfred Bernard, by nature and from
education, was perfectly fearless, though he lacked the magnanimity
which, united with fearlessness, constitutes bravery. Laying his hand on
his heart, which, as he had already learned, was the friendly salutation
used with and toward the savages, he rode slowly towards Manteo. The
young Indian recognized the gesture which assured him of his friendly
intent, and rising from his rude seat, patiently waited for him to
speak.

“I would speak to you,” said Bernard.

“Speak on.”

“Are you entirely alone?”

“Ugh,” grunted Manteo, affirmatively.

“Where are those who were with you at Windsor Hall?”

“Gone to Delaware,[21] to Matchicomoco.”[22]

“Why did you not go with them?” asked Bernard.

“Manteo love long-knife—Pamunkey hate Manteo—drive him away from his
tribe,” said the young savage, sorrowfully.

The truth flashed upon Bernard at once. This young savage, who, in a
moment of selfish ambition, for his own personal advancement, had
withheld the vengeance of his people, was left by those whom he had once
led, as no longer worthy of their confidence. In the fate of this
untutored son of the forest, the young courtier had found a sterner
rebuke to selfishness and ambition than he had ever seen in the court of
the monarch of England.

“And so you are alone in the world now?” said Bernard.

“Ugh!”

“With nothing to hope or to live for?”

“One hope left,” said Manteo, laying his hand on his tomahawk.

“What is that?”

“Revenge.”

“On whom?”

“On long-knives and Pamunkeys.”

“If you live for revenge,” said Bernard, “we live for nearly the same
object. You may trust me—I will be your friend. Do you know me?”

“No!” said Manteo, shaking his head.

“Well, I know you,” said Bernard. “Now, what if I help you to the sweet
morsel of revenge you speak of?”

“I tank you den.”

“Do you know your worst enemy?”

“Manteo!”

“How—why so?”

“I make all my oder enemy.”

“Nay, but I know an enemy who is even worse than yourself, because he
has made you your own enemy. One who oppresses your race, and is even
now making war upon your people. I mean Thomas Hansford.”

“Ugh!” said Manteo, with more surprise than he had yet manifested; and
for once, leaving his broken English, he cried in his own tongue,
“Ahoaleu Virginia.” (He loves Virginia Temple.)

“And do you?” said Bernard, guessing at his meaning, and marking with
surprise the more than ordinary feeling with which Manteo had uttered
these words.

“See dere,” replied Manteo, holding up an arrow, which he had already
taken from his quiver, as if with the intention of fixing it to his
bow-string. “De white crenepo,[23] de maiden, blunt Manteo's arrow when
it would fly to her father's heart.” At the same time he pointed towards
the road along which the carriage had lately passed.

“By the holy Virgin,” muttered Bernard, “methinks the whole colony,
Indians, negroes, and all, are going stark mad after this girl. And so
you hate Hansford, then?” he said aloud.

“No, I can't hate what she loves,” replied Manteo, feelingly.

“Why did you aid in attacking her father's house then, yesterday?”

“Long-knives strike only when dey hate; Pamunkey fight from duty. If
Manteo drop de tomahawk because he love, he is squaw, not a brave.”

“But this Hansford,” said Bernard, “is in arms against your people, whom
the government would protect.”

“Ugh!” grunted the young warrior. “Pamunkey want not long-knives'
protect. De grand werowance of long-knives has cut down de peace tree
and broke de pipe, and de tomahawk is now dug up. De grand werowance
protect red man like eagle protect young hare.”

“Nay, but we would be friends with the Indians,” urged Bernard. “We
would share this great country with them, and Berkeley would be the
great father of the Pamunkeys.”

The Indian looked with ineffable disdain on his companion, and then
turning towards the river, he pointed to a large fish-hawk, who, with a
rapid swoop, had caught in his talons a fish that had just bubbled above
the water for breath, and borne him far away in the air.

“See dere,” said Manteo; “water belong to fish—hawk is fish's friend.”

Bernard saw that he had entirely mistaken the character of his
companion. The vengeance of the Indians being once aroused, they failed
to discriminate between the authors of the injuries which they had
received, and those who sought to protect them; and they attributed to
the great werowance of the long-knives (for so they styled the Governor
of Virginia) all the blame of the attack and slaughter of the
unoffending Susquehannahs. But the wily Bernard was not cast down by his
ill success, in attempting to arouse the vengeance of Manteo against his
rival.

“Your sister is at the hall often, is she not?” he asked, after a brief
pause.

“Ugh,” said the Indian, relapsing into this affirmative grunt.

“So is Hansford—your sister knows him.”

“What of dat?”

“Excuse me, my poor friend,” said Bernard, “but I came to warn you that
your sister knows him as she should not.”

The forest echoed with the wild yell that burst from the lips of Manteo
at this cruel fabrication—so loud, so wild, so fearful, that the ducks
which had been quietly basking in the sun, and admiring their graceful
shadows in the water, were startled, and with an alarmed cry flew far
away down the river.

The Indian character, although still barbarous, had been much improved
by association with the English. Respect for the female sex, and a
scrupulous regard for female purity, which are ever the first results of
dawning civilization, had already taken possession of the benighted
souls of the Indians of Virginia. More especially was this so with the
young Manteo, whose association with the whites, notwithstanding his
strong devotion to his own race, had imparted more refinement and purity
to his nature than was enjoyed by most of his tribe. Mamalis, the pure,
the spotless Mamalis—she, whom from his earliest boyhood he had hoped
to bestow on some young brave, who, foremost in the chase, or most
successful in the ambuscade, could tell the story of his achievements
among the chieftains at the council-fire—it was too much; the stern
heart of the young Indian, though “trained from his tree-rocked cradle
the fierce extremes of good and ill to bear,” burst forth in a gush of
agony, as he thus heard the fatal knell of all his pride and all his
hope.

Bernard was at first startled by the shriek, but soon regained his
composure, and calm and composed regarded his victim. When at length the
first violence of grief had subsided, he said, with a soft, mild voice,
which fell fresh as dew upon the withered heart of the poor Indian,

“I am sorry for you, my friend, but it is too true. And now, Manteo,
what can be your only consolation?”

“Revenge is de wighsacan[24] to cure dis wound,” said the poor savage.

“Right. This is the only food for brave and injured men. Well, we
understand each other now—don't we?”

“Ugh,” grunted Manteo, with a look of satisfaction.

“Very well,” returned Bernard, “is your tomahawk sharp?”

“It won't cut deep as dis wound, but I will sharpen it on my broken
heart,” replied Manteo, with a heavy sigh.

“Right bravely said. And now farewell; I will help you as I can,” said
Alfred Bernard, as he turned and rode away, while the poor Indian sank
down again upon his rude log seat, his head resting on his hands.

“And this the world calls villainy!” mused Bernard, as he rode along.
“But it is the weapon with which nature has armed the weak, that he may
battle with the strong. For what purpose was the faculty of intrigue
bestowed upon man, if it were not to be exercised? and, if exercised at
all, why surely it can never be directed to a purer object than the
accomplishment of good. Thus, then, what the croaking moralist calls
evil, may always be committed if good be the result; and what higher
good can be attained in life than happiness, and what purer happiness
can there be than revenge? No man shall ever cross my path but once with
safety, and this young Virginia rebel has already done so. He has shown
his superior skill and courage with the sword, and has made me ask my
life at his hands. Let him look to it that he may not have to plead for
his own life in vain. This young Indian's thirst will not be quenched
but with blood. By the way, a lucky hit was that. His infernal yell is
sounding in my ears yet. But Hansford stands in my way besides. This
fair young maiden, with her beauty, her intellect, and her land, may
make my fortune yet; and who can blame the poor, friendless orphan, if
he carve his way to honour and independence even through the blood of a
rival. The poor, duped savage whom I just left, said that he was his own
worst enemy; I am wiser in being my own best friend. Tell me not of the
world—it is mine oyster, which I will open by my wits as well as by my
sword. Prate not of morality and philanthropy. Man is a microcosm, a
world within himself, and he only is a wise one who uses the world
without for the success of the world within. Once supplant this Hansford
in the love of his betrothed bride, and I succeed to the broad acres of
Windsor Hall. Old Berkeley shall be the scaffolding by which I will rise
to power and position, and when he rots down, the building I erect will
be but the fairer for the riddance. Who recks the path which he has
trod, when home and happiness are in view? What general thinks of the
blood he has shed, when the shout of victory rings in his ears? Be true
to yourself, Alfred Bernard, though false to all the world beside! At
last, good father Bellini, thou hast taught me true wisdom—'Success
sanctifies sin.'”


FOOTNOTES:

[21] The name of the village at the confluence of Pamunkey and
Mattapony, now called West Point.

[22] Grand Council of the Indians.

[23] A woman.

[24] A root used by the Indians successfully in the cure of all wounds.




CHAPTER XIII.

    “Is this your joyous city, whose antiquity is of ancient days?”
                                                              _Isaiah._

        “One mouldering tower, o'ergrown with ivy, shows
        Where first Virginia's capital arose,
        And to the tourist's vision far withdrawn
        Stands like a sentry at the gates of dawn.
        The church has perished—faint the lines and dim
        Of those whose voices raised the choral hymn,
        Go read the record on the mossy stone,
        'Tis brief and sad—oblivion claims its own!”
                                        _Thompson's Virginia._


The traveller, as he is borne on the bosom of the noble James, on the
wheezing, grunting steamboat, may still see upon the bank of the river,
a lonely ruin, which is all that now remains of the old church at
Jamestown. Despite its loneliness and desolation, that old church has
its memories, which hallow it in the heart of every Virginian. From its
ruined chancel that “singular excellent” Christian and man, good Master
Hunt, was once wont, in far gone times, to preach the gospel of peace to
those stern old colonists, who in full armour, and ever prepared for
Indian interruptions, listened with devout attention. There in the front
pew, which stood nearest the chancel, had sat John Smith, whose sturdy
nature and strong practical sense were alone sufficient to repel the
invasion of heathen savages, and provide for the wants of a famishing
colony. Yet, with all the sternness and rigour of his character, his
heart was subdued by the power of religion, as he bowed in meek
submission to its precepts, and relied with humble confidence upon its
promises. The pure light of Heaven was reflected even from that strong
iron heart. At that altar had once knelt a dusky but graceful form, the
queenly daughter of a noble king; and, her savage nature enlightened by
the rays of the Sun of righteousness, she had there received upon her
royal brow the sacred sign of her Redeemer's cross. And many a dark eye
was bedewed with tears, and many a strong heart was bowed in prayer, as
the stout old colonists stood around, and saw the baptismal rite which
sealed the profession and the faith of the brave, the beautiful, the
generous Pocahontas.

But while this old ruin thus suggests many an association with the olden
time, there is nothing left to tell the antiquary of the condition and
appearance of Jamestown, the first capital of Virginia. The island, as
the narrow neck of land on which the town was built is still erroneously
called, may yet be seen; but not a vestige of the simple splendour, with
which colonial pride delighted to adorn it, remains to tell the story of
its glory or destruction. And yet, to the eye and the heart of the
colonist, this little town was a delight: for here were assembled the
Governor and his council, who, with mimic pride, emulated the grandeur
and the pageant of Whitehall. Here, too, were the burgesses congregated
at the call of the Governor, who, with their stately wives and blooming
daughters, contributed to the delight of the metropolitan society. Here,
too, was the principal mart, where the planters shipped their tobacco
for the English market, and received from home those articles of
manufacture and those rarer delicacies which the colony was as yet
unable to supply. And here, too, they received news from Europe, which
served the old planters and prurient young statesmen with topics of
conversation until the next arrival; while the young folks gazed with
wonder and delight at the ship, its crew and passengers, who had
actually been in that great old England of which they had heard their
fathers talk so much.

The town, like an old-fashioned sermon, was naturally divided into two
parts. The first, which lay along the river, was chiefly devoted to
commercial purposes—the principal resort of drunken seamen, and those
land harpies who prey upon them for their own subsistence. Here were
located those miserable tippling-houses, which the Assembly had so long
and so vainly attempted to suppress. Here were the busy forwarding
houses, with their dark counting-rooms, their sallow clerks, and their
bills of lading. Here the shrewd merchant and the bluff sea-captain
talked loudly and learnedly of the laws of trade, the restrictive policy
of the navigation laws, and the growing importance of the commercial
interests of the colony. And here was the immense warehouse, under the
especial control of the government, with its hundreds of hogsheads of
tobacco, all waiting patiently their turn for inspection; and the
sweating negroes, tearing off the staves of the hogsheads to display the
leaf to view, and then noisily hammering them together again, while the
impatient inspector himself went the rounds and examined the wide spread
plant, and adjudged its quality; proving at the same time his capacity
as a connoisseur, by the enormous quid which he rolled pleasantly in his
mouth.

But it is the more fashionable part of the town, with which our story
has to do; and here, indeed, even at this early day, wealth and taste
had done much to adorn the place, and to add to the comfort of the
inhabitants. At one end of the long avenue, which was known as Stuart
street, in compliment to the royal family, was situated the palace of
Sir William Berkeley. Out of his private means and the immense salary of
his office, the governor had done much to beautify and adorn his
grounds. A lawn, with its well shaven turf, stretched in front of the
house for more than a hundred yards, traversed in various directions
with white gravelled walks, laid out with much taste, and interspersed
with large elms and poplars. In the centre of the lawn was a beautiful
summer-house, over which the white jessamine and the honeysuckle,
planted by Lady Frances' own hand, clambered in rich profusion. The
house, itself, though if it still remained, it would seem rather quaint
and old-fashioned, was still very creditable as a work of architecture.
A long porch, or gallery, supported by simple Doric pillars, stretched
from one end of it to the other, and gave an air of finish and beauty to
the building. The house was built of brick, brought all the way from
England, for although the colonists had engaged in the manufacture of
brick to a certain extent, yet for many years after the time of which we
write, they persisted in this extraordinary expense, in supplying the
materials for their better class of buildings.

At the other end of Stuart street was the state-house, erected in
pursuance of an act, the preamble of which recites the disgrace of
having laws enacted and judicial proceedings conducted in an ale-house.
This building, like the palace, was surrounded by a green lawn,
ornamented with trees and shrubbery, and enclosed by a handsome
pale—midway the gate and the portico, on either side of the broad
gravel walk, were two handsome houses, one of which was the residence of
Sir Henry Chicherley, Vice-President of the Council, and afterwards
deputy-governor upon the death of Governor Jeffreys. The other house was
the residence of Thomas Ludwell, Secretary to the colony, and brother to
Colonel Philip Ludwell, whose sturdy and unflinching loyalty during the
rebellion, has preserved his name to our own times.

The state-house, itself, was a large brick building, with two wings, the
one occupied by the governor and his council, the other by the general
court, composed indeed of the same persons as the council, but acting in
a judicial capacity. The centre building was devoted to the House
Burgesses exclusively, containing their hall, library, and apartments
for different offices. The whole structure was surmounted by a queer
looking steeple, resembling most one of those high, peaked hats, which
Hogarth has placed on the head of Hudibras and his puritan compeers.

Between the palace and the state-house, as we have said before, ran
Stuart street, the thoroughfare of the little metropolis, well built up
on either side with stores and the residences of the prominent citizens
of the town. There was one peculiarity in the proprietors of these
houses, which will sound strangely in the ears of their descendants.
Accustomed to the generous hospitality of the present day, the reader
may be surprised to learn that most of the citizens of old Jamestown
entertained their guests from the country for a reasonable compensation;
and so, when the gay cavalier from Stafford or Gloucester had passed a
week among the gaieties or business of the metropolis,

    He called for his horse and he asked for his way,
    While the jolly old landlord cried “_Something_ to pay.”

But when we reflect that Jamestown was the general resort of persons
from all sections of the colony, and that the tavern accommodations were
but small, we need not be surprised at a state of things so different
from the glad and gratuitous welcome of our own day.

Such, briefly and imperfectly described, was old Jamestown, the first
capital of Virginia, as it appeared in 1676, to the little party of
travellers, whose fortunes we have been following, as they rode into
Stuart street, late in the evening of the day on which they left Windsor
Hall. The arrival, as is usual in little villages, caused quite a
sensation. The little knot of idlers that gathered about the porch of
the only regular inn, desisted from whittling the store box, in the
demolishing of which they had been busily engaged—and looked up with
an impertinent stare at the new comers. Mine host bustled about as the
carriage drove up before the door, and his jolly red face grew redder by
his vociferous calls for servants. In obedience to his high behest, the
servants came—the hostler, an imported cockney, to examine the points
of the horses committed to his care, and to measure his provender by
their real worth; the pretty Scotch chambermaid to conduct the ladies to
their respective rooms, and a brisk and dapper little French barber to
attack the colonel vehemently with a clothes-brush, as though he had
hostile designs upon the good man's coat.

Bernard, in the meantime, having promised to come for Virginia, and
escort her to the famous birth-night ball, rode slowly towards the
palace; now and then casting a haughty glance around him on those worthy
gossips, who followed his fine form with their admiring eyes, and
whispered among themselves that “Some folks was certainly born to luck;
for look ye, Gaffer, there is a young fribble, come from the Lord knows
where, and brought into the colony to be put over the heads of many
worthier; and for all he holds his head so high, and sneers so mighty
handsome with his lip, who knows what the lad may be. The great folk aye
make a warm nest for their own bastards, and smooth the outside of the
blanket as softly as the in, while honester folks must e'en rough it in
frieze and Duffield. But na'theless, I say nothing, neighbor.”




CHAPTER XIV.

    “There was a sound of revelry by night—
      And Belgium's capital had gathered then
    Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright
      The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
    A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
      Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
    Soft eyes looked love to eyes that spoke again,
      And all went merry as a marriage bell.”
                                      _Childe Harold._


The ball at Sir William Berkeley's palace was of that character, which,
in the fashionable world, is described as brilliant; and was long
remembered by those who attended it, as the last scene of revelry that
was ever known in Jamestown. The park or lawn which we have described
was brilliantly illuminated with lamps and transparencies hung from the
trees. The palace itself was a perfect blaze of light. The coaches of
the cavaliers rolled in rapid succession around the circular path that
led to the palace, and deposited their fair burdens, and then rolled
rapidly away to await the breaking up of the ball. Young beaux, fairly
glittering with gold embroidery, with their handsome doublets looped
with the gayest ribbons, and their hair perfumed and oiled, and plaited
at the sides in the most captivating love-knots; their cheeks
beplastered with rouge, and their moustache carefully trimmed and
brushed, passed gracefully to and fro, through the vast hall, and looked
love to soft eyes that spake again. And those young eyes, how brightly
did they beam, and how freshly did the young cheeks of their lovely
owners blush, even above the rouge with which they were painted, as
they met the admiring glance of some favored swain bent lovingly upon
them! How graceful, too, the attitude which these fair maidens assumed,
with their long trails sweeping and fairly carpetting the floor, or when
held up by their tapering fingers, how proudly did they step, as they
crossed the room to salute the stately and dignified, but now smiling
Lady Frances Berkeley—and she the queenly centre of that vast throng,
leaning upon the arm of her noble and venerable husband, with what grace
and dignity she bowed her turbaned head in response to their
salutations; and with what a majestic air of gratified vanity did she
receive the courteous gratulations of the chivalrous cavaliers as they
wished her many returns of the happy day, and hoped that the hours of
her life would be marked by the lapse of diamond sands, while roses grew
under her feet!

Sir William Berkeley, of whose extraordinary character we know far more
than of any of the earlier governors of Virginia, was now in the evening
of his long and prosperous life. “For more than thirty years he had
governed the most flourishing country the sun ever shone upon,”[25] and
had won for himself golden opinions from all sorts of people. Happy for
him, and happy for his fame, if he had passed away ere he had become
“encompassed,” as he himself expresses it, “with rebellion, like
waters.” To all he had endeared himself by his firmness of character and
his suavity of manner. In 1659, he was called, by the spontaneous
acclaim of the people of Virginia, to assume the high functions of the
government, of which he had been deprived during the Protectorate, and,
under his lead, Virginia was the first to throw off her allegiance to
the Protector, and to declare herself the loyal realm of the banished
Charles. Had William Berkeley died before the troublous scenes which now
awaited him, and which have cast so dark a shadow upon his character,
scarce any man in colonial history had left so pure a name, or been
mourned by sincerer tears. Death is at last the seal of fame, and over
the grave alone can we form a just estimate of human worth and human
virtue.

In person he was all that we delight to imagine in one who is truly
great. Age itself had not bent his tall, majestic figure, which rose,
like the form of the son of Kish, above all the people. His full black
eye was clear and piercing, and yet was often softened by a benevolent
expression. And this was the true nature of his heart, formed at once
for softness and for rigour. His mouth, though frequently a pleasant
smile played around it, expressed the inflexible firmness and decision
of his character. No man to friends was more kind and gentle; no man to
a foe was more relentless and vindictive. The only indication of
approaching age was in the silver colour of his hair, which he did not
conceal with the recently introduced periwig, and which, combed back to
show to its full advantage his fine broad brow, fell in long silvery
clusters over his shoulders.

Around him were gathered the prominent statesmen of the colony, members
of the Council and of the House of Burgesses, conversing on various
subjects of political interest. Among those who chose this rational mode
of entertainment was our old friend, Colonel Henry Temple, who met many
an old colleague among the guests, and everywhere received the respect
and attention which his sound sense, his sterling worth, and his former
services so richly deserved.

The Lady Frances, too, withdrawing her arm from that of her husband,
engaged in elegant conversation with the elderly dames who sought her
society; now conversing with easy dignity with the accomplished wives of
the councillors; now, with high-bred refinement, overlooking the awkward
blunders of some of the plainer matrons, whose husbands were in the
Assembly; and now smiling good-humouredly at the old-fashioned vanity
and assumed dignity of Mrs. Temple. The comparison of the present order
of things with that to which she had been accustomed in her earlier
days, formed, as usual, the chief theme of this good lady's discourse.
But, to the attentive observer, the glance of pride with which from time
to time she looked at her daughter, who, with graceful step and glowing
cheek, was joining in the busy dance, plainly showed that, in some
respects at least, Mrs. Temple had to acknowledge that the bright
present had even eclipsed her favourite past.

Yes, to the gay sound of music, amid the bright butterflies of fashion,
who flew heartlessly through the mazes of the graceful dance, Virginia
Temple moved—with them, but not of them. She had not forgotten
Hansford, but she had forgotten self, and, determined to please her
mother, she had sought to banish from her heart, for the time, the
sorrow which was still there. She had come to the ball with Bernard, and
he, seeing well the effort she had made, bent all the powers of his
gifted mind to interest her thoughts, and beguile them from the
absorbing subject of her grief. She attributed his efforts to a generous
nature, and thanked him in her heart for thus devoting himself to her
pleasure. She had attempted to return his kindness by an assumed
cheerfulness, which gradually became real and natural, for shadows rest
not long upon a young heart. They fly from the blooming garden of youth,
and settle themselves amid the gloom and ruins of hoary age. And never
had Alfred Bernard thought the fair girl more lovely, as, with just
enough of pensive melancholy to soften and not to sadden her heart, she
moved among the gay and thoughtless throng around her.

The room next to the ball-room was appropriated to such of the guests as
chose to engage in cards and dice; for in this, as in many other
respects, the colony attempted to imitate the vices of the mother
country. It is true the habit of gaming was not so recklessly
extravagant as that which disgraced the corrupt court of Charles the
Second, and yet the old planters were sufficiently bold in their risks,
and many hundreds of pounds of tobacco often hung upon the turn of the
dice-box or the pip[26] of a card. Seated around the old fashioned
card-table of walnut, were sundry groups of those honest burgesses, who
were ready enough in the discharge of their political functions in the
state-house, but after the adjournment were fully prepared for all kinds
of fun. Some were playing at gleek, and, to the uninitiated,
incomprehensible was the jargon in which the players indulged. “Who'll
buy the stock?” cries the dealer. “I bid five”—“and I ten”—“and I
fifty.” Vie, revie, surrevie, capote, double capote, were the terms that
rang through the room, as the excited gamesters, with anxious faces,
sorted and examined their cards. At another table was primero, or
thirty-one, a game very much resembling the more modern game of
vingt-et-un; and here, too, loud oaths of “damn the luck,” escaped the
lips of the betters, as, with twenty-two in their hands, they drew a
ten, and burst with a pip too many. Others were moderate in their risks,
rattled the dice at tra-trap, and playing for only an angel a game,
smoked their pipes sociably together, and talked of the various measures
before the Assembly.

Thus the first hours of the evening passed rapidly away, when suddenly
the sound of the rebecks[27] ceased in the ball-room, the gaming was
arrested in an instant, and at the loud cry of hall-a-hall,[28] the
whole company repaired to the long, broad porch, crowding and pushing
each other, the unwary cavaliers treading on the long trains of the fair
ladies, and receiving a well-merited frown for their carelessness. The
object of this general rush was to see the masque, which was to be
represented in the porch, illuminated and prepared for the purpose. At
one end of the porch a stage was erected, with all the simple machinery
which the ingenuity of the youth of Jamestown could devise, to aid in
the representation—the whole concealed for the present from the view of
the spectators by a green baize curtain.

The object of the masque, imitated from the celebrated court masques of
the seventeenth century, which reflected so much honour on rare Ben
Jonson, and aided in establishing the early fame of John Milton, was to
celebrate under a simple allegory the glories of the Restoration. Alfred
Bernard, who had witnessed such a representation in England, first
suggested the idea of thus honouring the birth-night of the Lady
Frances, and the suggestion was eagerly taken hold of by the loyal young
men of the little colonial capital, who rejoiced in any exhibition that
might even faintly resemble the revels to which their loyal ancestors,
before the revolution, were so ardently devoted.


FOOTNOTES:

[25] This is his own language.

[26] Pip signified the spot on a card.

[27] Fiddles.

[28] The cry of the herald for silence at the beginning of the masque.




CHAPTER XV.

    “Then help with your call
    For a hall, a hall!
    Stand up by the wall,
    Both good-men and tall,
    We are one man's all!”
          _The Gipsey Metamorphosea._


With the hope that a description of the sports and pastimes of their
ancestors may meet with like favour from the reader, we subjoin the
following account of this little masque which was prepared for the
happy occasion by Alfred Bernard, aided by the grave chaplain, Arthur
Hutchinson, and performed by some of the gay gallants and blooming
damsels of old Jamestown. We flatly disclaim in the outset any
participation in the resentment or contempt which was felt by these
loyal Virginians towards the puritan patriots of the revolution.

The curtain rises and discovers the genius of True Liberty, robed in
white, with a wreath of myrtle around her brow; holding in her right
hand a sceptre entwined with myrtle, as the emblem of peace, and in her
left a sprig of evergreen, to represent the fabled Moly[29] of Ulysses.
As she advances to slow and solemn music, she kneels at an altar clothed
with black velvet, and raising her eyes to heaven, she exclaims:—

    “How long, oh Heaven! shall power with impious hand
    In cruel bondage bind proud Britain's land,
    Or heresy in fair Religion's robe
    Usurp her empire and control the globe!—
    Hypocrisy in true Religion's name
    Has filled the land of Britain long with shame,
    And Freedom, captive, languishes in chains,
    While with her sceptre, Superstition reigns.
      Restore, oh Heaven! the reign of peace and love,
    And let thy wisdom to thy people prove
    That Freedom too is governed by her rules,—
    No toy for children, and no game for fools;—
    Freed from restraint the erring star would fly
    Darkling, and guideless, through the untravelled sky—
    The stubborn soil would still refuse to yield
    The whitening harvest of the fertile field;
    The wanton winds, when loosened from their caves,
    Would drive the bark uncertain through the waves
    This magnet lost, the sea, the air, the world,
    To wild destruction would be swiftly hurled!
    And say, just Heaven, oh say, is feeble man
    Alone exempt from thy harmonious plan?
    Shall he alone, in dusky darkness grope,
    Free from restraint, and free, alas! from hope?
    Slave to his passions, his unbridled will,
    Slave to himself, and yet a freeman still?
    No! teach him in his pride to own that he
    Can only in obedience be free—
    That even he can only safely move,
    When true to loyalty, and true to love.”

As she speaks, a bright star appears at the farther end of the stage,
and ascending slowly, at length stands over the altar, where she kneels.
Extending her arm towards the star, she rises and cries in triumph:—

    “I hail the sign, pure as the starry gem,
    Which rested o'er the babe of Bethlehem—
    My prayer is heard, and Heaven's sublime decree
    Will rend our chains, and Britain shall be free!”

Then enters the embodiment of Puritanism, represented in the peculiar
dress of the Roundheads—with peaked hat, a quaint black doublet and
cloak, rigidly plain, and cut in the straight fashion of the sect; black
Flemish breeches, and grey hose; huge square-toed shoes, tied with
coarse leather thongs; and around the waist a buff leather belt, in
which he wears a sword. He comes in singing, as he walks, one of the
Puritan versions, or rather perversions of the Psalms, which have so
grossly marred the exquisite beauty of the original, and of which one
stanza will suffice the reader:—

    “Arise, oh Lord, save me, my God,
    For thou my foes hast stroke,
    All on the cheek-bone, and the teeth
    Of wicked men hast broke.”[30]

Then standing at some distance from the altar, he rolls up his eyes,
till nothing but the whites can be seen, and is exercised in prayer.
With a smile of bitter contempt the genius of True Liberty proceeds:—

    “See where he comes, with visage long and grim,
    Whining with nasal twang his impious hymn!
    See where he stands, nor bows the suppliant knee,
    He apes the Publican, but acts the Pharisee—
    Snatching the sword of just Jehovah's wrath,
    And damning all who leave _his_ thorny path.
      Now by this wand which Hermes, with a smile,
    Gave to Ulysses in the Circean isle,
    I will again exert the power divine,
    And change to Britons these disgusting swine.”

She waves the sprig of Moly over the head of the Puritan three or four
times, who, sensible of the force of the charm, cries out:—

    “Hah! what is this! strange feelings fill my heart;
    Avaunt thee, tempter! I defy thy art—
    Up, Israel! hasten to your tents, and smite
    These sons of Belial, and th' Amalekite,—
    Philistia is upon us with Goliah,
    Come, call the roll from twelfth of Nehemiah,[31]
    Gird up your loins and buckle on your sword,
    Fight with your prayers, your powder, and the word.
    How, General 'Faint-not,'[32] has your spirit sunk?
    Let not God's soldier yield unto a Monk.”[33]

Then, as the charm increases, he continues in a feebler voice:

    “Curse on the tempter's art! that heathenish Moly
    Has in an instant changed my nature wholly;
    The past, with all its triumphs, is a trance,
    My legs, once taught to kneel, incline to dance,
    My voice, which to some holy psalm belongs,
    Is twisting round into these carnal songs.
    Alas! I'm lost! New thoughts my bosom swell;
    Habakuk, Barebones, Cromwell, fare ye well.
    Break up conventicles, I do insist,
    Sing the doxology and be dismissed.”

As he finishes the last line, the heavy roll of thunder is heard, and
suddenly the doors of a dungeon in the background fly open, from which
emerges the impersonation of Christmas, followed by the Queen of May.
Christmas is represented by a jolly, round-bellied, red-nosed, laughing
old fellow, dressed in pure white. His hair is thickly powdered, and his
face red with rouge. In his right hand he holds a huge mince-pie, which
ever and anon he gnaws with exquisite humour, and in his left is a bowl
of generous wassail, from which he drinks long and deeply. His brows are
twined with misletoe and ivy, woven together in a fantastic wreath, and
to his hair and different parts of his dress are attached long pendants
of glass, to represent icicles. As he advances to the right of the
stage, there descends from the awning above an immense number of small
fragments of white paper, substitutes for snow-flakes, with which that
part of the floor is soon completely covered.

The Queen of May takes her position on the left. She is dressed in a
robe of pure white, festooned with flowers, with a garland of white
roses twined with evergreen upon her brow. In her hand is held the
May-pole, adorned with ribbons of white, and blue, and red, alternately
wrapped around it, and surmounted with a wreath of various flowers. As
she assumes her place, showers of roses descend from above, envelope her
in their bloom, and shed a fresh fragrance around the room.

The Genius of Liberty points out the approaching figures to the Puritan,
and exclaims:

    “Welcome, ye happy children of the earth,
    Who strew life's weary way with guileless mirth!
    Thus Joy should ever herald in the morn
    On which the Saviour of the world was born,
    And thus with rapture should we ever bring
    Fresh flowers to twine around the brow of Spring.
    Think not, stern mortal, God delights to scan,
    With fiendish joy, the miseries of man;
    Think not the groans that rend your bosom here
    Are music to Jehovah's listening ear.
    Formed by His power, the children of His love,
    Man's happiness delights the Sire above;
    While the light mirth which from his spirit springs
    Ascends like incense to the King of kings.”

Christmas, yawning and stretching himself, then roars out in a merry,
lusty voice:

    “My spirit rejoices to hear merry voices,
      With a prospect of breaking my fast,
    For with such a lean platter, these days they call latter[34]
      Were very near being my last.

    “In that cursed conventicle, as chill as an icicle,
      I caught a bad cold in my head,
    And some impudent vassal stole all of my wassail,
      And left me small beer in its stead.

    “Of all that is royal and all that is loyal
      They made a nice mess of mince-meat.
    With their guns and gunpowder, and their prayers that are louder,
      But the de'il a mince-pie did I eat.

    “No fat sirloin carving, I scarce kept from starving,
      And my bones have become almost bare,
    As if I were the season of the gunpowder treason,
      To be hallowed with fasting and prayer.

    “If they fancy pulse diet, like the Jews they may try it,
      Though I think it is fit but to die on.
    But may the Emanuel long keep this new Daniel
      From the den of the brave British Lion.

    “In the juice of the barley I'll drink to King Charley,
      The bright star of royalty risen,
    While merry maids laughing and honest men quaffing
      Shall welcome old Christmas from prison.”

As he thunders out the last stave of his song, the Queen of May steps
forward, and sings the following welcome to Spring:

    “Come with blooming cheek, Aurora,
      Leading on the merry morn;
    Come with rosy chaplets, Flora,
      See, the baby Spring is born.

    “Smile and sing each living creature,
      Britons, join me in the strain;
    Lo! the Spring is come to Nature,
      Come to Albion's land again.

    “Winter's chains of icy iron
      Melt before the smile of Spring;
    Cares that Albion's land environ
      Fade before our rising king.

    “Crown his brow with freshest flowers,
      Weave the chaplet fair as May,
    While the sands with golden hours
      Speed his happy life away.

    “Crown his brow with leaves of laurel,
      Twined with myrtle's branch of peace—
    A hero in fair Britain's quarrel,
      A lover when her sorrows cease.

    “Blessings on our royal master,
      Till in death he lays him down,
    Free from care and from disaster,
      To assume a heavenly crown.”

As she concludes her lay, she places the May-pole in the centre of the
stage, and a happy throng of gay young swains and damsels enter and
commence the main dance around it. The Puritan watches them at first
with a wild gaze, in which horror is mingled with something of
admiration. Gradually his stern features relax into a grim smile, and at
last, unable longer to restrain his feelings, he bursts forth in a most
immoderate and carnal laugh. His feet at first keep time to the gay
music; he then begins to shuffle them grotesquely on the floor, and
finally, overcome by the wild spirit of contagion, he unites in the
dance to the sound of the merry rebecks. While the dance continues, he
shakes off the straight-laced puritan dress which he had assumed, and
tossing the peaked hat high in the air, appears, amid the deafening
shouts of the delighted auditory, in the front of the stage in the rich
costume of the English court, and with a royal diadem upon his brow, the
mimic impersonation of Charles the Second.


FOOTNOTES:

[29] The intelligent reader, familiar with the Odyssey, need not to be
reminded that with this wand of Moly, which Mercury presented to
Ulysses, the Grecian hero was enabled to restore his unhappy companions,
who, by the magic of the goddess Circe, had been transformed into swine.

[30] A true copy from the records.

[31] “Cromwell,” says an old writer, “hath beat up his drums clean
through the Old Testament. You may learn the genealogy of our Saviour by
the names of his regiment. The muster-master has no other list than the
first chapter of St. Matthew.” If the Puritan sergeant had lost this
roll, Nehemiah XII. would serve him instead.

[32] The actual name of one of the Puritans.

[33] General Monk, the restorer of royalty.

[34] The Puritans believed the period of the revolution to be the latter
days spoken of in prophecy.




CHAPTER XVI.

     “I charge you, oh women! for the love you bear to men, to like as
     much of this play as please you; and I charge you, oh men! for the
     love you bear to women, (as I perceive by your simpering, none of
     you hate them,) that between you and the women the play may
     please.”
                                                     _As you Like It._

     “There is the devil haunts thee, in the likeness of a fat old man;
     a tun of man is thy companion.”
                                                           _Henry IV._


The good-natured guests at the Governor's awarded all due, and more than
due merit to the masque which was prepared for their entertainment.
Alfred Bernard became at once the hero of the evening, and many a bright
eye glanced towards him, and envied the fair Virginia the exclusive
attention which he paid to her. Some young cavaliers there were, whose
envy carried them so far, that they sneered at the composition of the
young poet; declared the speeches of Liberty to be prosy and tiresome;
and that the song of Christmas was coarse, rugged, and devoid of wit;
nay, they laughed at the unnatural transformation of the grim-visaged
Puritan into the royal Charles, and referred sarcastically to the
pretentious pedantry of the young author, in introducing the threadbare
story of Ulysses and the Moly into a modern production—and at the
inconsistent jumble of ancient mythology and pure Christianity. Bernard
heard them not, and if he had, he would have scorned their strictures,
instead of resenting them. But he was too much engrossed in conversation
with Virginia to heed either the good-natured applause of his friends,
or the peevish jealousy of his young rivals. Indeed, the loyalty of the
piece amply atoned for all its imperfections, and the old colonists
smiled and nodded their heads, delighted at the wholesome tone of
sentiment which characterized the whole production.

The character of Christmas was well sustained by Richard Presley,[35] a
member of the House of Burgesses, whose jolly good humour, as broad
sometimes as his portly stomach, fitted him in an eminent degree for the
part. He was indeed one of those merry old wags, who, in an illustrated
edition of Milton, might have appeared in L'Allegro, to represent the
idea of “Laughter holding both his sides.”

Seeing Sir William Berkeley and Colonel Temple engaged in earnest
conversation, in one corner of the room, the old burgess bustled, or
rather waddled up to them, and remaining quiet just long enough to hear
the nature of their conversation chimed in, with,

“Talking about Bacon, Governor? Why he is only imitating old St. Albans,
and trying to establish a _novum organum_ in Virginia. By God, it seems
to me that Sir Nicholas exhausted the whole of his _mediocria firma_
policy, and left none of it to his kinsmen. Do you not know what he
meant by that motto, Governor?”

“No;” said Sir William, smiling blandly.

“Well, I'll tell you, and add another wrinkle to your face. Mediocria
firma, when applied to Bacon, means nothing more nor less than sound
middlings. But I tell you what, this young mad-cap, Bacon, will have to
adopt the motto of another namesake of his, and ancestor, perhaps, for
friars aye regarded their tithes more favourably than their vows of
virtue—and were fathers in the church as well by the first as the
second birth.”

“What ancestor do you allude to now, Dick?” asked the Governor.

“Why, old Friar Bacon, who lamented that time was, time is, and time
will be. And to my mind, when time shall cease with our young squealing
porker here, we will e'en substitute hemp in its stead.”

“Thou art a mad wag, Presley,” said the Governor, laughing, “and seem to
have sharpened thy wit by strapping it on the Bible containing the whole
Bacon genealogy. Come, Temple, let me introduce to your most favourable
acquaintance, Major Richard Presley, the Falstaff of Virginia, with as
big a paunch, and if not as merry a wit, at least as great a love for
sack—aye, Presley?”

“Yes, but indifferent honest, Governor, which I fear my great prototype
was not,” replied the old wag, as he shook hands with Colonel Temple.

“Well, I believe you can be trusted, Dick,” said the Governor, kindly,
“and I may yet give you a regiment of foot to quell this modern young
Hotspur of Virginia.”

“Aye, that would be rare fun,” said Presley, with a merry laugh, “but
look ye, I must take care to attack him in as favourable circumstances
as the true Falstaff did, or 'sblood he might embowell me.”

“I would like to own the tobacco that would be raised over your grave
then, Dick,” said the Governor, laughing, “but never fear but I will
supply you with a young Prince Hal, as merry, as wise, and as brave.”

“Which is he, then? for I can't tell your true prince by instinct yet.”

“There he stands talking to Miss Virginia Temple. You know him, Colonel
Temple, and I trust that you have not found that my partiality has
overrated his real merit.”

“By no means,” returned Temple; “I never saw a young man with whom I was
more pleased. He is at once so ingenuous and frank, and so intelligent
and just in his views and opinions on all subjects—who is he, Sir
William? One would judge, from his whole mien and appearance, that noble
blood ran in his veins.”

“I believe not,” replied Berkeley, “or if so, as old Presley would say,
he was hatched in the nest where some noble eagle went a birding. I am
indebted to my brother, Lord Berkeley, for both my chaplain and my
private secretary. Good Parson Hutchinson seems to have been the
guardian of Bernard in his youth, but what may be the real relation
between them I am unable to say.”

“Perhaps, like Major Presley's old Friar Bacon,” said Temple, “the good
parson may have been guilty of some indiscretion in his youth, for which
he would now atone by his kindness to the offspring of his early crime.”

“Hardly so,” replied the Governor, “or he would probably acknowledge him
openly as his son, without all this mystery. I have several times hinted
at the subject to Mr. Hutchinson, but it seems to produce so much real
sorrow, that I have never pushed my inquiries farther. All that I know
is what I tell you, that my brother, in whose parish this Mr. Hutchinson
long officiated as rector, recommended him to me—and the young man, who
has been thoroughly educated by his patron, or guardian, by the same
recommendation, has been made my private secretary.”

“He is surely worthy to fill some higher post,” said Temple.

“And he will not want my aid in building up his fortunes,” returned
Berkeley; “but they have only been in the colony about six months as
yet—and the young man has entwined himself about my heart like a son.
My own bed, alas! is barren, as you know, and it seems that a kind
providence had sent this young man here as a substitute for the
offspring which has been denied to me. See Temple,” he added, in a
whisper, “with what admiring eyes he regards your fair daughter. And if
an old man may judge of such matters, it is with maiden modesty
returned.”

“I think that you are at fault,” said Temple, with a sigh; “my
daughter's affections are entirely disengaged at present.”

“Well, time will develope which of us is right. It would be a source of
pride and pleasure, Harry, if I could live to see a union between this,
my adopted boy, and the daughter of my early friend,” said the old
Governor, as a tear glistened in his eye; “but come, Presley, the
dancing has ceased for a time,” he added aloud, “favour the company with
a song.”

“Oh, damn it, Governor,” replied the old burgess, “my songs won't suit a
lady's ear. They are intended for the rougher sex.”

“Well, never fear,” said the Governor, “I will check you if I find you
are overleaping the bounds of propriety.”

“Very well, here goes then—a loyal ditty that I heard in old England,
about five years agone, while I was there on a visit. Proclaim order,
and join in the chorus as many as please.”

And with a loud, clear, merry voice, the old burgess gave vent to the
following, which he sung to the tune of the “Old and Young Courtier;” an
air which has survived even to our own times, though adapted to the more
modernized words, and somewhat altered measure of the “Old English
Gentleman:”—

    “Young Charley is a merry prince; he's come unto his own,
    And long and merrily may he fill his martyred father's throne;
    With merry laughter may he drown old Nolly's whining groan,
    And when he dies bequeath his crown to royal flesh and bone.
              Like a merry King of England,
              And England's merry King.

    “With bumpers full, to royal Charles, come fill the thirsty glasses,
    The pride of every loyal heart, the idol of the masses;
    Yet in the path of virtue fair, old Joseph far surpasses,
    The merry prince, whose sparkling eye delights in winsome lasses.
              Like a merry King of England,
              And England's merry King.

    “For Joseph from dame Potiphar, as holy men assert,
    Leaving his garment in her hand, did naked fly unhurt;
    But Charley, like an honest lad, will not a friend desert,
    And so he still remains behind, nor leaves his only shirt.
              Like a merry King of England,
              And England's merry King.

    “Then here's to bonny Charley, he is a prince divine,
    He hates a Puritan as much as Jews detest a swine;
    But, faith, he loves a shade too much his mistresses and wine,
    Which makes me fear that he will not supply the royal line,
              With a merry King of England,
              And England's merry King.”

The singer paused, and loud and rapturous was the applause which he
received, until, putting up his hand in a deprecating manner, silence
was again restored, and with an elaborate _impromptu_, which it had
taken him about two hours that morning to spin from his old brain, he
turned to Berkeley, and burst forth again.

    “Nor let this mirror of the king by us remain unsung,
    To whom the hopes of Englishmen in parlous times have clung:
    Let Berkeley's praises still be heard from every loyal tongue,
    While Bacon and his hoggish herd be cured, and then be hung.
              Like young rebels of the King,
              And the King's young rebels.”

Various were the comments drawn forth by the last volunteer stanza of
the old loyalist. With lowering looks, some of the guests conversed
apart in whispers, for there were a good many in the Assembly, who,
though not entirely approving the conduct of Bacon, were favourably
disposed to his cause. Sir William Berkeley himself restrained his
mirth out of respect for a venerable old man, who stood near him, and
towards whom many eyes were turned in pity. This was old Nathaniel
Bacon, the uncle of the young insurgent, and himself a member of the
council. There were dark rumours afloat, that this old man had advised
his nephew to break his parole and fly from Jamestown; but, although
suspicion had attached to him, it could never be confirmed. Even those
who credited the rumour rather respected the feelings of a near
relative, in thus taking the part of his kinsman, than censured his
conduct as savouring of rebellion.


FOOTNOTES:

[35] This jovial old colonist is referred to in the T. M. account of the
Rebellion.




CHAPTER XVII.

    “And first she pitched her voice to sing,
    Then glanced her dark eye on the king,
    And then around the silent ring,
    And laughed, and blushed, and oft did say
    Her pretty oath, by yea and nay,
    She could not, would not, durst not play.”
                                        _Marmion._


“How did _you_ like Major Presley's song?” said Bernard to Virginia, as
he leaned gracefully over her chair, and played carelessly with the
young girl's fan.

“Frankly, Mr. Bernard,” she replied, “not at all. There was only one
thing which seemed to me appropriate in the exhibition.”

“And what was that?”

“The coarse language and sentiment of the song comported well with the
singer.”

“Oh, really, Miss Temple,” returned Bernard, “you are too harsh in your
criticism. It is not fair to reduce the habits and manners of others to
your own purer standard of excellence, any more than to censure the
scanty dress of your friend Mamalis, which, however picturesque in
itself, would scarcely become the person of one of these fair ladies
here.”

“And yet,” said Virginia, blushing crimson at the allusion, “there can
be no other standard by which I at least can be governed, than that
established by my own taste and judgment. You merely asked me _my_
opinion of Major Presley's performance; others, it is true, may differ
with me, but their decisions can scarcely affect my own.”

“The fact that there is such a wide variance in the taste of
individuals,” argued Bernard, “should, however, make us cautious of
condemning that which may be sustained by the judgment of so many. Did
you know, by the way, Miss Virginia, that 'habit' and 'custom' are
essentially the same words as 'habit' and 'costume.' This fact—for the
history of a nation may almost be read in the history of its
language—should convince you that the manners and customs of a people
are as changeable as the fashions of their dress.”

“I grant you,” said Virginia, “that the mere manners of a people may
change in many respects; but true taste, when founded on a true
appreciation of right, can never change.”

“Why, yes it can,” replied her companion, who delighted in bringing the
young girl out, as he said, and plying her with specious sophisms.
“Beauty, certainly, is an absolute and not a relative emotion, and yet
what is more changeable than a taste in beauty. The Chinese bard will
write a sonnet on the oblique eyes, flat nose and club feet of his
saffron Amaryllis, while he would revolt with horror from the fair
features of a British lassie. Old Uncle Giles will tell you that the
negro of his Congo coast paints his Obi devil white, in order to inspire
terror in the hearts of the wayward little Eboes. The wild Indians of
Virginia dye their cheeks—”

“Nay, there you will not find so great a difference between us,” said
Virginia, interrupting him, as she pointed to the plastered rouge on
Bernard's cheek. “But really, Mr. Bernard, you can scarcely be serious
in an opinion so learnedly argued. You must acknowledge that right and
wrong are absolute terms, and that a sense of them is inherent in our
nature.”

“Well then, seriously, my dear Miss Temple,” replied Bernard, “I do not
see so much objection to the gay society of England, which is but a
reflection from the mirror of the court of Charles the Second.”

“When the mirror is stained or imperfect, Mr. Bernard, the image that it
reflects must be distorted too. That society which breaks down the
barriers that a refined sentiment has erected between the sexes, can
never develope in its highest perfection the purity of the human heart.”

“Well, I give up the argument,” said Bernard, “for where sentiment is
alone concerned, there is no more powerful advocate than woman. But, my
dear Miss Temple, you who have such a pure and correct taste on this
subject, can surely illustrate your own idea by an example. Will you not
sing? I know you can—your mother told me so.”

“You must excuse me, Mr. Bernard; I would willingly oblige you, but I
fear I could not trust my voice among so many strangers.”

“You mistake your own powers,” urged Bernard. “There is nothing easier,
believe me, after the first few notes of the voice, which sound
strangely enough I confess, than for any one to recover self-possession
entirely. I well remember the first time I attempted to speak before a
large audience. When I arose to my feet, my knees trembled, and my lips
actually felt heavy as lead. It seemed as though every drop of blood in
my system rushed back to my heart. The vast crowd before me was nothing
but an immense assemblage of eyes, all bent with the most burning power
upon me; and when at length I opened my mouth, and first heard the tones
of my own voice, it sounded strange and foreign to my ear. It seemed as
though it was somebody else, myself and yet not myself, who was
speaking; and my utterance was so choked and discordant, that I would
have given worlds if I could draw back the words that escaped me. But
after a half dozen sentences, I became perfectly composed and
self-possessed, and cared no more for the gaping crowd than for the idle
wind which I heed not. So it will be with your singing, but rest assured
that the discord of your voice will only exist in your own fancy. Now
will you oblige me?”

“Indeed, Mr. Bernard, I cannot say that you have offered much
inducement,” said Virginia, laughing at the young man's description of
his forensic debut. “Nothing but the strongest sense of duty would impel
me to pass through such an ordeal as that which you have described.
Seriously you must excuse me. I cannot sing.”

“Oh yes you can, my dear,” said her mother, who was standing near, and
heard the latter part of the conversation. “What's the use of being so
affected about it! You know you can sing, my dear—and I like to see
young people obliging.”

“That's right, Mrs. Temple,” said Bernard, “help me to urge my petition;
I don't think Miss Virginia can be disobedient, even if it were in her
power to be disobliging.”

“The fact is, Mr. Bernard,” said the old lady, “that the young people of
the present day require so much persuading, that its hardly worth the
trouble to get them to do any thing.”

“Well, mother, if you put it on that ground,” said Virginia, “I suppose
I must waive my objections and oblige you.”

So saying, she rose, and taking Bernard's arm, she seated herself at
Lady Frances' splendid harp, which was sent from England as a present by
her brother-in-law, Lord Berkeley. Drawing off her white gloves, and
running her little tapering fingers over the strings, Virginia played a
melancholy symphony, which accorded well with the sad words that came
more sadly on the ear through the medium of her plaintive voice:—

    “Fondly they loved, and her trusting heart
      With the hopes of the future bounded,
    Till the trumpet of Freedom condemned them to part,
      And the knell of their happiness sounded.

    “But his is a churl's and a traitor's choice,
      Who, deaf to the call of duty,
    Would linger, allured by a syren's voice,
      On the Circean island of beauty.

    “His country called! he had heard the sound,
      And kissed the pale cheek of the maiden,
    Then staunched with his blood his country's wound,
      And ascended in glory to Aidenn.

    “The shout of victory lulled him to sleep
      The slumber that knows no dreaming,
    But a martyr's reward he will proudly reap,
      In the grateful tears of Freemen.

    “And long shall the maidens remember her love,
      And heroes shall dwell on his story;
    She died in her constancy like the lone dove,
      But he like an eagle in glory.

    “Oh let the dark cypress mourn over her grave,
      And light rest the green turf upon her;
    While over his ashes the laurel shall wave,
      For he sleeps in the proud bed of honour.”

The reader need not be told that this simple little ballad derived new
beauty from the feeling with which Virginia sang it. The remote
connection of its story with her own love imparted additional sadness to
her sweet voice, and as she dwelt on the last line, her eyes filled with
tears and her voice trembled. Bernard marked the effect which had been
produced, and a thrill of jealousy shot through his heart at seeing this
new evidence of the young girl's constancy.

But while he better understood her feelings than others around her, all
admired the plaintive manner in which she had rendered the sentiment of
the song, and attributed her emotion to her own refined appreciation and
taste. Many were the compliments which were paid to the fair young
minstrel by old and young; by simpering beaux and generous maidens. Sir
William Berkeley, himself, gallantly kissed her cheek, and said that
Lady Frances might well be jealous of so fair a rival; and added, that
if he were only young again, Windsor Hall might be called upon to yield
its fair inmate to adorn the palace of the Governor of Virginia.




CHAPTER XVIII.

    “Give me more love or more disdain,
      The torrid or the frozen zone;
    Bring equal ease unto my pain,
      The temperate affords me none;
    Either extreme of love or hate,
    Is sweeter than a calm estate.”—_Thomas Carew._


While Virginia thus received the meed of merited applause at the hands
of all who were truly generous, there were some then, as there are many
now, in whose narrow and sterile hearts the success of another is ever a
sufficient incentive to envy and depreciation. Among these was a young
lady, who had hitherto been the especial favourite of Alfred Bernard,
and to whom his attentions had been unremittingly paid. This young lady,
Miss Matilda Bray, the daughter of one of the councillors, vented her
spleen and jealousy in terms to the following purport, in a conversation
with the amiable and accomplished Caroline Ballard.

“Did you ever, Caroline, see any thing so forward as that Miss Temple?”

“I am under a different impression,” replied her companion. “I was
touched by the diffidence and modesty of her demeanor.”

“I don't know what you call diffidence and modesty; screeching here at
the top of her voice and drowning every body's conversation. Do you
think, for instance, that you or I would presume to sing in as large a
company as this—with every body gazing at us like a show.”

“No, my dear Matilda, I don't think that we would. First, because no one
would be mad enough to ask us; and, secondly, because if we did
presume, every body would be stopping their ears, instead of admiring us
with their eyes.”

“Speak for yourself,” retorted Matilda. “I still hold to my opinion,
that it was impertinent to be stopping other people's enjoyment to
listen to her.”

“On the contrary, I thought it a most welcome interruption, and I
believe that most of the guests, as well as Sir William Berkeley,
himself, concurred with me in opinion.”

“Well, I never saw any body so spiteful as you've grown lately,
Caroline. There's no standing you. I suppose you will say next that this
country girl is beautiful too, with her cotton head and blue china
eyes.”

“I am a country girl myself, Matilda,” returned Caroline, “and as for
the beauty of Miss Temple, whatever I may think, I believe that our
friend, Mr. Bernard, is of that opinion.”

“Oh, you needn't think, with your provoking laugh,” said Miss Bray,
“that I care a fig for Mr. Bernard's attention to her.”

“I didn't say so.”

“No, but you thought so, and you know you did; and what's more, it's too
bad that you should take such a delight in provoking me. I believe it's
all jealousy at last.”

“Jealousy, my dear Matilda,” said her companion, “is a jaundiced jade,
that thinks every object is of its own yellow colour. But see, the dance
is about to commence again, and here comes my partner. You must excuse
me.” And with a smile of conscious beauty, Caroline Ballard gave her
hand to the handsome young gallant who approached her.

Bernard and Virginia, too, rose from their seats, but, to the surprise
of Matilda Bray, they did not take their places in the dance, but walked
towards the door. Bernard saw how his old flame was writhing with
jealousy, and as he passed her he said, maliciously,

“Good evening, Miss Matilda; I hope you are enjoying the ball.”

“Oh, thank you, exceedingly,” said Miss Bray, patting her foot
hysterically on the floor, and darting from her fine black eyes an angry
glance, which gave the lie to her words.

Leaving her to digest her spleen at her leisure, the handsome pair
passed out of the ball-room and into the lawn. It was already thronged
with merry, laughing young people, who, wearied with dancing, were
promenading through the gravelled walks, or sitting on the rural
benches, arranged under the spreading trees.

“Oh, this is really refreshing,” said the young girl, as she smoothed
back her tresses from her brow, to enjoy the delicious river breeze.
“Those rooms were very oppressive.”

“I scarcely found them so,” said Bernard, gallantly; “for when the mind
is agreeably occupied we soon learn to forget any inconvenience to which
the body may be subjected. But I knew you would enjoy a walk through
this fine lawn.”

“Oh, indeed I do; and truly, Mr. Bernard,” said the ingenuous girl, “I
have much to thank you for. Nearly a stranger in Jamestown, you have
made my time pass happily away, though I fear you have deprived yourself
of the society of others far more agreeable.”

“My dear Miss Temple, I will not disguise from you, even to retain your
good opinion of my generosity, the fact that my attention has not been
so disinterested as you suppose.”

“I thank you, sir,” said Virginia, “for the compliment; but I am afraid
that I have not been so agreeable, in return for your civility, as I
should. You were witness to a scene, Mr. Bernard, which would make it
useless to deny that I have much reason to be sad; and it makes me more
unhappy to think that I may affect others by my gloom.”

“I know to what you allude,” replied Bernard, “and believe me, fair
girl, sweeter to me is this sorrow in your young heart, than all the
gaudy glitter of those vain children of fashion whom we have left. But,
alas! I myself have much cause to be sad—the future looms darkly before
me, and I see but little left in life to make it long desirable.”

“Oh, say not so,” said Virginia, moved by the air of deep melancholy
which Bernard had assumed, but mistaking its cause. “You are young yet,
and the future should be bright. You have talents, acquirements,
everything to ensure success; and the patronage and counsel of Sir
William Berkeley will guide you in the path to honourable distinction.
Fear not, my friend, but trust hopefully in the future.”

“There is one thing, alas!” said Bernard, in the same melancholy tone,
“without which success itself would scarcely be desirable.”

“And what is that?” said the young girl, artlessly. “Believe me, you
will always find in me, Mr. Bernard, a warm friend, and a willing if not
an able counsellor.”

“But this is not all,” cried Bernard, passionately. “Does not your own
heart tell you that there must be something more than friendship to
satisfy the longings of a true heart? Oh, Virginia—yes, permit me to
call you by a name now doubly dear to me, as the home of my adoption and
as the object of my earnest love. Dearest Virginia, sweet though it be
to the heart of a lonely orphan, drifting like a sailless vessel in this
rugged world, to have such a friend, yet sweeter far would it be to live
in the sunlight of your love.”

“Mr. Bernard!” exclaimed Virginia, with unfeigned surprise.

“Nay, dearest, do you, can you wonder at this revelation? I had striven,
but in vain, to conceal a hope which I knew was too daring. Oh, do not
by a word destroy the faint ray which has struggled so bravely in my
heart.”

“Mr. Bernard,” said Virginia, as she withdrew her arm from his, “I can
no longer permit this. If your feelings be such as you profess, and as I
believe they are—for I know your nature to be honorable—I regret that
I can only respect a sentiment which I can never return.”

“Oh, say not thus, my own Virginia, just as a new life begins to dawn
upon me. At least be not so hasty in a sentence which seals my fate
forever.”

“I am not too hasty,” replied Virginia. “But I would think myself
unworthy of the love you have expressed, if I held out hopes which can
never be realized. You know my position is a peculiar one. My hand but
not my heart is disengaged. Nor could you respect the love of a woman
who could so soon forget one with whom she had promised to unite her
destiny through life. I have spoken thus freely, Mr. Bernard, because I
think it due to your feelings, and because I am assured that what I say
is entrusted to an honourable man.”

“Indeed, my dear Miss Temple, if such you can only be to me,” said her
wily lover, “I do respect from my heart your constancy to your first
love. That unwavering devotion to another, whom I esteem, because he is
loved by you, only makes you more worthy to be won. May I not still hope
that time may supply the niche, made vacant in your heart, by another
whose whole life shall be devoted to the one object of making you
happy?”

“Mr. Bernard, candour compels me to say no, my friend; there are vows
which even time, with its destroying hand can never erase, and which are
rendered stronger and more sacred by the very circumstances which
prevent their accomplishment. Fate, my friend, may interpose her stern
decree and forever separate me from the presence of Mr. Hansford, but
my heart is still unchangeably his. Ha! what is that?” she added, with a
faint scream, as from the little summer-house, which we have before
described, there came a deep, prolonged groan.

As she spoke, and as Bernard laid his hand upon his sword to avenge
himself upon the intruder, a dark figure issued from the door of the
arbor, and stood before them. The young man stood appalled as he
recognized by the uncertain light of a neighbouring lamp, the dark,
swarthy features of Master Hutchinson, the chaplain of the Governor.

“Put up your sword, young man,” said the preacher, gravely; “they who
use the sword shall perish by the sword.”

“In the devil's name,” cried Bernard, forgetful of the presence of
Virginia, “how came you here?”

“Not to act the spy at least,” said Hutchinson, “such is not my
character. Suffice it to say, that I came as you did, to enjoy this
fresh air—and sought the quiet of this arbour to be free from the
intrusion of others. I have lived too long to care for the frivolities
which I have heard, and your secret is safe in my breast—a repository
of many a darker confidence than that.” With these words the bent form
of the melancholy preacher passed out of their sight.

“A singular man,” said Bernard, in a troubled voice, “but entirely
innocent in his conduct. An abstracted book-worm, he moves through the
world like a stranger in it. Will you return now?”

“Thank you,” said Virginia, “most willingly—for I confess my nerves are
a little unstrung by the fright I received. And now, my friend, pardon
me for referring to what has passed, but you will still be my friend,
won't you?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Bernard, in an abstracted manner. “I wonder,” he
muttered “what he could have meant by that hideous groan?”

And sadly and silently the rejected lover and his unhappy companion
returned to the heartless throng, who still lit up the palace with their
hollow smiles.

Alike the joyous dance, the light mirth, and the splendid entertainment
passed unheeded by Virginia, as she sat silently abstracted, and
returned indifferent answers to the questions which were asked her. And
Bernard, the gay and fascinating Bernard, wandered through the crowd,
like a troubled spectre, and ever and anon muttered to himself, “I
wonder what he could have meant by that hideous groan?”




CHAPTER XIX.

    “His heart has not half uttered itself yet,
    And much remains to do as well as they.
    The heart is sometime ere it finds its focus,
    And when it does with the whole light of nature
    Strained through it to a hair's breadth, it but burns
    The things beneath it which it lights to death.”
                                                    _Festus._


And now the ball is over. Mothers wait impatiently for their fair
daughters, who are having those many last words so delightful to them,
and so provoking to those who await their departure. Carriages again
drive to the door, and receive their laughing, bright-eyed burdens, and
then roll away through the green lawn, while the lamps throw their
broad, dark shadows on the grass. Gay young cavaliers, who have come
from a distance to the ball, exchange their slippers for their heavy
riding-boots and spurs, and mount their pawing and impatient steeds.
Sober-sided old statesmen walk away arm-in-arm, and discuss earnestly
the business of the morrow. The gamesters and dicers depart, some with
cheerful smiles, chuckling over their gains, and others with empty
pockets, complaining how early the party had broken up, and proposing a
renewal of the game the next night at the Blue Chamber at the Garter
Inn. Old Presley has evidently, to use his own phrase, “got his load,”
and waddling away to his quarters, he winks his eye mischievously at the
lamps, which, under the multiplying power of his optics, have become
more in number than the stars. Thus the guests all pass away, and the
lights which flit for a few moments from casement to casement in the
palace, are one by one extinguished, and all is dark, save where one
faint candle gleams through an upper window and betrays the watchfulness
of the old chaplain.

And who is he, with his dark, melancholy eyes, which tell so plainly of
the chastened heart—he who seeming so gentle and kind to all, reserves
his sternness for himself alone—and who, living in love with all God's
creatures, seems to hate with bitterness his own nature? It was not then
as it is sometimes now, that every man's antecedents were inquired into
and known, and that the young coxcomb, who disgraces the name that he
bears and the lineage of which he boasts, is awarded a higher station in
society than the self-sustaining and worthy son of toil, who builds his
reputation on the firmer foundation of substantial worth. Every ship
brought new emigrants from England, who had come to share the fate and
to develope the destiny of the new colony, and who immediately assumed
the position in society to which their own merit entitled them. And thus
it was, that when Arthur Hutchinson came to Virginia, no one asked,
though many wondered, what had blighted his heart, and cast so dark a
shadow on his path. There was one man in the colony, and one alone, who
had known him before—and yet Alfred Bernard, with whom he had come to
Virginia, seemed to know little more of his history and his character
than those to whom he was an entire stranger.

Arthur Hutchinson was in appearance about fifty years of age. His long
hair, which had once been black as the raven's wing, but was now thickly
sprinkled with grey, fell profusely over his stooping shoulders. There
was that, too, in the deep furrows on his broad brow, and in the
expression of his pale thin lips which told that time and sorrow had
laid their heavy hands upon him. As has been before remarked, by the
recommendation of Lord Berkeley, which had great weight with his
brother, Hutchinson had been installed as Chaplain to Sir William, and
through his influence with the vestry, presented to the church in
Jamestown. Although, with his own private resources, the scanty
provision of sixteen thousand pounds of tobacco per annum, (rated at
about eighty pounds sterling,) was ample for his comfortable support,
yet good Master Hutchinson had found it very convenient to accept Sir
William Berkeley's invitation to make his home at the palace. Here,
surrounded by his books, which he regarded more as cheerful companions,
than as grim instructors, he passed his life rather in inoffensive
meditation than in active usefulness. The sad and quiet reserve of his
manners, which seemed to spring from the memory of some past sorrow,
that while it had ceased to give pain, was still having its silent
effect upon its victim, made him the object of pity to all around him.
The fervid eloquence and earnestness of his sermons carried conviction
to the minds of the doubting, arrested the attention of the thoughtless
and the wayward, and administered the balm of consolation to the
afflicted child of sorrow. The mysterious influence which he exerted
over the proud spirit of Alfred Bernard, even by one reproving glance
from those big, black, melancholy eyes, struck all who knew them with
astonishment. He took but little interest in the political condition of
the colony, or in the state of society around him, and while, by this
estrangement, and his secluded life, he made but few warm friends, he
made no enemies. The good people of the parish were content to let the
parson pursue his own quiet life undisturbed, and he lost none of their
respect, while he gained much of their regard by his refusal to make the
influence of the church the weapon of political warfare.

Hutchinson, who had retired to his room some time before the guests had
separated, was quietly reading from one of the old fathers, when his
attention was arrested by a low tap at the door, which he at once
recognized as Bernard's. At the intimation to come in, the young man
entered, and throwing himself into a chair, he rested his face upon his
hand, and sighed deeply.

“Alfred,” said the preacher, after watching him for a moment in silence,
“I am glad you have come. I have somewhat to say to you.”

“Well, sir, I will hear you patiently. What would you say?”

“I would warn you against letting a young girl divert you from the
pursuit of higher objects than are to be attained by love.”

“How, sir?” exclaimed Bernard, with surprise.

“Alfred Bernard, look at me. Read in this pale withered visage, these
sunken cheeks, this bent form, and this broken heart, the brief summary
of a history which cannot yet be fully known. You have seen and known
that I am not as other men—that I walk through the world a stranger
here, and that my home is in the dark dungeon of my own bitter thoughts.
Would you know what has thus severed the chain which bound me to the
world? Would you know what it is that has blighted a heart which might
have borne rich fruit, and turned it to ashes? Would you know what is
the vulture, too cruel to destroy, which feeds upon this doomed form?”

“In God's name, Mr. Hutchinson, why do you speak thus wildly?” said
Bernard, for he had never before heard such language fall from the lips
of the reserved and quiet preacher. “I know that you have had your
sorrows, for the foot-prints of sorrow are indeed on you, but I have
often admired the stoical philosophy with which you have borne the
burden of care.”

“Stoical philosophy!” exclaimed the preacher, pressing his hand to his
heart. “The name that the world has given to the fire which burns here,
and whose flame is never seen. Think you the pain is less, because all
the heat is concentrated in the heart, not fanned into a flame by the
breath of words?”

“Well, call it what you will,” said Bernard, “and suffer as you will,
but why reserve until to-night a revelation which you have so long
refused to make?”

“Simply because to-night I have seen and heard that which induces me to
warn you from the course that you are pursuing. Young man, beware how
you seek your happiness in a woman's smile.”

“You must excuse me, my old friend,” said Bernard, smiling, “if I remind
you of an old adage which teaches us that a burnt child dreads the fire.
If trees were sentient, would you have them to fly from the generous
rain of heaven, by which they grow, and live, and bloom, because,
forsooth, one had been blasted by the lightning of the storm?”

Hutchinson only replied with a melancholy shake of the head, and the two
men gazed at each other in silence. Bernard, with all his sagacity and
knowledge of human nature, in vain attempted to read the secret thoughts
of his old guardian, whose dark eyes, lit up for a moment with
excitement, had now subsided into the pensive melancholy which we have
more than once remarked. The affectionate solicitude with which he had
ever treated him, prevented Bernard from being offended at his freedom,
and yet, with a vexed heart, he vainly strove to solve a mystery which
thus seemed to surround Virginia and himself, who, until a few days
before, had been entire strangers to each other.

“Alfred Bernard,” said the old man at length, with his sweet gentle
voice, “do you remember your father? You are very like him.”

“How can you ask me such a question, when you yourself have told me so
often that I never saw him.”

“True, I had forgotten,” returned Hutchinson, with a sigh, “but your
mother you remember?”

“Oh yes,” said the young man, with a tear starting in his eye, “I can
never forget her sad, pensive countenance. I have been a wild, bad man,
Mr. Hutchinson, but often in my darkest hours, the memory of my mother
would come over me, as though her spirit, like a dove, was descending
from her place in heaven to watch over her boy. Alas! I feel that if I
had followed the precepts which she taught me, I would now be a better
and a happier man.”

No heart is formed entirely hard; there are moments and memories which
melt the most obdurate heart, as the wand of the prophet smote water
from the rock. And Alfred Bernard, with all his cold scepticism and
selfish nature, was for a moment sincerely repentant.

“I have often thought, Mr. Hutchinson,” he continued, “that if it had
pleased heaven to give me some near relative on earth, around whom my
heart could delight to cling, I would have been a better man. Some kind
brother who could aid and sympathize with me in my struggle with the
world, or some gentle sister, in whose love I could confide, and to
whose sweet society I might repair from the bitter trials of this rugged
life; if these had been vouchsafed me, my heart would have expanded into
more sympathy with my race than it can ever now feel.”

Hutchinson smiled sadly, and replied—

“It has been my object in life, Alfred Bernard, to supply the place of
those nearer and dearer objects of affection which have been denied you.
I hope in this I have not been unsuccessful.”

“I am aware, Mr. Hutchinson,” said Bernard, bitterly, “that to you I am
indebted for my education and support. I hope I have ever manifested a
becoming sense of gratitude, and I only regret that in this alone am I
able to repay you.”

“And do you think that I wished to remind you of your dependence,
Alfred? Oh, no—you owe me nothing. I have discharged towards you a
solemn, a sacred duty, which you had a right to claim. I took you, a
little homeless orphan, and sought to cultivate your mind and train your
heart. In the first you have done more than justice to my tuition and my
care. I am proud of the plant that I have reared. But how have you
repaid me? You have imbibed sentiments and opinions abhorrent to all
just and moral men. You have slighted my advice, and at times have even
threatened the adviser.”

“If you refer to the difference in our faith,” said Bernard, “you must
remember that it was from your teachings that I derived the warrant to
follow the dictates of my conscience and my reason. If they have led me
into error, you must charge it upon these monitors which God has given
me. You cannot censure me.”

“I confess I am to blame,” said the good old man, with a sigh. “But who
could have thought, that when, with my hard earnings, I had saved enough
to send you to France, in order to give you a more extensive
acquaintance with the world you were about to enter—who would have
thought that it would result in your imbibing such errors as these! Oh,
my son, what freedom of conscience is there in a faith like papacy,
which binds your reason to the will of another? And what purity can
there be in a religion which you dare not avow?”

“Naaman bowed in the house of Rimmon,” returned Bernard, carelessly,
“and if the prophet forgave him for thus following the customs of his
nation, that he might retain a profitable and dignified position, I
surely may be forgiven, under a milder dispensation, for suppressing my
real sentiments in order to secure office and preferment.”

“Alas!” murmured Hutchinson, bitterly. “Well, it is a sentiment worthy
of Edward's son. But go, my poor boy, proud in your reason, which but
leads you astray—wresting scripture in order to justify hypocrisy, and
profaning religion with vice. You shall not yet want my prayers that you
may be redeemed from error.”

“Well, good night,” said Bernard, as he opened the door. “But do me the
justice to say, that though I may be deceitful, I can never be
ungrateful, nor can I forget your kindness to a desolate orphan.” And so
saying, he closed the door, and left the old chaplain to the solitude of
his own stricken heart.




CHAPTER XX.

    “Oh, tiger's heart, wrapt in a woman's hide.”
                                            _Henry VI._


Brightly shone the sun through the window of the Garter Inn, at which
Virginia Temple sat on the morning after the ball at Sir William
Berkeley's palace. Freed from the restraints of society, she gave her
caged thoughts their freedom, and they flew with delight to Hansford.
She reproved herself for the appearance of gaiety which she had assumed,
while he was in so much danger; and she inwardly resolved that, not even
to please her mother, would she be guilty again of such hypocrisy. She
felt that she owed it to Hansford, to herself, and to others, to act
thus. To Hansford, because his long and passionate love, and his
unstained name, deserved a sacrifice of the world and its joys to him.
To herself, because sad as were her reflections on the past, and fearful
as were her apprehensions for the future, there was still a melancholy
pleasure in dwelling on the memory of her love—far sweeter to her
wounded heart than all the giddy gaiety of the world around her. And to
others, because, but for her assumed cheerfulness, the feelings of
Alfred Bernard, her generous and gifted friend, would have been spared
the sore trial to which they had been subjected the night before. She
was determined that another noble soul should not make shipwreck of its
happiness, by anchoring its hopes on her own broken heart.

Such were her thoughts, as she leaned her head upon her hand and gazed
out of the window at the throng of people who were hurrying toward the
state-house. For this was to be a great day in legislation. The Indian
Bill was to be up in committee, and the discussion would be an able
one, in which the most prominent members of the Assembly were to take
part. She had seen the Governor's carriage, with its gold and trappings,
the Berkeley coat-of-arms, and its six richly caparisoned white horses,
roll splendidly by, with an escort of guards, by which Sir William was
on public occasions always attended. She had seen the Burgesses, with
their reports, their petitions and their bills, some conversing
carelessly and merrily as they passed, and others with thoughtful
countenance bent upon the ground, cogitating on some favourite scheme
for extricating the colony from its dangers. She had seen Alfred Bernard
pass on his favourite horse, and he had turned his eyes to the window
and gracefully saluted her; but in that brief moment she saw that the
scenes through which he had passed the night before were still in his
memory, and had made a deep impression on his heart. On the plea of a
sick head-ache, she had declined to go with her mother to the “House,”
and the good old lady had gone alone with her husband, deploring, as she
went, the little interest which the young people of the present day took
in the politics and prosperity of their country.

While thus silently absorbed in her own thoughts, the attention of
Virginia Temple was arrested by the door of her room being opened, and
on looking up, she saw before her the tall figure of a strange, wild
looking woman, whom she had never seen before. This woman, despite the
warmth of the weather, was wrapped in a coarse red shawl, which gave a
striking and picturesque effect to her singular appearance. Her features
were prominent and regular, and the face might have been considered
handsome if it were not for the exceeding coarseness of her swarthy
skin. Her jet-black hair, not even confined by a comb, was secured by a
black riband behind, and passing over the right shoulder, fell in a
heavy mass over her bosom. Her figure was tall and straight as an
Indian's, and her bare brawny arms, which escaped from under her shawl,
gave indications of great physical strength; while there was that in the
expression of her fierce black eye, and her finely formed mouth, which
showed that there was no mere woman's heart in that masculine form.

The wild appearance and attire of the woman inspired Virginia with
terror at first, but she suppressed the scream which rose to her lips,
and in an agitated voice, she asked,

“What would you have with me, madam?”

“What are you frightened at, girl,” said the woman in a shrill, coarse
voice, “don't you see that I am a woman?”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Virginia, trembling, “I am not frightened, ma'am.”

“You are frightened—I see you are,” returned her strange guest.—“But
if you fear, you are not worthy to be the wife of a brave man—come,
deny nothing—I can read you like a book—and easier, for it is but
little that I know from books, except my Bible.”

“Are you a gipsey, ma'am?” said Virginia, softly, for she had heard her
father speak of that singular race of vagrants, and the person and
language of the stranger corresponded with the idea which she had formed
of them.

“A gipsey! no, I am a Virginian—and a brave man's wife, as you would
be—but that prejudice and fear keep you still in Egyptian bondage. The
time has come for woman to act her part in the world—and for you,
Virginia Temple, to act yours.”

“But what would you have me to do?” asked Virginia, surprised at the
knowledge which the stranger seemed to possess of her history.

“Do!” shrieked the woman, “your duty—that which every human creature,
man or woman, is bound before high heaven to do. Aid in the great work
which God this day calls upon his Israel to do—to redeem his people
from captivity and from the hand of those who smite us.”

“My good woman,” said Virginia, who now began to understand the
character of the strange intruder, “it is not for me, may I add, it is
not for our sex to mingle in contests like the present. We can but
humbly pray that He who controls the affairs of this world, may direct
in virtue and in wisdom, the hearts of both rulers and people.”

“And why should we only pray,” said the woman sternly, “when did Heaven
ever answer prayer, except when our own actions carried the prayer into
effect. Have you not learned, have you not known, hath it not been told
you from the foundation of the world, that faith without works was
dead.”

“But there is no part which a woman can consistently take in such a
contest as the present, even should she so far forget her true duties as
to wish to engage in it.”

“Girl, have you read your bible, or are you one of those children of the
scarlet woman of Babylon, to whom the word of God is a closed book—to
whom the waters from the fountain of truth can only come through the
polluted lips of priests—as unclean birds feed their offspring. Do you
not know that it was a woman, even Rahab, who saved the spies sent out
from Shittem to view the land of promise? Do you not know that Miriam
joined with the hosts of Israel in the triumph of their deliverance from
the hand of Pharaoh? Do you not know that Deborah, the wife of Lapidoth,
judged Israel, and delivered Jacob from the hands of Jabin, king of
Canaan, and Sisera the captain of his host—and did not Jael, the wife
of Heber the Kenite, rescue Israel from the hands of Sisera? Surely she
fastened the nail in a sure place, and the wife of Sisera, tarried long
ere his chariot should come—and shall we in these latter days of Israel
be less bold than they? Tell me not of prayers, Virginia Temple, cowards
alone pray blindly for assistance. It is the will of God that the brave
should be often under Heaven, the answerers of their own prayers.”

“And pray tell me,” said Virginia, struck with the wild, biblical
eloquence of the Puritan woman, “why you have thus come to me among so
many of the damsels of Virginia, to urge me to engage in this
enterprise.”

“Because I was sent. Because one of the captains of our host has sought
the hand of Virginia Temple. Ah, blush, maiden, for the blush of shame
well becomes one who has deserted her lover, because he has laid aside
every weight, and pressed forward to the prize of his high calling. Yet
a little while, and the brave men of Virginia will be here to show the
malignant Berkeley, that the servant is not greater than his lord—that
they who reared up this temple of his authority, can rase it to the
ground and bury him in its ruins. I come from Thomas Hansford, to ask
that you will under my guidance meet him where I shall appoint
to-night.”

“This is most strange conduct on his part,” said Virginia, flushing with
indignation, “nor will I believe him guilty of it. Why did he entrust a
message like this to you instead of writing?”

“A warrior writes with his sword and in blood,” replied the woman.
“Think you that they who wander in the wilderness, are provided with pen
or ink to write soft words of love to silly maidens? But he foresaw that
you would refuse, and he gave me a token—I fear a couplet from a carnal
song.”

“What is it?” cried Virginia, anxiously.

    “'I had not loved thee, dear, so much,
    Loved I not honour more,'”

said the woman, in a low voice. “Thus the words run in my memory.”

“And it is indeed a true token,” said Virginia, “but once for all, I
cannot consent to this singular request.”

“Decide not in haste, lest you repent at leisure,” returned the woman,
“I will come to-night at ten o'clock to receive your final answer. And
regret not, Virginia Temple, that your fate is thus linked with a brave
man. The babe unborn will yet bless the rising in this country—and
children shall rise up and call us blest.[36] And, oh! as you would
prove worthy of him who loves you, abide not thou like Reuben among the
sheep-folds to hear the bleating of the flocks, and you will yet live to
rejoice that you have turned a willing ear to the words and the counsel
of Sarah Drummond.”

There was a pause of some moments, during which Virginia was wrapt in
her own reflections concerning the singular message of Hansford,
rendered even more singular by the character and appearance of the
messenger. Suddenly she was startled from her reverie by the blast of a
trumpet, and the distant trampling of horses' hoofs. Sarah Drummond also
started at the sound, but not from the same cause, for she heard in that
sound the blast of defiance—the trumpet of freedom, as its champions
advanced to the charge.

“They come, they come,” she said, in her wild, shrill voice; “my Lord,
my Lord, the chariots of Israel and the horsemen thereof—I go, like
Miriam of old, to prophecy in their cause, and to swell their triumph.
Farewell. Remember, at ten o'clock to-night I return for your final
answer.”

With these words she burst from the room, and Virginia soon seen her
tall form, with hasty strides, moving toward the place from which the
sound proceeded.


FOOTNOTES:

[36] This was her very language during the rebellion.




CHAPTER XXI.

            “Men, high minded men,
    With powers as far above dull brutes endued,
            In forest, brake or den,
    As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude;
            Men, who their duties know,
    But know their rights, and knowing dare maintain,
            These constitute a state.”
                                _Sir William Jones._


And nearer, and nearer, came the sound, and the cloud of dust which
already rose in the street, announced their near approach. And then,
Virginia saw emerging from that cloud a proud figure, mounted on a
splendid grey charger, which pranced and champed his bit, as though
proud of the noble burden which he bore. And well he might be proud, for
that young gallant rider was Nathaniel Bacon, a man who has left his
name upon his country's history, despite the efforts to defame him, as
the very embodiment of the spirit of freedom. And he looked every inch a
hero, as with kingly mien and gallant bearing he rode through that
crowded street, the great centre of attraction to all.

Beside him and around him were those, his friends and his companions,
who had sworn to share his success, or to perish in the attempt.

There was the burley Richard Lawrence, not yet bent under the weight of
his growing years. There was Carver, the bold, intrepid and faithful
Carver, whose fidelity yet lives historically in his rough, home-brewed
answer to the Governor, that “if he served the devil he would be true to
his trust.” There too was the young and graceful form of one whose name
has been honoured by history, and cherished by his descendants—whose
rising glory has indeed been eclipsed by others of his name more
successful, but not more worthy of success—nor can that long, pure
cavalier lineage boast a nobler ancestor than the high-souled,
chivalrous, and devoted Giles Bland. There too were Ingram, and
Walklate, and Wilford, and Farloe, and Cheesman, and a host of others,
whom time would fail us to mention, and yet, each one of whom, a pioneer
in freedom's cause, deserves to be freshly remembered. And there too,
and the heart of Virginia Temple beat loud and quick as she beheld him,
was the gallant Hansford, whom she loved so well; and as she gazed upon
his noble figure, now foremost in rebellion, the old love came back
gushing into her heart, and she half forgave his grievous sin, and loved
him as before.

These all passed on, and the well-regulated band of four hundred
foot-soldiers, all armed and disciplined for action, followed on, ready
and anxious to obey their noble leader, even unto death. Among these
were many, who, through their lives had been known as loyalists, who
upheld the councils of the colony in their long resistance to the
usurpation of the Protector, and who hailed the restoration of their
king as a personal triumph to each and all. There too were those who had
admired Cromwell, and sustained his government, and some few grey-headed
veterans who even remembered to have fought under the banner of John
Hampden—Cavaliers and Roundheads, Episcopalians and Dissenters; old
men, who had heretofore passed through life regardless of the forms of
government under which they lived; and young men, whose ardent hearts
burned high with the spirit of liberty—all these discordant elements
had been united in the alembic of freedom, and hand-in-hand, and
heart-in-heart, were preparing for the struggle. And Virginia Temple
thought, as she gazed from the window upon their manly forms, that after
all, rebellion was not confined to the ignoble and the base.

On, on, still on, and now they have reached the gate which is the grand
entrance to the state-house square. The crowd of eager citizens throng
after them, and with the fickle sympathy of the mob unite in loud shouts
of “Long live Bacon, the Champion of Freedom.” And now they are drawn up
in bristling column before the hall of the assembly, while the windows
are crowded thick with the pale, anxious faces of the astounded
burgesses. But see! the leaders dismount, and their horses are given in
charge to certain of the soldiers. Conspicuous among them all is
Nathaniel Bacon, from his proud and imperial bearing as he walks with
impatient steps up and down the line, and reads their resolution in the
faces of the men.

“What will he do!” is whispered from the white and agitated lips of the
trembling burgesses.

“This comes of the faithless conduct of Berkeley,” says one.

“Yes; I always said that Bacon should have his commission,” says
another.

“It is downright murder to deny him the right to save the colony from
the savages,” says a third.

“And we must suffer for the offences of a despotic old dotard,” said the
first speaker.

“Say you so, masters,” cried out old Presley, wedging his huge form
between two of his brethren at the window—and all his loyalty of the
preceding night having oozed out at his fingers' ends, like Bob Acres'
courage, at the first approach of danger—“say you so; then, by God, it
is my advice to let him put out the fire of his own raising.”

But see there! Bacon and his staff are conferring together. It will soon
be known what is his determination. It is already read in his fierce and
angry countenance as he draws his sword half way from its scabbard, and
frowns upon the milder councils of Hansford and Bland. Presently a
servant of one of the members comes in with pale, affrighted looks, and
whispers to his master. He has overheard the words of Bacon, which
attended that ominous gesture.

“I will bear a little while. But when you see my sword drawn from my
scabbard, thus, let that be the signal for attack. Then strike for
freedom, for truth, and for justice.”

The burgesses look in wild alarm at each other. What is to be done? It
were vain to resist. They are unarmed. The rebels more than quadruple
Governor, Council, and Assembly. Let those suffer who have incurred the
wrath of freemen. Let the lightning fall upon him who has called it
down. For ourselves, let us make peace.

In a moment a white handkerchief suspended on the usher's rod streams
from the window, an emblem of peace, an advocate for mercy, and with one
accordant shout, which rings through the halls of the state-house, the
burgesses declare that he shall have his commission.

Bacon sees the emblem. He hears the shout. His dark eye flashes with
delight as he hails this bloodless victory over the most formidable
department of the government. The executive dare not hold out against
the will of the Assembly. But the victory is not yet consummated.

Suddenly from the lips of the excited soldiery comes a wild cry, and
following the direction of their eyes, he sees Sir William Berkeley
standing at the open window of the Council Chamber. Yes, there stands
the proud old man, with form erect and noble—his face somewhat paler,
and his eagle eye somewhat brighter than usual. But these are the only
signs he gives of emotion, as he looks down upon that hostile crowd,
with a smile of bitter scorn encircling his lip. He quails not, he
blenches not, before that angry foe. His pulse beats calmly and
regularly, for it is under the control of the brave great heart, which
knows no fear. And there he stands, all calm and silent, like a firm-set
rock that defies in its iron strength the fury of the storm that beats
against it.

Yet Berkeley is in danger. He is the object, the sole object, of the
bitter hate of that incensed and indignant soldiery. He has pledged and
he has broken his word to them, and when did broken faith ever fail to
arouse the indignation of Virginians? He has denied them the right to
protect, by organized force, their homes and their firesides from the
midnight attacks of ruthless savages. He has advised the passage of laws
restricting their commerce, and reducing the value of their staples. He
has urged the erection of forts throughout the colony, armed with a
regular soldiery, supported in their idleness by the industry of
Virginians, and whose sole object is to check the kindling flame of
liberty among the people. He has sanctioned and encouraged the exercise
of power by Parliament to tax an unrepresented colony. He has advised
and upheld His Majesty in depriving the original patentees of immense
tracts of land, and lavishing them as princely donations upon fawning
favourites. He has refused to represent to the king the many grievances
of the colony, and to urge their redress, and, although thus showing
himself to be a tyrant over a free people, he has dared to urge, through
his servile commissioners, his appointment as Governor for life.

Such were some of the many causes of discontent among the colonists
which had so inflamed them against Sir William Berkeley. And now, there
he stood before them, calm in spite of their menaces, unrelenting in
spite of their remonstrances. Without a word of command, and with one
accord a hundred fusils were pointed at the breast of the brave old
Governor. It was a moment of intense excitement—of terrible suspense.
But even then his courage and his self-reliance forsook him not. Tearing
open his vest, and presenting himself at the window more fully to their
attack, he cried out in a firm voice:

“Aye, shoot! 'Fore God, a fair mark. Infatuated men, bury your wrongs
here in my heart. I dare you to do your worst!”

“Down with your guns!” shouted Bacon, angrily. But it needed not the
order of their leader to cause them to drop their weapons in an instant.
The calm smile which still played around the countenance of the old
Governor, the unblenching glance of that eagle eye, and the unawed
manner in which he dared them to revenge, all had their effect in
allaying the resentment of the soldiers. And with this came the memory
of the olden time, when he was so beloved by his people, because so just
and gentle. Something of this old feeling now returned, and as they
lowered their weapons a tear glistened in many a hardy soldier's eye.

With the quick perception of true genius, Nathaniel Bacon saw the effect
produced. Well aware of the volatile materials with which he had to
work, he dreaded a revolution in the feelings of the men. Anxious to
smother the smouldering ashes of loyalty before they were fanned into a
flame, he cried with a loud voice,

“Not a hair of your head shall be touched. No, nor of any man's. I come
for justice, not for vengeance. I come to plead for the mercy which
ill-judged and cruel delay has long denied this people. I come to plead
for the living—my argument may be heard from the dead. The voices of
murdered Englishmen call to you from the ground. We demand a right,
guarantied by the sacred and inviolable law of self-preservation! A
right! guarantied by the plighted but violated word of an English knight
and a Virginia Governor. A right! which I now hold by the powerful,
albeit unwritten, sanction of these, the sovereigns of Virginia.”

The last artful allusion of Bacon entirely restored the confidence of
his soldiers, and with loud cries they shouted in chorus, “And we will
have it!—we will have it!”

Berkeley listened patiently to this brief address, and then turned from
the window where he was standing, and took his seat at the
council-table. Here, too, he was surrounded by many who, either alarmed
at the menaces of the rebels, and convinced of the futility of resisting
their demands, or, what is more probable, who had a secret sympathy in
the causes of the rebellion, exerted all their influence in mollifying
the wrath and obstinacy of the old Governor. But it was all in vain. To
every argument or persuasion which was urged, his only reply was,

“To have forced from me by rebels the trust confided in me by my king!
To yield to force what I denied to petition! No, Gentlemen; 'fore God,
if the authority of my master's government must be overcome in Virginia,
let me perish with it. I wish no higher destiny than to be a martyr,
like my royal master, Charles the First, to the cause of truth and
justice. Let them rob me of my life when they rob me of my trust.”

While thus the councillors were vainly endeavoring to persuade the old
man to yield to the current which had so set against him, he was
surprised by a slight touch on his shoulder, and on looking up he saw
Alfred Bernard standing before him. The young man bent over, and in a
low whisper uttered these significant words:

“The commission, extorted by force, is null and void when the duress is
removed.”

Struck by a view so apposite to his condition, and so entirely tallying
with his own wishes, the impetuous old Governor fairly leaped from his
chair and grasped the hand of his young adviser.

“Right, by God!” he said; “right, my son. Gentlemen, this young man's
counsel is worth all of your's. Out of the mouth of babes and
sucklings—however, Alfred, you would not relish a compliment paid at
the expense of your manhood.”

“What does the young man propose?” drawled the phlegmatic old Cole, who
was one of the council board.

“That I should yield to the current when I must, and resist it when I
can,” cried Berkeley, exultingly. “Loyalty must only bow to the storm,
as the tree bows before the tempest. The most efficient resistance is
apparent concession.”

The councillors were astounded. Sprung from that chivalric Anglo-Saxon
race, who respected honour more than life, and felt a stain like a
wound, they could scarcely believe their senses when they thus heard the
Governor of Virginia recommending deceit and simulation to secure his
safety. To them, rebellion was chiefly detestable because it was an
infraction of the oath of loyalty. It could scarcely be more base than
the premeditated perjury which Sir William contemplated. Many an angry
eye and dark scowl was bent on Alfred Bernard, who met them with an easy
and defiant air. The silence that ensued expressed more clearly than
words the disapprobation of the council. At length old Ballard, one of
the most loyal and esteemed members of the council, hazarded an
expression of his views.

“Sir William Berkeley, let me advise you as your counsellor, and warn
you as your friend, to avoid the course prescribed by that young man.
What effect can your bad faith with these misguided persons have, but to
exasperate them?—and when once aroused, and once deceived, be assured
that all attempts at reconciliation will be vain. I speak plainly, but I
do so because not only your own safety, but the peace and prosperity of
the colony are involved in your decision. Were not the broken pledges of
that unhappy Stuart, to whom you have referred, the causes of that
fearful revolution which alienated the affections of his subjects and at
length cost him his life? Charles Stuart has not died in vain, if, by
his death and his sufferings, he has taught his successors in power that
candour, moderation and truth are due from a prince to his people. But,
alas! what oceans of blood must be shed ere man will learn those useful
lessons, which alone can ensure his happiness and secure his authority.”

“Zounds, Ballard,” said the incensed old ruler, “you have mistaken your
calling. I have not heard so fine a sermon this many a day, and, 'fore
God, if you will only renounce politics, and don gown and cassock, I
will have you installed forthwith in my dismal Hutchinson's living.
But,” he added, more seriously, as the smile of bitter derision faded
from his lips, “I well e'en tell you that you have expressed yourself a
matter too freely, and have forgotten what you owe to position and
authority.”

“I have forgotten neither, sir,” said Ballard, firmly but calmly. “I owe
respect to position, even though I may not have it for the man who holds
that position; and when authority is abused, I owe it alike to myself
and to the people to check it so far as I may.”

The flush of passion mounted to the brow of Berkeley, as he listened to
these words; but with a violent effort he checked the angry retort which
rose to his lips, and turning to the rest of the council, he said:

“Well, gentlemen, I will submit the proposition to you. Shall the
commission of General of the forces of Virginia be granted to Nathaniel
Bacon?”

“Nay, Governor,” interposed another of the council, “we would know
whether you intend—”

“It is of my actions that you must advise. Leave my motives to me. What
do you advise? Shall the commission be granted?”

“Aye,” was responded in turn by each of the councillors at the board,
and at the same moment the heavy tramp of approaching footsteps was
heard, and Bacon, attended by Lawrence, Bland and Hansford, entered the
chamber.

The council remained seated and covered, and preserved the most
imperturbable silence. It was a scene not unlike that of that ancient
senate, who, unable to resist the attack of barbarians, evinced their
pride and bravery by their contemptuous silence. The sun was shining
brightly through the western windows of the chamber, and his glaring
rays, softened and coloured by the rich red curtains of damask, threw a
deeper flush upon the cheeks of the haughty old councillors. With their
eyes fixed upon the intruders, they patiently awaited the result of the
interview. On the other hand, the attitude and behaviour of the rebels
was not less calm and dignified. They had evidently counselled well
before they had determined to intrude thus upon the deliberations of the
council. It was with no angry or impatient outburst of passion, with no
air of triumph, that they came. They knew their rights, and had come to
claim and maintain them.

There were two men there, and they the youngest of that mixed assembly,
who viewed each other with looks of darker hatred than the rest. The
wound inflicted in Hansford's heart at Windsor Hall had not yet been
healed—and with that tendency to injustice so habitual to lovers, with
the proclivity of all men to seek out some one whom they may charge as
the author of their own misfortune, he viewed Bernard with feelings of
distrust and enmity. He felt, too, or rather he feared, that the heart
left vacant by his own exclusion from it, might be filled with this
young rival. Bernard, on the other hand, had even stronger reason of
dislike, and if such motives could operate even upon the noble mind of
Hansford, with how much greater force would they impress the selfish
character of the young jesuit. The recollection of that last scene with
Virginia in the park, of her unwavering devotion to her rebel lover,
and her disregard of his own feelings came upon him now with renewed
force, as he saw that rebel rival stand before him. Even if filial
regard for her father's wishes and a sense of duty to herself would
forever prevent her alliance with Hansford, Alfred Bernard felt that so
long as his rival lived there was an insuperable obstacle to his
acquisition of her estate, an object which he prized even more than her
love. Thus these two young men darted angry glances at each other, and
forgot in their own personal aggrievements, the higher principles for
which they were engaged of loyalty on the one hand, and liberty on the
other.

Bacon was the first to break silence.

“Methinks,” he said, “that your honours are not inclined to fall into
the error of deciding in haste and repenting at leisure.”

“Mr. Bacon,” said Berkeley, “you must be aware that the appearance of
this armed force tends to prejudice your claims. It would be indecorous
in me to be over-awed by menaces, or to yield to compulsion. But the
necessities of the time demand that there should be an organized force,
to resist the encroachments of the Indians. It is, therefore, not from
fear of your threats, but from conviction of this necessity that I have
determined to grant you the commission which you ask, with full power to
raise, equip, and provision an army, and with instructions, that you
forthwith proceed to march against the savages.”

Bacon could scarcely suppress a smile at this boastful appearance of
authority and disavowal of compulsion, on the part of the proud old
Governor. It was with a thrill of rapture that he thus at last possessed
the great object of his wishes. Already idolized by the people, he only
needed a legal recognition of his authority to accomplish the great ends
that he had in view. As the commission was made out in due form,
engrossed and sealed, and handed to him, he clutched it eagerly, as
though it were a sceptre of royal power. Little suspecting the design of
the wily Governor, he felt all his confidence in him restored at once,
and from his generous heart he forgave him all the past.

“This commission, though military,” he said, proudly, “is the seal of
restored tranquillity to the colony. Think not it will be perverted to
improper uses. Royalty is to Virginians what the sun is to the pious
Persian. Virginia was the last to desert the setting sun of royalty, and
still lingered piously and tearfully to look upon its declining rays.
She was the first to hail the glorious restoration of its light, and as
she worshipped its rising beams, she will never seek to quench or
overcloud its meridian lustre. I go, gentlemen, to restore peace to the
fireside and confidence to the hearts of this people. The sword of my
country shall never be turned against herself.”

The heightened colour of his cheek, and the bright flashing of his eye,
bespoke the pride and delight of his heart. With a profound bow he
turned from the room, and with his aids, he descended to rejoin his
anxious and expectant followers. In a few moments the loud shout of the
soldiery was heard testifying their satisfaction at the result. The
names of Berkeley and of Bacon were upon their lips—and as the proud
old Governor gazed from the window at that happy crowd, and saw with the
admiring eye of a brave man, the tall and martial form of Nathaniel
Bacon at their head, he scarcely regretted in that moment that his loyal
name had been linked with the name of a traitor.




CHAPTER XXII.

    “Me glory summons to the martial scene,
    The field of combat is the sphere of men;
    Where heroes war the foremost place I claim,
    The first in danger, as the first in fame.”
                                              _Pope's Iliad._


We return to Virginia Temple, who, although not an eye-witness of the
scene which we have just described, was far from being disinterested in
its result. The words of the singular woman, with whom she had
conversed, had made some impression upon her mind. Although disgusted
with the facility with which Dame Drummond had distorted and perverted
Scripture to justify her own wild absurdities, Virginia still felt that
there was much cause for self-reproach in her conduct to her lover. She
felt every assurance that though he might err, he would err from
judgment alone; and how little did she know of the questions at issue
between the aroused people and the government. Indeed, when she saw the
character of those with whom Hansford was associated—men not impelled
by the blind excitement of a mob, but evidently actuated by higher
principles of right and justice, her heart misgave her that, perhaps,
she had permitted prejudice to carry her too far in her opposition to
their cause. The struggle in her mind was indeed an unequal one. It was
love pleading against ignorant prejudice, and that at the forum of a
woman's heart. Can it be wondered at that Virginia Temple, left to
herself, without an adviser, yielded to the powerful plea, and freely
and fully forgave her rebel lover? And when she thought, too, that,
however guilty to his country, he had, at least, been ever faithful to
her, she added to her forgiveness of him the bitterest self-reproach. On
one thing she was resolved, that notwithstanding the apparent indelicacy
of such a course, she would grant him the interview which he requested,
and if she could not win him from his error, at least part from him,
though forever, as a friend. She felt that it was due to her former
love, and to his unwavering devotion, to grant this last request.

Once determined on her course, the hours rolled heavily away until the
time fixed for her appointment with Hansford. Despite her attempt to
prove cheerful and unconcerned, her lynx-eyed mother detected her
sadness, but was easily persuaded that it was due to a slight head-ache,
with which she was really suffering, and which she pleaded as an excuse.
The old lady was more easily deceived, because it tallied with her own
idea, that Jamestown was very unhealthy, and that she, herself, could
never breathe its unwholesome air without the most disastrous
consequences to her health.

At length, Colonel Temple, having left the crowd of busy politicians,
who were discussing the events of the day in the hall, returned with his
good wife to their own room. Virginia, with a beating heart, resumed her
watch at the window, where she was to await the coming of Sarah
Drummond. It was a warm, still night. Scarcely a breath of air was
stirring the leaves of the long line of elms that adorned the street.
She sat watching the silent stars, and wondering if those bright worlds
contained scenes of sorrow and despair like this; or were they but the
pure mansions which the Comforter was preparing in his heavenly kingdom
for those disconsolate children of earth who longed for that peace which
he had promised when he told his trusting disciples “Let not your heart
be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” How apt are the sorrowing souls
of earth to look thus into the blue depths of heaven, and in their
selfishness to think that Nature, with her host of created beings, was
made for them. She chose from among those shining worlds, one bright and
trembling star, which stood apart, and there transported on the wings of
Fancy or Faith, she lived in love and peace with Hansford. Sweet was
that star-home to the trusting girl, as she watched it in its slow and
silent course through heaven. Free from the cares which vex the spirit
in this dark sin-world, that happy star was filled with love, and the
blissful pair who knew it as their home, felt no change, save in the
“grateful vicissitude of pleasure and repose.” Such was the picture
which the young girl, with the pencil of hope, and the colours of fancy
painted for her soul's eye. But as she gazed, the star faded from her
sight, and a dark and heavy cloud lowered from the place where it had
stood.

At the same moment, as if the vision in which she had been rapt was
something more than a dream, the door of her chamber opened, and Sarah
Drummond entered. The heart of Virginia Temple nearly failed her, as she
thought of the coincidence in time of the disappearance of the star and
the summons to her interview with Hansford. Her companion marked her
manner, and in a more gentle voice than she had yet assumed, she said,

“Why art thou cast down, maiden? Let not your heart sink in the
performance of a duty. Have you decided?”

“Must I meet him alone?” asked Virginia. “Oh, how could he make a
request so hard to be complied with!”

“Alone!” said Sarah, with a sneer. “Yes, silly girl, reared in the
school that would teach that woman's virtue is too frail even to be
tempted. Yes, alone! She who cannot trust her honour to a lover, knows
but little of the true power of love.”

“I will follow you,” replied Virginia, firmly, and throwing a shawl
loosely around her, she rose from her seat and prepared to go.

“Come on, then,” said Sarah, quickly, “there is no time to be lost. In
an hour, at most, the triumphant defenders of right will be upon their
march.”

The insurgents, wearied with their long march the night and day before,
and finding no accommodation for their numbers in the inn, or elsewhere,
had determined to seek a few hours repose in the green lawn surrounding
the state-house, previous to their night march upon the Indians. It was
here that Hansford had appointed to meet and bid farewell to his
betrothed Virginia. Half leading, half dragging the trembling girl, who
had already well nigh repented her resolution, Sarah Drummond walked
rapidly down the street, in the direction of the state-house. Arrived at
the gate, their further progress was arrested by a rough, uncouth
sentinel, who in a coarse voice demanded who they were.

“I am Sarah Drummond,” said the woman, promptly, “and this young maiden
would speak with Major Hansford.”

“Why, 'stains, dame, what has become of all your religion, that you
should turn ribibe on our hands, and be bringing young hoydens this time
o' night to the officers. For shame, Dame Drummond.”

“Berkenhead,” cried the woman, fiercely, “we all know you for a traitor
and a blasphemer, who serve but for the loaves and fishes, and not for
the pure word. You gained your liberty, you know, by betraying your
fellows in the insurrection of '62, and are a base pensioner upon the
bounty of the Assembly for your cowardice and treason. But God often
maketh the carnal-minded of this world to fulfil his will, and so we
must e'en bear with you yet a little while. Come, let us pass.”

“Nay, dame,” said the old soldier, “I care but little for your abuse;
but duty is duty, and so an' ye give me not the shibboleth, as old
Noll's canters would say, you may e'en tramp back. You see, I've got
some of your slang, and will fight the devil with his own fire: 'And
there fell of the children of Ephraim, at the passage of the Jordan—'”

“Hush, blasphemer!” said Sarah, impatiently. “But if you must have the
pass before you can admit us, take it.” And she leaned forward and
whispered in his ear the words, “Be faithful to the cause.”

“Right as a trivet,” said Berkenhead, “and so pass on. A fig for the
consequences, so that my skirts are clear.”

Relieved from this embarrassment, Sarah Drummond and her trembling
companion passed through the gate, and proceeded up the long gravelled
walk which led to the state-house. They had not gone far before Virginia
Temple descried a dark form approaching them, and even before she could
recognize the features, her heart told her it was Hansford. In another
moment she was in his arms.

“My own Virginia, my loved one,” he cried, regardless of the presence of
Mrs. Drummond, “I scarcely dared hope that you would have kept your
promise to say farewell. Come, dearest, lean on my arm, I have much to
tell you. You, my kind dame, remain here for a few moments—we will not
detain you long.”

Quietly yielding to his request, Virginia took her lover's arm, and they
walked silently along the path, leaving the good dame Drummond to digest
alone her crude notions about the prospects of Israel.

“Is it not singular,” said Hansford at length, “that before you came, I
thought the brief hour we must spend together was far too short to say
half that I wish, and now I can say nothing. The quiet feeling of love,
of pure and tranquil love, banishes every other thought from my heart.”

“I fear—I fear,” murmured Virginia, “that I have done very wrong in
consenting to this interview.”

“And why, Virginia,” said her lover, “even the malefactor is permitted
the poor privilege of bidding farewell forever to those around him—and
am I worse than he?”

“No, Hansford, no,” replied Virginia, “but to come thus with a perfect
stranger, at night, and without my father's permission, to an interview
with one who has met with his disapprobation—”

“True love,” replied Hansford, sadly, “overleaps all such feeble
barriers as these—where the happiness of the loved one is concerned.”

“And, therefore, I came,” returned the young girl, “but you forget,
Hansford, that the relation which once existed between us has, by our
mutual consent, been dissolved—what then was proper cannot now be
permitted.”

“If such be the case,” replied Hansford, in an offended tone, “Miss
Temple must be aware that I am the last person to urge her to continue
in a course which her judgment disapproves. May I conduct you to your
companion?”

Virginia did not at first reply. The coldness of manner which she had
assumed was far from being consonant with her real feelings, and the
ingenuous girl could no longer continue the part which she attempted to
represent. After a brief pause, the natural affection of her nature
triumphed, and with the most artless frankness she said,

“Oh, no, Hansford, my tongue can no longer speak other language than
that which my heart dictates. Forgive me for what I have said. We cannot
part thus.”

“Thanks, my dearest girl,” he cried, “for this assurance. The future is
already too dark, for the light of hope to be entirely withdrawn. These
troublous times will soon be over, and then—”

“Nay, Hansford,” said Virginia, interrupting him, “I fear you cannot
even then hope for that happiness which you profess to anticipate in our
union. These things I have thought of deeply and sorrowfully. Whatever
may be the issue of this unnatural contest, to us the result must be the
same. My father's prejudices—and without his consent, I would never
yield my hand to any one—are so strong against your cause, that come
what may, they can never be removed.”

“He must himself, ere long, see the justice of our cause,” said
Hansford, confidently. “It is impossible that truth can long be hid from
one, who, like your noble father, must ever be desirous of its success.”

“And do you think,” returned Virginia, “that having failed to arrive at
your conclusions in his moments of calm reflection, he will be apt to
change his opinions under the more formidable reasoning of the bayonet?
Believe me, Hansford, that scenes like those which we have this day
witnessed, can never reconcile the opposing parties in this unhappy
strife.”

“It is true, too true,” said Hansford, sorrowfully; “and is there then
no hope?”

“Yes, there is a hope,” said Virginia, earnestly. “Let not the foolish
pride of consistency prevent you from acknowledging an error when
committed. Boldly and manfully renounce the career into which impulse
has driven you. Return to your allegiance—to your ancient faith; and
believe me, that Virginia Temple will rejoice more in your repentance
than if all the honours of martial glory, or of civic renown, were
showered upon you. She would rather be the trusting wife of the humble
and repentant servant of his king, than the queen of a sceptered
usurper, who clambered to the throne through the blood of the martyrs of
faith and loyalty.”

“Oh, Virginia!” said Hansford, struggling hard between duty and love.

“I know it is hard to conquer the fearful pride of your heart,” said
Virginia; “but, Hansford, 'tis a noble courage that is victorious in
such a contest. Let me hear your decision. There is a civil war in your
heart,” she added, more playfully, “and that rebel pride must succumb to
the strong arm of your own self-government.”

“In God's name, tempt me no further!” cried Hansford. “We may well
believe that man lost his high estate of happiness by the allurements of
woman, since even now the cause of truth is endangered by listening to
her persuasions.”

“I had hoped,” replied the young girl, aroused by this sudden change of
manner on the part of her lover, “that the love which you have so long
professed was something more than mere profession. But be it so. The
first sacrifice which you have ever been called upon to make has
estranged your heart forever, and you toss aside the love which you
pretended so fondly to cherish, as a toy no longer worthy of your
regard.”

“This is unkind, Virginia,” returned Hansford, in an injured tone. “I
have not deserved this at your hands. Sorely you have tempted me; but,
thank God, not even the sweet hope which you extend can allure me from
my duty. If my country demand the sacrifice of my heart, then let the
victim be bound upon her altar. The sweet memories of the past, the love
which still dwells in that heart, the crushed hopes of the future, will
all unite to form the sad garland to adorn it for the sacrifice.”

The tone of deep melancholy with which Hansford uttered these words
showed how painful had been the struggle through which he had passed. It
had its effect, too, upon the heart of Virginia. She felt how cruel had
been her language just before—how unjust had been her charge of
inconstancy. She saw at once the fierce contest in Hansford's breast, in
which duty had triumphed over love. Ingenuous as she ever was, she
acknowledged her fault, and wept, and was forgiven.

“And now,” said Hansford, more calmly, “my own Virginia—for I may still
call you so—in thus severing forever the chain which has bound us, I do
not renounce my love, nor the deep interest which I feel in your future
destiny. I love you too dearly to wish that you should still love me;
find elsewhere some one more worthy than I to fill your heart. Forget
that you ever loved me; if you can, forget that you ever knew me. And
yet, as a friend, let me warn you, with all the sincerity of my heart,
to beware of Alfred Bernard.”

“Of whom?” asked Virginia, in surprise.

“Of that serpent, who, with gilded crest and subtle guile, would intrude
into the garden of your heart,” continued Hansford, solemnly.

“Why, Hansford,” said Virginia, “you scarcely know the young man of whom
you speak. Like you, my friend, my affections are buried in the past. I
can never love again. But yet I would not have you wrong with unjust
suspicions one who has never done you wrong. On the contrary, even in my
brief intercourse with him, his conduct towards you has been courteous
and generous.”

“How hard is it for innocence to suspect guile,” said Hansford. “My
sweet girl, these very professions of generosity towards me, have but
sealed my estimate of his character. For me he entertains the deadliest
hate. Against me he has sworn the deadliest vengeance. I tell you,
Virginia, that if ever kindly nature implanted an instinct in the human
heart to warn it of approaching danger, she did so when first I looked
upon that man. My subsequent knowledge of him but strengthened this
intuition. Mild, insinuating, and artful, he is more to be feared than
an open foe. I dread a villain when I see him smile.”

“Hush! we are overheard,” said Virginia, trembling, and looking around,
Hansford saw Arthur Hutchinson, the preacher, emerging from the shadow
of an adjacent elm tree.

“Young gentleman,” said Hutchinson, in his soft melodious voice, “I have
heard unwillingly what perhaps I should not. He who would speak in the
darkness of the night as you have spoken of an absent man, does not care
to have many auditors.”

“And he who would screen himself in that darkness, to hear what he
should not,” retorted Hansford, haughtily, “is not the man to resent
what he has heard, I fear. But what I say, I am ready to maintain with
my sword—and if you be a friend of the individual of whom I have
spoken, and choose to espouse his quarrel, let me conduct this young
lady to a place of safety, and I will return to grant such satisfaction
as you or your principal may desire.”

“This young maiden will tell you,” said Hutchinson, “that I am not one
of those who acknowledge that bloody arbiter between man and man, to
which you refer.”

“Oh, no!” cried Virginia, in an agitated voice; “this is the good parson
Hutchinson, of whom you have heard.”

“And you, maiden,” said Hutchinson, “are not in the path of duty. Think
you it is either modest or becoming, to leave your parents and your
home, and seek a clandestine interview with this stranger. Return to
your home. You have erred, grossly erred in this.”

“Nay,” cried Hansford, in a threatening voice, “if you say ought in
reproach of this young lady, by heavens, your parson's coat will scarce
protect you from the just punishment of your insolence;” then suddenly
checking himself, he added, “Forgive me, sir, this hasty folly. I
believe you mean well, although your language is something of the most
offensive. And say to your friend Mr. Bernard, all that you have heard,
and tell him for Major Hansford, that there is an account to be settled
between us, which I have not forgotten.”

“Hansford!” cried the preacher, with emotion, “Hansford, did you say?
Look ye, sir, I am a minister of peace, and cannot on my conscience bear
your hostile message. But I warn you, if your name indeed be Hansford,
that you are in danger from the young man of whom you speak. His blood
is hot, his arm is skilful, and towards you his purpose is not good.”

“I thank you for your timely warning, good sir,” returned Hansford,
haughtily; “but you speak of danger to one who regards it not.” Then
turning to Virginia, he said in a low voice, “'Tis at least a blessing,
that the despair which denies to the heart the luxury of love, at least
makes it insensible to fear.”

“And are you such an one,” said Hutchinson, overhearing him; “and is it
on thee that the iniquities of the father will be visited. Forbid it,
gracious heaven, and forgive as thou would'st have me forgive the sins
of the past.”

“Mr. Hutchinson,” said Hansford, annoyed by the preacher's solemn manner
and mysterious words, “I know nothing, and care little for all this
mystery. Your brain must be a little disordered—for I assure you, that
as I was born in the colony, and you are but a recent settler here, it
is impossible that there can be any such mysterious tie between us as
that at which you so darkly hint.”

“The day may come,” replied Hutchinson, in the same solemn manner, “when
you will know all to your cost—and when you may find that care and
sorrow can indeed shake reason on her throne.”

“Well, be it so, but as you value your safety, urge me no further with
these menaces. But pardon me, how came you in this enclosure? Know you
not that you are within the boundaries of the General's camp, against
his strict orders?”

“Aye,” replied the preacher, “I knew that the rebels were encamped
hereabout, but I did not, and do not, see by what right they can impede
a peaceful citizen in his movements.”

“Reverend sir,” said Hansford, “you have the reputation of having a
sound head on your shoulders, and should have a prudent tongue in your
head. I would advise you, therefore, to refrain from the too frequent
use of that word 'rebel,' which just fell from you. But it is time we
should part. I will conduct you to the gate lest you find some
difficulty in passing the sentry, and you will oblige me, kind sir, by
seeing this young lady to her home.” Then turning to Virginia, he
whispered his brief adieu, and imprinting a long, warm kiss upon her
lips, he led the way in silence to the gate. Here they parted. She to
return to her quiet chamber to mourn over hopes thus fled forever, and
he to forget self and sorrow in the stirring events of martial life.




CHAPTER XXIII.

      “In the service of mankind to be
    A guardian god below; still to employ
    The mind's brave ardour in heroic aims,
    Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd
    And make us shine forever—that is life.”
                                        _Thomson._


In a short time the bustle and stir in the camp of the insurgents
announced that their little army was about to commence its march.
Nathaniel Bacon rode slowly along Stuart street, at the head of the
soldiery, and leaving Jamestown to the east, extended his march towards
the falls of James river. Here, he had received intelligence that the
hostile tribes had gathered to a head, and he determined without delay
to march upon them unawares, and with one decisive blow to put an end to
the war. Flushed with triumph, he thought, the soldiery would more
willingly and efficiently turn their arms against the government, and
aid in carrying out his darling project of effecting some organic
changes in the charter of the colony; if, indeed, it was not already his
purpose to dissolve the political connection of Virginia with the mother
country.

The little party rode on in silence for several miles, for each was
buried in his own reflections. Bacon, with his own peculiar views of
ambition and glory, felt but little sympathy with those who united in
the rebellion for the specific object of a march against the savages.
Hansford was meditating on the heavy sacrifice which he had made for his
country's service, and striving to see, in the dim future, some gleam of
hope which might cheer him in his gloom. Lawrence and Drummond, the two
most influential leaders in the movement, had been left behind in
Jamestown, their place of residence, to watch the movements of Berkeley,
in whose fair promises none of the insurgents seemed to place implicit
confidence. The rest of the little party had already exhausted in
discussion the busy events of the day, and remained silent from want of
material for conversation.

At length, however, Bacon, whose knowledge of human nature had
penetrated the depths of Hansford's heart, and who felt deeply for his
favourite, gave him the signal to advance somewhat in front of their
comrades, and the following conversation took place:

“And so, my friend,” said Bacon, in the mild, winning voice, which he
knew so well how to assume; “and so, my friend, you have renounced your
dearest hopes in life for this glorious enterprise.”

Hansford only answered with a sigh.

“Take it not thus hardly,” continued Bacon. “Think of your loss as a
sacrifice to liberty. Look to the future for your happiness, to a
redeemed and liberated country for your home—to glory as your bride.”

“Alas!” said Hansford, “glory could never repay the loss of happiness.
Believe me, General, that personal fame is not what I covet. Far better
would it be for me to have been born and reared in obscurity, and to
pass my brief life with those I love, than for the glittering bauble,
glory, to give up all that is dear to the heart.”

“And do you repent the course you have taken,” asked Bacon, with some
surprise.

“Repent! no; God forbid that I should repent of any sacrifice which I
have made to the cause of my country. But it is duty that prompts me,
not glory. For as to this selfsame will-o'-the-wisp, which seems to
allure so many from happiness, I trust it not. I am much of the little
Prince Arthur's mind—

    'By my Christendom,
    So I were out of prison and kept sheep,
    I should be as merry as the day is long.'

Duty is the prison which at last keeps man from enjoying his own happier
inclination.”

“There you are wrong, Hansford,” said Bacon, “duty is the poor drudge,
which, patient in its harness, pursues the will of another. Glory is the
wild, unconfined eagle, that impatient of restraint would soar to a
heaven of its own.”

“And is it such an object as this that actuates you in our present
enterprise?” asked Hansford.

“Both,” replied the enthusiastic leader. “Man, in his actions, is
controlled by many forces—and duty is chiefly prized when it waits as
the humble handmaiden on glory. But in this enterprise other feelings
enter in to direct my course. Revenge against these relentless wolves of
the forest for the murder of a friend—revenge against that proud old
tyrant, Berkeley, who, clothed in a little brief authority, would
trample me under his feet,—love of my country, which impels me to aid
in her reformation, and to secure her liberty—and, nay, don't
frown,—desire for that fame which is to the mere discharge of plain
duty what the spirit is to the body—which directs and sustains it here,
but survives its dissolution. Are not these sufficient motives of
action?”

“Pardon me, General,” said Hansford, “but I see only one motive here
which is worthy of you. Self-preservation, not revenge, could alone
justify an assault upon these misguided savages—and your love of
country is sufficient inducement to urge you to her protection and
defence. But these motives are chiefly personal to yourself. How can you
expect them to affect the minds of your followers?”

“Look ye, Major Hansford,” said Bacon, “I speak to you as I do not to
most men—because I know you have a mind and a heart superior to
them—I would dare not attempt to influence you as I do others; but do
you see those poor trusting fellows that are following in our wake?
These men help men like you and me to rise, as feathers help the eagle
to soar above the clouds. But the proud bird may moult a feather from
his pinion without descending from his lofty pride of place.”

“And this then is what you call liberty?” said Hansford, a little
offended at the overbearing manner of the young demagogue.

“Certainly,” returned Bacon, calmly, “the only liberty for which the
mass of mankind are fitted. The instincts of nature point them to the
man most worthy to control their destinies. Their brute force aids in
elevating him to power—and then he returns upon their heads the
blessings with which they have entrusted him. Do you remember the happy
compliment of my old namesake of St. Albans to Queen Elizabeth? Royalty
is the heaven which, like the blessed sun, exhales the moisture from the
earth, and then distilling it in gentle rains, it falleth on the heads
of those from whom she has received it.”

“I remember the compliment, which beautiful though it may be in imagery,
I always thought was but the empty flattery of a vain old royal spinster
by an accomplished courtier. I never suspected that St. Albans, far less
his relative, Nathaniel Bacon, believed it to be true. And so, with all
your high flown doctrines of popular rights and popular liberty, you are
an advocate for royalty at last.”

“Nay, you mistake me, I will not say wilfully,” replied Bacon, in an
offended tone, “I merely used the sentiment as an illustration of what I
had been saying. The people must have rulers, and my idea of liberty
only extends to their selection of them. After that, stability in
government requires that the power of the people should cease, and that
of the ruler begin. You may purify the stream through which the power
flows, by constantly resorting to the fountain head; but if you keep the
power pent up in the fountain, like water, it will stagnate and become
impure, or else overflow its banks and devastate that soil which it was
intended to fertilize.”

“Our ideas of liberty, I confess,” said Hansford, “differ very widely.
God grant that our antagonistic views may not prejudice the holy cause
in which we are now engaged.”

“Well, let us drop the subject then,” said Bacon, carelessly, “as there
is so little prospect of our agreeing in sentiment. What I said was
merely meant to while away this tedious journey, and make you forget
your own private griefs. But tell me, what do you think of the result of
this enterprise?”

“I think it attended with great danger,” replied Hansford.

“I had not thought,” returned Bacon, with something between a smile and
a sneer, “that Thomas Hansford would have considered the question of
peril involved in a contest like this.”

“I am at a loss to understand your meaning,” said Hansford, indignantly.
“If you think I regard danger for myself, I tell you that it is a
feeling as far a stranger to my bosom as to your own, and this I am
ready to maintain. If you meant no offence, I will merely say that it is
the part of every general to 'sit down and consider the cost' before
engaging in any enterprise.”

“Why will you be so quick to take offence?” said Bacon. “Do I not know
that fear is a stranger to your breast?—else why confide in you as I
have done? But I spoke not of the danger attending our enterprise. To me
danger is not a matter of indifference, it is an object of desire. They
who would bathe in a Stygian wave, to render them invulnerable, are not
worthy of the name of heroes. It is only the unmailed warrior, whose
form, like the white plume of Navarre, is seen where danger is the
thickest, that is truly brave and truly great.”

“You are a singular being, Bacon,” said Hansford, with admiration, “and
were born to be a hero. But tell me, what is it that you expect or hope
for poor Virginia, when all your objects may be attained? She is still
but a poor, helpless colony, sapped of her resources by a relentless
sovereign, and expected to submit quietly to the oppressions of those
who would enslave her.”

“By heavens, no!” cried Bacon, impetuously. “It shall never be. Her
voice has been already heard by haughty England, and it shall again be
heard in thunder tones. She who yielded not to the call of an imperious
dictator—she who proposed terms to Cromwell—will not long bear the
insulting oppression of the imbecile Stuarts. The day is coming, and now
is, when on this Western continent shall arise a nation, before whose
potent sway even Britain shall be forced to bow. Virginia shall be the
Rome and England shall be the Troy, and history will record the annals
of that haughty and imperious kingdom chiefly because she was the mother
of this western Rome. Yes,” he continued, borne along impetuously by his
own gushing thoughts, “there shall come a time when Freedom will look
westward for her home, and when the oppressed of every nation shall
watch with anxious eye that star of Freedom in its onward course, and
follow its bright guidance till it stands over the place where
Virginia—this young child of Liberty—is; and oh! Hansford, will it
then be nothing that we were among those who watched the infant
breathings of that political Saviour—who gave it the lessons of wisdom
and of virtue, and first taught it to speak and proclaim its mission to
the world? Will it then be nothing for future generations to point to
our names, and, in the language of pride and gratitude, to cry, there go
the authors of our freedom?”

So spake the young enthusiast, thus dimly foreshadowing the glory that
was to be—the freedom which, just one hundred years from that eventful
period, burst upon the world. He was not permitted, like Simeon of old,
to see the salvation for which he longed, and for which he wrought. And
yet he helped to plant the germ, which expanded into the wide-spreading
tree, and his name should not be forgotten by those who rejoice in its
fruit, or rest secure beneath its shade.

Thus whiling away the hours of the night in such engrossing subjects,
Hansford had nearly forgotten his sorrows in the visions of the future.
How beneficent the Providence which thus enables the mind to receive
from without entirely new impressions, which soften down, though they
cannot erase, the wounds that a harsh destiny has inflicted.

But it is time that the thread of our narrative was broken, in order to
follow the fortunes of an humble, yet worthy character of our story.




CHAPTER XXIV.

    “I am sorry for thee; thou art come to answer
    A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch,
    Uncapable of pity, void and empty
    From any claim of mercy.”
                      _Merchant of Venice._


It was on a bright and beautiful morning—for mysterious nature often
smiles on the darkest deeds of her children—that a group of Indians
were assembled around the council-fire in one of the extensive forest
ranges of Virginia. Their faces painted in the most grotesque and
hideous manner, the fierceness of their looks, and the savageness of
their dress, would alone have inspired awe in the breast of a spectator.
But on the present occasion, the fatal business in which they were
engaged imparted even more than usual wildness to their appearance and
vehemence to their manner. Bound to a neighbouring tree so tightly as to
produce the most acute pain to the poor creature, was an aged negro, who
seemed to be the object of the vehement eloquence of his savage captors.
Although confinement, torture, and despair had effected a fearful
change, by tracing the lines of great suffering on his countenance, yet
it would not have been difficult even then to recognize in the poor
trembling wretch our old negro friend at Windsor Hall.

After discovering the deception that had been practised on them by
Mamalis, and punishing the selfish ambition of Manteo, by expelling him
from their tribe, the Indian warriors returned to Windsor Hall, and
finding the family had escaped, seized upon old Giles as the victim on
whom to wreak their vengeance. With the savage cruelty of their race,
his tormentors had doomed him, not to sudden death, which would have
been welcome to the miserable wretch, but to a slow and lingering
torture.

It would be too painful to dwell long upon the nature of the tortures
thus inflicted upon their victims. With all their coarseness and
rudeness of manner and life, the Indians had arrived at a refinement and
skill in cruelty which the persecutors of the reformers in Europe might
envy, but to which they had never attained. Among these, tearing the
nails from the hands and feet, knocking out the teeth with a club,
lacerating the flesh with rough, dull muscle and oyster-shells,
inserting sharp splinters into the wounded flesh, and then firing them
until the unhappy being is gradually roasted to death—these were among
the tortures more frequently inflicted. From the threats and
preparations of his captors, old Giles had reason to apprehend that the
worst of these tortures he would soon be called upon to endure.

There is, thank God, a period, when the burdens of this life become so
grievous, that the prayer of the fabled faggot-binder may rise sincerely
on the lips, and when death would indeed be a welcome friend—when it is
even soothing to reflect that,

    “We bear our heavy burdens but a journey,
    Till death unloads us.”

Such was the period at which the wretched negro had now arrived. He
listened, therefore, with patient composure to the fierce, threatening
language of the warriors, which his former association with Manteo
enabled him, when aided by their wild gesticulation, to comprehend. But
it was far from the intention of the Indians to release him yet from his
terrible existence. One of the braves approaching the poor helpless
wretch with a small cord of catgut, such as was used by them for
bow-strings, prepared to bind it tightly around his thumb, while the
others gathering around in a circle waved their war-clubs high in air to
inflict the painful bastinado. When old Giles saw the Indian approach,
and fully comprehended his design, his heart sank within him at this new
instrument of torture, and in despairing accents he groaned—

“Kill me, kill me, but for de Lord's sake, massa, don't put dat horrid
thing on de poor old nigga.”

Regardless of his cries, the powerful Indian adjusted the cord, and with
might and main drew it so tightly around the thumb that it entered the
flesh even to the bone, while the poor negro shrieked in agony. Then, to
drown the cry, the other savages commencing a wild, rude chant, let
their war-clubs descend upon their victim with such force that he
fainted. Just at this moment the quick ears of the Indians caught the
almost inaudible sound of approaching horsemen, and as they paused to
satisfy themselves of the truth of their suspicions, Bacon and his
little band of faithful followers appeared full in sight. Leaving their
victim in a moment, the savages prepared to defend themselves from the
assault of their intruders, and with the quickness of thought,
concealing themselves behind the trees and undergrowth of the forest,
they sent a shower of arrows into the unwary ranks of their adversaries.

“By Jove, that had like to have been my death-stroke,” cried Bacon, as
an arrow directed full against his breast, glanced from a gilt button of
his coat and fell harmless to the ground. But others of the party were
not so fortunate as their leader. Several of the men, pierced by the
poisoned arrows of the enemy, fell dead.

Notwithstanding the success of this first charge of the Indians, Bacon
and his party sustained the shock with coolness and intrepidity. Their
gallant leader, himself careless of life or safety, led the charge, and
on his powerful horse he was, like the royal hero to whom he had
compared himself, ever seen in the thickest of the carnage. Well did he
prove himself that day worthy of the confidence of his faithful
followers.

Nor loth were the Indians to return their charge. Although their party
only amounted to about fifty, and Bacon's men numbered several hundred,
yet was the idea of retreat abhorrent to their martial feelings.
Screening themselves with comparative safety behind the large forest
trees, or lying under the protection of the thick undergrowth, they kept
up a constant attack with their arrows, and succeeded in effecting
considerable loss to the whites, who, incommoded by their horses, or
unaccustomed to this system of bush fighting, failed to produce a
corresponding effect upon their savage foe.

There was something in the religion of these simple sons of the forest
which imparted intrepid boldness to their characters, unattainable by
ordinary discipline. The material conception which they entertained of
the spirit-world, where valour and heroism were the passports of
admission, created a disregard for life such as no civilized man could
well entertain. In that new land, to which death was but the threshold,
their pursuits were the same in character, though greater in degree, as
those in which they here engaged. There they would be welcomed by the
brave warriors of a former day, and engage still in fierce contests with
hostile tribes. There they would enjoy the delights of the chase through
spirit forests, deeper and more gigantic than those through which they
wandered in life. Theirs was the Valhalla to which the brave alone were
admitted, and among whose martial habitants would continue the same
emulation in battle, the same stoicism in suffering, as in their
forest-world. Such was the character of their simple religion, which
created in their breasts that heroism and fortitude, in danger or in
pain, that has with one accord been attributed to them.

But despite their valour and resolution, the contest, with such
disparity of numbers, must needs be brief. Bacon pursued each advantage
which he gained with relentless vigour, ever and anon cheering his
followers, and crying out, as he rushed onward to the charge, “Don't let
one of the bloody dogs escape. Remember, my gallant boys, the peace of
your firesides and the lives and safety of your wives and children.
Remember the brave men who have already fallen before the hand of the
savage foe.”

Faithful to his injunction, the overwhelming power of the whites soon
strewed the ground with the bodies of the brave savages. The few who
remained, dispirited and despairing, fled through the forest from the
irresistible charge of the enemy.

Meantime the unfortunate Giles had recovered from the swoon into which
he had fallen, and began to look wildly about him, as though in a dream.
To the fact that the contending parties had been closely engaged, and
that from this cause not a gun had been fired, the old negro probably
owed his life. With the superstition of his race, the poor creature
attributed this fortunate succour to a miraculous interposition of
Providence in his behalf; and when he saw the last of his oppressors
flying before the determined onslaught of the white men, he fervently
cried,

“Thank the Lord, for he done sent his angels to stop de lion's mouf, and
to save de poor old nigger from dere hands.”

“Hallo, comrades,” said Berkenhead, when he espied the poor old negro
bound to the tree, “who have we here? This must be old Ochee[37]
himself, whom the Lord has delivered into our hands. Hark ye,” he
added, proceeding to unbind him, “where do you come from?—or are you in
reality the evil one, whom these infidel red-skins worship?”

“Oh, no, Massa, I a'ant no evil sperrit. A sperrit hab not flesh and
bones as you see me hab.”

“Nay,” returned the coarse-hearted soldier, “that reasoning won't serve
your purpose, for there is precious little flesh and blood about you,
old man. The most you can lay claim to is skin and bones.”

Hansford, who had been standing a little distance off, was attracted by
this conversation, and turning in the direction of the old negro, was
much surprised to recognize, under such horrible circumstances, the
quondam steward, butler and factotum of Windsor Hall. Nor was Giles'
surprise less in meeting with Miss Virginia's “buck” in so secluded a
spot. It was with difficulty that Hansford could prevent him from
throwing his arms around his neck; but giving the old man a hearty shake
of the hand, he asked him the story of his captivity, which Giles, with
much importance, proceeded to relate. But he had scarcely begun his
narrative, when the attention of the insurgents was attracted by the
approach of two horsemen, who advanced towards them at a rapid rate, as
though they had some important intelligence to communicate.


FOOTNOTES:

[37] The evil spirit, sometimes called Opitchi Manitou, and worshipped
by the Indians.




CHAPTER XXV.

    “Who builds his hope in air of your fair looks,
    Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast.”
                                      _Richard III._


The new comers were Lawrence and Drummond, who, as will be recollected
by the reader, were left in Jamestown to watch the proceedings of the
Governor, and to convey to Bacon any needful intelligence concerning
them. Although he had, in the first impulse of triumph after receiving
his commission, confided fully in the promises of the vacillating
Berkeley, yet, on reflection, Bacon did not rely very implicitly upon
them. The Governor had once before broken his word in the affair of the
parole, promising to grant the commission which he craved, upon
condition of his confession of his former disloyal conduct and his
promise to amend. Bacon was not the man to be twice deceived, and it did
not therefore much surprise him to see the two patriots so soon after
his departure from Jamestown, nor to hear the strange tidings which they
had come to detail.

“Why, how is this, General?” said Lawrence. “You have had bloody work
already, it seems; and not without some loss to your own party.”

“Yes, there they lie,” returned Bacon. “God rest their brave souls! But
being dead, they yet speak—speak to us to avenge their death on the
bloody savages who have slaughtered them, and to proclaim the insane
policy of Berkeley in delaying our march against the foe. But what make
you from Jamestown?”

“Bad news or good, General, as you choose to take it,” replied Lawrence.
“Berkeley has dissolved the Assembly in a rage, because they supported
you in your demand of yesterday, and has himself, with his crouching
minions, retired to Gloucester.”

“To Gloucester!” cried Bacon. “That is indeed news. But what can the old
dotard mean by such a movement?”

“He has already made known his reasons,” returned Lawrence. “He has
cancelled your commission, and proclaimed you, and all engaged with you,
as rebels and traitors.”

“Why, this is infamous!” said Bacon. “Is the old knave such an enemy to
truth that it cannot live upon his lips for one short day? And who,
pray, is rash enough to uphold him in his despotism, or base enough to
screen him in his infamy?”

“It was whispered as we left,” said Drummond, “that a certain Colonel
Henry Temple had avouched the loyalty of Gloucester, and prevailed upon
the Governor to make his house his castle, during what he is pleased to
term this unhappy rebellion.”

“And by my soul,” said Bacon, fiercely, “I will teach this certain
Colonel Henry Temple the hazard that he runs in thus abetting tyranny
and villainy. If he would not have his house beat down over his ears, he
were wise to withdraw his aid and support; else, if his house be a
castle at all, it is like to be a castle in Spain.”

Hansford, who was an eager listener, as we may suppose, to the foregoing
conversation, was alarmed at this determination of his impulsive leader.
He knew too well the obstinate loyalty of Temple to doubt that he would
resist at every hazard, rather than deliver his noble guest into the
hands of his enemies. He felt assured, too, that if the report were
true, Virginia had accompanied her father to Gloucester, and his very
soul revolted at the idea of her being subjected to the disagreeable
results which would flow from an attack upon Windsor Hall. The only
chance of avoiding the difficulty, was to offer his own mediation, and
in the event, which he foresaw, of Colonel Temple refusing to come to
terms, he trusted that there was at least magnanimity enough left in the
old Governor to induce him to seek some other refuge, rather than to
subject his hospitable and loyal host to the consequences of his
kindness. There was indeed some danger attending such a mission in the
present inflamed state of Berkeley's mind. But this, Hansford held at
naught. Hastily revolving in his mind these thoughts, he ventured to
suggest to Bacon, that an attack upon Colonel Temple's house would
result in the worst consequences to the cause of the patriots; that it
would effect no good, as the Governor might again promise, and again
recant—and, that it would be difficult to induce his followers to
embark in an enterprise so foreign to the avowed object of the
expedition, and against a man whose character was well known, and
beloved by the people of the Colony.

Bacon calmly heard him through, as though struck with the truth of the
views he presented, and then added with a sarcastic smile, which stung
Hansford to the quick, “and moreover, the sight of soldiers and of
fire-arms might alarm the ladies.”

“And, if such a motive as that did influence my opinion,” said Hansford,
“I hope it was neither unworthy a soldier or a man.”

“Unworthy alike of both,” replied Bacon, “of a soldier, because the will
and command of his superior officer should be his only law—and of a
man, because, in a cause affecting his rights and liberties, any
sacrifice of feeling should be willingly and cheerfully made.”

“That sacrifice I now make,” said Hansford, vainly endeavouring to
repress his indignation, “in not retorting more harshly to your
imputation. The time may yet come when no such sacrifice shall be
required, and when none, I assure you, shall be made.”

“And, when it comes, young man,” returned Bacon, haughtily, “be assured
that I will not be backward in affording you an opportunity of defending
yourself—meantime you are under my command—and will please remember
that you are so. But, gentlemen,” he continued, turning to the others,
“what say you to our conduct in these circumstances. Shall we proceed to
Powhatan, against the enemy of a country to which we are traitors, or
shall we march on this mendacious old Knight, and once again wipe off
the stigma which he has placed upon our names?”

“I think,” said Lawrence, after a pause of some moments, “that there is
a good deal of truth in the views presented by Major Hansford. But,
could not some middle course be adopted. I don't exactly see how it can
be effected, but, if the Governor were met by remonstrance of his
injustice, and informed of our determination to resist it as such, it
seems to me that he would be forced to recant this last proclamation,
and all would be well again.”

“And who think you would carry the remonstrance,” said Bacon. “It would
be about as wise to thrust your head in a lion's mouth, as to trust
yourself in the hands of the old fanatic. I know not whom we could get
to bear such a mission,” he added, smiling, “unless our friend Ingram
there, who having been accustomed to ropes in his youth, if report
speaks true, need have no fear of them in age.”[38]

“In faith, General,” replied the quondam rope-dancer, “I am only expert
in managing the cable when it supports my feet. But I have never been
able to perform the feat of dancing on nothing and holding on by my
neck.”

“General Bacon,” said Hansford, stepping forward, “I am willing to
execute your mission to the Governor.”

“My dear boy,” said Bacon, grasping him warmly by the hand, “forgive me
for speaking so roughly to you just now, I am almost ready to cut my
tongue out of my head for having said anything to wound your feelings.
But damn that old treacherous fox, he inflamed me so, that I must have
let out some of my bad humour or choked in retaining it.”

Hansford returned his grasp warmly, perhaps the more ready to forgive
and forget, as he saw a prospect of attaining his object in protecting
the family of his friend from harm.

“But you shall not go,” continued Bacon. “It were madness to venture
within the clutch of the infuriated old madman.”

“Whatever were the danger,” said Hansford, “this was my proposition, and
on me devolves the peril, if peril there be in its execution. But there
is really none. Colonel Temple, although a bigot in his loyalty, is the
last person to violate the rites of hospitality or to despise a flag of
truce. And Sir William Berkeley dare not disregard either whilst under
his roof.”

“Well, so let it be then,” said Bacon, “but I fear that you place too
much reliance on the good faith of your old friend Temple. Believe me,
that these Tories hold a doctrine in their political creed, very much
akin to the Papal doctrine of intolerance. 'Faith towards heretics, is
infidelity to religion.' But you must at least take some force with
you.”

“I believe not,” returned our hero, “the presence of an armed force
would be an insuperable barrier to a reconciliation. I will only take my
subaltern, Berkenhead, yonder, and that poor old negro, in whose
liberation I sincerely rejoice. The first will be a companion, and in
case of danger some protection; and the last, if you choose,” he added
smiling, “will be a make-peace between the political papist and the
rebel heretic.”

“Well, God bless you, Hansford,” said Bacon, with much warmth, “and
above all, forget my haste and unkindness just now. We must learn to
forgive like old Romans, if we would be valiant like them, and so

    'When I am over-earnest with you, Hansford,
    You'll think old Berkeley chides, and leave me so.'”

“With all my heart, my noble General,” returned Hansford, laughing, “and
now for my mission—what shall I say on behalf of treason to his royal
highness?”

“Tell him,” said Bacon, gravely, “that Nathaniel Bacon, by the grace of
God, and the special trust and confidence of Sir William Berkeley,
general-in-chief of the armies of Virginia, desires to know for what act
of his, since such trust was reposed in him, he and his followers have
been proclaimed as traitors to their king. Ask him for what reason it is
that while pursuing the common enemies of the country—while attacking
in their lairs the wolves and lions of the forest, I, myself, am
mercilessly assaulted like a savage wild beast, by those whom it is my
object to defend. Tell him that I require him to retract the
proclamation he has issued without loss of time, and in the event of his
refusal, I am ready to assert and defend the rights of freemen by the
last arbiter between man and man. Lastly, say to him, that I will await
his answer until two days from this time, and should it still prove
unfavourable to my demands, then woe betide him.”

Charged with the purport of his mission, Hansford shook Bacon cordially
by the hand, and proceeded to prepare for his journey. As he was going
to inform his comrade, old Lawrence gently tapped him on the shoulder,
and whispered, “Look ye, Tom, I like not the appearance of that fellow
Berkenhead.”

“He is faithful, I believe,” said Hansford, in the same tone; “a little
rough and free spoken, perhaps, but I do not doubt his fidelity.”

“I would I were of the same mind,” returned his companion; “but if ever
the devil set his mark upon a man's face that he might know him on the
resurrection morning, he did so on that crop-eared Puritan. Tell me,
aint he the same fellow that got his freedom and two hundred pounds for
revealing the insurrection of sixty-two?”

“The same, I believe,” said Hansford, carelessly; “but what of that?”

“Why simply this,” said the honest old cavalier, “that faith is like a
walking-cane. Break it once and you may glue it so that the fracture can
scarcely be seen by the naked eye; but it will break in the same place
if there be a strain upon it.”

“I hope you are mistaken,” said Hansford; “but I thank you for your
warning, and will not disregard it. I will be on my guard.”

“Here, Lawrence,” cried Bacon, “what private message are you sending to
the Governor, that you must needs be delaying our ambassador? We have a
sad duty to perform. These brave men, who have fallen in our cause, must
not be suffered to lie a prey to vultures. Let them be buried as becomes
brave soldiers, who have died right bravely with their harness on. I
would there were some one here who could perform the rites of
burial—but their requiem shall be sung with our song of triumph. Peace
to their souls! Comrades, prepare their grave, and pay due honour to
their memory by discharging a volley of musketry over them. I wot they
well loved the sound while living—nor will they sleep less sweetly for
it now.”

By such language, and such real or affected interest in the fate of
those who followed his career, Nathaniel Bacon won the affection of his
soldiery. Never was there a leader, even in the larger theatres of
action, more sincerely beloved and worshipped—and to this may be
attributed in a great degree the wonderful power which he possessed over
the minds of his followers—moulding their opinions in strict
conformity with his own; breathing into them something of the ardent
heroism which inspired his own soul, and making them thus the willing
and subservient instruments of his own ambitious designs.

With sad countenances the soldiers proceeded to obey the order of their
general. Scooping with their swords and bayonets a shallow grave in the
soft virgin soil of the forest, they committed the bodies of their
comrades to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to
dust—and as they screened their ashes forever from the light of day,
the “aisles of the dim woods” echoed back the loud roar of the unheard,
unheeded honour which they paid to the memory of the dead.


FOOTNOTES:

[38] He was in truth a rope-dancer in his early life.




CHAPTER XXVI

    “But the poor dog, in life the dearest friend,
    The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
    Whose honest heart is still his master's own;
    Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
    Unhonoured falls, unnoticed all his worth,
    Denied in heaven the soul he had on earth.”
                                          _Byron._


When the last sad rites of burial had been performed over the grave of
those who had fallen, Hansford, accompanied by Berkenhead and old Giles,
proceeded to the discharge of the trust which had been reposed in him.
It was indeed a mission fraught with the most important consequences to
the cause of the insurgents, to the family at Windsor Hall, and to
himself personally. It required both a cool head and a brave heart to
succeed in its execution. Hansford well knew that the first burst of
rage from the old Governor, on hearing the bold proposition of the
rebels, would be dangerous, if not fatal to himself; and with all the
native boldness of his character, it would be unnatural if he failed to
feel the greatest anxiety for the result. But even if _he_ escaped the
vengeance of Berkeley, he feared the impulsive nature of Bacon, in the
event of the refusal of Sir William to comply with his demands, would
drive him into excesses ruinous to his cause, and dangerous alike to the
innocent and the guilty. If Temple's obstinacy and chivalry persisted in
giving refuge to the Governor, what, he thought, might be the
consequences to her, whose interest and whose safety he held so deeply
at heart! Thus the statesman, the lover, and the individual, each had a
peculiar interest in the result, and Hansford felt like a wise man the
heavy responsibility he had incurred, although he resolved to encounter
and discharge it like a bold one.

It was thus, with a heavy heart that he proceeded on his way, and buried
in these reflections he maintained a moody silence, little regarding the
presence of his two companions. Old Giles, too, had his own food for
reflection, and vouchsafed only monosyllables in reply to the questions
and observations of the loquacious Berkenhead. But the soldier was not
to be repulsed by the indifference of the one, or the laconic answers of
the other of his companions. Finding it impossible to engage in
conversation, he contented himself with soliloquy, and in a low,
muttering voice, as if to himself, but intended as well for the ears of
his commander, he began an elaborate comparison of the army of Cromwell,
in which he had served, and the army of the Virginia insurgents.

“To be sure, they both fought for liberty, but after that there is
monstrous little likeness between 'em. Old Noll was always acting
himself, and laying it all to Providence when he was done; while General
Bacon, cavorting round, first after the Indians and then after the
Governor, seems hardly to know what he is about, and yet, I believe,
trusts in Providence at last more than Noll, with all his religion; and,
faith, it seems to me it took more religion to do him than most any man
I ever see. First psalm singing, and then fighting, and then psalm
singing agen, and then more fighting—for all the world like a brick
house with mortar stuck between. But I trow that it was the fighting
that made the house stand, after all. And yet I believe, for all the
saints used to nickname me a sinner, and call me one of the spawn of the
beast, because I would get tired of the Word sometimes—and, by the same
token, old brother Purge-the-temple Whithead had a whole dictionary of
words, much less the one—yet, for all come and gone, I believe I would
rather hear a long psalm, than to be doomed to solitary confinement to
my own thoughts, as I am here.”

“And so you have served in old Noll's army, as you call it,” said
Hansford, smiling in spite of himself, and willing to indulge the old
Oliverian with some little notice.

“Oh, yes, Major,” replied Berkenhead, delighted to have gained an
auditor at last; “and a rare service it was too. A little too much of
what they called the church militant, and the like, for me; but for all
that the fellows fought like devils, if they did live like saints—and,
what was rare to me, they did not deal the less lightly with their
swords for the fervour of their prayers, nor pray the less fervently for
their enemies after they had raked them with their fire, or hacked them
to pieces with their swords. 'Faith, an if there had been many more
battles like Dunbar and Worcester, they had as well have blotted that
text from their Bible, for precious few enemies did they have to pray
for after that.”

“You did not agree with these zealots in religion, then,” said Hansford.
“Prythee, friend, of what sect of Christians are you a member?”

“Well, Major, to speak the truth and shame the devil, as they say, my
religion has pretty much gone with my sword. As a soldier must change
his coat whenever he changes his service, so I have thought he should
make his faith—the robe of his righteousness, as they call it—adapt
itself to that of his employer.”

“The cloak of his hypocrisy, you mean,” said Hansford, indignantly. “I
like not this scoffing profanity, and must hear no more of it. He who is
not true to his God is of a bad material for a patriot. But tell me,” he
added, seeing that the man seemed sufficiently rebuked, “how came you to
this colony?”

“Simply because I could not stay in England,” replied Berkenhead. “Mine
has been a hard lot, Major; for I never got what I wanted in this life.
If I was predestined for anything, as old Purge-the-temple used to say
we all were, it seems to me it was to be always on the losing side. When
I fought for freedom in England, I gained bondage in Virginia for my
pains; and when I refused to seek my freedom, and betrayed my comrades
in the insurrection of sixty-two, lo, and behold! I was released from
bondage for my reward. What I will gain or lose by this present
movement, I don't know; but I have been an unlucky adventurer thus far.”

“I have heard of your behaviour in sixty-two,” said Hansford, “but
whether such conduct be laudable or censurable, depends very much upon
the motive that prompted you to it. You came to this country then as an
indented servant?”

“Yes, sold, your honour, for the thirty pieces of silver, like Joseph
was sold into Egypt by his brethren.”

“I suspect that the resemblance between yourself and that eminent
patriarch ceased with the sale.”

“It is not for me to say, your honour. But in the present unsettled
state of affairs, who knows who may be made second only to Pharaoh over
all Egypt? I wot well who will be our Pharaoh, if we gain our point; and
I have done the state some service, and may yet do her more.”

“By treachery to your comrades, I suppose,” said Hansford, disgusted
with the conceit and self-complacency of the man.

“Now, look ye here, Major, if I was disposed to be touchy, I might take
exception at that remark. But I have seen too much of life to fly off at
the first word. The axe that flies from the helve at the first stroke,
may be sharp as a grindstone can make it, but it will never cut a tree
down for all that.”

“And if you were to fly off, as you call it, at the first or the last
word,” said Hansford, haughtily, “you would only get a sound beating for
your pains. How dare you speak thus to your superior, you insolent
knave!”

“No insolence, Major,” said Berkenhead, sulkily; “but for the matter of
speaking against your honour, I have seen my betters silenced in their
turn, by their superiors.”

“Silence, slave!” cried Hansford, his face flushing with indignation at
this allusion to his interview with Bacon, which he had hoped, till now,
had been unheard by the soldiers. “But come,” he added, reflecting on
the imprudence of losing his only friend and ally in this perilous
adventure, “you are a saucy knave, but I suppose I must e'en bear with
you for the present. We cannot be far from Windsor Hall, I should
think.”

“About two miles, as I take it, Major,” said Berkenhead, in a more
respectful manner. “I used to live in Gloucester, not far from the hall,
and many is the time I have followed my master through these old woods
in a deer chase. Yes, there is Manteo's clearing, just two miles from
the hall.”

Scarcely were the words out of the speaker's mouth, when, to the
surprise of the little party, a large dog of the St. Bernard's breed
leaped from a thicket near them, and bounded towards Hansford.

“Brest ef it a'ant old Nestor,” said Giles, whose tongue had at length
been loosened by the sight of the family favourite, and he stooped down
as he spoke to pat the dog upon the head. But Nestor's object was
clearly not to be caressed. Frisking about in a most extraordinary
manner, now wagging his tail, now holding it between his legs, now
bounding a few steps in front of Hansford's horse, and anon crouching by
his side and whining most piteously, he at length completed his
eccentric movements by standing erect upon his hind legs and placing his
fore feet against the breast of his old master. Struck with this
singular conduct, Hansford, reining in his horse, cried out, “The poor
dog must be mad. Down, Nestor, down I tell you!”

Well was it for our hero that the faithful animal refused to obey, for
just at that moment an arrow was heard whizzing through the air, and the
noble dog fell transfixed through the neck with the poisoned missile,
which else had pierced Hansford's heart.[39] The alarm caused by so
sudden and unexpected an attack had not passed off, before another arrow
was buried deep in our hero's shoulder. But quick as were the movements
of the attacking party, the trained eye of Berkenhead caught a glimpse
of the tall form of an Indian as it vanished behind a large oak tree,
about twenty yards from where they stood. The soldier levelled his
carbine, and as Manteo (for the reader has probably already conjectured
that it was he) again emerged from his hiding place to renew the attack,
he discharged his piece with deadly aim and effect. With a wild yell of
horror, the young warrior sprang high in the air, and fell lifeless to
the ground.

Berkenhead was about to rush forward towards his victim, when Hansford,
who still retained his seat on the horse, though faint from pain and
loss of blood, cried out, “Caution, caution, for God's sake, there are
more of the bloody villains about.” But after a few moments' pause, the
apprehension of a further attack passed away, and the soldier and Giles
repaired to the spot. And there in the cold embrace of death, lay the
brave young Indian, his painted visage reddened yet more by the
life-blood which still flowed from his wound. His right hand still
grasped the bow-string, as in his last effort to discharge the fatal
arrow. A haughty smile curled his lip even in the moment in which the
soul had fled, as if in that last struggle his brave young heart
despised the pang of death itself.

Gazing at him for a moment, yet long enough for old Giles to recognize
the features of Manteo in the bloody corpse, they returned to Hansford,
whose condition indeed required their immediate assistance. Drawing out
the arrow, and staunching the blood as well as they could with his
scarf, Berkenhead bandaged it tightly, and although still in great pain,
the wounded man was enabled slowly to continue his journey. A ride of
about half an hour brought the little party to the door of Windsor
Hall.


FOOTNOTES:

[39] An incident somewhat similar to this is on record as having
actually occurred.




CHAPTER XXVII.

                  “I'll tell thee truth—
    Too oft a stranger to the royal ear,
    But far more wholesome than the honeyed lies
    That fawning flatterers offer.”
                        _Any Port in a Storm._


Brief as was the time which had elapsed, the old hall presented a
different appearance to Hansford, from that which it maintained when he
last left it under such disheartening circumstances. The notable
mistress of the mansion had spared no pains to prepare for the reception
of her honoured guest; and, although she took occasion to complain to
her good husband of his inconsiderate conduct, in foisting all these
strangers upon her at once, yet she inwardly rejoiced at the opportunity
it presented for a display of her admirable housewifery. Indeed, the
ease-loving old Colonel almost repented of his hospitality, amid the
bustle and hurry, the scolding of servants, and the general bad humour
which were all necessary incidents to the good dame's preparation.
Having finally “brought things to something like rights,” as she
expressed it, her next care was to provide for the entertainment of her
distinguished guest, which to the mind of the benevolent old lady,
consisted not in sparkling conversation, or sage counsels, (then, alas!
much needed by the Governor,) but in spreading a table loaded with a
superabundance of delicacies to tempt his palate, and cause him to
forget his troubles. It was a favourite saying of hers, caught up most
probably in her early life, during the civil war in England, that if the
stomach was well garrisoned with food, the heart would never capitulate
to sorrow.

But the truth of this apothegm was not sustained in the present
instance. Her hospitable efforts, even when united with the genial good
humour and kindness of her husband were utterly unavailing to dispel the
gloom which hung over the inmates of Windsor Hall. Sir William Berkeley
was himself dejected and sad, and communicated his own dejection to all
around him. Indeed, since his arrival at the Hall, he had found good
reason to repent his haste in denouncing the popular and gifted young
insurgent. The pledge made by Colonel Temple of the loyalty of the
people of Gloucester, had not been redeemed—at least so far as an
active support of the Governor was concerned. Berkeley's reception by
them was cold and unpromising. The enthusiasm which he had hoped to
inspire no where prevailed, and the old man felt himself deserted by
those whose zealous co-operation he had been led to anticipate. It was
true that they asserted in the strongest terms their professions of
loyal devotion, and their willingness to quell the first symptoms of
rebellion, but they failed to see anything in the conduct of Bacon to
justify the harsh measures of Berkeley towards him and his followers.
“Lip-service—lip-service,” said the old Governor, sorrowfully, as their
decision was communicated to him, “they draw near to me with their
mouth, and honour me with their lips, but their heart is far from me.”
But, notwithstanding his disappointment, nothing could shake the proud
spirit of Berkeley in his inflexible resolution, to resist any
encroachments on his prerogative; and, so providing his few followers
with arms from the adjacent fort on York River, he prepared to maintain
his power and his dignity by the sword.

Such was the state of things on the evening that Thomas Hansford and his
companions arrived at Windsor Hall. The intelligence of their arrival
created much excitement, and the inmates of the mansion differed greatly
in their opinions as to the intention of the young rebel. Poor Mrs.
Temple, in whose mind fear always predominated over every other feeling,
felt assured that Hansford had come, attended by another “ruffian,”
forcibly to abduct Virginia from her home—and a violent fit of
hysterics was the result of her suspicions. Virginia herself,
vacillating between hope and fear, trusted, in the simplicity of her
young, girlish heart, that her lover had repented of his grievous error,
and had come to claim her love, and to sue to the Governor for pardon.
Sir William Berkeley saw in the mission of Hansford, a faint hope that
the rebels, alarmed by his late proclamation, had determined to return
to their allegiance, and that Hansford was the bearer of a proposition
to this effect, imploring at the same time the clemency and pardon of
the government, against which they had so grievously offended.

“And they shall receive mercy, too, at my hands, “said the old knight,
as a tear glistened in his eye. “They have learned to fear the power of
the government, and to respect its justice, and they shall now learn to
love its merciful clemency. God forbid, that I should chasten my
repenting people, except as children, for their good.”

“Not so fast, my honoured Governor,” said Philip Ludwell, who, with the
other attendants of Berkeley, had gathered around him in the porch; “you
may be mistaken in your opinion. I believe—I know—that your wish is
father to the thought in this matter. But look at the resolution and
determined bearing of that young man. Is his the face or the bearing of
a suppliant?”

Ludwell was right. The noble countenance of Hansford, always expressive,
though sufficiently respectful to the presence which he was about to
enter, indicated any thing rather than tame submission. His face was
very pale, and his lip quivered for a moment as he approached the
anxious crowd of loyalists, who remained standing in the porch, but it
was at once firmly compressed by the strength of resolution. As he
advanced, he raised his hat and profoundly saluted the Governor, and
then drawing himself up to his full height, he stood silently awaiting
some one to speak. Colonel Temple halted a moment between his natural
kindness for his friend and his respect for the presence of Sir William
Berkeley. The first feeling prompted him to rush up to Hansford, and
greeting him as of old, to give him a cordial welcome to the hall—but
the latter feeling prevailed. Without advancing, then, he said in a
tone, in which assumed displeasure strove in vain to overcome his native
benevolence—

“To what cause am I to attribute this unexpected visit of Mr. Hansford?”

“My business is with Sir William Berkeley,” replied Hansford,
respectfully, “and I presume I am not mistaken in supposing that I am
now in his presence.”

“And what would you have from me young man,” said Berkeley, coldly;
“your late career has estranged you and some of your friends so entirely
from their Governor, that I feel much honoured by this evidence of your
returning affection.”

“Both I and my friends, as far as I may speak for them,” returned
Hansford, in the same calm tone, “have ever been ready and anxious to
show our devotion to our country and its rulers, and our present career
to which your excellency has been pleased to allude, is in confirmation
of the fact. That we have unwittingly fallen under your displeasure,
sir, I am painfully aware. To ascertain the cause of that displeasure is
my reason for this intrusion.”

“The cause, young man,” said Berkeley, “is to be found in your own
conduct, for which, may I hope, you have come for pardon?”

“I regret to say that you are mistaken in your conjecture,” replied
Hansford. “As it is impossible that our conduct could have invoked your
displeasure, so it is equally impossible that we should sue for pardon
for an offence which we have never committed.”

“And, prythee, what then is your worshipful pleasure, fair sir,” said
Berkeley, ironically; “perhaps, in the abundance of your mercy, you have
come to grant pardon, if you do not desire it. Nay!” he exclaimed,
seeing Hansford shake his head; “then, peradventure, you would ask me to
abdicate my government in favour of young Cromwell. I beg pardon—young
Bacon, I should say—the similarity of their views is so striking, that
as my memory is but a poor one, I sometimes confound their names. Well!
any thing in reason. Nay, again!—well then, I am at a loss to
conjecture, and you must yourself explain the object of your visit.”

“I would fain convey my instructions to Sir William Berkeley's private
ear,” said Hansford, unmoved by the irony of the old knight.

“Oh pardon me, fair sir,” said Berkeley; “yet, in this I _must_ crave
your pardon, indeed. A sovereign would never wittingly trust himself
alone with a rebel, and neither will I, though only an obscure colonial
Governor. There are none but loyal ears here, and I trust Mr. Hansford
has no tidings which can offend them.”

“I am sure,” said Hansford, in reply, “that Sir William Berkeley does
not for a moment suspect that I desired to see him in private from any
sinister or treasonable motive.”

“I know, sir,” said Berkeley, angrily, “that you have proved yourself a
traitor, and, therefore, I have the best reason for suspecting you of
treasonable designs. But I have no time—no disposition to dally with
you thus. Tell me, what new treason, that my old ears are yet strangers
to, I am yet doomed to hear?”

“My instructions are soon told,” said Hansford, repressing his
indignation. “General Nathaniel Bacon, by virtue of your own commission,
Commander-in-chief of the forces of Virginia, desires to know, and has
directed me to inquire, for what cause you have issued a proclamation
declaring both him and his followers traitors to their country and
king?”

Berkeley stood the shock much better than Hansford expected. His face
flushed for a moment, but only for a moment, as he replied,—

“This is certainly an unusual demand of a rebel; but sir, as I have
nothing to fear from an exposure of my reasons, I will reply, that
Nathaniel Bacon is now in arms against the government of Virginia.”

“Not unless the government of Virginia be allied with the Indians,
against whom he is marching,” said Hansford, calmly.

“Aye, but it is well known,” returned Berkeley, “that he has covert
views of his own to attain, under pretext of this expedition against the
Indians.”

“Why, then,” replied Hansford, “if they are covert from his own
followers, proclaim them traitors with himself; or, if covert from the
government, how can you ascertain that they are treasonable? But, above
all, if you suspected such traitorous designs, why, by your commission,
elevate him to a position in which he may be able to execute them with
success?”

“'Fore God, gentlemen, this is the most barefaced insolence that I have
ever heard. For yourself, young man, out of your own mouth will I judge
you, and convict you of treason; and for your preceptor—whose lessons,
I doubt not, you repeat by rote—you may tell him that his commission is
null and void, because obtained by force and arms.”

“I had not expected to hear Sir William Berkeley make such an
acknowledgment,” returned Hansford, undauntedly. “You yourself declared
that the commission was not given from fear of threats; and even if this
were not so, the argument would scarce avail—for on what compulsion
was it that your signature appears in a letter to his majesty, warmly
approving the conduct of General Bacon, and commending him for his zeal,
talents and patriotism?”[40]

“Now, by my knighthood,” said Berkeley, stung by this last unanswerable
argument, “I will not be bearded thus by an insolent, braggart boy.
Seize him!” he cried, turning to Bernard and Ludwell, who stood nearest
him. “He is my prisoner, and as an example to his vile confederates, he
shall hang in half an hour, until his traitorous tongue has stopped its
vile wagging.”

Hansford made no attempt to escape, but, as the two men approached to
disarm and bind him, he fixed his fine blue eyes full upon Colonel
Temple, and said, mildly,

“Shall this be so? Though Sir William Berkeley should fail to respect my
position, as the bearer of a peaceable message from General Bacon, I
trust that the rites of hospitality may not be violated, even in my
humble person.”

Colonel Temple was much embarrassed. Notwithstanding the recent conduct
of Hansford had alienated him to a great degree, he still entertained a
strong affection for his boy—nor could he willingly see him suffer a
wrong when he had thus so confidingly trusted to his generosity. But,
apart from his special interest in Hansford, the old Virginian had a
religious regard for the sacred character of a guest, which he could
never forget. And yet, his blind reverence for authority—the bigoted
loyalty which has always made the English people so cautious in
resistance to oppression, and which retarded indeed our own colonial
revolution—made him unwilling to oppose his character of host to the
authority of the Governor. He looked first at Sir William Berkeley, and
his resolution was made; he turned to Hansford, and as he saw his noble
boy standing resolutely there, without a friend to aid him, it wavered.
The poor old gentleman was sadly perplexed, but, after a brief struggle,
his true, generous heart conquered, and he said, turning to Sir William:

“My honoured sir, I trust you will not let this matter proceed any
further here. My house, my life, my all, is at the service of the king
and of his representative; but I question how far we are warranted in
proceeding to extremities with this youth, seeing that although he is
rather froward and pert in his manners, he may yet mean well after all.”

“Experience should have taught me,” replied Berkeley, coldly, for his
evil genius was now thoroughly aroused, “not to place too much
confidence in the loyalty of the people of Gloucester. If Colonel
Temple's resolution to aid the crumbling power of the government has
wavered at the sight of a malapert and rebellious boy, I had better
relieve him of my presence, which must needs have become irksome to
him.”

“Nay, Sir William,” returned Temple, reddening at the imputation, “you
shall not take my language thus. Let the youth speak for himself; if he
breathes a word of treason, his blood be on his own head—my hand nor
voice shall be raised to save him. But I am unable to construe any thing
which he has yet said as treasonable.” Then turning to Hansford, he
added, “speak, Mr. Hansford, plainly and frankly. What was your object
in thus coming? Were you sent by General Bacon, or did you come
voluntarily?”

“Both,” replied Hansford, with a full appreciation of the old man's
unfortunate position. “It was my proposition that some officer of the
army should wait upon the Governor, and ascertain the truth of his
rumoured proclamation. I volunteered to discharge the duty in person.”

“And in the event of your finding it to be true,” said Berkeley,
haughtily, “what course did you then intend to pursue?”

This was a dangerous question; for Hansford knew that to express the
design of the insurgents in such an event, would be little less than a
confession of treason. But he had a bold heart, and without hesitation,
but still maintaining his respectful manner, he replied,—

“I might evade an answer to your question, by saying, that it would then
be time enough to consider and determine our course. But I scorn to do
so, even when my safety is endangered. I answer candidly then, that in
such an event the worst consequences to the country and to yourself
would ensue. It was to prevent these consequences, and as far as I could
to intercede in restoring peace and quiet to our distracted colony, that
I came to implore you to withdraw this proclamation. Otherwise, sir, the
sword of the avenger is behind you, and within two days from this time
you will be compelled once more to yield to a current that you cannot
resist. Comply with my request, and peace and harmony will once more
prevail; refuse, and let who will triumph, the unhappy colony will be
involved in all the horrors of civil war.”

There was nothing boastful in the manner of Hansford, as he uttered
these words. On the contrary, his whole bearing, while it showed
inflexible determination, attested his sincerity in the wish that the
Governor, for the good of the country, would yield to the suggestion.
Nor did Sir William Berkeley, in spite of his indignation, fail to see
the force and wisdom of the views presented; but he had too much pride
to acknowledge it to an inferior.

“Now, by my troth,” he cried, “if this be not treason, I am at a loss to
define the term. I should think this would satisfy even your scepticism,
Colonel Temple; for it seems we must consult you in regard to our course
while under your roof. You would scarcely consent, I trust, to a
self-convicted traitor going at large.”

“Of course you act in the premises, according to your own judgment,”
replied Temple, coldly, for he was justly offended at the overbearing
manner of the incensed old Governor, “but since you have appealed to me
for my opinion, I will e'en make bold to say, that as this young man
came in the character of an intercessor, you might well be satisfied
with his parole. I will myself be surety for his truth.”

“Parole, forsooth, and do you not think I have had enough of paroles
from these rebel scoundrels—zounds, their faith is like an egg-shell,
it is made to be broken.”

“With my sincere thanks to my noble friend,” said Hansford, “for his
obliging offer, I would not accept it if I could. Unconscious of having
done any thing to warrant this detention, I am not willing to
acknowledge its justice, by submitting to a qualified imprisonment.”

“It is well,” said Berkeley, haughtily; “we will see whether your pride
is proof against an ignominious death. Disarm him and hold him in close
custody until my farther pleasure shall be known.”

As he said this, Hansford was disarmed, and led away under a strong
guard to the apartment which Colonel Temple reluctantly designated as
the place of his confinement.

Meantime Berkenhead had remained at the gate, guarded by two of the
soldiers of the Governor; while old Giles, with a light heart, had found
his way back to his old stand by the kitchen door, and was detailing to
his astonished cronies the unlucky ventures, and the providential
deliverance, which he had experienced. But we must forbear entering into
a detailed account of the old man's sermon, merely contenting ourselves
with announcing, that such was the effect produced, that at the next
baptizing day, old Elder Snivel was refreshed by a perfect pentecost of
converts, who attributed their “new birf” to the wrestling of “brudder
Giles.”

We return to Berkenhead, who, at the command of Col. Ludwell, was
escorted, under the guard before mentioned, into the presence of Sir
William Berkeley. The dogged and insolent demeanour of the man was even
more displeasing to the Governor than the quiet and resolute manner of
Hansford, and in a loud, threatening voice, he cried,

“Here comes another hemp-pulling knave. 'Fore God, the colony will have
to give up the cultivation of tobacco, and engage in raising hemp, for
we are like to have some demand for it. Hark ye, sir knave—do you know
the nature of the message which you have aided in bearing from the
traitor Bacon to myself?”

“Not I, your honour—no more than my carbine knows whether it is loaded
or not. It's little the General takes an old soldier like me into his
counsels; but I only know it is my duty to obey, if I were sent to the
devil with a message,” and the villain looked archly at the Governor.

“Your language is something of the most insolent,” said Sir William.
“But tell me instantly, did you have no conversation with Major Hansford
on your way hither, and if so, what was it?”

“Little else than abuse, your honour,” returned Berkenhead, “and a
threat that I would be beat over the head if I didn't hold my tongue;
and as I didn't care to converse at such a disadvantage, I was e'en
content to keep my own counsel for the rest of the way.”

“Do you, or do you not, consider Bacon and his followers to be engaged
in rebellion against the government?”

“Rebellion, your honour!” cried the renegade. “Why, was it not your
honour's self that sent us after these salvages? An' I thought there was
any other design afloat, I would soon show them who was the rebel. It is
not the first time that I have done the State some service by betraying
treason.”

“Look ye,” said the Governor, eyeing the fellow keenly, “if I mistake
not, you are an old acquaintance. Is your name Berkenhead?”

“The same, at your honour's service.”

“And didn't you betray the servile plot of 1662, and get your liberty
and a reward for it?”

“Yes, your honour, but I wouldn't have you think that it was for the
reward I did it?”

“Oh, never mind your motives. If you are Judas, you are welcome to your
thirty pieces of silver,” said the Governor, with a sneer of contempt.
“But to make the analogy complete, you should be hanged for your
service.”

“No, faith,” said the shrewd villain, quickly. “Judas hanged himself,
and it would be long ere ever I sought the apostle's elder tree.[41] And
besides, his was the price of innocent blood, and mine was not. Look at
my hand, your honour, and you will see what kind of blood I shed.”

Berkeley looked at the fellow's hand, and saw it stained with the
crimson life-blood of the young Indian. With a thrill of horror, he
cried, “What blood is that, you infernal villain?”

“Only fresh from the veins of one of these painted red-skins,” returned
Berkenhead. “And red enough he was when I left him; but, forsooth, he
reckons that the paint cost him full dear. He left his mark on Major
Hansford, though, before he left.”

“Where did this happen?” said Berkeley, astonished.

“Oh, not far from here. The red devil was a friend at the hall here,
too, or as much so as their bloody hearts will let any of them be.
Colonel Temple, there, knows him, and I have seen him when I lived in
Gloucester. A fine looking fellow, too; and if his skin and his heart
had been both white, there would have been few better and braver
dare-devils than young Manteo.”

As he pronounced the name, a wild shriek rent the air, and the
distracted Mamalis rushed into the porch. Her long hair was all
dishevelled and flying loosely over her shoulders, her eye was that of a
maniac in his fury, and tossing her bare arms aloft, she shrieked, in a
wild, harsh voice,

“And who are you, that dare to spill the blood of kings? Look to it that
your own flows not less freely in your veins.”

Berkenhead turned pale with fright, and shrinking from the enraged girl,
muttered, “the devil!”—while Temple, in a low voice, whispered to the
Governor the necessary explanation, “She is his sister.”

“Yes, his sister!” cried the girl, wildly, for she had overheard the
words. “His only sister!—and my blood now flows in no veins but my own.
But the stream runs more fiercely as the channel is more narrow. Look to
it—look to it!” And, with another wild shriek, the maddened girl rushed
again into the house. It required all the tender care of Virginia Temple
to pacify the poor creature. She reasoned, she prayed, she endeavoured
to console her; but her reasons, her prayers, her sweet words of
consolation, were all lost upon the heart of the Indian maiden, who
nourished but one fearful, fatal idea—revenge!


FOOTNOTES:

[40] This was indeed true, and renders the conduct of Berkeley entirely
inexplicable.

[41] The name given to the tree on which Judas hanged himself.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

    “His flight was madness.”
                      _Macbeth._


Yes, Virginia! She who had so much reason for consolation herself,
forgot her own sorrows for the time, in administering the oil of
consolation to the poor, wounded, broken-hearted savage girl. She had
been sitting at the window of the little parlour, where she could
witness the whole scene, and hear the whole interview between the
Governor and Hansford; and oh! how her heart had sunk within her as she
heard the harsh sentence of the stern old knight, which condemned her
noble, friendless lover to imprisonment, perhaps to death; and yet, a
maiden modesty restrained her from yielding to the impulse of the
moment, to throw herself at the feet of Berkeley, confess her love, and
implore his pardon. Alas! ill-fated maiden, it would have been in
vain—as she too truly, too fatally discovered afterwards.

The extraordinary appearance and conduct of Mamalis broke up for the
present any further conference with Berkenhead, who—his mendacity
having established his innocence in the minds of the loyalists—walked
off with a swaggering gait, rather elated than otherwise with the result
of his interview. Alfred Bernard followed him until they turned an angle
of the house, and stood beneath the shade of one of the broad oaks,
which spread its protecting branches over the yard.

Meantime the Governor, with such of his council as had attended him to
Windsor Hall, retired to the study of the old Colonel, which had been
fitted up both for the chamber of his most distinguished guest and for
the deliberations of the council. The subject which now engaged their
attention was one of more importance than any that had ever come before
them since the commencement of the dissensions in Virginia. The mission
of Hansford, while it had failed of producing the effect which he so
ardently desired, had, notwithstanding, made a strong impression upon
the mind of the Governor. He saw too plainly that it would be vain to
resist the attack of Bacon, at the head of five hundred men, among whom
were to be ranked the very chivalry of Virginia; while his own force
consisted merely of his faithful adherents in the council, and about
fifty mercenary troops, whose sympathies with the insurgents were
strongly suspected.

“I see,” said the old man, gloomily, as he took his seat at the
council-board, “that I must seek some other refuge. I am hunted like a
wild beast from place to place, through a country that was once my own,
and by those who were once the loving subjects of my king.”

“Remain here!” said the impulsive old Temple. “The people of Gloucester
will yet rally around your standard, when they see open treason is
contemplated; and should they still refuse, zounds, we may yet offer
resistance with my servants and slaves.”

“My dear friend,” said Berkeley, sorrowfully, “if all Virginians were
like yourself, there would have been no rebellion—there would have been
no difficulty in suppressing one, if attempted. But alas! the loyalty of
the people of Gloucester has already been weighed in the balance and
found wanting. No, I have acted hastily, foolishly, blindly. I have
warmed this serpent into life by my forbearance and indulgence, and must
at last be the victim of its venom and my folly. Oh! that I had refused
the commission, which armed this traitor with legal power. I have put a
sword into the hands of an enemy, and may be the first to fall by it.”

“It is useless to repine over the past,” said Philip Ludwell, kindly;
“but the power of these rebels cannot last long. The people who are
loyal at heart will fall from their support, and military aid will be
received from England ere long. Then the warmed reptile may be crushed.”

“To my mind,” said Ballard, “it were better to repair the evil that has
been done by retracing our steps, rather than to proceed further. When a
man is over his depth, he had better return to the shore than to attempt
to cross the unfathomable stream.”

“Refrain from enigmas, if you please,” said Berkeley, coldly, “and tell
me to what you refer.”

“Simply,” replied Ballard, firmly, “that all this evil has resulted from
your following the jesuitical counsel of a boy, rather than the prudent
caution of your advisers. My honoured sir, forgive me if I say it is now
your duty to acquiesce in the request of Major Hansford, and withdraw
your proclamation.”

“And succumb to traitors!” cried Berkeley. “Never while God gives me
breath to reiterate it. He who would treat with a traitor, is himself
but little better than a traitor.”

The flush which mounted to the brow of Ballard attested his indignation
at this grave charge; but before he had time to utter the retort which
rose to his lips, Berkeley added,

“Forgive me, Ballard, for my haste. But the bare idea of making terms
with these audacious rebels roused my very blood. No, no! I can die in
defence of my trust, but I cannot, will not yield it.”

“But it is not yielding,” said Ballard.

“Nay—no more of that,” interrupted Berkeley; “let us devise some other
means. I have it,” he added, after a pause. “Accomac is still true to
my interest, and divided from the mainland by the bay, is difficult of
access. There will I pitch my tent, and sound my defiance—and when aid
shall come from England, these proud and insolent traitors shall feel
the power of my vengeance the more for this insult to my weakness.”

This scheme met with the approbation of all present, with the exception
of old Ballard, who shook his head, and muttered, that he hoped it might
all be for the best. And so it was determined that early the next
morning the loyal refugees should embark on board a vessel then lying
off Tindal's Point, and sail for Accomac.

“And we will celebrate our departure by hanging up that young rogue,
Hansford, in half an hour,” said Berkeley.

“By what law, may it please your excellency?” asked Ballard, surprised
at this threat.

“By martial law.”

“And for what offence?”

“Why zounds, Ballard, you have turned advocate-general for all the
rebels in the country,” said Berkeley, petulantly.

“No, Sir William, I am advocating the cause of justice and of my king.”

“Well, sir, what would you advise? To set the rogue at liberty, I
suppose, and by our leniency to encourage treason.”

“By no means,” said Ballard. “But either to commit him to custody until
he may be fairly tried by a jury of his peers, or to take him with you
to Accomac, where, by further developments of this insurrection, you may
better judge of the nature of his offence.”

“And a hospitable reception would await me in Accomac, forsooth, if I
appeared there with a prisoner of war, whom I did not have the firmness
to punish as his crime deserves. No, by heaven! I will not be encumbered
with prisoners. His life is forfeit to the law, and as he would prove
an apostle of liberty, let him be a martyr to his cause.”

“Let me add my earnest intercession to that of Colonel Ballard,” said
Temple, “in behalf of this unhappy man. I surely have some claim upon
your benevolence, and I ask his life as a personal boon to me.”

“Oh, assuredly, since you rely upon your hospitable protection to us,
you should have your fee,” said Berkeley, with a sneer. “But not in so
precious a coin as a rebel's life. If you have suffered by the
protection afforded to the deputy of your king, you shall not lack
remuneration. But the coin shall be the head of Carolus II.;[42] this
rebel's head I claim as my own.”

“Now, by heaven!” returned Temple, thoroughly aroused, “it requires all
my loyalty to stomach so foul an insult. My royal master's exchequer
could illy remunerate me for the gross language heaped upon me by his
deputy. But let this pass. You are my guest, sir; and that I cannot
separate the Governor from the man, I am prevented from resenting an
insult, which else I could but little brook.”

“As you please, mine host,” replied Berkeley. “But, in truth, I have
wronged you, Temple. But think, my friend, of the pang the shepherd must
feel, when he finds that he has let a wolf into his fold, which he is
unable to resist. Oh, think of this, and bear with me!”

Temple knew the old Governor too well to doubt the sincerity of this
retraxit, and with a cordial grasp of the hand, he assured Berkeley of
his forgiveness. “And yet,” he added, warmly, “I cannot forget the cause
I advocate, for this first rebuff. Believe me, Sir William, you will
gain nothing, but lose much, by proceeding harshly against this unhappy
young man. In the absence of any evidence of his guilt, you will arouse
the indignation of the colonists to such a height, that it will be
difficult to pacify them.”

“Pardon me, Sir William Berkeley,” said Bernard, who had joined the
party, “but would it not be well to examine this knave, Berkenhead,
touching the movements and intentions of the insurgents, and
particularly concerning any expressions which may have fallen from this
young gentleman? If it shall appear that he is guiltless of the crime
imputed to him, then you may safely yield to the solicitations of these
gentlemen, and liberate him. But if it shall appear that he is guilty,
they, in their turn, cannot object to his meeting the penalty which his
treason richly deserves.”

“Now, by heaven, the young man speaks truthfully and wisely,” said
Temple, assured, by the former interview with Berkenhead, that he knew
of nothing which could convict the prisoner. “Nor do I see, Sir William,
what better course you can adopt than to follow his counsel.”

“Truly,” said Berkeley, “the young man has proven himself the very Elihu
of counsellors. 'Great men are not always wise, neither do the aged
understand judgment. But there is a spirit in man, and the inspiration
of the Almighty giveth them understanding.' Yet I fear, Colonel Temple,
you will scarcely, after my impetuosity just now, deem me a Job for
patience, though Alfred may be an Elihu for understanding. Your counsel
is good, young man. Let the knave be brought hither to testify, and look
ye that the prisoner be introduced to confront him. My friends, Ballard
and Temple, are such sticklers for law, that we must not deviate from
Magna Charta or the Petition of Right. But stay, we will postpone this
matter till the morrow. I had almost forgotten it was the Sabbath. Loyal
churchmen should venerate the day, even when treason is abroad in the
land. Meantime, let the villain Berkenhead be kept in close custody,
lest he should escape.”


FOOTNOTES:

[42] The coin during the reign of Charles II.




CHAPTER XXIX.

    “I tell thee what, my friend,
    He is a very serpent in my way.”
                            _King John._


The reader will naturally desire to know what induced the milder counsel
recommended by Alfred Bernard to the Governor. If we have been
successful in impressing upon the mind of the reader a just estimate of
the character of the young jesuit, he will readily conjecture that it
was from no kindly feeling for his rival, and no inherent love of
justice that he suggested such a policy; and if he be of a different
opinion, he need only go back with us to the interview between Bernard
and Berkenhead, to which allusion was made in the chapter immediately
preceding the last.

We have said that Alfred Bernard followed the renegade rebel until they
stood together beneath a large oak tree which stood at the corner of the
house. Here they stopped as if by mutual, though tacit consent, and
Berkenhead turning sharply around upon his companion, said in an
offended tone—“What is your further will with me sir?”

“You seem not to like your comrade Major Hansford?”

“Oh well enough,” replied Berkenhead; “there are many better and many
worse than him. But I don't see how the likes and the dislikes of a poor
soldier can have any concernment with you.”

“I assure you,” said Bernard, “it is from no impertinent curiosity, but
a real desire to befriend you, that I ask the question. The Governor
strongly suspects your integrity, and that you are concealing from him
more than it suits you to divulge. Now, I would do you a service and
advise you how you may reinstate yourself in his favour.”

“Well, that seems kind on the outside,” said the soldier, “seeing as you
seems to be one of the blooded gentry, and I am nothing but a plain
Dunstable.[43] But rough iron is as soft as polished steel.”

“I believe you,” said Bernard. “Now you have not much reason to waste
your love on this Major Hansford. He threatened to beat you, as you say,
and a freeborn Englishman does not bear an insult like that with
impunity.”


“No, your honour,” replied the man, “and I've known the day when a
Plymouth cloak[44] would protect me from insult as well as a frieze coat
from cold. But I am too old for that now, and so I had better swallow an
insult dry, than butter it with my own marrow.”

“And are there not other modes of revenge than by a blow? Where are your
wits, man? What makes the man stronger than the horse that carries him?
I tell you, a keen wit is to physical force what your carbine is to the
tomahawk of these red-skins. It fires at a distance.”

The old soldier looked up with a gleam of intelligence, and Bernard
continued—

“Bethink you, did you hear nothing from Hansford by which you might
infer that his ultimate design was to overturn the government?”

“Why I can't exactly say that I did,” returned the fellow. “To be sure
they all prate about liberty and the like, but I reckon that is an
Englishman's privilege, providing he takes it out in talking. But there
may be fire in the bed-straw for all my ignorance.”[45]

“Well, I am sorry for you,” said Bernard, “for if you could only
remember any thing to convict this young rebel, I would warrant you a
free pardon and a sound neck.”

“Well, now, as I come to think of it,” said the unscrupulous renegade,
“there might be some few things he let drop, not much in themselves, but
taken together, as might weave a right strong tow; and zounds, I don't
think a man can be far wrong to untwist the rope about his own neck by
tying it to another. For concerning of life, your honour, while I have
no great care to risk it in battle, I don't crave to choke it out with
one of these hemp cravats. And so being as I have already done the state
some service, I feel it my duty to save her if I can.”

“Now, thanks to that catch-word of the rogue,” muttered Bernard, “I am
like to have easy work to-night. Hark ye, Mr. Berkenhead,” he added,
aloud, “I think it is likely that the Governor may wish to ask you a
question or two touching this matter of which we have been speaking. In
the meantime here is something which may help you to get along with
these soldiers,” and he placed a sovereign in the fellow's hand.

“Thank your honour,” said Berkenhead, humbly, “and seeing its not in the
way of bribe, I suppose I may take it.”

“Oh, no bribe,” replied Bernard, smiling, “but mark me, tell a good
story. The stronger your evidence the safer is your head.”

Bernard returned, as we have seen, to the Governor, for the further
development of his diabolical designs, and in a short time Berkenhead,
under a guard of soldiers, was conducted to his quarters for the night,
in a store-house which stood in the yard some distance from the house.

As the house to which the renegade insurgent was consigned was deemed
sufficiently secure, and the soldiers wearied with a long march, were
again to proceed on their journey on the morrow, it was not considered
necessary to place a guard before the door of this temporary cell—the
precaution, however, being taken to appoint a sentry at each side of the
mansion-house, and at the door of the apartment in which the unhappy
Hansford was confined.


FOOTNOTES:

[43] An old English expression for a rough, honest fellow.

[44] A bludgeon.

[45] There may be danger in the design.




CHAPTER XXX.

    “Ha! sure he sleeps—all's dark within save what
    A lamp, that feebly lifts a sickly flame,
    By fits reveals. His face seems turned to favour
    The attempt. I'll steal and do it unperceived.”
                                        _Mourning Bride._


All were wrapt in silence and in slumber, save the weary sentinels, who
paced drowsily up and down before the door of the house, humming in a
low tone the popular Lillibullero, or silently communing with their
brother sentry in the sky. The family, providing for the fatigues of the
following day, had early retired to rest, and even Virginia, worn down
by excitement and agitation, having been assured by her father of the
certain safety of Hansford, had yielded to the restoring influences of
sleep. How little did the artless girl, or her unsuspicious father,
suppose that beneath their roof they had been cherishing a demon, who,
by his wily machinations, was weaving a web around his innocent victim,
cruel and inextricable.

We have said that all save the watchful sentinels were sleeping; but one
there was from whose eyes and from whose heart revenge had driven sleep.
Mamalis—the poor, hapless Mamalis—whose sorrows had been forgotten in
the general excitement which had prevailed—Mamalis knew but one
thought, and that was no dream. Her brother, the pride and refuge of
her maiden heart, lay stiff and murdered by the way-side—his death
unwept, his dirge unsung, his brilliant hopes of fame cut off ere they
had fully budded. And his murderer was near her! Could she hesitate? Had
she not been taught, in her simple faith, that the blood of the victim
requires the blood of his destroyer? The voice of her brother's blood
called to her from the ground. Nor did it call in vain. It is true, he
had been harsh, nay sometimes even cruel to her, but when was woman's
heart, when moved to softness, ever mindful of the wrongs she had
endured? Ask yourself, when standing by the lifeless corse of one whom
you have dearly loved, if then you can remember aught but kindness, and
love, and happiness, in your association with the loved one. One gentle
word, one sweet smile, one generous action, though almost faded from the
memory before, obscures forever all the recollection of wrongs inflicted
and injuries endured.

She was in the room occupied by Virginia Temple. Oh, what a contrast
between the two! Yes, there they were—Revenge and Innocence! The one
lay pure and beautiful in sleep; her round, white arm thrown back upon
the pillow, to form a more snowy resting place for her lovely cheek.
From beneath her cap some tresses had escaped, which, happy in release,
were sporting in the soft air that wooed them through the open window.
Her face, at other times too spiritually pale, was now slightly flushed
by the sultry warmth of the night. A smile of peaceful happiness played
around her lips, as she dreamed, perhaps, of some wild flower ramble
which in happier days she had had with Hansford. Her snowy bosom, which
in her restlessness she had nearly bared, was white and swelling as a
wave which plays in the calm moonlight. Such was the beautiful being who
lay sleeping calmly in the arms of Innocence, while the dark, but not
less striking, form of the Indian girl bent over, to discover if she
slept. She was dressed as we have before described, with the short
deer-skin smock, extending to her knees, and fitted closely round the
waist with a belt of wampum. Her long black hair was bound by a simple
riband, and fell thickly over her shoulders in dark profusion. In her
left hand she held a lamp, and it was fearful to mark, by its faint,
glimmering light, the intense earnestness of her countenance. There were
some traces of tears upon her cheek, but these were nearly dried. Her
bright black eyes were lighted by a strange, unnatural fire, which they
never knew before. It seemed as though you might see them in the dark.
In her right hand she held a small dagger, which _he_ had given her as a
pledge of a brother's love. Fit instrument to avenge a brother's death!

She seemed to be listening and watching to hear or see the slightest
movement from the slumbering maiden. But all was still!

“I slept not thus,” she murmured, “the night I heard him vow his
vengeance against your father. Before the birds had sung their morning
song I came to warn you. Now all I loved, my country, my friends, my
brother, have gone forever, and none shares the tears of the Indian
maiden.”

She turned away with a sigh from the bedside of Virginia, and carefully
replaced the dagger in her belt. She then took a key which was lying on
the table and clutched it with an air of triumph. That key she had
stolen from the pocket of Alfred Bernard while he slept—for what will
not revenge, and woman's revenge, dare to do. Then taking up a water
pitcher, and extinguishing the light, she softly left the room.

As she endeavoured to pass the outer door she was accosted by the hoarse
voice of the sentinel—“Who comes there?” he cried.

“A friend,” she answered, timidly.

“You cannot pass, friend, without a permit from the Governor. Them's his
orders.”

“I go to bring some water for the sick maiden,” she said earnestly,
showing him the pitcher. “She is far from well. Let her not suffer for a
draught of water.”

“Well,” said the pliant soldier, yielding; “you are a good pleader,
pretty one. That dark face of yours looks devilish well by moonlight.
What say you; if I let you pass, will you come and sit with me when you
get back? It's damned lonesome out here by myself.”

“I will do any thing you wish when I return,” said the girl.

“Easily won, by Wenus,” said the gallant soldier, as he permitted
Mamalis to pass on her supposed errand.

Freed from this obstruction, she glided rapidly through the yard, and
soon stood before the door of the small house which she had learned was
appropriated as the prison of Berkenhead. Turning the key softly in the
lock, she pulled the latch-string and gently opened the door. A flood of
moonlight streamed upon the floor, encumbered with a variety of
plantation utensils. By the aid of this light Mamalis soon recognized
the form and features of the fated Berkenhead, who was sleeping in one
corner of the room. She knelt over him and feasted her eyes with the
anticipation of her deep revenge. Fearing to be defeated in her design,
for with her it was the foiled attempt and “not the act which might
confound,” she bared his bosom and sought his heart. The motion startled
the sleeping soldier. “The devil,” he said, half opening his eyes; “its
damned light.” Just as he pronounced the last word the fatal dagger of
Mamalis found its way into his heart. “It is all dark now,” she said,
bitterly, and rising from her victim, she glided through the door and
left him with his God.

With the native shrewdness of her race, Mamalis did not forget that she
had still to play a part, and so without returning directly to the
house, she repaired to the well and filled her pitcher. She even offered
the sentinel a drink as she repassed him on her return, and promising
once more to come back, when she had carried the water to the “sick
maiden,” she stole quietly into the room occupied by Bernard, replaced
the key in his pocket as before, and hastened up stairs again.

And there seated once more by the bedside of the sleeping Virginia, the
young Indian girl sang, in a low voice, at once her song of triumph and
her brother's dirge, in that rich oriental improvisation for which the
Indians were so remarkable. We will not pretend to give in the original
words of this beautiful requiem, but furnish the reader, in default of a
better, with the following free translation, which may give some faint
idea of its beauty:—

“They have plucked the flower from the garden of my heart, and have torn
the soil where it tenderly grew. He was bright and beautiful as the
bounding deer, and the shaft from his bow was as true as his unchanging
soul! Rest with the Great Spirit, soul of my brother!

“The Great Spirit looked down in pity on my brother; Manitou has
snatched him from the hands of the dreadful Okee. On the shores of the
spirit-land, with the warriors of his tribe he sings the song of his
glory, and chases the spirit deer over the immaterial plains! Rest with
the Great Spirit, soul of my brother!

“But I, his sister, am left lonely and desolate; the hearth-stone of
Mamalis is deserted. Yet has my hand sought revenge for his murder, and
my bosom exults over the destruction of his destroyer! Rest with the
Great Spirit, soul of my brother!

“Rest with the Great Spirit, soul of Manteo, till Mamalis shall come to
enjoy thy embraces. Then welcome to thy spirit home the sister of thy
youth, and reward with thy love the avenger of thy death! Rest with the
Great Spirit, soul of my brother!”

As her melancholy requiem died away, Mamalis rose silently from the
seat, and bent once more over the form of the sleeping Virginia. As she
felt the warm breath of the pure young girl upon her cheek, and watched
the regular beating of her heart, and then contrasted the purity of the
sleeping maiden with her own wild, guilty nature, she started back in
horror. For the first time she felt remorse at the commission of her
crime, and with a heavy sigh she hurriedly left the room, as though it
were corrupted by her presence.




CHAPTER XXXI.

    “And smile, and smile, and smile, and be a villain.”
                                              _King John._


Great was the horror of the loyalists, on the following morning, at the
discovery of the horrible crime which had been perpetrated; but still
greater was the mystery as to who was the guilty party. There was no
mode of getting admittance to the house in which Berkenhead was
confined, except through the door, the key of which was in the
possession of Alfred Bernard. Even if the position and standing of this
young man had not repelled the idea that he was cognizant of the crime,
his own unfeigned surprise at the discovery, and the absence of any
motive for its commission, acquitted him in the minds of all. And yet,
if this hypothesis was avoided, it was impossible to form any rational
theory on the subject. There were but two persons connected with the
establishment who could be presumed to have any plausible motive for
murdering Berkenhead. Hansford might indeed be suspected of a desire to
suppress evidence which would be dangerous to his own safety, but then
Hansford was himself in close confinement. Mamalis, too, had manifested
a spirit, the evening before, towards the unhappy man, which might very
naturally subject her to suspicion; but, besides that, she played her
part of surprise to perfection—it could not be conceived how she had
gotten possession of the key of the room. The sentinel might indeed have
thrown much light upon the subject, but he kept his own counsel for fear
of the consequences of disobedience to orders; and he boldly asserted
that no one had left the house during the night. This evidence, taken in
connection with the fact that the young girl was found sleeping, as
usual, in the little room adjoining Virginia's chamber, entirely
exculpated her from any participation in the crime. Nothing then was
left for it, but to suppose that the unhappy man, in a fit of
desperation, had himself put a period to his existence. A little
investigation might have easily satisfied them that such an hypothesis
was as groundless as the rest; for it was afterwards ascertained by
Colonel Temple, after a strict search, that no weapon was found on or
near the body, nor in the apartment where it lay. But Sir William
Berkeley, anxious to proceed upon his way to Accomac, and caring but
little, perhaps, for the fate of a rebel, whose life was probably
shortened but a few hours, gave the affair a very hurried and summary
examination. Bernard, with his quick sagacity, discovered, or at least
shrewdly suspected, the truth, and Mamalis felt, as he fixed his dark
eyes upon her, that he had read the mystery of her heart. But, for his
own reasons, the villain for the present maintained the strictest
silence on the subject.

But this catastrophe, so fatal to Berkenhead, was fortunate for young
Hansford. The Governor, more true to his word to loyalists than he had
hitherto been to the insurgents, released our hero from imprisonment, in
the absence of any testimony against him. And, to the infinite chagrin
of Alfred Bernard, his rival, once more at liberty, was again, in the
language of the treacherous Plantagenet, “a very serpent in his way.” He
had too surely discovered, that so long as Hansford lived, the heart of
Virginia Temple, or what he valued far more, her hand, could never be
given to another; and yet he felt, that if he were out of the way, and
that heart, though widowed, free to choose again, the emotions of
mistaken gratitude would prompt her to listen with favour to his suit.
With all his faults, too, and with his mercenary motives, Bernard was
not without a feeling, resembling love, for Virginia. We are told that
there are fruits and flowers which, though poisonous in their native
soil, when transplanted and cherished under more genial circumstances,
become at once fair to the eye and wholesome to the taste. It is thus
with love. In the wild, sterile heart of Alfred Bernard it had taken
root, and poisoned all his nature; but yet it was the same emotion which
shed a genial influence over the manly heart of Hansford. If it had been
otherwise, there were some as fair, and many far more wealthy, in his
adopted colony, than Virginia Temple. But she was at once adapted to his
interests, his passions, and his intellect. She could aid his vaulting
ambition by sharing with him her wealth; she could control, by the
strength of her character, and the sweetness of her disposition, his own
wild nature; and she could be the instructive and congenial companion of
his intellect. And all this rich treasure might be his but for the
existence, the rivalry of the hated Hansford. Still his ardent nature
led him to hope. With all his heart he would engage in quelling the
rebellion, which he foresaw was about to burst upon the colony; and
then revenge, the sweetest morsel to the jealous mind, was his.
Meantime, he must look the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it;
and curbing his own feelings, must, under pretence of friendship and
interest for a rival, continue to plot his ruin. Alfred Bernard was
equal to the task.

It was with these feelings that he sought Virginia Temple on the eve of
his departure from Windsor Hall. The young girl was seated, with her
lover, on a rude, rustic bench, beneath the large oak where Bernard had,
the evening before, had an interview with the unfortunate Berkenhead. As
he approached, she rose, and with her usual winning frankness of manner,
she extended her hand.

“Come, Mr. Bernard,” she said, “I have determined that you and Major
Hansford shall be friends.”

“Most willingly, on my part,” said the smooth-tongued Bernard. “And I
think I have given the best evidence of my disposition to be so, by
aiding feebly in restoring to Miss Temple an old friend, when she must
now so soon part with her more recent acquaintance.”

“I am happy to think,” said Hansford, whose candour prevented him from
suppressing entirely the coldness of his manner, “that I am indebted to
Mr. Bernard for any interest he may have taken in my behalf. I hope,
sir, you will now add to the obligation under which I at present rest to
you, by apprising me in what manner you have so greatly obliged me.”

“Why, you must be aware,” replied Bernard, “that your present freedom
from restraint is due to my interposition with Sir William Berkeley.”

“Oh yes, indeed,” interposed Virginia, “for I heard my father say that
it was Mr. Bernard's wise suggestion, adopted by the Governor, which
secured your release.”

“Hardly so,” returned Hansford, “even if such were his disposition. But,
if I am rightly informed, your assistance only extended to a very
natural request, that I should not be judged guilty so long as there was
no evidence to convict me. If I am indebted to Mr. Bernard for
impressing upon the mind of the Governor a principle of law as old, I
believe, as Magna Charta, I must e'en render him the thanks which are
justly his due, and which he seems so anxious to demand.”

“Mr. Hansford,” said Virginia, “why will you persist in being so
obstinate? Is it such a hard thing, after all, for one brave man to owe
his life to another, or for an innocent man to receive justice at the
hands of a generous one? And at least, I should think, she added, with
the least possible pout, “that, when I ask as a favour that you should
be friends, you should not refuse me.”

“Indeed, Miss Virginia,” said Alfred Bernard, without evincing the
slightest mark of displeasure; “you urge this reconciliation too far. If
Major Hansford have some secret cause of enmity or distrust towards me,
of which I am ignorant, I beg that you will not force him to express a
sentiment which his heart does not entertain. And as for his gratitude,
which he seems to think that I demand, I assure you, that for any
service which I may have done him, I am sufficiently compensated by my
own consciousness of rectitude of purpose, and nobly rewarded by
securing your approving smile.”

“Nobly, generously said, Mr. Bernard,” replied Virginia, “and now I have
indeed mistaken Mr. Hansford's character if he fail to make atonement
for his backwardness, by a full, free, and cordial reconciliation.”

“I must needs give you my left hand, then,” said Hansford, extending his
hand with as much cordiality as he could assume; “my right arm is
disabled as you perceive, by a wound inflicted by one of the enemies of
my country, against whom it would seem it is treason to battle.”

“Nay, if you go into that hateful subject again,” said Virginia, “I
fear there is not much cordiality in your heart yet.”

“Oh! you are mistaken, Miss Temple,” said Bernard, gaily; “you must
remember the old adage, that the left is nearest to the heart. Believe
me, Major Hansford and myself will be good friends yet, and when we
hereafter shall speak of our former estrangement, it will only be to
remember by whose gentle influence we were reconciled. But permit me to
hope, Major, that your wound is not serious.”

“A mere trifle, I believe, sir,” returned Hansford, “but I am afraid I
will suffer some inconvenience from it for some time, as it is the sword
arm; and in these troublous times it may fail me, when it should be
prepared to defend.”

“An that were the only use to which you would apply it,” said Virginia,
half laughing, and half in earnest, “I would sincerely hope that it
might never heal.”

“Oh fear not but that it will soon heal,” said Bernard. “The most
dangerous wounds are inflicted here,” laying his hand upon his heart; “a
wound dealt not by a savage, but by an angel; not from the arrow of the
ambushed Indian, but from the quiver of the mischievous little blind
boy—and the more fatal, because we insanely delight to inflame the
wound instead of seeking to cure it.”

“Well really, Mr. Bernard,” said Virginia, rallying the gay young
euphuist, “the flowers of gallantry which you have brought from Windsor
Court, thanks to your fostering care, flourish quite as sweetly in this
wilderness of Windsor Hall. Take pity on an illiterate colonial girl,
and tell me whether this is the language of Waller, Cowley or Dryden?”

“It is the language of the heart, Miss Temple, on the present occasion
at least,” said Bernard, gravely; “for I am admonished that it is time I
should say farewell. Without flowers or poetry, Miss Virginia, I bid you
adieu. May you be happy, and derive from your association with others
that high enjoyment which you are so capable of bestowing. Farewell,
Major Hansford, we may meet again, I trust, when it will not be
necessary to invoke the interposition of a fair mediator to effect a
reconciliation.”

Hansford well understood the innuendo contained in the last words of
Bernard, but taking the well-timed hint, refrained from expressing it
more clearly, and gave his hand to his rival with every appearance of
cordiality. And Virginia, misconstruing the words of the young jesuit,
frankly extended her own hand, which he pressed respectfully to his
lips, and then turned silently away.

“Well, I am delighted,” said Virginia to her lover, when they were thus
left alone, “that you are at last friends with Bernard. You see now that
I was right and you were wrong in our estimates of his character.”

“Indeed I do not, my dear Virginia; on the contrary, this brief
interview has but confirmed my previously formed opinion.”

“Oh! that is impossible, Hansford; you are too suspicious, indeed you
are. I never saw more refinement and delicacy blended with more real
candour. Indeed, Hansford, he is a noble fellow.”

“I am sorry to differ with you, dearest; but to my mind his refinement
is naught but Jesuitical craft; his delicacy the result of an
educational schooling of the lip, to conceal the real feelings of his
heart; and his candour but the gilt washing which appears like gold, but
after all, only hides the baser metal beneath it.”

“Well, in my life I never heard such perversion! Really, Hansford, you
will make me think you are jealous.”

“Jealous, Virginia, jealous!” said Hansford, in a sorrowful tone. “Alas!
if I were even capable of such a feeling, what right have I to entertain
it? Your heart is free, and torn from the soil which once cherished it,
may be transplanted elsewhere, while the poor earth where once it grew
can only hope now and then to feel the fragrance which it sheds on all
around. No, not jealous, Virginia, whatever else I may be!”

“You speak too bitterly, Hansford; have I not assured you that though a
harsh fate may sever us; though parental authority may deny you my hand,
yet my heart is unalterably yours. But tell me, why it is that you can
see nothing good in this young man, and persist in perverting every
sentiment, every look, every expression to his injury?”

Before Hansford could reply, the shrill voice of Mrs. Temple was heard,
crying out; “Virginia Temple, Virginia Temple, why where can the child
have got to!”—and at the same moment the old lady came bustling round
the house, and discovered the unlawful interview of the lovers.

Rising hastily from her seat, Virginia advanced to her mother, who,
without giving her time to speak, even had she been so inclined, sang
out at the top of her voice—“Come along, my daughter. Here are the
guests in your father's house kept waiting in the porch to tell you
good-bye, and you, forsooth, must be talking, the Lord knows what, to
that young scape-gallows yonder, who hasn't modesty enough to know when
and where he's wanted.”

“Dear mother, don't speak so loud,” whispered the poor girl.

“Don't talk so loud, forsooth—and why? They that put themselves where
they are not wanted and not asked, must expect to hear ill of
themselves.”

“There comes my pretty Jeanie,” said her old father, as he saw her
approach. “And so you found her at last, mother. Come here, dearest, we
have been waiting for you.”

The sweet tones of that gentle voice, which however harsh at times to
others, were ever modulated to the sweetest music when he spoke to her,
fell upon the ears of the poor confused and mortified girl, in such
comforting accents, that the full heart could no longer restrain its
gushing feelings, and she burst into tears. With swollen eyes and with a
heavy heart she bade adieu to the several guests, and as Sir William
Berkeley, in the mistaken kindness of his heart, kissed her cheek, and
whispered that Bernard would soon return and all would be happy again,
she sobbed as if her gentle heart would break.

“I always tell the Colonel that he ruins the child,” said Mrs. Temple to
the Governor, with one of her blandest smiles, on seeing this renewed
exhibition of sensibility. “It was not so in our day, Lady Frances; we
had other things to think about than crying and weeping. Tears were not
so shallow then.”

Lady Frances Berkeley nodded a stately acquiescence to this tribute to
the stoicism of the past, and made some sage, original and relevant
reflection, that shallow streams ever were the most noisy—and then
kissing the weeping girl, repeated the grateful assurance that Bernard
would not be long absent, and that she herself would be present at the
happy bridal, to taste the bride's cake and quaff the knitting cup,[46]
with other like consolations well calculated to restore tranquillity and
happiness to the bosom of the disconsolate Virginia.

And so the unfortunate Berkeley commenced that fatal flight, which
contributed so largely to divert the arms of the insurgents from the
Indians to the government, and to change what else might have been a
mere unauthorized attack upon the common enemies of the country into a
protracted and bloody civil war.

Hansford did not long remain at Windsor Hall, after the departure of the
loyalists. He would indeed have been wanting in astuteness if he had not
inferred from the direct language of Mrs. Temple that he was an
unwelcome visitant at the mansion. But more important, if not more
cogent reasons urged his immediate departure. He saw at a glance the
fatal error committed by Berkeley in his flight to Accomac, and the
immense advantage it would be to the insurgents. He wished, therefore,
without loss of time to communicate the welcome intelligence to Bacon
and his followers, who, he knew, were anxiously awaiting the result of
his mission.

Ordering his horse, he bade a cordial adieu to the good old colonel,
who, as he shook his hand, said, with a tear in his eye, “Oh, my boy, my
boy! if your head were as near right as I believe your heart is, how I
would love to welcome you to my bosom as my son.”

“I hope, my kind, my noble friend,” said Hansford, “that the day may yet
come when you will see that I am not wholly wrong. God knows I would
almost rather err with you than to be right with any other man.” Then
bidding a kind farewell to Mrs. Temple and Virginia, to which the old
lady responded with due civility, but without cordiality, he vaulted
into the saddle and rode off—and as long as the house was still in
view, he could see the white 'kerchief of Virginia from the open window,
waving a last fond adieu to her unhappy lover.


FOOTNOTES:

[46] A cup drunk at the marriage ceremony in honour of the bride.




CHAPTER XXXII.

    “The abstract and brief chronicle of the time.”
                                                    _Hamlet._


It is not our purpose to trouble the reader with a detailed account of
all the proceedings of the famous Rebellion, which forms the basis of
our story. We, therefore, pass rapidly over the stirring incidents which
immediately succeeded the flight of Sir William Berkeley. Interesting as
these incidents may be to the antiquary or historian, they have but
little to do with the dramatis personæ of this faithful narrative, in
whose fate we trust our readers are somewhat interested. Accomac is
divided from the mainland of Virginia by the broad Chesapeake Bay.
Although contained in the same grant which prescribed the limits to the
colony, and although now considered a part of this ancient commonwealth,
there is good reason to believe that formerly it was considered in a
different light. In one of the earliest colonial state papers which has
been preserved, the petition of Morryson, Ludwell & Smith, for a
reformed charter for the colony, the petitioners are styled the “agents
for the governor, council and burgesses of the country of Virginia _and
territory of Accomac_;” and although this form of phraseology appears in
but few of the records, yet it would appear that the omission was the
result of mere convenience in style, just as Victoria is more frequently
styled the Queen of England, than called by her more formal title of
Queen of the United Kingdoms of Great Britain and Ireland, by the Grace
of God, Defender of the Faith. It was, therefore, not without reason,
that Nathaniel Bacon, glad at least of a pretext for advancing his
designs, should have considered the flight of Sir William Berkeley to
Accomac as a virtual abdication of his authority, more especially as it
had been ordained but two years before by the council at Whitehall, that
the governor should be actually a resident of Virginia, unless when
summoned by the King to England or elsewhere. At least it was a
sufficient pretext for the young insurgent, who, in the furtherance of
his designs did not seem to be over-scrupulous in regard to the powers
with which he was clothed. But twelve years afterwards a similar pretext
afforded by the abdication of James the Second, relieved the British
government of one of the most serious difficulties which has arisen in
her constitutional history.

Without proceeding on his expedition against the Indians, Bacon had no
sooner heard of the abdication of the governor than he retired to the
Middle Plantation, the site of the present venerable city of
Williamsburg. Here, summoning a convention of the most prominent
citizens from all parts of the colony, he declared the government
vacated by the voluntary abdication of Berkeley, and in his own name,
and the name of four members of the council, proceeded to issue writs
for a meeting of the Assembly. It is but just to the memory of this
great man to say, that this Assembly, convened by his will, and acting,
as may well be conceived, almost exclusively under his dictation, has
left upon our statute books laws “the most wholesome and good,” for the
benefit of the colony, and the most conducive to the advancement of
rational liberty. The rights of property remained inviolate—the reforms
were moderate and judicious, and the government of the colony proceeded
as quietly and calmly after the accomplishment of the revolution, as
though Sir William Berkeley were still seated in his palace as the
executive magistrate of Virginia. A useful lesson did this young
colonial rebel teach to modern reformers who would defame his name—the
lesson that reform does not necessarily imply total change, and that
there is nothing with which it is more dangerous to tamper than long
established usage. The worst of all quacks are those who would
administer their sovereign nostrums to the constitution of their
country.

The reader of history need not be reminded that the expedition of Bland
and Carver, designed to surprise Sir William Berkeley in his new
retreat, was completely frustrated by the treachery of Larimore, and its
unfortunate projectors met, at the hands of the stern old Governor, a
traitor's doom. Thus the drooping hopes of the loyalists were again
revived, and taking advantage of this happy change in the condition of
affairs, Berkeley with his little band of faithful adherents returned by
sea to Jamestown, and fortified the place to the best of their ability
against the attacks of the rebels.

Nor were the insurgents unwilling to furnish them an opportunity for a
contest. The battle of Bloody Run is memorable in the annals of the
colony as having forever annihilated the Indian power in Eastern
Virginia. Like the characters in Bunyan's sublime vision, this unhappy
race, so long a thorn in the side of the colonists, had passed away, and
“they saw their faces no more.” But his very triumph over the savage
enemies of his country, well nigh proved the ruin of the young
insurgent. Many of his followers, who had joined him with a bona fide
design of extirpating the Indian power, now laid down their arms, and
retired quietly to their several homes. Bacon was thus left with only
about two hundred adherents, to prosecute the civil war which the harsh
and dissembling policy of Berkeley had invoked; while the Governor was
surrounded by more than three times that number, with the entire navy of
Virginia at his command, and, moreover, secure behind the fortifications
of Jamestown. Yet did not the brave young hero shrink from the contest.
Though reduced in numbers, those that remained were in themselves a
host. They were all men of more expanded views, and more exalted
conceptions of liberty, than many of the medley crew who had before
attended him. They fought in a holier cause than when arrayed against
the despised force of their savage foes, and, moreover, they fought in
self-defence. For, too proud and generous to desert their leader in his
hour of peril, each of his adherents lay under the proscriptive ban of
the revengeful Governor, as a rebel and a traitor. No sooner, therefore,
did Bacon hear of the return of Berkeley to Jamestown, than, with hasty
marches, he proceeded to invest the place. It is here, then, that we
resume the thread of our broken narrative.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

                    “When Liberty rallies
    Once more in thy regions, remember me then.”
                                              _Byron._


It was on a calm, clear morning in the latter part of the month of
September, that the little army of Nathaniel Bacon, wearied and worn
with protracted marches, and with hard fought battles, might be seen
winding through the woodland district to the north of Jamestown. The two
cavaliers, who led the way a little distance ahead of the main body of
the insurgents, were Bacon and his favourite comrade, Hansford—engaged,
as before, in an animated, but now a more earnest conversation. The brow
of the young hero was more overcast with care and reflection than when
we last saw him. The game, which he had fondly hoped was over, had yet
to be played, and the stake that remained was far more serious than any
which had yet been risked. During the brief interval that his undisputed
power existed, the colony had flourished and improved, and the bright
dream which he had of her approaching delivery from bondage, seemed
about to be realized. And now it was sad and disheartening to think that
the battle must again be fought, and with such odds against him, that
the chances of success were far more remote than ever. But Bacon was not
the man to reveal his feelings, and he imparted to others the
cheerfulness which he failed to feel himself. From time to time he would
ride along the broken ranks, revive their drooping spirits, inspire them
with new courage, and impart fresh ardor into their breasts for the
glorious cause in which they were engaged. Then rejoining Hansford, he
would express to him the fears and apprehensions which he had so
studiously concealed from the rest.

It was on one of these occasions, after deploring the infatuated
devotion of so many of the colonists to the cause of blind loyalty, and
the desertion of so many on whom he had relied to co-operate in his
enterprize, that he said, bitterly:

“I fear sometimes, my friend, that we have been too premature in our
struggle for liberty. Virginia is not yet ready to be free. Her people
still hug the chains which enslave them.”

“Alas!” said Hansford, “it is too true that we cannot endue the infant
in swaddling bands with the pride and strength of a giant. The child who
learns to walk must meet with many a fall, and the nation that aspires
to freedom will often be checked by disaster and threatened with ruin.”

“And this it is,” said Bacon, sorrowfully, “that makes me sick at heart.
Each struggle to be free sinks the chain of the captive deeper into his
flesh. And should we fail now, my friend, we but tighten the fetters
that bind us.”

“Think not thus gloomily on the subject,” replied Hansford. “Believe me,
that you have already done much to develope the germ of freedom in
Virginia. It may be that it may not expand and grow in our brief lives;
and even though our memory may pass away, and the nation we have served
may fail to call us blessed, yet they will rejoice in the fruition of
that freedom for which we may perish. Should the soldier repine because
he is allotted to lead a forlorn hope? No! there is a pride and a glory
to know, that his death is the bridge over which others will pass to
victory.”

“God bless your noble soul, Hansford,” said Bacon, with the intensest
admiration. “It is men like you and not like me who are worthy to live
in future generations. Men who, regardless of the risk or sacrifice of
self, press onward in the discharge of duty. Love of glory may elevate
the soul in the hour of triumph, but love of duty, and firmness
resolutely to discharge it, can alone sustain us in the hour of peril
and trial.”

This was at last the difference between the two men. Intense desire for
personal fame, united with a subordinate love of country impelled Bacon
in his course. Inflexible resolution to discharge a sacred duty, an
entire abnegation of self in its performance, and the strongest
convictions of right constituted the incentives to Hansford. It was this
that in the hour of their need sustained the heart of Hansford, while
the more selfish but noble heart of his leader almost sank within him;
and yet the effects upon the actions of the two were much the same. The
former, unswayed by circumstances however adverse, pressed steadily and
firmly on; while the latter, with the calmness of desperation, knowing
that safety, and (what was dearer) glory, lay in the path of success,
braced himself for the struggle with more than his usual resolution.

“But, alas!” continued Bacon, in the same melancholy tone, “if we should
fail, how hard to be forgotten. Your name and memory to perish among men
forever—your very grave to be neglected and uncared for; and this
living, breathing frame, instinct with life, and love, and glory, to
pass away and mingle with the dust of the veriest worm which crawls upon
the earth. Oh, God! to be forgotten, to leave no impress on the world
but what the next flowing tide may efface forever. Think of it, realize
it, Hansford—to be forgotten!”

“It would, indeed, be a melancholy thought,” said Hansford, with a deep
sympathy for his friend—“if this were all. But when we remember that we
stand but on the threshold of existence, and have a higher, a holier
destiny to attain beyond, we need care but little for what is passing
here. I have sometimes thought, my friend, that as in manhood we
sometimes smile at the absurd frivolities which caught our childish
fancy, so when elevated to a higher sphere we would sit and wonder at
the interest which we took in the trifling pleasures, the empty honours,
and the glittering toys of this present life.”

“And do you mean to say that honour and glory are nothing here?”

“Only so far as they reflect the honour and glory which are beyond.”

“Pshaw, man!” cried Bacon, “you do not, you cannot think so. You ask me
the reason of this desire for fame and remembrance when we are dust. I
tell you it is an instinct implanted in us by the Almighty to impel us
to glorious deeds.”

“Aye,” said Hansford, quietly, “and when that desire, by our own
indulgence, becomes excessive, just as the baser appetites of the
glutton or the debauchee, it becomes corrupt and tends to our
destruction.”

“You are a curious fellow, Hansford,” said Bacon, laughing, “and should
have been one of old Noll's generals—for I believe you can preach as
well as you can fight, and believe me that is no slight commendation.
But you must excuse me if I cannot agree with you in all of your
sentiments. I am sorry to say that old Butler's 'pulpit drum
ecclesiastic' seldom beat me to a church parade while I was in England,
and here in Virginia they send us the worst preachers, as they send us
the worst of every thing. But a truce to the subject. Tell me are you a
believer in presentiments?”

“Surely such things are possible, but I believe them to be rare,”
replied his companion. “Future events certainly make an impression upon
the animal creation, and I know not why man should be exempt entirely
from a similar law. The migratory birds will seek a more southern clime,
even before a change of weather is indicated by the wind, and the
appearance of the albatross, or the bubbling of the porpoise, if we may
believe the sailors' account, portend a storm.”

“These phenomena,” suggested Bacon, “may easily be explained by some
atmospheric influence, insensible to our nature, but easily felt by
them.”

“I might answer,” replied Hansford, “that if insensible to us, we are
not warranted in presuming their existence. But who can tell in the
subtle mechanism of the mind how sensitive it may be to the impressions
of coming yet unseen events. At least, all nations have believed in the
existence of such an influence, and the Deity himself has deigned to use
it through his prophets, in the revelation of his purposes to man.”

“Well, true or not,” said Bacon, in a low voice, “I have felt the effect
of such a presentiment in my own mind, and although I have tried to
resist its influence I have been unable to do so. There is something
which whispers to me, Hansford, that I will not see the consummation of
my hopes in this colony—and that dying I shall leave behind me an
inglorious name. For what at last is an unsuccessful patriot but a
rebel. And oh, as I have listened to the monitions of this demon, it
seemed as though the veil of futurity were raised, and I could read my
fate in after years. Some future chronicler will record this era of
Virginia's history, and this struggle for freedom on the part of her
patriot children will be styled rebellion; our actions misrepresented;
our designs misinterpreted; and I the leader and in part the author of
the movement will be handed down with Wat Tyler and Jack Cade to infamy,
obloquy and reproach.”

“Think not thus gloomily,” said Hansford, “the feelings you describe are
often suggested to an excited imagination by the circumstances with
which it is surrounded; just as dreams are the run mad chroniclers of
our daily thoughts and hopes and apprehensions. You should not yield to
them, General, they unman you or at least unfit you for the duties which
lie before you.”

“You are right,” returned Bacon; “and I banish them from me forever. I
have half a mind to acknowledge myself your convert, Hansford; eschew
the gaily bedizzened Glory, and engage your demure little Quaker, Duty,
as my handmaiden in her place.”

“I will feel but too proud of such a convert to my creed,” said Hansford
laughing. “And now what of your plans on Jamestown?”

“Why to tell you the truth,” said Bacon gravely; “I am somewhat at fault
in regard to my actions there. I could take the town in a day, and
repulse those raw recruits of the old Governor with ease, if they would
only sally out. But I suspect the old tyrant will play a safe game with
me—and securely ensconced behind his walls, will cut my brave boys to
pieces with his cannon before I can make a successful breach.”

“You could throw up breastworks for your protection,” suggested
Hansford.

“Aye, but I fear it would be building a stable after the horse was
stolen. With our small force we could not resist their guns while we
were constructing our fortifications. But I will try it by night, and we
may succeed. The d——d old traitor—if he would only meet me in open
field, I could make my way 'through twenty times his stop.'”

“Well, we must encounter some risk,” replied Hansford. “I have great
hopes from the character of his recruits, too. Though they number much
more than ourselves, yet they serve without love, and in the present
exhausted exchequer of the colony, are fed more by promises than money.”

“They are certainly not likely to be fed by _angels_,” said Bacon, “as
some of the old prophets are said to have been. But, Hansford, an idea
has just struck me, which is quite a new manœuvre in warfare, and
from which your ideas of chivalry will revolt.”

“What is it?” asked Hansford eagerly.

“Why if it succeeds,” returned Bacon, “I will warrant that Jamestown is
in our hands in twenty-four hours, without the loss of more blood than
would fill a quart canteen.”

“Bravo, then, General, if you add such an important principle to the
stock of military tactics, I'll warrant that whispering demon lied, and
that you will retain both Glory and Duty in your service.”

“I am afraid you will change your note, Thomas, when I develope my plan.
It is simply this—to detail a party of men to scour the country around
Jamestown, and collect the good dames and daughters of our loyal
councillors. If we take them with us, I'll promise to provide a secure
defence against the enemies' fire. The besieged will dare not fire a
gun so long as there is danger of striking their wives and children, and
we, in the meantime, secure behind this temporary breastwork, will
prepare a less objectionable defence. What think you of the plan,
Hansford?”

“Good God!” cried Hansford, “You are not in earnest General Bacon?”

“And why not?” said Bacon, in reply. “If such a course be not adopted,
at least half of the brave fellows behind us will be slaughtered like
sheep. While no harm can result to the ladies themselves, beyond the
inconvenience of a few hours' exposure to the night air, which they
should willingly endure to preserve life.”

Hansford was silent. He knew how useless it was to oppose Bacon when he
had once resolved. His chivalrous nature revolted at the idea of
exposing refined and delicate females to such a trial. And yet he could
not deny that the project if successfully carried out would be the means
of saving much bloodshed, and of ensuring a speedy and easy victory to
the insurgents.

“Why, what are you thinking of, man,” said Bacon gaily. “I thought my
project would wound your delicate sensibilities. But to my mind there is
more real chivalry and more true humanity in sparing brave blood to
brave hearts, than in sacrificing it to a sickly regard for a woman's
feelings.”

“The time has been when brave blood would have leaped gushing from brave
hearts,” said Hansford proudly, “to protect woman from the slightest
shadow of insult.”

“Most true, my brave Chevalier Bayard,” said Bacon, in a tone of
unaffected good humor, “and shall again—and mine, believe me, will not
be more sluggish in such a cause than your own. But here no insult is
intended and none will be given. These fair prisoners shall be treated
with the respect due to their sex and station. My hand and sword for
that. But the time has been when woman too was willing to sacrifice her
shrinking delicacy in defence of her country. Wot ye how Rome was once
saved by the noble intercession of the wife and mother of Caius
Marcus—or how the English forces were beaten from the walls of Orleans
by the heroic Joan, or how—”

“You need not multiply examples,” said Hansford interrupting him, “to
show how women of a noble nature have unsexed themselves to save their
country. Your illustrations do not apply, for they did voluntarily what
the ladies of Virginia must do upon compulsion. But, sir, I have no more
to say. If you persist in this resolution, unchivalrous as I believe it
to be, yet I will try to see my duty in ameliorating the condition of
these unhappy females as far as possible.”

“And in me you shall have been a most cordial coadjutor,” returned
Bacon. “But, my dear fellow, your chivalry is too shallow. Excuse me, if
I say that it is all mere sentiment without a substratum of reason. Now
look you—you would willingly kill in battle the husbands of these
ladies, and thus inflict a life-long wound upon them, and yet you refuse
to pursue a course by which lives may be saved, because it subjects them
to a mere temporary inconvenience. But look again. Have you no sympathy
left for the wives, no chivalry for the daughters of our own brave
followers, whose hearts will be saved full many a pang by a stratagem,
which will ensure the safety of their protectors. Believe me, my dear
Hansford, if chivalry be nought but a mawkish sentiment, which would
throw away the real substance of good, to retain the mere shadow
reflected in its mirror, like the poor dog in the fable—the sooner its
reign is over the better for humanity.”

“But, General Bacon,” said Hansford, by no means convinced by the
sophistry of his plausible leader, “if the future chronicler of whom you
spoke, should indeed write the history of this enterprise, he will
record no fact which will reflect less honour upon your name, than that
you found a means for your defence in the persons of defenceless
women.”

“So let it be, my gallant chevalier,” replied Bacon, gaily, determined
not to be put out of humour by Hansford's grave remonstrance. “But you
have taught me not to look into future records for my name, or for the
vindication of my course—and your demure damsel Duty has whispered that
I am in the path of right. Look ye, Hansford, don't be angry with your
friend; for I assure you on the honour of a gentleman, that the dames
themselves will bear testimony to the chivalry of Nathaniel Bacon. And
besides, my dear fellow, we will not impress any but the sterner old
dames into our service. You know the older they are the better they will
serve for material for an _impregnable_ fortress.”

So saying, Bacon ordered a halt, and communicating to his soldiers his
singular design, he detailed Captain Wilford and a party of a dozen men,
selected on account of their high character, to capture and bring into
his camp the wives of certain of the royalists, who, though residing in
the country, had rallied to the support of Sir William Berkeley, on his
return to Jamestown. In addition to these who were thus found in their
several homes, the detailed corps had intercepted the carriage of our
old friend, Colonel Temple; for the old loyalist had no sooner heard of
the return of Sir William Berkeley, than he hastened to join him at the
metropolis, leaving his wife and daughter to follow him on the
succeeding day. What was the consternation and mortification of Thomas
Hansford as he saw the fair Virginia Temple conducted, weeping, into the
rude camp of the insurgents, followed by her high-tempered old mother,
who to use the chaste and classic simile of Tony Lumpkin, “fidgeted and
spit about like a Catherine wheel.”




CHAPTER XXXIV.

    “It is the cry of women, good, my lord.”
                                            _Macbeth._


Agreeably with the promise of Bacon, the captured ladies were treated
with a respect and deference which allayed in a great degree their many
apprehensions. Still they could not refrain from expressions of the
strongest indignation at an act so unusual, so violent, and so entirely
at war with the established notions of chivalry at the time. As the
reader will readily conjecture, our good friend, Mrs. Temple, was by no
means the most patient under the wrongs she had endured, and resisting
the kind attentions of those around her, she was vehement in her
denunciations of her captors, and in her apprehensions of a thousand
imaginary dangers.

“Oh my God!” she cried, “I know that they intend to murder us. To think
of leaving a quiet home, and being exposed to such treatment as this.
Oh, my precious husband, if he only knew what a situation his poor
Betsey was in at this moment; but never mind, as sure as I am a living
woman, he shall know it, and then we will see.”

“My dear Mrs. Temple,” said Mrs. Ballard, another of the captives, “do
not give way to your feelings thus. It is useless, and will only serve
to irritate these men.”

“Men! they are not men!” returned the excited old lady, refusing to be
comforted. “Men never would have treated ladies so. They are base,
cruel, inhuman wretches, and, as I said before, if I live, to get to
Jamestown, Colonel Temple shall know of it too—so he shall.”

“But reflect, my dear friend, that our present condition is not
affected by this very natural resolution which you have made, to inform
your husband of your wrongs. But whatever may be the object of these
persons, I feel assured that they intend no personal injury to us.”

“No personal injury, forsooth; and have we not sustained it already.
Look at my head-tire, all done up nicely just before I left the hall,
and now scarcely fit to be seen. And is it nothing to be hauled all over
the country with a party of ruffians, that I would be ashamed to be
caught in company with; and who knows what they intend?”

“I admit with you, my dear madam,” said Mrs. Ballard, “that such conduct
is unmanly and inexcusable, and I care not who hears me say so. But
still,” she added in a low voice, “we have the authority of scripture to
make friends even of the mammon of unrighteousness.”

“Friends! I would die first. I who have been moving in the first
circles, the wife of Colonel Temple, who, if he had chosen, might have
been the greatest in the land, to make friends with a party of mean,
sneaking, cowardly ruffians. Never—and I'll speak my mind freely
too—they shall see that I have a woman's tongue in my head and know how
to resent these injuries. Oh, for shame! and to wear swords too, which
used to be the badge of gentlemen and cavaliers, who would rather have
died than wrong a poor, weak, defenceless woman—much less to rob and
murder her.”

“Well, let us hope for the best, my friend,” said Mrs. Ballard; “God
knows I feel as you do, that we have been grossly wronged; but let us
remember that we are in the hands of a just and merciful Providence, who
will do with us according to his holy will.”

“I only know that we are in the hands of a parcel of impious and
merciless wretches,” cried the old lady, who, as we have seen on a
former occasion, derived but little comfort from the consolations of
religion in the hour of trial. “I hope I have as much religion as my
fellows, who pretend to so much more—but I should like to know what
effect that would have on a band of lawless cut-throats?”

“He has given us his holy promise,” said Virginia, in a solemn, yet
hopeful voice of resignation, “that though we walk through the valley
and the shadow of death, he will be with us—his rod and his staff will
comfort us—yea, he prepareth a table for us in the presence of our
enemies, our cup runneth over.”

“Well, I reckon I know that as well as you, miss; but it seems there is
but little chance of having a table prepared for us here,” retorted her
mother, whose fears and indignation had whetted rather than allayed her
appetite. “But I think it is very unseemly in a young girl to be so calm
under such circumstances. I know that when I was your age, the bare idea
of submitting to such an exposure as this would have shocked me out of
my senses.”

Virginia could not help thinking, that considering the lapse of time
since her mother was a young girl, there had been marvellously little
change wrought in her keen sensibility to exposure; for she was already
evidently “shocked out of her senses.” But she refrained from expressing
such a dangerous opinion, and replied, in a sad tone—

“And can you think, my dearest mother, that I do not feel in all its
force our present awful condition! But, alas! what can we do. As Mrs.
Ballard truly says, our best course is to endeavour to move the coarse
sympathies of these rebels, and even if they should not relent, they
will at least render our condition less fearful by their forbearance and
respect. Oh, my mother! my only friend in this dark hour of peril and
misfortune, think not so harshly of your daughter as to suppose that she
feels less acutely the horrors of her situation, because she fails to
express her fears.” And so saying, the poor girl drew yet closer to her
mother, and wept upon her bosom.

“I meant not to speak unkindly, dear Jeanie,” said the good-hearted old
lady, “but you know, my child, that when my fears get the better of me,
I am not myself. It does seem to me, that I was born under some unlucky
star. Ever since I was born the world has been turning upside down; and
God knows, I don't know what I have done that it should be so. But
first, that awful revolution in England, and then, when we came here to
pass our old days in peace and quiet, this infamous rebellion. And yet I
must say, I never knew any thing like this. There was at least some show
of religion among the old Roundheads, and though they were firm and
demure enough, and hated all kinds of amusement, and cruel enough too
with all their psalm singing, to cut off their poor king's head, yet
they always treated women with respect and decency. But, indeed, even
the rebels of the present day are not what they used to be.”

Virginia could scarcely forbear smiling, amid her tears, at this new
application of her mother's favourite theory. The conversation was here
interrupted by the approach of a young officer, who, bowing respectfully
to the bevy of captive ladies, said politely, that he was sorry to
intrude upon their presence, but that, as it was time to pursue their
journey, he had come to ask if the ladies would partake of some
refreshment before their ride.

“If they could share the rough fare of a soldier, it would bestow a
great favour and honour upon him to attend to their wishes; and indeed,
as it would be several hours before they could reach Jamestown, they
would stand in need of some refreshment, ere they arrived at more
comfortable quarters.”

“As your unhappy prisoners, sir,” said Mrs. Ballard, with great dignity,
“we can scarcely object to a soldier's fare. Prisoners have no choice
but to take the food which the humanity of their jailers sets before
them. Your apology is therefore needless, if not insulting to our
misfortunes.”

“Well, madam,” returned Wilford, in the same respectful tone, “I did not
mean to offend you, and regret that I have done so through mistaken
kindness. May I add that, in common with the rest of the army, I deplore
the necessity which has compelled us to resort to such harsh means
towards yourselves, in order to ensure success and safety.”

“I deeply sympathize with you in your profound regret,” said Mrs.
Ballard, ironically. “But pray tell me, sir, if you learned this very
novel and chivalric mode of warfare from the savages with whom you have
been contending, or is it the result of General Bacon's remarkable
military genius?”

“It is the result of the stern necessity under which we rest, of coping
with a force far superior to our own. And I trust that while your
ladyships can suffer but little inconvenience from our course, you will
not regret your own cares, if thereby you might prevent an effusion of
blood.”

“Oh, that is it,” replied Mrs. Ballard, in the same tone of withering
irony. “I confess that I was dull enough to believe that the
self-constituted, self-styled champions of freedom had courage enough to
battle for the right, and not to screen themselves from danger, as a
child will seek protection behind its mother's apron, from the attack of
an enraged cow.”

“Madam, I will not engage in an encounter of wits with you. I will do
you but justice when I say that few would come off victors in such a
contest. But I have a message from one of our officers to this young
lady, I believe, which I was instructed to reserve for her private ear.”

“There is no need for a confidential communication,” said Virginia
Temple, “as I have no secret which I desire to conceal from my mother
and these companions in misfortune. If, therefore, you have aught to
say to me, you may say it here, or else leave it unexpressed.”

“As you please, my fair young lady,” returned Wilford. “My message
concerns you alone, but if you do not care to conceal it from your
companions, I will deliver it in their presence. Major Thomas Hansford
desires me to say, that if you would allow him the honour of an
interview of a few moments, he would gladly take the opportunity of
explaining to you the painful circumstances by which you are surrounded,
in a manner which he trusts may meet with your approbation.”

“Say to Major Thomas Hansford,” replied Virginia, proudly, “that, as I
am his captive, I cannot prevent his intrusion into my presence. I
cannot refuse to hear what he may have to speak. But tell him, moreover,
that no explanation can justify this last base act, and that no
reparation can erase it from my memory. Tell him that she who once
honoured him, and loved him, as all that was noble, and generous, and
chivalric, now looks back upon the past as on a troubled dream; and
that, in future, if she should hear his name, she will remember him but
as one who, cast in a noble mould, might have been worthy of the highest
admiration, but, defaced by an indelible stain, is cast aside as worthy
alike of her indignation and contempt.”

As the young girl uttered the last fatal words, she sank back into her
grassy seat by her mother's side, as though exhausted by the effort she
had made. She had torn with violent resolution from her breast the image
which had so long been enshrined there—not only as a picture to be
loved, but as an idol to be worshipped—and though duty had nerved and
sustained her in the effort, nothing could assuage the anguish it
inflicted. She did not love him then, but she had loved him; and her
heart, like the gloomy chamber where death has been, seemed more
desolate for the absence of that which, though hideous to gaze upon,
was now gone forever.

Young Wilford was deeply impressed with the scene, and could not
altogether conceal the emotion which it excited. In a hurried and
agitated voice he promised to deliver her message to Hansford, and
bowing again politely to the ladies, he slowly withdrew.

In a few moments one of the soldiers came with the expected refreshment,
which certainly justified the description which Wilford had given. It
was both coarse and plain. Jerked venison, which had evidently been the
property of a stag with a dozen branches to his horns, and some dry and
moulding biscuit, completed the homely repast. Virginia, and most of her
companions, declined partaking of the unsavoury viands, but Mrs. Temple,
though bitterly lamenting her hard fate, in dooming her to such hard
fare, worked vigorously away at the tough venison with her two remaining
molars—asserting the while, very positively, that no such venison as
that existed in her young days, though, to confess the truth, if we may
judge from the evident age of the deceased animal, it certainly did.




CHAPTER XXXV.

    “Yet, though dull hate as duty should be taught,
    I know that thou wilt love me; though my name
    Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught
    With desolation,—and a broken claim;
    Though the grave closed between us, 'twere the same.”
                                                _Childe Harold._


The daylight had entirely disappeared, and the broad disc of the full
September moon was just appearing above the eastern horizon, when Bacon
and his followers resumed their march. Each of the captive ladies was
placed upon a horse, behind one of the officers, whose heavy riding
cloak was firmly girt to the horse's back, to provide a more comfortable
seat. Thus advancing, at a constant, but slow pace, to accommodate the
wearied soldiers, they pursued their onward course toward Jamestown. It
was Bacon's object to arrive before the town as early as possible in the
night, so as to secure the completion of their intrenchments and
breastworks before the morning, when he intended to commence the siege.
And now, as they are lighted on their way by the soft rays of the
autumnal moon, let us hear the conversation which was passing between
one of the cavaliers and his fair companion, as they rode slowly along
at some distance from the rest.

We may well suppose that Thomas Hansford, forced thus reluctantly to
engage in a policy from which his very soul revolted, would not commit
the charge of Virginia's person to another. She, at least, should learn,
that though so brutally impressed into the service of the rebel army,
there was an arm there to shield her from danger and protect her from
rudeness or abuse. She, at least, should learn that there was one heart
there, however despised and spurned by others, which beat in its every
throb for her safety and happiness.

Riding, as we have said, a little slower than the rest, so as to be a
little out of hearing, he said, in a low voice, tremulous with half
suppressed emotion, “Miss Temple cannot be ignorant of who her companion
is?”

“Your voice assures me,” replied Virginia, “that my conjecture is right,
and that I am in the presence of one who was once an honoured friend.
But had your voice and form changed as entirely as your heart, I could
never have recognized in the rebel who scruples not to insult a
defenceless woman, the once gallant and chivalrous Hansford.”

“And do you, can you believe that my heart has indeed so thoroughly
changed?”

“I would fain believe so, else I am forced to the conclusion that I
have, all my life, been deceived in a character which I deemed worthy of
my love, while it was only the more black because it was hypocritical.”

“Virginia,” said Hansford, with desperation, “you shall not talk thus;
you shall not think thus of me.”

“As my captor and jailer,” returned the brave hearted young maiden, “Mr.
Hansford may, probably, by force, control the expression of my
opinions—but thank God! not even you can control my thoughts. The mind,
at least, is free, though the body be enslaved.”

“Nay, do not mistake my meaning, dear Virginia,” said her lover. “But
alas! I am the victim of misconstruction. Could you, for a moment,
believe that I was capable of an act which you have justly described as
unmanly and unchivalrous?”

“What other opinion can I have?” said Virginia. “I find you acting with
those who are guilty of an act as cowardly as it is cruel. I find you
tacitly acquiescing in their measures, and aiding in guarding and
conducting their unhappy captives—and I received from you a message in
which you pretend to say that you can justify that which is at once
inexcusable before heaven, and in the court of man's honour. Forgive me,
if I am unable to separate the innocent from the guilty, and if I fail
to see that your conduct is more noble in this attempt to shift the
consequences of your crime upon your confederates.”

“Now, by Heaven, you wrong me!” returned Hansford. “My message to you
was mistaken by Captain Wilford. I never said I could justify your
capture; I charged him to tell you I could justify myself. And as for my
being found with those who have committed this unmanly act, as well
might you be deemed a participator in their actions now, because of your
presence here. I remonstrated, I protested against such a course—and
when at last adopted I denounced it as unworthy of men, and far more
unworthy of soldiers and freemen.”

“And yet, when overwhelmed by the voices of others, you quietly
acquiesce, and remain in companionship with those whose conduct you had
denounced.”

“What else could I do?” urged Hansford. “My feeble arm could not resist
the action of two hundred-men; and it only remained for me to continue
here, that I might secure the safety and kind treatment of those who
were the victims of this rude violence. Alas! how little did I think
that so soon you would be one of those unhappy victims, and that my
heart would deplore, for its own sake, a course from which my judgment
and better nature already revolted.”

The scales fell from Virginia's eyes. She now saw clearly the bitter
trial through which her lover had been called to pass, and recognized
once more the generous, self-denying nature of Hansford. The stain upon
his pure fame, to use her own figure, was but the effect of the false
and deceptive lens through which she had looked, and now that she saw
clearly, it was restored to its original purity and beauty.

“And is this true, indeed?” she said, in a happy voice. “Believe me,
Hansford, the relief which I feel at this moment more than compensates
for all that I have endured. The renewed assurance of your honour atones
for all. Can you forgive me for harbouring for a moment a suspicion that
you were aught but the soul of honour?”

“Forgive you, dearest?” returned Hansford. “Most freely—most fully! But
scarcely can I forgive those who have so wronged you. Cast in a common
lot with them, and struggling for a common cause, I cannot now withdraw
from their association; and indeed, Virginia, I will be candid, and tell
you freely that I would not if I could.”

“Alas!” said Virginia, “and what can be the result of your efforts.
Sooner or later aid must come from England, and crush a rebellion whose
success has only been ephemeral. And what else can be expected or
desired, since we have already seen how lost to honour are those by whom
it is attempted. Would you wish, if you could, to subject your country
to the sway of men, who, impelled only by their own reckless passions,
disregard alike the honour due from man and the respect due to woman?”

“You mistake the character of these brave men, Virginia. I believe
sincerely that General Bacon was prompted to this policy by a real
desire to prevent the unnecessary loss of life; and though this humanity
cannot entirely screen his conduct from reprehension, yet it may cast a
veil over it. Bold and reckless though he be, his powerful mind is
swayed by many noble feelings; and although he may commit errors, they
nearly lose their grossness in his ardent love of freedom, and his
exalted contempt of danger.”

“His love of freedom, I presume, is illustrated by his forcible capture
of unprotected females,” returned Virginia; “and his contempt of danger,
by his desire to interpose his captives between himself and the guns of
his enemies.”

“I have told you,” said Hansford, “that this conduct is incapable of
being justified, and in this I grant that Bacon has grievously erred.”

“Then why continue to unite your fortunes to a man whose errors are so
gross and disgraceful, and whose culpable actions endanger your own
reputation with your best friends?”

“Because,” said Hansford, proudly, “we are engaged in a cause, in the
full accomplishment of which the faults and errors of its champion will
be forgotten, and ransomed humanity will learn to bless his name,
scarcely less bright for the imperfections on its disc.”

“Your reasoning reminds me,” said Virginia, “of the heretical sect of
Cainites, of whom my father once told me, who exalted even Judas to a
hero, because by his treason redemption was effected for the world.”

“Well, my dear girl,” replied Hansford, “you maintain your position most
successfully. But since you quote from the history of the Church, I will
illustrate my position after the manner of a sage old oracle of the law.
Sir Edward Coke once alluded to the fable, that there was not a bird
that flitted through the air, but contributed by its donations to
complete the eagle's nest. And so liberty, whose fittest emblem is the
eagle, has its home provided and furnished by many who are unworthy to
enjoy the home which they have aided in preparing. Admit even, if you
please, that General Bacon is one of these unclean birds, we cannot
refuse the contribution which he brings in aid of the glorious cause
which we maintain.”

“Aye, but he is like, with his vaulting ambition, to be the eagle
himself,” returned Virginia; “and to say truth, although I have great
confidence in your protection, I feel like a lone dove in his talons,
and would wish for a safer home than in his eyrie.”

“You need fear no danger, be assured, dearest Virginia,” said Hansford,
“either for yourself or your mother. It is a part of his plan to send
one of the ladies under our charge into the city, to apprise the
garrison of our strange manœuvre; and I have already his word, that
your mother and yourself will be the bearers of this message. In a few
moments, therefore, your dangers will be past, and you will once more be
in the arms of your noble old father.”

“Oh thanks, thanks, my generous protector,” cried the girl, transported
at this new prospect of her freedom. “I can never forget your kindness,
nor cease to regret that I could ever have had a doubt of your honour
and integrity.”

“Oh forget that,” returned Hansford, “or remember it only that you may
acknowledge that it is often better to bear with the circumstances which
we cannot control, than by hasty opposition to lose the little influence
we may possess with those in power. But see the moonlight reflected from
the steeple of yonder church. We are within sight of Jamestown, and you
will be soon at liberty. And oh! Virginia,” he said sorrowfully, “if it
should be decreed in the book of fate, that when we part to-night we
part forever, and if the name of Hansford be defamed and vilified, you
at least, I know, will rescue his honour from reproach—and one tear
from my faithful Virginia, shed upon a patriot's grave, will atone for
all the infamy which indignant vengeance may heap upon my name.”

So saying, he spurred his horse rapidly onward, until he overtook Bacon,
who, with the precious burden under his care, as usual, led the way. And
a precious burden it might well be called, for by the light of the moon
the reader could have no difficulty in recognizing in the companion of
the young general of the insurgents, our old acquaintance, Mrs. Temple.
In the earlier part of their journey she had by no means contributed to
the special comfort of her escort—now, complaining bitterly of the
roughness of the road, she would grasp him around the waist with both
arms, until he was in imminent peril of falling from his horse, and then
when pacified by a smoother path and an easier gait, she would burst
forth in a torrent of invective against the cowardly rebels who would
misuse a poor old woman so. Bacon, however, while alike regardless of
her complaints of the road, the horse, or himself, did all in his power
to mollify the old lady, by humouring her prejudices as well as he
could; and when he at last informed her of the plan by which she and her
daughter would so soon regain their liberty, her temper relaxed, and she
became highly communicative. She was, indeed, deep in a description of
some early scenes of her life, and was telling how she had once seen the
bonnie young Charley with her own eyes, when he was hiding from the
pursuit of the Roundheads, and how he commended her loyalty, and above
all her looks; and promised when he came to his own to bestow a peerage
on her husband for his faithful adherence to the cause of his king. The
narrative had already lasted an hour or more when Hansford and Virginia
rode up and arrested the conversation, much to the relief of Bacon, who
was gravely debating in his own mind whether it was more agreeable to
hear the good dame's long-winded stories about past loyalty, or to
submit to her vehement imprecations on present rebellion.

The young general saluted Virginia courteously as she approached,
expressing the hope that she had not suffered from her exposure to the
night air, and then turned to Hansford, and engaged in conversation with
him on matters of interest connected with the approaching contest.

But as his remarks will be more fully understood, and his views
developed in the next chapter, we forbear to record them here. Suffice
it to say, that among other things it was determined, that immediately
upon their arrival before Jamestown, Mrs. Temple and Virginia, under the
escort of Hansford, should be conducted to the gate of the town, and
convey to the Governor and his adherents the intelligence of the capture
of the wives of the loyalists. We will only so far anticipate the
regular course of our narrative as to say, that this duty was performed
without being attended with any incident worthy of special remark; and
that Hansford, bidding a sad farewell to Virginia and her mother,
committed them to the care of the sentinel at the gate, and returned
slowly and sorrowfully to the insurgent camp.




CHAPTER XXXVI.

    “How yet resolves the Governor of the town?
    This is the latest parle we will admit.
    If I begin the battery once again,
    I will not leave the half achieved Harfleur,
    Till in her ashes she lie buried.”
                                    _King Henry V._


And now was heard on the clear night air the shrill blast of a solitary
trumpet breathing defiance, and announcing to the besieged loyalists,
the presence of the insurgents before the walls of Jamestown. Exhausted
by their long march, and depressed by the still gloomy prospect before
them, the thinned ranks of the rebel army required all the encouraging
eloquence of their general, to urge them forward in their perilous duty.
Nor did they need it long. Drawing his wearied, but faithful followers
around him, the young and ardent enthusiast addressed them in language
like the following:

     “SOLDIERS,”

     “Animated by a desire to free your country from the incursions of a
     savage foe, you have crowned your arms with victory and your lives
     with honor. You have annihilated the Indian power in Virginia, and
     in the waters of the brook which was the witness of your victory,
     you have washed away the stains of its cruelty. The purple blood
     which dyed that fatal stream, has even now passed away; Yet your
     deeds shall survive in the name which you have given it. And future
     generations, when they look upon its calm and unstained bosom, will
     remember with grateful hearts, those brave men who have given
     security to their homes, and will bless your patriot names when
     they repeat the story of Bloody Run.

     “For this you have been proclaimed traitors to your country and
     rebels to your king. Traitors to a country within whose borders the
     Indian war whoop has been hushed by your exertions! Rebels to your
     king for preserving Virginia, the brightest jewel in his crown,
     from inevitable ruin! But though you have accomplished much, much
     yet remains undone. Then nerve your stout hearts and gird on your
     armour once more for the contest. Though your enemies are not to be
     despised, they are not to be feared. _They_ fight as mercenaries
     uninspired by the cause which they have espoused. _You_ battle for
     freedom, for honor and for life. Your freedom is threatened by the
     oppressions of a relentless tyrant and a subservient Assembly. Your
     honor is assailed, for you are publicly branded as traitors. Your
     lives are proscribed by those who have basely charged your
     patriotism as treason, and your defence of your country as
     rebellion. Be not dismayed with the numbers of your foes. Think
     only that it is yours to lessen them. Remember that Peace can never
     come to you, though you woo it never so sweetly. You must go to it,
     even though your way thither lay through a sea of blood. You will
     find me ever where danger is thickest. I will share your peril now
     and your reward hereafter.”

Inspired with new ardour, by the words and still more by the example of
their leader, the soldiers proceeded to the task of constructing a
breastwork for their defence. Bacon himself at imminent risk to his
person, drew with his own hands the line for the entrenchment, while the
soldiers prepared for themselves a secure defence from attack by a
breastwork composed of felled trees, earth, and brushwood. It was a
noble sight, I ween, to see these hardy patriots of the olden time,
nearly sinking under fatigue, yet working cheerfully and ardently in the
cause of freedom—to hear their axes ringing merrily through the still
night air, and the tall forest trees falling with a heavy crash, as they
were preparing their rude fortifications; and to look up on the cold,
silent moon, as she watched them from her high path in heaven, and you
might almost think, smiled with cold disdain, to think that all their
hopes would be blasted, and their ardour checked by defeat, while she in
her pride of fulness would traverse that same high arch twelve hundred
times before the day-star of freedom dawned upon the land.

Meantime the besieged loyalists having heard with surprise and
consternation, the story of Mrs. Temple and Virginia, were completely
confounded. Fearing to fire a single gun, lest the ball intended for
their adversaries might pierce the heart of some innocent woman, they
were forced to await with impatience the completion of the works of the
insurgents. The latter had not the same reason for forbearance, and made
several successful sorties upon the palisades, which surrounded the
town, effecting several breaches, and killing some men, but without loss
to any their own party. Furious at the successful stratagems of the
rebels and fearing an accession to their number from the surrounding
country, Sir William Berkeley at length determined to make a sally from
the town, and test the strength and courage of his adversaries in an
open field. Bacon, meanwhile, having effected his object in securing a
sufficient fortification, with much courtesy dismissed the captive
ladies, who went, rejoicing at their liberation, to tell the story of
their wrongs to their loyal husbands.

The garrison of Jamestown consisting of about twenty cavalier loyalists,
and eight hundred raw, undisciplined recruits, picked up by Berkeley
during his stay in Accomac, were led on firmly towards the entrenchments
of the rebels, by Beverley and Ludwell, who stood high in the confidence
of the Governor, and in the esteem of the colony, as brave and
chivalrous men. Among the subordinate officers in the garrison was
Alfred Bernard, rejoicing in the commission of captain, but recently
conferred, and burning to distinguish himself in a contest against the
rebels. From their posts behind the entrenchment, the insurgents calmly
watched the approach of their foes. Undismayed by their numbers, nearly
four times as great as their own, they awaited patiently the signal of
their general to begin the attack. Bacon, on his part, with all the
ardour of his nature, possessed in an equal degree the coolness and
prudence of a great general, and was determined not to risk a fire,
until the enemy was sufficiently near to ensure heavy execution. When at
length the front line of the assailants advanced within sixty yards of
the entrenchment, he gave the word, which was obeyed with tremendous
effect, and then without leaving their posts, they prepared to renew
their fire. But it was not necessary. Despite the exhortations and
prayers of their gallant officers, the royal army, dismayed at the first
fire of the enemy, broke ranks and retreated, leaving their drum and
their dead upon the field. In vain did Ludwell exhort them, in the name
of the king, to return to the assault; in vain did the brave Beverley
implore them as Virginians and Englishmen not to desert their colors; in
vain did Alfred Bernard conjure them to retrieve the character of
soldiers and of men, and to avenge the cause of wronged and insulted
women upon the cowardly oppressors. Regardless alike of king, country or
the laws of gallantry, the soldiers ran like frightened sheep, from
their pursuers, nor stopped in their flight until once more safely
ensconced behind their batteries, and under the protection of the cannon
from the ships. The brave cavaliers looked aghast at this cowardly
defection, and stood for a moment irresolute, with the guns of the
insurgents bearing directly upon them. Bacon could easily have fired
upon them with certain effect, but with the magnanimity of a brave man,
he was struck with admiration for their dauntless courage, and with pity
for their helplessness. Nor was he by any means anxious to pursue them,
for he feared lest a victory so easily won, might be a stratagem of the
enemy, and that by venturing to pursue, he might fall into an ambuscade.
Contenting himself, therefore, with the advantage he had already gained,
he remained behind his entrenchment, determined to wait patiently for
the morrow, before he commenced another attack upon the town.




CHAPTER XXXVII.

    “Let's leave this town; for they are hairbrained slaves,
    And hunger will enforce them to be more eager.
    Of old I know them; rather with their teeth
    The walls they'll tear down, than forsake the siege.”
                                                  _King Henry VI._


It was very late, but there were few in Jamestown on that last night of
its existence that cared to sleep. Those who were not kept awake by the
cares of state or military duties, were yet suffering from an intense
apprehension, which denied them repose. There was “hurrying to and fro,”
along Stuart street, and “whispering with white lips,” among the
thronging citizens. Ever siding with the stronger party, and inclined to
attribute to the besieged Governor the whole catalogue of evils under
which the colony was groaning, many of the lower classes of the citizens
expressed their sympathy with Nathaniel Bacon, and only awaited a secret
opportunity to desert to his ranks. A conspiracy was ripening among the
soldiery to open the gates to the insurgents, and surrender at once the
town and the Governor into their hands—but over-awed by the resolute
boldness of their leader, and wanting in the strength of will to act for
themselves, they found it difficult to carry their plan into execution.

Sir William Berkeley, with a few of his steady adherents and faithful
friends, was anxiously awaiting, in the large hall of the palace, the
tidings of the recent sally upon the besiegers. Notwithstanding the
superior numbers of his men, he had but little confidence either in
their loyalty or courage, while he was fully conscious of the desperate
bravery of the insurgents. While hope whispered that the little band of
rebels must yield to the overwhelming force of the garrison, fear
interposed, to warn him of the danger of defection and cowardice in his
ranks. As thus he sat anxiously endeavouring to guess the probable
result of his sally, heavy footsteps were heard ascending the stairs.
The heart of the old Governor beat thick with apprehension, and the damp
drops wrung from him by anxiety and care, stood in cold beads upon his
brow.

“What news?” he cried, in a hoarse, agitated voice, as Colonel Ludwell,
Robert Beverley, and Alfred Bernard entered the room. “But I read it in
your countenances! All is lost!”

“Yes, Governor Berkeley,” said Philip Ludwell, “all is lost! we have not
even the melancholy consolation of Francis, 'that our honour is
preserved.' The cowardly hinds who followed us, fled from the first
charge of the rebels, like frightened hares. All attempts to rally them
were in vain, and many of them we understand have joined with the
rebels.”

As the fatal tidings fell upon his ear, Berkeley pressed his hand to his
forehead, and sobbed aloud. The heart of the brave old loyalist could
bear no more—and all the haughty dignity of his nature gave way in a
flood of bitter tears. But the effect was only transient, and nerving
himself, he controlled his feelings once more by the energy of his iron
will.

“How many still remain with us?” he asked, anxiously, of Ludwell.

“Alas! sir, if the rumour which we heard as we came hither be
true—none, absolutely none. There was an immense crowd gathered around
the tavern, listening to the news of our defeat from one of the
soldiers, and as we passed a loud and insulting cry went up of “Long
live Bacon! and down with tyranny!” The soldiers declared that they
would not stain their hands with the blood of their fellow-subjects; the
citizens as vehemently declared that the town itself should not long
harbour those who had trampled on their rights. Treason stalks abroad
boldly and openly, and I fear that the loyalty of Virginia is confined
to this room.”

“Now, Heaven help me,” said Berkeley, sadly, “for the world has well
nigh deserted me. And yet, if I fall, I shall fall at my post, and the
trust bestowed upon me by my king shall be yielded only with my life.”

“It were madness to think of remaining longer here,” said Beverley; “the
rebels, with the most consummate courage, evince the most profound
prudence and judgment. Before the dawn they will bring their cannon to
bear upon our ships and force them to withdraw from the harbour, and
then all means of escape being cut off, we will be forced to surrender
on such terms as the enemy may dictate.”

“We will yield to no terms,” replied Berkeley. “For myself, death is far
preferable to dishonour. Rather than surrender the trust which I have in
charge, let us remain here, until, like the brave senators of Rome, we
are hacked to pieces at our posts by the swords of these barbarians.”

“But what can you expect to gain by such a desperate course,” said old
Ballard, who, though not without a sufficient degree of courage, would
prefer rather to admire the heroism of the Roman patriots in history,
than to vie with them in their desperate resolution.

“I expect to retain my honour,” cried the brave old Governor. “A brave
man may suffer death—he can never submit to dishonour.”

“My honoured Governor,” said Major Beverley, whose well-known courage
and high-toned chivalry gave great effect to his counsel; “believe me,
that we all admire your steady loyalty and your noble heroism. But
reflect, that you gain nothing by desperation, and it is the part of
true courage not to hazard a desperate risk without any hope of success.
God knows that I would willingly yield up my own life to preserve
unsullied the honour of my country, and the dignity of my king; but I
doubt how far we serve his real interests by a deliberate sacrifice of
all who are loyal to his cause.”

“And what then would you advise?” said the Governor, in an irritated
manner. “To make a base surrender of our persons and our cause, and to
grant to these insolent rebels every concession which their insolence
may choose to demand? No! gentlemen, sooner would William Berkeley
remain alone at his post, until his ashes mingled with the ashes of this
palace, than yield one inch to rebels in arms.”

“It is not necessary,” returned Beverley. “You may escape without loss
of life or compromise of honour, and reserve until a future day your
vengeance on these disloyal barbarians.”

Berkeley was silent.

“Look,” continued Beverley, leading the old loyalist to the window which
overlooked the river; “by the light of dawn you can see the white sails
of the Adam and Eve, as she rests at anchor in yonder harbor. There is
still time to escape before the rebels can suspect our design. Once upon
the deck of that little vessel, with her sails unfurled to this rising
breeze, you may defy the threats of the besiegers. Then once more to
your faithful Accomac, and when the forces from England shall arrive,
trained bands of loyal and brave Britons, your vengeance shall then be
commensurate with the indignities you have suffered.”

Still Berkeley hesitated, but his friends could see by the quiver of his
lip, that the struggle was still going on, and that he was thinking with
grim satisfaction of that promised vengeance.

“Let me urge you,” continued Beverley, encouraged by the effect which he
was evidently producing; “let me urge you to a prompt decision. Will you
remain longer in Jamestown, this nest of traitors, and expose your
faithful adherents to certain death? Is loyalty so common in Virginia,
that you will suffer these brave supporters of your cause to be
sacrificed? Will you leave their wives and daughters, whom they can no
longer defend, to the insults and outrages of a band of lawless
adventurers, who have shown that they disregard the rights of men, and
the more sacred deference due to a woman? We have done all that became
us, as loyal citizens, to do. We have sustained the standard of the king
until it were madness, not courage, further to oppose the designs of the
rebels. Beset by a superior force, and with treason among our own
citizens, and defection among our own soldiers—with but twenty stout
hearts still true and faithful to their trust—our alternative is
between surrender and death on the one hand, and flight and future
vengeance on the other. Can you longer hesitate between the two? But
see, the sky grows brighter toward the east, and the morning comes to
increase the perils of the night. I beseech you, by my loyalty and my
devotion to your interest, decide quickly and wisely.”

“I will go,” replied Berkeley, after a brief pause, in a voice choking
with emotion. “But God is my witness, that if I only were concerned,
rebellion should learn that there was a loyalist who held his sacred
trust so near his heart, that it could only be yielded with his
life-blood. But why should I thus boast? Do with me as you please—I
will go.”

No sooner was Berkeley's final decision known, than the whole palace was
in a state of preparation. Hurriedly putting up such necessaries as
would be needed in their temporary exile, the loyalists were soon ready
for their sudden departure. Lady Frances, stately as ever, remained
perhaps rather longer before her mirror, in the arrangement of her tire,
than was consistent with their hasty flight. Virginia Temple scarcely
devoted a moment for her own preparations, so constantly was her
assistance required by her mother, who bustled about from trunk to
trunk, in a perfect agony of haste—found she had locked up her mantle,
which was in the very bottom of an immense trunk, and finally, when she
had put her spectacles and keys in her pocket, declared that they were
lost, and required Virginia to search in every hole and corner of the
room for them. But with all these delays—ever incident to ladies, and
old ones especially, when starting on a journey—the little party were
at length announced to be ready for their “moonlight flitting.” Sadly
and silently they left the palace to darkness and solitude, and
proceeded towards the river. At the bottom of the garden, which ran down
to the banks of the river, were two large boats, belonging to the
Governor, and which were often used in pleasure excursions. In these the
fugitives embarked, and under the muscular efforts of the strong
oarsmen, the richly freighted boats scudded rapidly through the water
towards the good ship “Adam and Eve,” which lay at a considerable
distance from the shore, to avoid the guns of the insurgents.

Alfred Bernard had the good fortune to have the fair Virginia under his
immediate charge; but the hearts of both were too full to improve the
opportunity with much conversation. The young intriguer, who cared but
little in his selfish heart for either loyalists or rebels, still felt
that he had placed his venture on a wrong card, and was about to lose.
The hopes of preferment which he had cherished were about to be
dissipated by the ill fortune of his patron, and the rival of his love,
crowned with success, he feared, might yet bear away the prize which he
had so ardently coveted. Virginia Temple had more generous cause for
depression than he. Hers was the hard lot to occupy a position of
neutrality in interest between the contending parties. Whichever faction
in the State succeeded, she must be a mourner; for, in either case, she
was called upon to sacrifice an idol which she long had cherished, and
which she must now yield for ever. They sat together near the stern of
the boat, and watched the moonlight diamonds which sparkled for a moment
on the white spray that dropped from the dripping oar, and then passed
away.

“It is thus,” said Bernard, with a heavy sigh. “It is thus with this
present transient life. We dance for a moment upon the white waves of
fortune, rejoicing in light and hope and joy—but the great, unfeeling
world rolls on, regardless of our little life, while we fade even while
we sparkle, and our places are supplied by others, who in their turn,
dance and shine, and smile, and pass away, and are forgotten!”

“It is even so,” said Virginia, sadly—then turning her blue eyes
upward, she added, sweetly, “but see, Mr. Bernard, the moon which shines
so still and beautiful in heaven, partakes not of the changes of these
reflected fragments of her brightness. So we, when reunited to the
heaven from which our spirits came, will shine again unchangeable and
happy.”

“Yes, my sweet one,” replied her lover passionately, “and were it my
destiny to be ever thus with you, and to hear the sweet eloquence of
your pure lips, I would not need a place in heaven to be happy.”

“Mr. Bernard,” said Virginia, “is this a time or place to speak thus?
The circumstances by which we are surrounded should check every selfish
thought for the time, in our care for the more important interests at
stake.”

“My fair, young loyalist,” said Bernard, “and is it because of the
interest excited in your bosom by the fading cause of loyalty, that you
check so quickly the slightest word of admiration from one whom you have
called your friend? Nay, fair maiden, be truthful even though you
should be cruel.”

“To be candid, then, Mr. Bernard,” returned Virginia, “I thought we had
long ago consented not to mention that subject again. I hope you will be
faithful to your promise.”

“My dearest Virginia, that compact was made when your heart had been
given to another whom you thought worthy to reign there. Surely, you
cannot, after the events of to-night oppose such an obstacle to my suit.
Your gentle heart, my girl, is too pure and holy a shrine to afford
refuge to a rebel, and a profaner of woman's sacred rights.”

“Mr. Bernard,” said Virginia, “another word on this subject, and I seek
refuge myself from your insults. You, who are the avowed champion of
woman's rights, should know that she owns no right so sacred as to
control the affections of her own heart. I have before told you in terms
too plain to be misunderstood, that I can never love you. Force me not
to repeat what you profess may give you pain, and above all force me not
by your unwelcome and ungenerous assaults upon an absent rival to
substitute for the real interest which I feel in your happiness, a
feeling more strong and decided, but less friendly.”

“You mean that you would hate me,” said Bernard, cut to the heart at her
language, at once so firm and decided, yet so guarded and courteous.
“Very well,” he added, with an hauteur but illy assumed. “I trust I have
more independence and self-respect than to intrude my attentions or
conversation where they are unwelcome. But see, our journey is at an
end, and though Miss Temple might have made it more pleasant, I am glad
that we are freed from the embarrassment that we both must feel in a
more extended interview.”

And now the loud voice of Captain Gardiner is heard demanding their
names and wishes, which are soon told. The hoarse cable grates harshly
along the ribs of the vessel, and the boats are drawn up close to her
broadside, and the loyal fugitives ascending the rude and tremulous
rope-ladder, stand safe and sound upon the deck of the Adam and Eve.

Scarcely had Berkeley and his adherents departed on their flight from
Jamestown, when some of the disaffected citizens of the town, seeing the
lights in the palace so suddenly extinguished, shrewdly suspected their
design. Without staying to ascertain the truth of their suspicions, they
hastened with the intelligence to General Bacon, and threw open the
gates to the insurgents. Highly elated with the easy victory they had
gained over the loyalists, the triumphant patriots forgetting their
fatigue and hunger, marched into the city, amid the loud acclamations of
the fickle populace. But to the surprise of all there was still a gloom
resting upon Bacon and his officers. That cautious and far-seeing man
saw at a glance, that although he had gained an immense advantage over
the royalists, in the capture of the metropolis, it was impossible to
retain it in possession long. As soon as his army was dispersed, or
engaged in another quarter of the colony, it would be easy for Berkeley,
with the navy under his command, to return to the place, and erect once
more the fallen standard of loyalty.

While then, the soldiery were exulting rapturously over their triumph,
Bacon, surrounded by his officers, was gravely considering the best
policy to pursue.

“My little army is too small,” he said, “to leave a garrison here, and
so long as they remain thus organized peace will be banished from the
colony; and yet I cannot leave the town to become again the harbour of
these treacherous loyalists.”

“I can suggest no policy that is fit to pursue, in such an emergency,”
said Hansford, “except to retain possession of the town, at least until
the Governor is fairly in Accomac again.”

“That, at best,” said Bacon, “will only be a dilatory proceeding, for
sooner or later, whenever the army is disbanded, the stubborn old
governor will return and force us to continue the war. And besides I
doubt whether we could maintain the place with Brent besieging us in
front, and the whole naval force of Virginia, under the command of such
expert seamen as Gardiner and Larimore, attacking us from the river. No,
no, the only way to untie the Gordian knot is to cut it, and the only
way to extricate ourselves from this difficulty is to burn the town.”

This policy, extreme as it was, in the necessities of their condition
was received with a murmur of assent. Lawrence and Drummond, devoted
patriots, and two of the wealthiest and most enterprising citizens of
the town, evinced their willingness to sacrifice their private means to
secure the public good, by firing their own houses. Emulating an example
so noble and disinterested, other citizens followed in their wake. The
soldiers, ever ready for excitement, joined in the fatal work. A stiff
breeze springing up, favored their design, and soon the devoted town was
enveloped in the greedy flames.

From the deck of the Adam and Eve, the loyalists witnessed the stern,
uncompromising resolution of the rebels. The sun was just rising, and
his broad, red disc was met in his morning glory with flames as bright
and as intense as his own. The Palace, the State House, the large Garter
Tavern, the long line of stores, and the Warehouse, all in succession
were consumed. The old Church, the proud old Church, where their fathers
had worshipped, was the last to meet its fate. The fire seemed unwilling
to attack its sacred walls, but it was to fall with the rest; and as the
broad sails of the gay vessel were spread to the morning breeze, which
swelled them, that devoted old Church was seen in its raiment of fire,
like some old martyr, hugging the flames which consumed it, and pointing
with its tapering steeple to an avenging Heaven.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

    “We take no note of time but by its loss.”
                                            _Young._


It is permitted to the story teller, like the angels of ancient
metaphysicians, to pass from point to point, and from event to event,
without traversing the intermediate space or time. A romance thus
becomes a moving panorama, where the prominent objects of interest pass
in review before the eyes of the spectator, and not an atlas or chart,
where the toiling student, with rigid scrutiny must seek the latitude
and longitude of every object which meets his view.

Availing ourselves of this privilege, we will pass rapidly over the
events which occurred subsequently to the burning of Jamestown, and
again resume the narrative where it more directly affects the fortunes
of Hansford and Virginia. We will then suppose that it is about the
first of January, 1677, three months after the circumstances detailed in
the last chapter. Nathaniel Bacon, the arch rebel, as the loyal
historians and legislators of his day delighted to call him, has passed
away from the scenes of earth. The damp trenches of Jamestown, more
fatal than the arms of his adversaries, have stilled the restless
beating of that bold heart, which in other circumstances might have
insured success to the cause of freedom. An industrious compiler of the
laws of Virginia, and an ingenious commentator on her Colonial History,
has suggested from the phraseology of one of the Acts of the Assembly,
that Bacon met his fate by the dagger of the assassin, employed by the
revengeful Berkeley. But the account of his death is too authentic to
admit of such a supposition, and the character of Sir William Berkeley,
already clouded with relentless cruelty, is happily freed from the foul
imputation, that to the prejudices and sternness of the avenging
loyalist he added the atrocity of a malignant fiend. We have the most
authentic testimony, that Nathaniel Bacon died of a dysentery,
contracted by his exposure in the trenches of Jamestown, at the house of
a Dr. Pate, in the county of Gloucester; and that the faithful Lawrence,
to screen his insensate clay from the rude vengeance of the Governor,
gave the young hero a grave in some unknown forest, where after life's
fitful fever he sleeps well.

The cause of freedom, having lost its head, fell a prey to discord and
defection. In the selection of a leader to succeed the gallant Bacon,
dissensions prevailed among the insurgents, and disgusted at last with
the trials to which they were exposed, and wearied with the continuance
of a civil war, the great mass of the people retired quietly to their
homes. Ingram and Walklate, who attempted to revive the smouldering
ashes of the rebellion, were the embodiments of frivolity and stupidity,
and were unable to retain that influence over the stern and high-toned
patriots which was essential to united action. Deprived of their
support, as may be easily conjectured, there was no longer any
difficulty in suppressing the ill-fated rebellion; and Walklate,
foreseeing the consequences of further resistance, resolved to make a
separate peace for himself and a few personal friends, and to leave his
more gallant comrades to their fate. The terms of treaty proposed by
Berkeley were dispatched by Captain Gardiner to the selfish leader, who,
with the broken remnant of the insurgents, was stationed at West Point.
He acceded to the terms with avidity, and thus put a final end to a
rebellion, which, even at that early day, was so near securing the
blessings of rational freedom to Virginia.

Meantime, the long expected aid from England had arrived, and Berkeley,
with an organized and reliable force at his command, prepared, with grim
satisfaction, to execute his terrible vengeance upon the proscribed and
fugitive insurgents. Major Beverley, at the head of a considerable
force, was dispatched in pursuit of such of the unhappy men as might
linger secreted in the woods and marshes near the river—and smaller
parties were detailed for the same object in other parts of the colony.
Many of the fugitives were captured and brought before the relentless
Governor. There, mocked and insulted in their distress, the devoted
patriots were condemned by a court martial, and with cruel haste hurried
to execution. The fate of the gallant Lawrence, to whom incidental
allusion has been frequently made in the foregoing pages, was long
uncertain—but at last those interested in his fate were forced to the
melancholy conclusion, that well nigh reduced to starvation in his
marshy fastness, with Roman firmness, the brave patriot fell by his own
hand, rather than submit to the ruthless cruelty of the vindictive
Governor.

Thomas Hansford was among those who were proscribed fugitives from the
vengeance of the loyalists. He had in vain endeavoured to rally the
dispirited insurgents, and to hazard once more the event of a battle
with the royal party. He indignantly refused to accept the terms, so
readily embraced by Walklate, and determined to share the fate of those
brave comrades, in whose former triumph he had participated. And now, a
lonely wanderer, he eluded the vigilant pursuit of his enemies, awaiting
with anxiety, the respite which royal interposition would grant, to the
unabating vengeance of the governor. He was not without strong hope that
the clemency which reflected honour on Charles the Second, towards the
enemies of his father, would be extended to the promoters of the
ill-fated rebellion in Virginia. In default of this, he trusted to make
his escape into Maryland, after the eagerness of pursuit was over, and
there secretly to embark for England—where, under an assumed name, he
might live out the remnant of his days in peace and security, if not in
happiness. It was with a heavy heart that he looked forward to even this
remote chance of escape and safety—for it involved the necessity of
leaving, for ever, his widowed mother, who leaned upon his strong arm
for support; and his beloved Virginia, in whose smiles of favour, he
could alone be happy. Still, it was the only honourable chance that
offered, and while as a brave man he had nerved himself for any fate, as
a good man, he could not reject the means of safety which were extended
to him.

While these important changes were taking place in the political world,
the family at Windsor Hall were differently affected by the result.
Colonel Temple, in the pride of his gratified loyalty, could not
disguise his satisfaction even from his unhappy daughter, and rubbed his
hands gleefully as the glad tidings came that the rebellion had been
quelled. The old lady shared his happiness with all her heart, but
mingled with her joy some of the harmless vanity of her nature. She
attributed the happy result in a good degree to the counsel and wisdom
of her husband, and recurred with great delight to her own bountiful
hospitality to the fugitive loyalists. Nay, in the excess of her
self-gratulation, she even hinted an opinion, that if Colonel Temple had
remained in England, the cause of loyalty would have been much advanced,
and that General Monk would not have borne away the palm of having
achieved the glorious restoration.

But these loyal sentiments of gratulation met with no response in the
heart of Virginia Temple. The exciting scenes through which she had
lately passed had left their traces on her young heart. No more the
laughing, thoughtless, happy girl whom we have known, shedding light and
gaiety on all around her, she had gained, in the increased strength and
development of her character, much to compensate for the loss. The
furnace which evaporates the lighter particles of the ore, leaves the
precious metal in their stead. Thus is it with the trying furnace of
affliction in the formation of the human character, and such was its
effect upon Virginia. She no longer thought or felt as a girl. She felt
that she was a woman, called upon to act a woman's part; and relying on
her strengthened nature, but more upon the hand whose protection she had
early learned to seek, she was prepared to act that part. The fate of
Hansford was unknown to her. She had neither seen nor heard from him
since that awful night, when she parted from him at the gate of
Jamestown. Convinced of his high sense of honour, and his heroic daring,
she knew that he was the last to desert a falling cause, and she
trembled for his life, should he fall into the hands of the enraged and
relentless Berkeley. But even if her fears in this respect were
groundless, the future was still dark to her. The bright dream which she
had cherished, that he to whom, in the trusting truth of her young
heart, she had plighted her troth, would share with her the joys and
hopes of life, was now, alas! dissipated forever. A proscribed rebel, an
outcast from home, her father's loyal prejudices were such that she
could never hope to unite her destiny with Hansford. And yet, dreary as
the future had become, she bore up nobly in the struggle, and, with
patient submission, resigned her fate to the will of Heaven.

Her chief employment now was to train the mind of the young Mamalis to
truth, and in this sacred duty she derived new consolation in her
affliction. The young Indian girl had made Windsor Hall her home since
the death of her brother. The generous nature of Colonel Temple could
not refuse to the poor orphan, left alone on earth without a protector,
a refuge and a home beneath his roof. Nor were the patient and prayerful
instructions of Virginia without their reward. The light which had long
been struggling to obtain an entrance to her heart, now burst forth in
the full effulgence of the truth, and the trusting Mamalis had felt, in
all its beauty and reality, the assurance of the promise, “Come unto me
all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Her
manners, which, with all of her association with Virginia, had something
of the wildness of the savage, were now softened and subdued. Her
picturesque but wild costume, which reminded her of her former life, was
discarded for the more modest dress which the refinement of civilization
had prescribed. Her fine, expressive countenance, which had often been
darkened by reflecting the wild passions of her unsubdued heart, was now
radiant with peaceful joy; and as you gazed upon the softened
expression, the tranquil and composed bearing of the young girl, you
might well “take knowledge of her that she had been with Jesus.”




CHAPTER XXXIX.

    “Farewell and blessings on thy way,
      Where'r thou goest, beloved stranger,
    Better to sit and watch that ray,
    And think thee safe though far away,
      Than have thee near me and in danger.”
                                      _Lalla Roohk._


Moonlight at Windsor Hall! The waning, January moon shone coldly and
brightly, as it rose above the dense forest which surrounded the once
more peaceful home of Colonel Temple. The tall poplars which shaded the
quiet yard were silvered with its light, and looked like medieval
knights all clad in burnished and glistening mail. The crisp hoarfrost
that whitened the frozen ground sparkled in the mellow beams, like
twinkling stars, descended to earth, and drinking in with rapture the
clear light of their native heaven. Not a sound was heard save the
dreary, wintry blast, as it sighed its mournful requiem over the dead
year, “gone from the earth for ever.”

Virginia Temple had not yet retired to rest, although it was growing
late. She was sitting alone, in her little chamber, and watching the
glowing embers on the hearth, as they sparkled for a moment, and shed a
ruddy light around, and then were extinguished, throwing the whole room
into dark shadow. Sad emblem, these fleeting sparks, of the hopes that
had once been bright before her, assuming fancied shapes of future joy
and peace and love, and then dying to leave her sad heart the darker for
their former presence. In the solitude of her own thoughts she was
taking a calm review of her past life—her early childhood—when she
played in innocent mirth beneath the shade of the oaks and poplars that
still stood unchanged in the yardher first acquaintance with Hansford,
which opened a new world to her young heart, replete with joys and
treasures unknown before—all the thrilling events of the last few
months—her last meeting with her lover, and his prayer that she at
least would not censure him, when he was gone—her present despondency
and gloom—all these thoughts came in slow and solemn procession across
her mind, like dreary ghosts of the buried past.

Suddenly she was startled from her reverie by the sound of a low, sweet,
familiar voice, beneath her window, and, as she listened, the melancholy
spirit of the singer sought and found relief in the following tender
strains:

    “Once more I seek thy quiet home,
      My tale of love to tell,
    Once more from danger's field I come,
      To breathe a last farewell!
          Though hopes are flown,
          Though friends are gone;
    Yet wheresoe'r I flee,
          I still retain,
          And hug the chain
    Which binds my soul to thee.

    “My heart, like some lone chamber left,
      Must, mouldering, fall at last;
    Of hope, of love, of thee bereft,
      It lives but in the past.
          With jealous care,
          I cherish there
    The web, however small,
          That memory weaves,
          And mercy leaves,
      Upon that ruined wall.

    “Though Tyranny, with bloody laws,
      May dig my early grave,
    Yet death, when met in Freedom's cause,
      Is sweetest to the brave;
          Wedded to her,
          Without a fear,
      I'll mount her funeral pile,
          Welcome the death
          Which seals my faith,
      And meet it with a smile.

    “While, like the tides, that softly swell
      To kiss their mother moon,
    Thy gentle soul will soar to dwell
      In visions with mine own;
          As skies distil
          The dews that fill
      The blushing rose at even,
          So blest above,
          I'll mourn thy love
      And weep for thee in heaven.”

It needed not the well-known voice of Hansford to assure the weeping
girl that he was near her. The burden of that sad song, which found an
echo in her own heart, told her too plainly that it could be only he. It
was no time for delicate scruples of propriety. She only knew that he
was near her and in danger. Rising from her chair, and throwing around
her a shawl to protect her from the chill night air, she hastened to the
door. In another moment they were in each other's arms.

“Oh, my own Virginia,” said Hansford, “this is too, too kind. I had only
thought to come and breathe a last farewell, and then steal from your
presence for ever. I felt that it was a privilege to be near you, to
watch, unseen, the flickering light reflected from your presence. This
itself had been reward sufficient for the peril I encounter. How sweet
then to hear once more the accents of your voice, and to feel once more
the warm beating of your faithful heart.”

“And could you think,” said Virginia, as she wept upon his shoulder,
“that knowing you to be in danger, I could fail to see you. Oh,
Hansford! you little know the truth of woman's love if you can for a
moment doubt that your misfortune and your peril have made you doubly
dear.”

“Yet how brief must be my stay. The avenger is behind me, and I must
soon resume my lonely wandering.”

“And will you again leave me?” asked Virginia, in a reproachful tone.

“Leave you, dearest, oh, how sweet would be my fate, after all my cares
and sufferings, if I could but die here. But this must not be. Though I
trust I know how to meet death as a brave man, yet it is my duty, as a
good man, to leave no honourable means untried to save my life.”

“But your danger cannot be so great, dearest,” said Virginia, tenderly.
“Surely my father—”

“Would feel it his duty,” said Hansford, interrupting her, “to deliver
me up to justice; and feeling it to be such, he would have the moral
firmness to discharge it. Poor old gentleman! like many of his party,
his prejudice perverts his true and generous heart. My poor country must
suffer long before she can overcome the opposition of bigoted loyalty.
Forgive me for speaking thus of your noble father, Virginia—but
prejudices like these are the thorns which spring up in his heart and
choke the true word of freedom, and render it unfruitful. Is it not so,
dearest?”

“You mistake his generous nature,” said Virginia, earnestly. “You
mistake his love for me. You mistake his sound judgment. You mistake his
high sense of honour. Think you that he sees no difference between the
man who, impelled by principle, asserts what he believes to be a right,
and him, who for his own selfish ends and personal advancement, would
sacrifice his country. Yes, my dear friend, you mistake my father. He
will gladly interpose with the Governor and restore you to happiness, to
freedom, and to—”

She paused, unable to proceed for the sobs that choked her utterance,
and then gave vent to a flood of passionate grief.

“You would add, 'and to thee,'” said Hansford, finishing the sentence.
“God knows, my girl, that such a hope would make me dare more peril than
I have yet encountered. But, alas! if it were even as you say, what
weight would his remonstrance have with that imperious old tyrant,
Berkeley? It would be but the thistle-down against the cannon ball in
the scales of his justice.”

“He dare not refuse my father's demands,” said Virginia. “One who has
been so devoted to his cause, who has sacrificed so much for his king,
and who has afforded shelter and protection to the Governor himself in
the hour of his peril and need, is surely entitled to this poor favour
at his hands. He dare not refuse to grant it.”

“Alas! Virginia, you little know the character of Sir William Berkeley,
when you say he dares not. But the very qualities which you claim, and
justly claim, for your father, would prevent him from exerting that
influence with the Governor which your hopes whisper would be so
successful—'His noble nature' would prompt him at any sacrifice to
yield personal feeling to a sense of public duty. 'His love for you'
would prompt him to rescue you from the _rebel_ who dared aspire to your
hand. 'His sound judgment' would dictate the maxim, that it were well
for one man to die for the people; and his 'high sense of honour' would
prevent him from interposing between a condemned _traitor_ and his
deserved doom. Be assured, Virginia, that thus would your father reason;
and with his views of loyalty and justice, I could not blame him for the
conclusion to which he came.”

“Then in God's name,” cried Virginia, in an agony of desperation, for
she saw the force of Hansford's views, “how can you shun this
threatening danger? Whither can you fly?”

“My only hope,” said Hansford, gloomily, “is to leave the Colony and
seek refuge in Maryland, though I fear that this is hopeless. If I fail
in this, then I must lurk in some hiding place until instructions from
England may arrive, and check the vindictive Berkeley in his ruthless
cruelty.”

“And is there a hope of that!” said Virginia, quickly.

“There is a faint hope, and that slender thread is all that hangs
between me and a traitor's doom. But I rely with some confidence upon
the mild and humane policy pursued by Charles toward the enemies of his
father. At any rate, it is all that is left me, and you know the
proverb,” he added, with a sad smile, “'A drowning man catches at
straws.' Any chance, however slight, appears larger when seen through
the gloom of approaching despair, just as any object seems greater when
seen through a mist.”

“It is not, it shall not be slight,” said the hopeful girl, “we will lay
hold upon it with firm and trusting hearts, and it will cheer us in our
weary way, and then—”

But here the conversation was interrupted by the sound of approaching
footsteps, and the light, graceful form of Mamalis stood before them.
The quick ear of the Indian girl had caught the first low notes of
Hansford's serenade, even while she slept, and listening attentively to
the sound, she had heard Virginia leave the room and go down stairs.
Alarmed at her prolonged absence, Mamalis could no longer hesitate on
the propriety of ascertaining its cause, and hastily dressing herself,
she ran down to the open door and joined the lovers as we have stated.

“We are discovered,” said Hansford, in a surprised but steady voice.
“Farewell, Virginia.” And he was about to rush from the place, when
Virginia interposed.

“Fear nothing from her,” she said. “Her trained ear caught the sounds of
our voices more quickly than could the duller senses of the European.
You are in no danger; and her opportune presence suggests a plan for
your escape.”

“What is that?” asked Hansford, anxiously.

“First tell me,” said Virginia, “how long it will probably be before the
milder policy of Charles will arrest the Governor in his vengeance.”

“It is impossible to guess with accuracy—if, indeed, it ever should
come. But the king has heard for some time of the suppression of the
enterprise, and it can scarcely be more than two weeks before we hear
from him. But to what does your question tend?”

“Simply this,” returned Virginia. “The wigwam of Mamalis is only about
two miles from the hall, and in so secluded a spot that it is entirely
unknown to any of the Governor's party. There we can supply your present
wants, and give you timely warning of any approaching danger. The old
wigwam is a good deal dilapidated, but then it will at least afford you
shelter from the weather.”

“And from that ruder storm which threatens me,” said Hansford, gloomily.
“You are right. I know the place well, and trust it may be a safe
retreat, at least for the present. But, alas! how sad is my fate,—to be
skulking from justice like a detected thief or murderer, afraid to show
my face to my fellow in the open day, and starting like a frightened
deer at every approaching sound. Oh, it is too horrible!”

“Think not of it thus,” said Virginia, in an encouraging voice.
“Remember it only as the dull twilight that divides the night from the
morning. This painful suspense will soon be over; and then, safe and
happy, we will smile at the dangers we have passed.”

“No, Virginia,” said Hansford, in the same gloomy voice, “you are too
hopeful. There is a whispering voice within that tells me that this plan
will not succeed, and that we cannot avoid the dangers which threaten
me. No,” he cried, throwing off the gloom which hung over him, while his
fine blue eye flashed with pride. “No! The decree has gone forth! Every
truth must succeed with blood. If the blood of the martyrs be the seed
of the Church, it may also enrich the soil where liberty must grow; and
far rather would I that my blood should be shed in such a cause, than
that it should creep sluggishly in my veins through a long and useless
life, until it clotted and stagnated in an ignoble grave.”

“Oh, there spoke that fearful pride again,” said Virginia, with a deep
sigh; “the pride that pursues its mad career, unheeding prudence,
unguided by judgment, until it is at last checked by its own
destruction. And would you not sacrifice the glory that you speak of,
for me?”

“You have long since furnished me the answer to that plea, my girl,” he
replied, pressing her tenderly to his heart. “Do you remember, Lucasta,

    'I had not loved thee, dear, so much,
        Loved I not honour more.'

Believe me, my Virginia, it is an honourable and not a glorious name I
seek. Without the latter, life still would be happy and blessed when
adorned by your smiles. Without the former, your smile and your love
would add bitterness to the cup that dishonour would bid me quaff. And
now, Virginia, farewell. The night air has chilled you, dearest—then
go, and remember me in your dreams. One fond kiss, to keep virgined upon
my lips till we meet again. Farewell, Mamalis—be faithful to your kind
mistress.” And then imprinting one long, last kiss upon the fair cheek
of the trusting Virginia, he turned from the door, and was soon lost
from their sight in the dense forest.

Once more in her own little room, Virginia, with a grateful heart, fell
upon her knees, and poured forth her thanks to Him, who had thus far
prospered her endeavours to minister to the cares and sorrows of her
lover. With a calmer heart she sought repose, and wept herself to sleep
with almost happy tears. Hansford, in the mean time, pursued his quiet
way through the forest, his pathway sufficiently illumined by the pale
moonlight, which came trembling through the moaning trees. The thoughts
of the young rebel were fitfully gloomy or pleasant, as despondency and
hope alternated in his breast. In that lonely walk he had an opportunity
to reflect calmly and fully upon his past life. The present was indeed
clouded with danger, and the future with uncertainty and gloom. Yet, in
this self-examination, he saw nothing to justify reproach or to awaken
regret. He scanned his motives, and he felt that they were pure. He
reviewed his acts, and he saw in them but the struggles of a brave, free
man in the maintenance of the right. The enterprise in which he had
engaged had indeed failed, but its want of success did not affect the
holiness of the design. Even in its failure, he proudly hoped that the
seeds of truth had been sown in the popular mind, which might hereafter
germinate and be developed into freedom. As these thoughts passed
through his mind, a dim dream of the future glories of his country
flashed across him. The bright heaven of the future seemed to open
before him, as before the eyes of the dying Stephen—but soon it closed
again, and all was dark.

The wigwam which he entered, after a walk of about half an hour, was
desolate enough, but its very loneliness made it a better safeguard
against the vigilance of his pursuers. He closed the aperture which
served for the door, with the large mat used for the purpose; then
carefully priming his pistols, which he kept constantly by him in case
of surprise, and wrapping his rough horseman's coat around him, he flung
himself upon a mat in the centre of the wigwam, and sank into a profound
slumber.




CHAPTER XL.

    “He should be hereabouts. The doubling hare,
    When flying from the swift pursuit of hounds,
    Baying loud triumph, leaves her wonted path,
    And seeks security within her nest.”
                                    _The Captive._


On the evening which followed the events narrated in the last chapter, a
party of half a dozen horsemen might be seen riding leisurely along the
road which led to Windsor Hall. From their dress and bearing they might
at once be recognized as military men, and indeed it was a detachment of
the force sent by Sir William Berkeley in search of such of the rebels
as might be lurking in different sections of the country. At their head
was Alfred Bernard, his tall and graceful form well set off by the
handsome military dress of the period. Dignified by a captaincy of
dragoons, the young intriguer at last thought himself on the high road
to success, and his whole course was marked by a zealous determination
to deserve by his actions the confidence reposed in him. For this his
temper and his cold, selfish nature eminently fitted him. The vindictive
Governor had no fear but that his vengeance would be complete, so long
as Alfred Bernard acted as his agent.

As the party approached the house, Colonel Temple, whose attention was
arrested by such an unusual appearance in the then peaceful state of the
country, came out to meet them, and with his usual bland courtesy
invited them in, at the same time shaking Bernard warmly by the hand.
The rough English soldiers, obeying the instructions of their host,
conducted their horses to the stable, while the young captain followed
his hospitable entertainer into the hall. Around the blazing fire, which
crackled and roared in the broad hearth, the little family were gathered
to hear the news.

“Prythee, Captain Bernard, for I must not forget your new title,” said
the colonel, “what is the cause of this demonstration? No further
trouble with the rebels?”

“No, no,” replied Bernard, “except to smoke the cowardly fellows out of
their holes. In the words of your old bard, we have only scotched the
snake, not killed it—and we are now seeking to bring the knaves to
justice.”

“And do you find them difficult to catch?” said the Colonel. “Is the
scotched snake an 'anguis in herba?'”

“Aye, but they cannot escape us. These worshippers of liberty, who would
fain be martyrs to her cause, shall not elude the vigilance of justice.
I need not add, that you are not the object of our search, Colonel.”

“Scarcely, my lad,” returned Temple, with a smile, “for my mythology has
taught me, that these kindred deities are so nearly allied that the true
votaries of liberty will ever be pilgrims to the shrine of justice.”

“And the pseudo votaries of freedom,” continued Bernard, “who would
divide the sister goddesses, should be offered up as a sacrifice to
appease the neglected deity.”

“Well, maybe so,” returned Temple; “but neither religion nor government
should demand human sacrifices to a great extent. A few of the prominent
leaders might well be cut off to strike terror into the hearts of the
rest. Thus the demands of justice would be satisfied, consistently with
clemency which mercy would dictate.”

“My dear sir, a hecatomb would not satisfy Berkeley. I am but his
minister, and could not, if I would, arrest his arm. Even now I come by
his express directions to ascertain whether any of the rebels may be
secreted near your residence. While he does not for a moment suspect
your loyalty, yet one of the villains, and he among the foremost in the
rebellion, has been traced in this direction.”

“Sir,” cried Temple, colouring with honest indignation; “dare you
suspect that I could harbour a rebel beneath my roof! But remember, that
I would as lief do that, abhorrent though it be to my principles, as to
harbour a spy.”

“My dear sir,” said Bernard, softly, “you mistake me most strangely, if
you suppose that I could lodge such a suspicion for a moment in my
heart; nor have I come as a spy upon your privacy, but to seek your
counsel. Sir William Berkeley is so well convinced of your stern and
unflinching faith, that he enjoins me to apply to you early for advice
as to how I should proceed in my duty.”

“Well, my dear boy,” said Temple, relapsing into good humour, for he was
not proof against the tempting bait of flattery, “you must pardon the
haste of an old man, who cannot bear any imputation upon his devotion to
the cause of his royal master. While I cannot aid you in your search, my
house is freely open to yourself and your party for such time as you may
think proper to use it.”

“You have my thanks, my dear sir,” said Bernard, “and indeed you are
entitled to the gratitude of the whole government. Sir William Berkeley
bade me say that he could never forget your kindness to him and his
little band of fugitives; and Lady Frances often says that she scarcely
regrets the cares and anxiety attending her flight, since they afforded
her an opportunity of enjoying the society of Mrs. Temple in her own
home, where she so especially shines.”

“Indeed, we thank them both most cordially,” said Mrs. Temple. “It was a
real pleasure to us to have them, I am sure; and though we hardly had
time to make them as comfortable as they might have been, yet a poor
feast, seasoned with a warm welcome, is fit for a king.”

“I trust,” said Bernard, “that Miss Virginia unites with you in the
interest which you profess in the cause of loyalty. May I hope, that
should it ever be our fortune again to be thrown like stranded wrecks
upon your hospitality, her welcome will not be wanting to our
happiness.”

“It will always give me pleasure,” said Virginia, “to welcome the guests
of my parents, and to add, as far as I can, to their comfort, whoever
they may be—more particularly when those guests are among my own
special friends.”

“Of which number I am proud to consider myself, though unworthy of such
an honour,” said Bernard. “But excuse me for a few moments, ladies, I
have somewhat to say to my sergeant before dinner. I will return
anon—as soon as possible; but you know, Colonel, duty should ever be
first served, and afterwards pleasure may be indulged. Duty is the prim
old wife, who must be duly attended to, and then Pleasure, the fair
young damsel, may claim her share of our devotion. Aye, Colonel?”

“Nay, if you enter the marriage state with such ideas of its duties as
that,” returned the Colonel, smiling, “I rather think you will have a
troublesome career before you. But your maxim is true, though clothed in
an allegory a little too licentious. So, away with you, my boy, and
return as soon as you can, for I have much to ask you.”

Released from the restraints imposed by the presence of the Colonel and
the ladies, Bernard rubbed his hands and chuckled inwardly as he went in
search of his sergeant.

“I am pretty sure we are on the right scent, Holliday,” he said,
addressing a tall, strapping old soldier of about six feet in height.
“This prejudiced old steed seemed disposed to kick before he was
spurred—and, indeed, if he knew nothing himself, there is a pretty
little hind here, who I'll warrant is not so ignorant of the
hiding-place of her young hart.”

“But I tell you what, Cap'n, it's devilish hard to worm a secret out of
these women kind. They'll tell any body else's secret, fast enough, but
d—n me if it don't seem as how they only do that to give more room to
keep their own.”

“Well, we must try at any rate. It is not for you to oppose with your
impertinent objections what I may choose order. I hope you are soldier
enough to have learned that it is only your duty to obey.”

“Oh! yes, Cap'n. I've learned that lesson long ago—and what's more, I
learned it on horseback, but, faith, it was one of those wooden steeds
that made me do all the travelling. Why, Lord bless me, to obey! It's
one of my ten commandments. I've got it written in stripes that's
legible on my shoulders now. 'Obey your officers in all things that your
days may be long and your back unskinned.'”

“Well, stop your intolerable nonsense,” said Bernard, “and hear what I
would say. We stay here to-night. There is an Indian girl who lives
here, a kind of upper servant. You must manage to see her and talk with
her. But mind, nothing of our object, or your tongue shall be blistered
for it. Tell her that I wish to see her, beneath the old oak tree to
night, at ten o'clock. If she refuses, tell her to 'remember
Berkenhead.' These words will act as a charm upon her. Remember—Hush,
here comes the Colonel.”

It will be remembered by the reader that the magic of these two words,
which were to have such an influence upon the young Mamalis, was due to
the shrewd suspicion of Alfred Bernard, insinuated at the time, that she
was the assassin of the ill-fated Berkenhead. By holding this simple
rod, _in terrorem_, over the poor girl, Bernard now saw that he might
wield immense power over her, and if the secret of Hansford's
hiding-place had been confided to her, he might easily extort it either
by arousing her vengeance once more, or in default of that by a menace
of exposure and punishment for the murder. But first he determined to
see Virginia, and make his peace with her; and under the plausible
guise of sympathy in her distress and pity for Hansford, to excite in
her an interest in his behalf, even while he was plotting the ruin of
her lover.

With his usual pliancy of manner, and control over his feelings, he
engaged in conversation with Colonel Temple, humouring the well-known
prejudices of the old gentleman, and by a little dexterous flattery
winning over the unsuspicious old lady to his favor. Even Virginia,
though her heart misgave her from the first that the arrival of Bernard
boded no good to her lover, was deceived by his plausible manners and
attracted by his brilliant conversation. So the tempter, with the
graceful crest, and beautiful colours of the subtle serpent beguiled Eve
far more effectually, than if in his own shape he had attempted to
convince her by the most specious sophisms.




CHAPTER XLI.

    “Was ever woman in this humour wooed?”
                                    _Richard III._


Dinner being over, the gentlemen remained according to the good old
custom, to converse over their wine, while Virginia retired to the quiet
little parlour, and with some favourite old author tried to beguile her
thoughts from the bitter fears which she felt for the safety of
Hansford. But it was all in vain. Her eyes often wandered from her book,
and fixed upon the blazing, hickory fire, she was lost in a painful
reverie. As she weighed in her mind the many chances in favour of, and
against his escape, she turned in her trouble to Him, who alone could
rescue her, and with the tears streaming down her pale cheeks, she
murmured in bitter accents, “Oh, Lord! in Thee have I trusted, let me
never be confounded.” Even while she spoke, she was surprised to hear
immediately behind her, the well-known voice of Alfred Bernard, for so
entirely lost had she been in meditation that she had not heard his step
as he entered the room.

“Miss Temple, and in tears!” he said, with well assumed surprise. “What
can have moved you thus, Virginia?”

“Alas! Mr. Bernard, you who have known my history and my troubles for
the last few bitter months, cannot be ignorant that I have much cause
for sadness. But,” she added, with a faint attempt to smile, “had I
known of your presence, I would not have sought to entertain you with my
sorrows.”

“The troubles that you speak of are passed, Miss Temple,” said Bernard,
affecting to misunderstand her, “and as the Colony begins to smile again
in the beams of returning peace, you, fair Virginia, should also smile
in sympathy with your namesake.”

“Mr. Bernard, you must jest. You at least should have known, ere this,
that my individual sorrows are not so dependent upon the political
condition of the Colony. You at least should have known, sir, that the
very peace you boast of may be the knell of hopes more dear to a woman's
heart than even the glory and welfare of her country.”

“Miss Temple,” returned Bernard, with a grave voice, “since you are
determined to treat seriously what I have said, I will change my tone.
Though you choose to doubt my sincerity, I must express the deep
sympathy which I feel in your sorrows, even though I know that these
sorrows are induced by your apprehensions for the fate of a rival.”

“And that sympathy, sir, is illustrated by your present actions,” said
Virginia, bitterly. “You would be at the same time the Judean robber
and the good Samaritan, and while inflicting a deadly wound upon your
victim, and stripping him of cherished hopes, you would administer the
oil and wine of your mocking sympathy.”

“I might choose to misunderstand your unkind allusions, Miss Temple,”
replied Bernard, “but there is no need of concealment between us. You
have rightly judged the object of my mission, but in this I act as the
officer of government, not as the ungenerous rival of Major Hansford.”

“So does the public executioner,” replied Virginia, “but I am not aware
that in its civil and military departments as well as in the navy, our
government impresses men into her service against their will.”

“You seem determined to misunderstand me, Virginia,” said Alfred, with
some warmth; “but you shall learn that I am not capable of the want of
generosity which you attribute to me. Know then, that it was from a
desire to serve you personally through your friend, that I urged the
governor to let me come in pursuit of Major Hansford. Suppose, instead,
he should fall in the hands of Beverley. Cruel and relentless as that
officer has already shown himself to be, his prisoner would suffer every
indignity and persecution, even before he was delivered to the tender
mercies of Sir William Berkeley—while in me, as his captor, you may
rest assured that for your sake, he would meet with kindness and
indulgence, and even my warm mediation with the governor in his behalf.”

“Oh, then,” cried Virginia, trusting words so softly and plausibly
spoken, “if you are indeed impelled by a motive so generous and
disinterested, it is still in your power to save him. Your influence
with the Governor is known, and one word from your lips might control
the fate of a brave man, and restore happiness and peace to a
broken-hearted girl. Oh! would not this amply compensate even for the
neglect of duty? Would it not be far nobler to secure the happiness of
two grateful hearts, than to shed the blood of a brave and generous man,
and to wade through that red stream to success and fame? Believe me, Mr.
Bernard, when you come to die, the recollection of such an act will be
sweeter to your soul than all the honour and glory which an admiring
posterity could heap above your cold, insensate ashes. If I am any thing
to you; if my happiness would be an object of interest to your heart;
and if my love, my life-long love, would be worthy of your acceptance,
they are yours. Forgive the boldness, the freedom with which I have
spoken. It may be unbecoming in a young girl, but let it be another
proof of the depth, the sincerity of my feelings, when I can forget a
maiden's delicacy in the earnestness of my plea.”

It was impossible not to be moved with the earnest and touching manner
of the weeping girl, as with clasped hands and streaming eyes, she
almost knelt to Bernard in the fervent earnestness of her feelings.
Machiavellian as he was, and accustomed to disguise his heart, the young
man was for a moment almost dissuaded from his design. Taking Virginia
gently by the hand, he begged her to be calm. But the feeling of
generosity which for a moment gleamed on his heart, like a brief sunbeam
on a stormy day, gave way to the wonted selfishness with which that
heart was clouded.

“And can you still cling with such tenacity to a man who has proven
himself so unworthy of you,” he said; “to one who has long since
sacrificed you to his own fanatical purposes. Even should he escape the
fate which awaits him, he can never be yours. Your own independence of
feeling, your father's prejudices, every thing conspires to prevent a
union so unnatural. Hansford may live, but he can never live to be your
husband.”

“Who empowered you to prohibit thus boldly the bans between us, and to
dissolve our plighted troth?” said Virginia, with indignation.

“You again mistake me,” replied Bernard. “God forbid that I should thus
intrude upon what surely concerns me not. I only expressed, my dear
friend, what you know full well, that whatever be the fate of Major
Hansford, you can never marry him. Why, then, this strange interest in
his fate?”

“And can you think thus of woman's love? Can you suppose that her heart
is so selfish that, because her own cherished hopes are blasted, she can
so soon forget and coldly desert one who has first awakened those sweet
hopes, and who is now in peril? Believe me, Mr. Bernard, dear as I hold
that object to my soul, sad and weary as life would be without one who
had made it so happy, I would freely, aye, almost cheerfully yield his
love, and be banished for ever from his presence, if I could but save
his life.”

“You are a noble girl,” said Alfred, with admiration; “and teach me a
lesson that too few have learned, that love is never selfish. But, yet,
I cannot relinquish the sweet reward which you have promised for my
efforts in behalf of Hansford. Then tell me once more, dear girl, if I
arrest the hand of justice which now threatens his life; if he be once
more restored to liberty and security, would you reward his deliverer
with your love?”

“Oh, yes!” cried the trusting girl, mistaking his meaning; “and more, I
would pledge his lasting gratitude and affection to his generous
preserver.”

“Nay,” said Bernard, rather coldly, “that would not add much inducement
to me. But you, Virginia,” he added, passionately, “would you be
mine—would the bright dream of my life be indeed realized, and might I
enshrine you in my faithful heart, as a sacred idol, to whom in hourly
adoration I might bow?”

“How mean you, sir,” exclaimed Virginia, with surprise. “I fear you have
misunderstood my words. My love, my gratitude, my friendship, I
promised, but not my heart.”

“Then, indeed, am I strangely at fault,” said Bernard, with a sneering
laugh. “The love you would bestow, would be such as you would feel
towards the humblest boor, who had done you a service; and your
gratitude but the natural return which any human being would make to the
dog who saves his life. Nay, mistress mine, not so platonic, if you
please. Think you that, for so cold a feeling as friendship and
gratitude, I would rescue this skulking hound from the lash of his
master, which he so richly deserves, or from the juster doom of the
craven cur, the rope and gallows. No, Virginia Temple, there is no
longer any need of mincing matters between us. It is a simple question
of bargain and sale. You have said that you would renounce the love of
Hansford to save his life. Very well, one step more and all is
accomplished. The boon I ask, as the reward of my services, is your
heart, or at least your hand. Yield but this, and I will arrest the
malice of that doting old knight, who, with his fantastic tricks, has
made the angels laugh instead of weep. Deny me, and by my troth, Thomas
Hansford meets a traitor's doom.”

So complete was the revulsion of feeling from the almost certainty of
success, to the despair and indignation induced by so base a
proposition, that it was some moments before Virginia Temple could
speak. Bernard mistaking the cause of her silence, deemed that she was
hesitating as to her course, and pursuing his supposed advantage, he
added, tenderly,—“Cheer, up Virginia; cheer up, my bride. I read in
those silent tears your answer. I know the struggle is hard, and I love
you the more that it is so. It is an earnest of your future constancy.
In a short time the trial will be over, and we will learn to forget our
sorrows in our love. He who is so unworthy of you will have sought in
some distant land solace for your loss, which will be easily attained by
his pliant nature. A traitor to his country, will not long mourn the
loss of his bride.”

“'Tis thou who art the traitor, dissembling hypocrite,” cried Virginia,
vehemently. “Think you that my silence arose from a moment's
consideration of your base proposition? I was stunned at beholding such
a monster in the human form. But I defy you yet. The governor shall
learn how the fawning favourite of his palace, tears the hand that feeds
him—and those who can protect me from your power, shall chastise your
insolence. Instead of the love and gratitude I promised, there, take my
lasting hate and scorn.”

And the young girl proudly rising erect as she spoke, her eyes flashing,
but tearless, her bosom heaving with indignation, her nostrils dilated,
and her hand extended in bitter contempt towards the astonished Bernard,
shouted, “Father, father!” until the hall rung with the sound.

Happily for Alfred Bernard, Colonel Temple and his wife had left the
house for a few moments, on a visit to old Giles' cabin, the old man
having been laid up with a violent attack of the rheumatics. The wily
intriguer was for once caught in his own springe. He had overacted his
part, and had grossly mistaken the character of the brave young girl,
whom he had so basely insulted. He felt that if he lost a moment, the
house would be alarmed, and his miserable hypocrisy exposed. Rushing to
Virginia, he whispered, in an agitated voice, which he failed to control
with his usual self-command,

“For God's sake, be silent. I acknowledge I have done wrong; but I will
explain. Remember Hansford's life is in your hands. Come, now, dear
Virginia, sit you down, I will save him.”

The proud expression of scorn died away from the curled lips of the
girl, and interest in her lover's fate again took entire possession of
her heart. She paused and listened. The wily Jesuit had again conquered,
and He who rules the universe with such mysterious justice, had
permitted evil once more to triumph over innocence.

“Yes,” repeated Bernard, regaining his composure with his success; “I
will save him. I mistook your character, Miss Temple. I had thought you
the simple-hearted girl, who for the sake of her lover's life would sell
her heart to his preserver. I now recognize in you the high-spirited
woman, who, conscious of right, would meet her own despair in its
defence. Alas! in thus losing you for ever, I have just found you
possessed of qualities which make you doubly worthy to be won. But I
resign you to him whom you have chosen, and in my admiration for the
woman, I have almost lost my hatred for the man. For your sake, Miss
Temple, Major Hansford shall not want my warm interposition with the
Governor in his behalf. Let my reward be your esteem or your contempt,
it is still my duty thus to atone for the wound which I have
unfortunately inflicted on your feelings. You will excuse and respect my
wish to end this painful interview.”

And so he left the room, and Virginia once more alone, gave vent to her
emotions so long suppressed, in a flood of bitter tears.

“Well, Holliday,” said Bernard, as he met that worthy in the hall, “I
hope you have been more fortunate with the red heifer than I with the
white hind—what says Mamalis?”

“The fact is, Cap'n, that same heifer is about as troublesome a three
year old as I ever had the breaking on. She seemed bent on hooking me.”

“Did you not make use of the talisman I told you of?” asked Bernard.

“Well, I don't know what you call a tell-us-man,” said Holliday, “but I
told her that you said she must remember Backinhead, and I'll warrant
it was tell-us-woman soon enough. Bless me, if she didn't most turn
white, for all her red skin, and she got the trimbles so that I began to
think she was going to have the high-strikes—and so says she at last;
says she, in kind of choking voice like, 'Well, tell him I will meet him
under the oak tree, as he wishes.'”

“Very well,” said Bernard, “we will succeed yet, and then your hundred
pounds are made—my share is yours already if you be but faithful to
me—I am convinced he has been here,” he continued, musing, and half
unconscious of Holliday's presence. “The hopeful interest that Virginia
feels, her knowledge of the fact that he still lives and is at large,
and the apprehensions which mingle with her hopes, all convince me that
I'm on the right track. Well, I'll spoil a pretty love affair yet,
before it approaches its consummation. Fine girl, too, and a pity to
victimize her. Bless me, how majestic she looked; with what a queen-like
scorn she treated me, the cold, insensate intriguer, as they call me. I
begin to love her almost as much as I love her land—but, beware, Alfred
Bernard, love might betray you. My game is a bold and desperate one, but
the stake for which I play repays the risk. By God, I'll have her yet;
she shall learn to bow her proud head, and to love me too—and then the
fair fields of Windsor Hall will not be less fertile for the price which
I pay for them in a rival's blood—and such a rival. He scorned and
defied me when the overtures of peace were extended to him; let him look
to it, that in rejecting the olive, he has not planted the cypress in
its stead. Thus revenge is united with policy in the attainment of my
object, and—What are you staring at, you gaping idiot?” he cried,
seeing the big, pewter coloured eyes of Holliday fixed upon him in mute
astonishment.

“Why, Cap'n, damme if I don't believe you are talking in your sleep with
your eyes open.”

“And what did you hear me say, knave?”

“Oh, nothing that will ever go the farther for my hearing it. It's all
one to me whether you're working for your country or yourself in this
matter, so long as my pretty pounds are none the less heavy and safe.”

“I'm working for both, you fool,” returned Bernard. “Did you ever know a
general or a patriot who did not seek to serve himself as well as his
country?”

“Well, no,” retorted the soldier, “for what the world calls honour, and
what the rough soldier calls money, is at last only different kinds of
coin of the same metal.”

“Well, hush your impudence,” said Bernard, “and mind, not a word of what
you have heard, or you shall feel my power as well as others. In the
meantime, here is a golden key to lock your lips,” and he handed the
fellow a sovereign, which he greedily accepted.

“Thank you, Cap'n,” said Holliday, touching his hat and pocketing the
money; “you need not be afraid of me, for I've seen tricks in my time
worth two of that. And for the matter of taking this yellow boy, which
might look to some like hush-money, the only difference between the
patriot and me is, that he gets paid for opening his mouth, and I for
keeping mine shut.”

“You are a saucy knave,” said Bernard, reassured by the fellow's manner;
“and I'll warrant you never served under old Noll's Puritan standard.
But away with you, and remember to be in place at ten o'clock to-night,
and come to me at this signal,” and he gave a shrill whistle, which
Holliday promised to understand and obey.

And so they separated, Bernard to while away the tedious hours, by
conversing with the old Colonel, and by endeavouring to reinstate
himself in the good opinion of Virginia, while Holliday repaired to the
kitchen, where, in company with his comrades and the white servants of
the hall, he emptied about a half gallon of brown October ale.




CHAPTER XLII.

        “He sat her on a milk-white steed,
          And himself upon a grey;
        He never turned his face again,
          But he bore her quite away.”
                  _The Knight of the Burning Pestle._

    “Oh, woe is me for Gerrard! I have brought
    Confusion on the noblest gentleman
    That ever truly loved.”
                                _The Triumph of Love._


The night, though only starry, was scarce less lovely for the absence of
the moon. So bright indeed was the milky way, the white girdle, with
which the night adorns her azure robe, that you might almost imagine the
moon had not disappeared, but only melted and diffused itself in the
milder radiance of that fair circlet.

As was always the custom in the country, the family had retired at an
early hour, and Bernard quietly left the house to fulfil his engagement
with Mamalis. They stood, he and the Indian girl, beneath the shade of
the old oak, so often mentioned in the preceding pages. With his
handsome Spanish cloak of dark velvet plush, thrown gracefully over his
shoulders, his hat looped up and fastened in front with a gold button,
after the manner of the times, Alfred Bernard stood with folded arms,
irresolute as to how he should commence a conversation so important, and
requiring such delicate address. Mamalis stood before him, with that air
of nameless but matchless grace so peculiar to those, who unconstrained
by the arts and affectations of society, assume the attitude of ease and
beauty which nature can alone suggest. She watched him with a look of
eagerness, anxious on her part for the silence to be broken, that she
might learn the meaning and the object of this strange interview.

Alfred Bernard was too skillful an intriguer to broach abruptly the
subject which, most absorbed his thoughts, and which had made him seek
this interview, and when at last he spoke, Mamalis was at a loss to
guess what there was in the commonplaces which he used, that could be of
interest to him. But the wily hypocrite led her on step by step, until
gradually and almost unconsciously to herself he had fully developed his
wishes.

“You live here altogether, now, do you not?” he asked, kindly.

“Yes.”

“Are they kind to you?”

“Oh yes, they are kind to all.”

“And you are happy?”

“Yes, as happy as those can be who are left alone on earth.”

“What! are there none of your family now living?”

“No, no!” she replied, bitterly; “the blood of Powhatan now runs in this
narrow channel,” and she held out her graceful arms, as she spoke, with
an expressive gesture.

“Alas! I pity you,” said Bernard, sighing. “We are alike in this—for my
blood is reduced to as narrow a channel as your own. But your family was
very numerous?”

“Yes, numerous as those stars—and bright and beautiful as they.”

“Judging from the only Pleiad that remains,” thought Bernard, “you may
well say so—and can you,” he added, aloud, “forgive those who have thus
injured you?”

“Forgive, oh yes, or how shall I be forgiven! Look at those stars! They
shine the glory of the night. They vanish before the sun of the morning.
So faded my people before the arms of the white man—and yet I can
freely forgive them all!”

“What, even those who have quenched those stars!” said Bernard, with a
sinister meaning in his tone.

“You mistake,” replied Mamalis, touchingly. “They are not quenched. The
stars we see to-night, though unseen on the morrow, are still in
heaven.”

“Nay, Mamalis,” said Bernard, “the creed of your fathers taught not
thus. I thought the Indian maxim was that blood alone could wipe out the
stain of blood.”

“I love the Christian lesson better,” said Mamalis, softly. “And you,
Mr. Bernard, should not try to shake my new born faith. 'Love your
enemies—bless them that curse you—pray for them that despitefully use
you and persecute you—that you may be the children of your Father which
is in heaven.' The orphan girl on earth would love to be the child of
her father in heaven.”

The sweet simplicity with which the poor girl thus referred to the
precepts and promises of her new religion, derived more touching beauty
from the broken English with which she expressed them. An attempt to
describe her manner and accent would be futile, and would detract from
the simple dignity and sweetness with which she uttered the words. We
leave the reader from his own imagination to fill up the picture which
we can only draw in outline. Bernard saw and felt the power of religion
in the heart of this poor savage, and he hesitated what course he should
pursue. He knew that her strongest feeling in life had been her
affection for her brother. That had been the chord which earliest
vibrated in her heart, and which as her heart expanded only increased in
tension that added greater sweetness to its tone. It was on this broken
string, so rudely snapped asunder, that he resolved to play—hoping thus
to strike some harsh and discordant notes in her gentle heart.

“You had a brother, Mamalis,” he said, abruptly; “the voice of your
brother's blood calls to you from the ground.”

“My brother!” shrieked the girl, startled by the suddenness of the
allusion.

“Aye, your murdered brother,” said Bernard, marking with pleasure the
effect he had produced, “and it is in your power to avenge his death.
Dare you do it?”

“Oh, my brother, my poor lost brother,” she sobbed, the stoical
indifference of the savage, pressed out by the crushed heart of the
sister, “if by this hand thy death could be avenged.”

“By your hand he can be avenged,” said Bernard, seeing her pause. “It
has not yet been done. That stupid knave, in a moment of vanity, claimed
for himself the praise of having murdered a chieftain, but the brave
Manteo fell by more noble hands than his.”

“In God's name, who do you mean?” asked Mamalis.

“I can only tell you that it is now in your power to surrender his
murderer to justice, and to his deserved fate.”

Mamalis was silent. She guessed that it was Hansford to whom Bernard had
thus vaguely alluded. The struggle seemed to be a desperate one. There
in the clear starlight, with none to help, save Him, in whom she had
learned to trust, she wrestled with the tempter. But that dark scene of
her life, which still threw its shadow on her redeemed heart, again rose
up before her memory. The lesson was a blessed one. How often thus does
the recollection of a former sin guard the soul from error in the
future. Surely, in this, too, God has made the wrath of man to praise
him. With the aid thus given from on high, the trusting soul of Mamalis
triumphed over temptation.

“I know not why you tempt me thus, Mr. Bernard,” she said, more calmly,
“nor why you have brought me here to-night. But this I know, that I
have learned that vengeance belongs to God. It were a crime for mortal
man, frail at best, to usurp the right of God. My brother is already
fearfully avenged.”

Twice beaten in his attempt to besiege the strong heart of the poor
Indian, by stratagem, the wily Bernard determined to pursue a more
determined course, and to take the resisting citadel by a coup d'etat.
He argued, and argued rightly, that a sudden charge would surprise her
into betraying a knowledge of Hansford's movements. No sooner,
therefore, had the last words fallen from her lips, than he seized her
roughly by the arm, and exclaimed,

“So you, then, with all your religious cant, are the murderess of Thomas
Hansford!”

“The murderess! Of Hansford! Is he then dead,” cried the girl,
bewildered by the sudden charge, “How did they find him?”

“Find him!” cried Bernard, triumphantly, “It is easy finding what we
hide ourselves. We have proven that you alone are aware of his hiding
place, and you alone, therefore, are responsible for his safety. It was
for this confession that I brought you here to-night.”

“So help me Heaven,” said the trembling girl, terrified by the web thus
woven around her, “If he be dead, I am innocent of his death.”

“The assassin of Berkenhead may well be the murderess of Hansford,” said
Bernard. “It is easier to deny than to prove. Come, my mistress, tell me
when you saw him.”

“Oh, but this morning, safe and well,” said Mamalis. “Indeed, my hand is
guiltless of his blood.”

“Prove it, then, if you can,” returned Bernard. “You must know our
English law presumes him guilty, who is last with the murdered person,
unless he can prove his innocence. Show me Hansford alive, and you are
safe. If I do not see him by sunrise, you go with me to answer for his
death, and to learn that your accursed race is not the only people who
demand blood for blood.”

Overawed by his threats, and his stern manner, so different from the
mild and respectful tone in which he had hitherto addressed her, Mamalis
sank upon the ground in an agony of alarm. Bernard disregarded her meek
and silent appeal for mercy, and sternly menaced her when she attempted
to scream for assistance.

“Hush your savage shrieking, you bitch, or you'll wake the house; and
then, by God, I'll choke you before your time. I tell you, if the man is
alive, you need fear no danger; and if he be dead, you have only saved
the sheriff a piece of dirty work, or may be have given him another
victim.”

“For God's sake, do me no harm,” cried Mamalis, imploringly. “I am
innocent—indeed I am. Think you that I would hurt a hair of the head of
that man whom Virginia Temple loves?”

This last remark was by no means calculated to make her peace with
Bernard; but his only reply was by the shrill whistle which had been
agreed upon as a signal between Holliday and himself. True to his
promise, and obedient to the command of his superior, the soldier made
his appearance on the scene of action with a promptitude that could only
be explained by the fact that he had concealed himself behind a corner
of the house, and had heard every word of the conversation. Too much
excited to be suspicious, Bernard did not remark on his punctuality, but
said, in a low voice:

“Go wake Thompson, saddle the horses, and let's be off. We have work
before us. Go!” And Holliday, with habitual obedience, retired to
execute the order.

“And now,” said Bernard, in an encouraging tone, to Mamalis, “you must
go with me. But you have nothing to fear, if Hansford be alive. If,
however, my suspicions be true, and he has been murdered by your hand, I
will still be your friend, if you be but faithful.”

The horses were quickly brought, and Bernard, half leading, half
carrying the poor, weeping, trembling maiden, mounted his own powerful
charger, and placed her behind him. The order of march was soon given,
and the heavy sound of the horses' feet was heard upon the hard, crisp,
frozen ground. Mamalis, seeing her fate inevitable, whatever it might
be, awaited it patiently and without a murmur. Never suspecting the true
motive of Bernard, and fully believing that he was _bona fide_ engaged
in searching for the perpetrators of some foul deed, she readily
consented, for her own defence, to conduct the party to the hiding place
of the hapless Hansford. Surprised and shocked beyond measure at the
intelligence of his fate, she almost forgot her own situation in her
concern for him, and was happy in aiding to bring to justice those who,
as she feared, had murdered him. She was surprised, indeed, that she had
heard nothing of the circumstance from Virginia, as she would surely
have done, had Bernard mentioned it to the family. But in her ignorance
of the rules of civilized life, she attributed this to the forms of
procedure, to the necessity for secrecy—to anything rather than the
true cause. Nor could she help hoping that there might be still some
mistake, and that Hansford would be found alive and well, thus
establishing her own innocence, and ending the pursuit.

Arrived nearly at the wigwam, she mentioned the fact to Bernard, who in
a low voice commanded a halt, and dismounting with his men, he directed
Mamalis to guide them the remaining distance on foot. Leaving Thompson
in charge of the horses, until he might be called to their assistance,
Bernard and Holliday silently followed the unsuspecting Indian girl
along the narrow path. A short distance ahead, they could discern the
faint smoke, as it curled through the opening at the top of the wigwam
and floated towards the sky. This indication rendered it probable that
the object of their search was still watching, and thus warned them to
greater caution in their approach. Bernard's heart beat thick and loud,
and his cheek blanched with excitement, as he thus drew near the lurking
place of his enemy. He shook Holliday by the arm with impatient anger,
as the heavy-footed soldier jarred the silence by the crackling of
fallen leaves and branches. And now they are almost there, and Mamalis,
whose excitement was also intense, still in advance, saw through a
crevice in the door the kneeling form of the noble insurgent, as he
bowed himself by that lonely fire, and committed his weary soul to God.

“He is here! he lives!” she shouted. “I knew that he was safe!” and the
startled forest rang with the echoes of her voice.

“The murder is out,” cried Bernard, as followed by Holliday, he rushed
forward to the door, which had been thrown open by their guide; but ere
he gained his entrance, the sharp report of a pistol was heard, and the
beautiful, the trusting Mamalis fell prostrate on the floor, a bleeding
martyr to her constancy and faith. Hansford, roused by the sudden sound
of her voice, had seized the pistol which, sleeping and waking, was by
his side, and hearing the voice of Bernard, he had fired. Had the ball
taken effect upon either of the men, he might yet have been saved, for
in an encounter with a single man he would have proved a formidable
adversary. But inscrutable are His ways, whose thoughts are not as our
thoughts, and all that the puzzled soul can do, is humbly to rely on the
hope that

    “God is his own interpreter,
    And he will make it plain.”

And she, the last of her dispersed and ruined lineage, is gone. In the
lone forest, where the wintry blast swept unobstructed, the giant trees
moaned sadly and fitfully over their bleeding child; and the bright
stars, that saw the heavy deed, wept from their place in heaven, and
bathed her lovely form in night's pure dews. She did not long remain
unburied in that forest, for when Virginia heard the story of her faith
and loyalty from the rude lips of Holliday, the pure form of the Indian
girl, still fresh and free from the polluting touch of the destroyer,
was borne to her own home, and followed with due rites and fervent grief
to the quiet tomb. In after days, when her sad heart loved to dwell upon
these early scenes, Virginia placed above the sacred ashes of her friend
a simple marble tablet, long since itself a ruin; and there, engraven
with the record of her faith, her loyalty and her love, was the sweet
assurance, that in her almost latest words, the trusting Indian girl had
indeed become one of “the children of her Father which is in Heaven.”




CHAPTER XLIII.

    “Let some of the guard be ready there.
                                    For me?
    Must I go like a traitor thither?”
                                      _Henry VIII._


The reader need not be told that Hansford, surprised and unarmed, for
his remaining pistol was not at hand, and his sword had been laid aside
for the night, was no match for the two powerful men who now rushed upon
him. To pinion his arms closely behind him, was the work of a moment,
and further resistance was impossible. Seeing that all hope of
successful defence was gone, Hansford maintained in his bearing the
resolute fortitude and firmness which can support a brave man in
misfortune, when active courage is no longer of avail.

“I suppose, I need not ask Mr. Bernard,” he said, “by what authority he
acts—and yet I would be glad to learn for what offence I am arrested.”

“The memory of your former acts should teach you,” returned Bernard,
coarsely, “that your offence is reckoned among the best commentators of
the law as high treason.”

“A grievous crime, truly,” replied Hansford, “but one of which I am
happily innocent, unless, indeed, a skirmish with the hostile Indians
should be reckoned as such, or Sir William Berkeley should be
presumptuous enough to claim to be a king; in which latter case, he
himself would be the traitor.”

“He is at least the deputy of the king,” said Bernard, haughtily, “and
in his person the majesty of the king has been assailed.”

“Unfortunately, for your reasoning,” replied Hansford, “the term for
which Berkeley was appointed governor has expired some years since.”

“That miserable subterfuge will scarcely avail, since you tacitly
acknowledged his authority by acting under his commission. But I have no
time to be discussing with you on the nature of your offence, of which,
at least, I am not the judge. I will only add, that conscious innocence
is not found skulking in dark forests, and obscure hiding places. Call
Thompson, with the horses, Holliday. It is time we were off.”

“One word, before we leave,” said Hansford, sadly. “My pistol ball took
effect, I know; who is its victim?”

“A poor Indian girl, who conducted us to your fastness,” said Bernard.
“I had forgotten her myself, till now. Look, Holliday, does she still
live?”

“Dead as a herring, your honour,” said the man, as he bent over the
body, with deep feeling, for, though accustomed to the flow of blood,
he had taken a lively interest in the poor girl, from what he had seen
and overheard. “And by God, Cap'n, begging your honour's pardon, a brave
girl she was, too, although she was an Injin.”

“Poor Mamalis,” said Hansford, tenderly, “you have met with an early and
a sad fate. I little thought that she would betray me.”

“Nay, wrong not the dead,” interposed Bernard, “I assure you, she knew
nothing of the object of our coming. But all's fair in war, Major, and a
little intrigue was necessary to track you to this obscure hold.”

“Well, farewell, poor luckless maiden! And so I've killed my friend,”
said Hansford, sorrowfully. “Alas! Mr. Bernard, my arm has been felt in
battle, and has sent death to many a foe. But, God forgive me! this is
the first blood I have ever spilt, except in battle, and this, too,
flows from a woman.”

“Think not of it thus,” said Bernard, whose hard nature could not but be
touched by this display of unselfish grief on the part of his prisoner.
“It was but an accident, and should not rest heavily on your soul. Stay,
Holliday, I would not have the poor girl rot here, either. Suppose you
take the body to Windsor Hall, where it will be treated with due
respect. Thompson and myself can, meantime, attend the prisoner.”

“Look ye, Cap'n,” said Holliday, with the superstition peculiar to
vulgar minds; “'taint that I'm afeard exactly neither, but its a mighty
dissolute feeling being alone in a dark night with a corp. I'd rather
kill fifty men, than to stay by myself five minutes, with the smallest
of the fifty after he was killed.”

“Well, then, you foolish fellow, go to the hall to-night and inform them
of her death, and excuse me to Colonel Temple for my abrupt departure,
and meet me with the rest of the men at Tindal's Point as soon as
possible. I will bide there for you. But first help me to take the poor
girl's body into the wigwam. I suppose she will rest quietly enough here
till morning. Major Hansford,” he added, courteously, “our horses are
ready I perceive. You can take Holliday's there. He can provide himself
with another at the hall. Shall we ride, sir?”

With a sad heart the captive-bound Hansford mounted with difficulty the
horse prepared for him, which was led by Thompson, while Bernard rode by
his side, and with more of courtesy than could be expected from him,
endeavoured to beguile the way with conversation with his prisoner.

Meanwhile Holliday, whistling for company, and ever and anon looking
behind him warily, to see whether the disembodied Mamalis was following
him, bent his steps towards the hall, to communicate to the unsuspecting
Virginia the heavy tidings of her lover's capture. The rough soldier,
although his nature had been blunted by long service and familiarity
with scenes of distress, was not without some feelings, and showed even
in his rude, uncultivated manners, the sympathy and tenderness which was
wanting in the more polished but harder heart of Alfred Bernard.




CHAPTER XLIV.

                            “Go to Lord Angelo,
    And let him learn to know, when maidens sue,
    Men give like gods; but when they weep and kneel,
    All their petitions are as freely theirs,
    As they themselves would owe them.”
                                _Measure for Measure._


It were impossible to describe the silent agony of Virginia Temple, when
she learned from Holliday, on the following morning, the capture of
Hansford. She felt that it was the wreck of all her hopes, and that the
last thread which still hung between her and despair was snapped. But
even in that dark hour, her strength of mind, and her firmness of
purpose forsook her not. There was still a duty for her to perform in
endeavouring to procure his pardon, and she entertained, with the
trusting confidence of her young heart, the strong hope that Berkeley
would grant her request. On this sacred errand she determined to go at
once. Although she did not dream of the full extent of Bernard's
hypocrisy, yet all his efforts had been unavailing to restore full
confidence in his sincerity. She dared not trust a matter of such
importance to another, especially when she had reason to suspect that
that other was far from being friendly in his feelings towards her
lover. Once determined on her course, she lost no time in informing her
parents of her resolution; and so, when they were all seated around the
breakfast-table, she said quietly, but firmly—

“I am going to Accomac to-day, father.”

“To where!” cried her mother; “why surely, child, you must be out of
your senses.”

“No, dearest mother, my calmness is not an indication of insanity. If I
should neglect this sacred duty, you might then indeed tremble for my
reason.”

“What in the world are you thinking of, Jeanie!” said her father, in his
turn surprised at this sudden resolution; “what duties can call you to
Accomac?”

“I go to save life,” replied Virginia. “Can you wonder, my father, that
when I see all that I hold dearest in life just trembling on the verge
of destruction, I should desire to do all in my power to save it.”

“You are right, my child,” replied her father, tenderly; “if it were
possible for you to accomplish any good. But what can you do to rescue
Hansford from the hand of justice?”

“Of justice!” said Virginia, “and can you unite with those, my dear
father, who profane the name of justice by applying it to the relentless
cruelty with which blind vengeance pursues its victims?”

“Ah, Jeanie!” said her father, smiling, as he pressed her hand tenderly;
“you should remember, in language of the quaint old satirist, Butler,

    'No thief e'er felt the halter draw,
    With good opinion of the law;'

and although I would not apply the bitter couplet to my little Jeanie in
its full force, yet she must own that her interest in its present
application, prevents her from being a very competent judge of its
propriety and justice.”

“But surely, dear father, you cannot think that these violent measures
against the unhappy parties to the late rebellion, are either just or
politic?”

“I grant, my child, that to my own mind, a far more humane policy might
be pursued consistent with the ends of justice. To inspire terror in a
subject is not the surest means to secure his allegiance or his love for
government. I am sure, if you were afraid of your old father, and
always in dread of his wrath and authority, you would not love him as
you do, Jeanie—and government is at last nothing but a larger family.”

“Well, then,” returned the artless girl, “why should I not go to Sir
William Berkeley, and represent to him the harshness of his course, and
the propriety of tempering his revenge with mercy?”

“First, my daughter, because I have only expressed my private opinion,
which would have but little weight with the Governor, or any one else
but you and mother, there. Remember that we are neither the framers nor
the administrators of the law. And then you would make but a poor
mediator, my darling, if you were to attempt to dissuade the Governor
from his policy, by charging him with cruelty and injustice. Think no
more of this wild idea, my dear child. It can do no good, and reflects
more credit on your warm, generous heart, than on your understanding or
experience.”

“Hinder me not, my father,” said Virginia, earnestly, her blue eyes
filling with tears. “I can but fail, and if you would save me from the
bitterness of self-reproach hereafter, let me go. Oh, think how it would
add bitterness to the cup of grief, if, when closing the eyes of a dead
friend, we should think that we had left some remedy untried which might
have saved his life! If I fail, it will at least be some consolation,
even in despair, that I did all that I could to avert his fate; and if I
succeed—oh! how transporting the thought that the life of one I love
had been spared through my interposition. Then hinder me not, father,
mother—if you would not destroy your daughter's peace forever, oh, let
me go!”

The solemn earnestness with which the poor girl thus urged her parents
to grant her request, deeply affected them both; and the old lady,
forgetting in her love for her daughter the indelicacy and impropriety
of her plan, volunteered her very efficient advocacy of Virginia's
cause.

“Indeed, Colonel Temple,” she said, “you should not oppose Virginia in
this matter. You will have enough to reproach yourself for, if by your
means you should prevent her from doing what she thinks best. And,
indeed, I like to see a young girl show so much spirit and interest in
her lover's fate. It is seldom you see such things now-a-days, though it
used to be common enough in England. Now, just put it to yourself.”

The Colonel accordingly did “put it to himself,” and, charmed with his
daughter's affection and heroism, concluded himself to accompany her to
Accomac, and exert his own influence with the Governor in procuring the
pardon of the unhappy Hansford.

“Now that's as it should be,” said the old lady, gratified at this
renewed assurance of her ascendency over her husband. “And now,
Virginia, cheer up. All will be right, my dear, for your father has
great influence with the Governor—and, indeed, well he might have, for
he has received kindness enough at our hands in times past. I should
like to see him refuse your father a favour. And I will write a note to
Lady Frances myself, for all the world knows that she is governor and
all with her husband.”

“Ladies generally are,” said the Colonel, with a smile, which however
could not disguise the sincerity with which he uttered the sentiment.

“Oh, no, not at all,” retorted the old lady, bridling up. “You are
always throwing up your obedience to me, and yet, after all said and
done, you have your own way pretty much, too. But you are not decent to
go anywhere. Do, pray, Colonel Temple, pay more respect to society, and
fix yourself up a little. Put on your blue coat and your black stock,
and dress your hair, and shave, and look genteel for once in your life.”
Then, seeing by the patient shrug of her good old husband that she had
wounded his feelings, she patted him tenderly on the shoulder, and
added, “You know I always love to see you nice and spruce, and when you
do attend to your dress, and fix up, I know of none of them that are
equal to you. Do you, Virginia?”

Before the good Colonel had fully complied with all the toilet
requisitions of his wife, the carriage was ready to take the travellers
to Tindal's Point, where there was luckily a small sloop, just under
weigh for Accomac. And Virginia, painfully alternating between hope and
fear, but sustained by a consciousness of duty, was borne away across
the broad Chesapeake, on her pious pilgrimage, to move by her tears and
prayers the vindictive heart of the stern old Governor.




CHAPTER XLV.

     “Why, there's an end then! I have judged deliberately, and the
     result is death.”                        _The Gamester._



Situated, as nearly as might be, in the centre of each of the counties
of Virginia, was a small settlement, which, although it aspired to the
dignity of a town, could scarcely deserve the name. For the most part,
these little country towns, as they were called, were composed of about
four houses, to wit: The court house, dedicated to justice, where sat,
monthly, the magistrates of the county, possessed of an unlimited
jurisdiction in all cases cognizable in law or chancery, not touching
life or murder, and having the care of orphans' persons and estates; the
jail, wherein prisoners committed for any felony were confined, until
they could be brought before the general court, which had the sole
criminal jurisdiction in the colony; the tavern, a long, low wooden
building, generally thronged with loafers and gossips, and reeking with
the fumes of tobacco smoke, apple-brandy and rye-whiskey; and, finally,
the store, which shared, with the tavern, the patronage of the loafers,
and which could be easily recognized by the roughly painted board sign,
containing a catalogue of the goods within, arranged in alphabetical
order, without reference to any other classification. Thus the
substantial farmer, in search of a pound of _candy_ for his little white
headed barbarians, whom he had left at play, must needs pass his finger
over “cards, chains, calico, cowhides, and candy;” or, if he had come to
“town” to purchase a bushel of meal for family use, his eye was greeted
with the list of M's, containing meal, mustard, mousetraps, and
molasses.

It was to the little court house town of the county of Accomac, that Sir
William Berkeley had retired after the burning of Jamestown; and here he
remained, since the suppression of the rebellion, like a cruel old
spider, in the centre of his web, awaiting, with grim satisfaction, the
capture of such of the unwary fugitives as might fall into his power.

“Well, gentlemen, the court martial is set,” said Sir William Berkeley,
as he gazed upon the gloomy faces of the military men around him, in the
old court house of Accomac. In that little assembly, might be seen the
tall and manly form of Colonel Philip Ludwell, who had been honoured, by
the especial confidence of Berkeley, as he was, afterwards, by the
constant and tender love of the widowed Lady Frances. There, too, was
the stern, hard countenance of Major Robert Beverley, whose unbending
loyalty had shut his eyes to true merit in an opponent. The names of the
remaining members of the court, have, unfortunately, not found a place
in the history of the rebellion. Alfred Bernard, on whom the governor
had showered, with a lavish hand, the favours which it was in his power
to bestow, had been promoted to the office of Major, in the room of
Thomas Hansford, outlawed, and was, therefore, entitled to a seat at the
council which was to try the life of his rival. But as his evidence was
of an important character, and as he had been concerned directly in the
arrest of the prisoner, he preferred to act in the capacity of a
witness, rather than as a judge.

“Let the prisoner be brought before the court,” said Berkeley; and in a
few moments, Hansford, with his hands manacled, was led, between a file
of soldiers, to the seat prepared for him. His short confinement had
made but little change in his appearance. His face, indeed, was paler
than usual, and his eye was brighter, for the exciting and solemn scene
through which he was about to pass. But prejudged, though he was, his
firmness never forsook him, and he met with a calm, but respectful gaze,
the many eyes which were bent upon him. Conspicuous among the rebels,
and popular and beloved in the colony, his trial had attracted a crowd
of spectators; some impelled by vulgar curiosity, some by their loyal
desire to witness the trial of a rebel to his king, but not a few by
sympathy for his early and already well known fate.

As might well be expected, there was but little difficulty in
establishing his participation in the late rebellion. There were many of
the witnesses, who had seen him in intimate association with Bacon, and
several who recognized him as among the most active in the trenches at
Jamestown. To crown all, the irresistible evidence was introduced by
Bernard, that the prisoner had actually brought a threatening message to
the governor, while at Windsor Hall, which had induced the first flight
to Accomac. It was useless to resist the force of such accumulated
testimony, and Hansford saw that his fate was settled. It were folly to
contend before such a tribunal, that his acts did not constitute
rebellion, or that the court before whom he was arraigned was
unconstitutional. The devoted victim of their vengeance, therefore,
awaited in silence the conclusion of this solemn farce, which they had
dignified by the name of a trial.

The evidence concluded, Sir William Berkeley, as Lord President of the
Court, collected the suffrages of its members. It might easily be
anticipated by their gloomy countenances, what was the solemn import of
their judgment. Thomas Ludwell, the secretary of the council, acted as
the clerk, and in a voice betraying much emotion, read the fatal
decision. The sympathizing bystanders, who in awful silence awaited the
result, drew a long breath as though relieved from their fearful
suspense, even by having heard the worst. And Hansford was to die! He
heard with much emotion the sentence which doomed him to a traitor's
death the next day at noon; and those who were near, heard him sob, “My
poor, poor mother!” But almost instantly, with a violent effort he
controlled his feelings, and asked permission to speak.

“Surely,” said the Governor, “provided your language be respectful to
the Court, and that you say nothing reflecting on his majesty's
government at home or in the Colony of Virginia.”

“These are hard conditions,” said Hansford, rising from his seat, “as
with such limitations, I can scarcely hope to justify my conduct. But I
accept your courtesy, even with these conditions. A dying man has at
last but little to say, and but little disposition to mingle again in
the affairs of a world which he must so soon leave. In the short, the
strangely short time allotted to me, I have higher and holier concerns
to interest me. Ere this hour to-morrow, I will have passed from the
scenes of earth to appear before a higher tribunal than yours, and to
answer for the forgotten sins of my past life. But I thank my God, that
while that awful tribunal is higher, it is also juster and more merciful
than yours. Even in this sad moment, however, I cannot forget the
country for which I have lived, and for which I must so soon die. I see
by your countenances that I am already transcending your narrow limits.
But it cannot be treason to pray for her, and as my life has been
devoted to her service, so will my prayers for her welfare ascend with
my petitions for forgiveness.

“I would say a word as to the offence with which I have been charged,
and the evidence on which I have been convicted. That evidence amounts
to the fact that I was in arms, by the authority of the Governor,
against the common enemies of my country. Is this treason? That I was
the bearer of a threatening message to the Governor from General Bacon,
which caused the first flight into Accomac. And here I would say,” and
he fixed his eyes full on Alfred Bernard, as he spoke, who endeavoured
to conceal his feelings by a smile of scorn, “that the evidence on this
point has been cruelly, shamefully garbled and perverted. It was never
stated that, while as the minister of another, I bore the message
referred to, I urged the Governor to consider and retract the
proclamation which he had made, and offered my own mediation to restore
peace and quiet to the Colony. Had my advice been taken the beams of
peace would have once more burst upon Virginia, the scenes which are
constantly enacted here, and which will continue to be enacted, would
never have disgraced the sacred name of justice; and the name of Sir
William Berkeley would not be handed down to the execrations of
posterity as a dishonoured knight, and a brutal, bloody butcher.”

“Silence!” cried the incensed old Governor, in tones of thunder, “or by
the wounds of God, I'll shorten the brief space which now interposes
between you and eternity. Is this redeeming your promise of respect?”

“I beg pardon,” said Hansford, undaunted by the menace. “Excuse me, if I
cannot speak patiently of cruelty and oppression. But let this pass.
That perfidious wretch who would rise above my ruins, never breathed a
word of this, when on the evangelist of Almighty God he was sworn to
speak the truth. But if such evidence be sufficient to convict me of
treason now, why was it not sufficient then? Why, with the same facts
before you, did you, Sir William Berkeley, discharge the traitor in
arms, and now seek his death when disarmed and impotent? One other link
remains in the chain, this feeble chain of evidence. I aided in the
siege of Jamestown, and once more drove the Governor and his fond
adherents from their capital, to their refuge in the Accomac. I cannot,
I will not deny it. But neither can this be treason, unless, indeed, Sir
William Berkeley possesses in his own person the sacred majesty of
Virginia. For when he abdicated the government by his first flight from
the soil of Virginia, the sovereign people of the Colony, assembled in
solemn convention, declared his office vacant. In that convention, you,
my judges, well know, for you found it to your cost, were present a
majority of the governor's council, the whole army, and almost the
entire chivalry and talent of the colony. In their name writs were
issued for an assembly, which met under their authority, and the
commission of governor was placed in the hands of Nathaniel Bacon.”

“By an unauthorized mob,” said Berkeley, unable to restrain his
impatience.

“By an organized convention of sovereign people,” returned Hansford,
proudly. “You, Sir William Berkeley, deemed it not an unauthorized mob,
when confiding in your justice, and won by your soft promises, a similar
convention, composed of cavaliers and rich landholders, confided to
your hands, in 1659, the high trust which you now hold. If such a
proceeding were unauthorized then, were you not guilty in accepting the
commission? If authorized, were not the same people competent to bestow
the trust upon another, whom they deemed more worthy to hold it? If this
be so, the insurgents, as you have chosen to call them, were not in arms
against the government at the siege of Jamestown. And thus the last
strand in the coil of evidence, with which you have involved me, is
broken, as withs are severed at the touch of fire. But light as is the
testimony against me, it is sufficient to turn the beam of justice, when
the sword of Brennus is cast into the scale.

“One word more and I am done; for I see you are impatient for the
sacrifice. I had thought that I would have been tried by a jury of my
peers. Such I deemed my right as a British subject. But condemned by the
extraordinary and unwarranted proceedings of this Star Chamber”—

“Silence!” cried Berkeley, again waxing wroth at such an imputation.

“I beg pardon once more,” continued Hansford, “I thought the favourite
institution of Charles the First would not have met with so little
favour from such loyal cavaliers. But I demand in the name of Freedom,
in the name of England, in the name of God and Justice, when was Magna
Charta or the Petition of Right abolished on the soil of Virginia? Is
the Governor of Virginia so little of a lawyer that he remembers not the
language of the stout Barons of Runnymede, unadorned in style, but
pregnant with freedom. 'No freeman may be taken or imprisoned, or be
disseised of his freehold or liberties, or his free-customs, or be
outlawed or exiled, or in any manner destroyed, but by the lawful
judgment of his peers, or by the law of the land.' Excuse me, gentlemen,
for repeating to such sage judges so old and hackneyed a fragment of the
law. But until to-day, I had been taught to hold those words as sacred,
and as indeed containing the charter of the liberties of an Englishman.
Alas! it will no longer be hackneyed nor quoted by the slaves of
England, except when they mourn with bitter but hopeless tears, for the
higher and purer freedom of their ruder fathers. Why am I thus arraigned
before a court-martial in time of peace? Am I found in arms? Am I even
an officer or a soldier? The commission which I once held has been torn
from me, and given, as his thirty pieces, to you dissembling Judas, for
the price of my betrayal. But I am done. Your tyranny and oppression
cannot last for ever. The compressed spring will at last recoil with
power proportionate to the force by which it has been restrained—and
freed posterity will avenge on a future tyrant my cruel and unnatural
murder.”

Hansford sat down, and Sir William Berkeley, flushed with indignation,
replied,

“I had hoped that the near approach of death, if not a higher motive,
would have saved us from such treasonable sentiments. But, sir, the
insolence of your manner has checked any sympathy which I might have
entertained for your early fate. I, therefore, have only to pronounce
the judgment of the court; that you be taken to the place whence you
came, and there safely kept until to-morrow noon, when you will be
taken, with a rope about your neck, to the common gallows, and there
hung by the neck until you are dead. And may the Lord Jesus Christ have
mercy on your soul!”

“Amen!” was murmured, in sad whispers, by the hundreds of pale
spectators who crowded around the unhappy prisoner.

“How is this!” cried Hansford, once more rising to his feet, with strong
emotion. “Gentlemen, you are soldiers, as such I may claim you as
brethren, as such you should be brave and generous men. On that
generosity, in this hour of peril, I throw myself, and ask as a last
indulgence, as a dying favour, that I may die the death of a soldier,
and not of a felon.”

“You have lived a traitor's, not a soldier's life,” said Berkeley, in an
insulting tone. “A soldier's life is devoted to his king and country;
yours to a rebel and to treason. You shall die the death of a traitor.”

“Well, then, I have done,” said Hansford, with a sigh, “and must look to
Him alone for mercy, who can make the felon's gallows as bright a
pathway to happiness, as the field of glory.”

Many a cheek flushed with indignation at the refusal of the governor to
grant this last petition of a brave man. A murmur of dissatisfaction
arose from the crowd, and even some sturdy loyalists were heard to
mutter, “shame.” The other members of the court were seen to confer
together, and to remonstrate with the governor.

“'Fore God, no,” said Berkeley, in a whisper to his advisers. “Think of
the precedent it will establish. Traitor he has lived, and as far as my
voice can go, traitor he shall die. I suppose the sheep-killing hound,
and the egg-sucking cur, will next whine out their request to be shot
instead of hung.”

So great was the influence of Berkeley, over the minds of the court,
that, after a feeble remonstrance, the petition of the prisoner was
rejected. Old Beverley alone, was heard to mutter in the ear of Philip
Ludwell, that it was a shame to deny a brave man a soldier's death, and
doom him to a dog's fate.

“And for all this,” he added, “its a damned hard lot, and blast me, but
I think Hansford to be worth in bravery and virtue, fifty of that
painted popinjay, Bernard, whose cruelty is as much beyond his years as
his childish vanity is beneath them.”

“Well, gentlemen, I trust you are now satisfied,” said Berkeley.
“Sheriff, remove your prisoner, and,” looking angrily around at the
malecontents, “if necessary, summon an additional force to assist you.”

The officer, however, deemed no such precaution necessary, and the
hapless Hansford was conducted back to his cell under the same guard
that brought him thence; there to await the execution on the morrow of
the fearful sentence to which he had been condemned.




CHAPTER XLVI.

    _Isabella._ “Yet show some pity.

    _Angelo._ I show it most of all when I show justice.”
                                              _Measure for Measure._


That evening Sir William Berkeley was sitting in the private room at the
tavern, which had been fitted up for his reception. He had strictly
commanded his servants to deny admittance to any one who might wish to
see him. The old man was tired of counsellors, advisers, and
petitioners, who harassed him in their attempt to curb his impatient
ire, and he was determined to act entirely for himself. He had thus been
sitting for more than an hour, looking moodily into the fire, without
even the officious Lady Frances to interfere with his reflections, when
a servant in livery entered the room.

“If your Honour please,” said the obsequious servitor, “there is a lady
at the door who says she must see you on urgent business. I told her
that you could not be seen, but she at last gave me this note, which she
begged me to hand you.”

Berkeley impatiently tore open the note and read as follows:—

     “By his friendship for my father, and his former kindness to me, I
     ask for a brief interview with Sir William Berkeley.
                                                    “VIRGINIA TEMPLE.”

“Fore God!” said the Governor, angrily, “they beset me with an
importunity which makes me wretched. What the devil can the girl want!
Some favour for Bernard, I suppose. Well, any thing for a moment's
respite from these troublesome rebels. Show her up, Dabney.”

In another moment the door again opened, and Virginia Temple, pale and
trembling, fell upon her knees before the Governor, and raised her soft,
blue eyes to his face so imploringly, that the heart of the old man was
moved to pity.

“Rise, my daughter,” he said, tenderly; “tell me your cause of grief. It
surely cannot be so deep as to bring you thus upon your knees to an old
friend. Rise then, and tell me.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said, with a trembling voice, “I knew that you were
kind, and would listen to my prayer.”

“Well, Virginia,” said the Governor, in the same mild tone, “let me hear
your request? You know, we old servants of the king have not much time
to spare at best, and these are busy times. Is your father well, and
your good mother? Can I serve them in any thing?”

“They are both well and happy, nor do they need your aid,” said
Virginia; “but I, sir, oh! how can I speak. I have come from Windsor
Hall to ask that you will be just and merciful. There is, sir, a brave
man here in chains, who is doomed to die—to die to-morrow. Oh,
Hansford, Hansford!” and unable longer to control her emotion, the poor,
broken-hearted girl burst into an agony of tears.

Berkeley's brow clouded in an instant.

“And is it for that unhappy man, my poor girl, that you have come alone
to sue?”

“I did not come alone,” replied Virginia; “my father is with me, and
will himself unite in my request.”

“I will be most happy to see my old friend again, but I would that he
came on some less hopeless errand. Major Hansford must die. The laws
alike of his God and his country, which he has trampled regardless under
foot, require the sacrifice of his blood.”

“But, for the interposition of mercy,” urged the poor girl, “the laws of
God require the death of all—and the laws of his country have vested in
you the right to arrest their rigour at your will. Oh, how much sweeter
to be merciful than sternly just!”

“Nay, my poor girl,” said Sir William, “you speak of what you cannot
understand, and your own griefs have blinded your mind. Justice,
Virginia, is mercy; for by punishing the offender it prevents the
repetition of the offence. The vengeance of the law thus becomes the
safeguard of society, and the sword of justice becomes the sceptre of
righteousness.”

“I cannot reason with you,” returned Virginia. “You are a statesman, and
I am but a poor, weak girl, ignorant of the ways of the world.”

“And therefore you have come to advocate this suit instead of your
father,” said Berkeley, smiling. “I see through your little plot
already. Come, tell me now, am I not right in my conjecture? Why have
you come to urge the cause of Hansford, instead of your father?”

“Because,” said Virginia, with charming simplicity, “we both thought,
that as Sir William Berkeley had already decided upon the fate of this
unhappy man, it would be easier to reach his heart, than to affect the
mature decision of his judgment.”

“You argued rightly, my dear girl,” said Berkeley, touched by her
frankness and simplicity, as well as by her tears. “But it is the hard
fate of those in power to deny themselves often the luxury of mercy,
while they tread onward in the rough but straight path of justice. It is
ours to follow the stern maxim of our old friend Shakspeare:

    'Mercy but murders, pardoning those who kill.'”

“But it does seem to me,” said the resolute girl, losing all the native
diffidence of her character in the interest she felt in her cause—“it
does seem to me that even stern policy would sometimes dictate mercy.
May not a judicious clemency often secure the love of the misguided
citizen, while harsh justice would estrange him still farther from
loyalty?”

“There, you are trenching upon your father's part, my child,” said the
Governor. “You must not go beyond your own cue, you know—for believe me
that your plea for mercy would avail far more with me than your reasons,
however cogent. This rebellion proceeded too far to justify any clemency
toward those who promoted it.”

“But it is now suppressed,” said Virginia, resolutely; “and is it not
the sweetest attribute of power, to help the fallen? Oh, remember,” she
added, carried away completely by her subject,

    “'Less pleasure take brave minds in battles won,
    Than in restoring such as are undone;
    Tigers have courage, and the rugged bear,
    But man alone can, when he conquers, spare.'”

“I did not expect to hear your father's daughter defend her cause by
such lines as these. Do you know where they are found?”

“They are Waller's, I believe,” said Virginia, blushing at this
involuntary display of learning; “but it is their truth, and not their
author, which suggested them to me.”

“Your memory is correct,” said Berkeley, with a smile, “but they are
found in his panegyric on the Protector. A eulogy upon a traitor is bad
authority with an old cavalier like me.”

“If, then, you need authority which you cannot question,” the girl
replied, earnestly, “do you think that the royal cause lost strength by
the mild policy of Charles the Second? That is authority that even you
dare not question.”

“Well, and what if I should say,” replied Berkeley, “that this very
leniency was one of the causes that encouraged the recent rebellion? But
go, my child; I would rejoice if I could please you, but Hansford's fate
is settled. I pity you, but I cannot forgive him.” And with a courteous
inclination of his head, he signified his desire that their interview
should end.

“Nay,” shrieked Virginia, in desperation, “I will not let you go, except
you bless me,” and throwing herself again upon her knees, she implored
his mercy. Berkeley, who, with all his sternness, was not an unfeeling
man, was deeply moved. What the result might have been can never be
known, for at that moment a voice was heard from the street exclaiming,
“Drummond is taken!” In an instant the whole appearance of the Governor
changed. His cheek flushed and his eye sparkled, as with hasty strides
he left the room and descended the stairs. No more the fine specimen of
a cavalier gentleman, his manner became at once harsh and irritable.

“Well, Mr. Drummond,” he cried, as he saw the proud rebel led manacled
to the door. “'Fore God, and I am more delighted to see you than any man
in the colony. You shall hang in half an hour.”

“And if he do,” shrieked the wild voice of a woman from the crowd,
“think you that with your puny hand you can arrest the current of
liberty in this colony? And when you appear before the dread bar of
God, the spirits of these martyred patriots will rise up to condemn you,
and fiends shall snatch at your blood-stained soul, perfidious tyrant!
And I will be among them, for such a morsel of vengeance would sweeten
hell. Ha! ha! ha!”

With that wild, maniac laugh, Sarah Drummond disappeared from the crowd
of astounded spectators.

History informs us that the deadly threat of Berkeley was carried into
effect immediately. But it was not until two days afterwards that
William Drummond met a traitor's doom upon the common gallows.

Virginia Temple, thus abruptly left, and deprived of all hope, fell
senseless on the floor of the room. The hope which had all along
sustained her brave young heart, had now vanished forever, and kindly
nature relieved the agony of her despair by unconsciousness. And there
she lay, pale and beautiful, upon that floor, while the noisy clamour
without was hailing the capture of another victim, whose fate was to
bring sorrow and despair to another broken heart.




CHAPTER XLVII.

    “His nature is so far from doing harm,
    That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty
    My practices ride easy.”
                                            _King Lear._


When Virginia aroused again to consciousness, her eyes met the features
of Alfred Bernard, as he knelt over her form. Not yet realizing her
situation, she gazed wildly about her, and in a hoarse, husky whisper,
which fell horridly on the ear, she said, “Where is my father?”

“At home, Virginia,” replied Bernard, softly, chafing her white temples
the while—“And you are here in Accomac. Look up, Virginia, and see that
you are not without a friend even here.”

“Oh, now, yes, now I know it all,” she shrieked, springing up with a
wild bound, and rushing like a maniac toward the door. “They have killed
him! I have slept here, instead of begging his life. I have murdered
him! Ha! you, sir, are you the jailer? I should know your face.”

“Nay, do not speak thus, Virginia,” said Bernard, holding her gently in
his arms, “Hansford is yet alive. Be calm.”

“Hansford! I thought he was dead!” said the poor girl, her mind still
wandering. “Did not Mamalis—no—she is dead—all are dead—ha? where am
I? Sure this is not Windsor Hall. Nay, what am I talking about. Let me
see;” and she pressed her hand to her forehead, and smoothed back her
fair hair, as she strove to collect her thoughts. “Ah! now I know,” she
said at length, more calmly, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Bernard, I have
acted very foolishly, I fear. But you will forgive a poor distracted
girl.”

“I promised you my influence with the governor,” said Bernard, “and I do
not yet despair of effecting my object. And so be calm.”

“Despair!” said Virginia, bitterly, “as well might you expect to turn a
river from the sea, as to turn the relentless heart of that bigoted old
tyrant from blood. And yet, I thank you, Mr. Bernard, and beg that you
will leave no means untried to preserve my poor doomed Hansford. You see
I am quite calm now, and should you fail in your efforts to procure a
pardon, may I ask one last melancholy favour at your hands! I would see
him once more before we part, forever.” And to prove how little she knew
her own heart, the poor girl burst into a renewed agony of grief.

“Calm your feelings, then, dear Virginia,” said Bernard, “and you shall
see him. But by giving way thus, you would unman him.”

“You remind me of my duty, my friend,” said Virginia, controlling
herself, with a strong effort, “and I will not again forget it in my
selfish grief. Shall we go now?”

“Remain here, but a few moments, patiently,” he replied, “and I will
seek the governor, and urge him to relent. If I fail, I will return to
you.”

Leaving the young girl once more to her own sad reflections, Alfred
Bernard left the room.

“Virtue has its own reward,” he muttered, as he walked slowly along. “I
wonder how many would be virtuous if it were not so! Self is at last the
mainspring of action, and when it produces good, we call it virtue; when
it accomplishes evil, we call it vice; wherein, then, am I worse than my
fellow man? Here am I, now, giving this poor girl a interview with her
rebel lover, and extracting some happiness for them, even from their
misery. And yet I am not a whit the worse off. Nay, I am benefited, for
gratitude is a sure prompter of love; and when Hansford is out of the
way, who so fit to supply the niche, left vacant in her heart, as Alfred
Bernard, who soothed their mutual grief. Thus virtue is often a valuable
handmaid to success, and may be used for our purposes, when we want her
assistance, and afterwards be whistled to the winds as a pestilent jade.
Machiavelli in politics, Loyola in religion, Rochefoucault in society,
ye are the mighty three, who, seeing the human heart in all its
nakedness, have dared to tear the mask from its deformed and hideous
features.”

“What in the world are you muttering about, Alfred?” said Governor
Berkeley, as they met in the porch, as Bernard had finished this
diabolical soliloquy.

“Oh nothing,” replied the young intriguer. “But I came to seek your
excellency.”

“And I to seek for you, my sage young counsellor; I have to advise with
you upon a subject which lies heavy on my heart, Alfred.”

“You need only command my counsel and it is yours,” said Bernard, “but I
fear that I can be of little assistance in your reflections.”

“Yes you can, my boy,” returned Berkeley, “I know not whether you will
esteem it a compliment or not, Alfred, but yours is an old head on young
shoulders, and the heart, which in the season of youth often flits away
from the sober path of judgment, seems with you to follow steadily in
the wake of reason.”

“If you mean that I am ever ready to sacrifice my own selfish impulses
to my duty, I do esteem it as a compliment, though I fear not altogether
deserved.”

“Well, then,” said the Governor, “this poor boy, Hansford, who is to
suffer death to-morrow, I have had a strange interview concerning him
since I last saw you.”

“Aye, with Miss Temple,” returned Bernard. “She told me she had seen
you, and that you were as impregnable to assault as the rock of
Gibraltar.”

“I thought so too, where treason was concerned,” said Berkeley. “But
some how, the leaven of the poor girl's tears is working strangely in my
heart; and after I had left her, who should I meet but her old father.”

“Is Colonel Temple here?” asked Bernard, surprised.

“Aye is he, and urged Hansford's claims to pardon with such force, that
I had to fly from temptation. Nay he even put his plea for mercy upon
the ground of his own former kindness to me.”

“The good old gentleman seems determined to be paid for that
hospitality,” said Bernard, with a sneer. “Well!”

“Well, altogether I am almost determined to interpose my reprieve,
until the wishes of his majesty are known,” said Berkeley, with some
hesitation.

Bernard was silent, for some moments, and the Governor continued.

“What do you say to this course Alfred?”

“Simply, that if you are determined, I have nothing to say.”

“Nay, but I am not determined, my young friend.”

“Then I must ask you what are the grounds of your hesitation, before I
can express an opinion?” said Bernard.

“Well, first,” said the Governor, “because it will be a personal favour
to Colonel Temple, and will dry the tears in those blue eyes of his
pretty daughter. His kindness to me in this unhappy rebellion would be
but poorly requited, if I refused the first and only favour that he has
ever asked of me.”

“Then hereafter,” returned Bernard, quietly, “it would be good policy in
a rebellion, for half the rebels to remain at home and entertain the
Governor at their houses. They would thus secure the pardon of the
rest.”

“Well, you young Solomon,” said Berkeley, laughing, “I believe you are
right there. It would be a dangerous precedent. But then, a reprieve is
not a pardon, and while I might thus oblige my friends, the king could
hereafter see the cause of justice vindicated.”

“And you would shift your own responsibility upon the king,” replied
Bernard. “Has not Charles Stuart enough to trouble him, with his
rebellious subjects at home, without having to supervise every petty
felony or treason that occurs in his distant colonies? This provision of
our charter, denying to the Governor the power of absolute pardon, but
granting him power to reprieve, was only made, that in doubtful cases,
the minister might rely upon the wisdom of majesty. It was never
intended to shift all the trouble and vexation of a colonial executive
upon the overloaded hands of the king. If you have any doubt of
Hansford's guilt, I would be the last to turn your heart from clemency,
by a word of my mouth. If he be guilty, I only ask whether Sir William
Berkeley is the man to shrink from responsibility, and to fasten upon
his royal master the odium, if odium there be, attending the execution
of the sentence against a rebel.”

“Zounds, no, Bernard, you know I am not. But then there are a plenty of
rebels to sate the vengeance of the law, besides this poor young fellow.
Does justice demand that all should perish?”

“My kind patron,” said Bernard, “to whom I owe all that I have and am,
do not further urge me to oppose feelings so honorable to your heart.
Exercise your clemency towards this unhappy young man, in whose fate I
feel as deep an interest as yourself. If harm should flow from your
mercy, who can censure you for acting from motives so generous and
humane. If by your mildness you should encourage rebellion again,
posterity will pardon the weakness of the Governor in the benevolence of
the man.”

“Stay,” said Berkeley, his pride wounded by this imputation, “you know,
Alfred, that if I thought that clemency towards this young rebel would
encourage rebellion in the future, I would rather lose my life than
spare his. But speak out, and tell me candidly why you think the
execution of this sentence necessary to satisfy justice.”

“You force me to an ungrateful duty,” replied the young hypocrite, “for
it is far more grateful to the heart of a benevolent man to be the
advocate of mercy, than the stern champion of justice. But since you ask
my reasons, it is my duty to obey you. First, then, this young man, from
his talent, his bravery, and his high-flown notions about liberty, is
far more dangerous than any of the insurgents who have survived
Nathaniel Bacon. Then, he has shown that so far from repenting of his
treason, he is ready to justify it, as witness his speech, wherein he
predicted the triumph of revolution in Virginia, and denounced the
vengeance of future generations upon tyranny and oppression. Nay, he
even went farther, and characterized as brutal bloody butchers the
avengers of the broken laws of their country.”

“I remember,” said Berkeley, turning pale at the recollection.

“But there is another cogent reason why he should suffer the penalty
which he has so richly incurred. If your object be to secure the
returning loyalty and affection of the people, you should not incense
them by unjust discrimination in favour of a particular rebel. The
friends of Drummond, of Lawrence, of Cheeseman, of Wilford, of Bland, of
Carver, will all say, and say with justice, that you spared the
principal leader in the rebellion, the personal friend and adviser of
Bacon, while their own kinsmen were doomed to the scaffold. Nor will
those ghosts walk unavenged.”

“I see, I see,” cried Berkeley, grasping Bernard warmly by the hand.
“You have saved me, Alfred, from a weakness which I must ever afterwards
have deplored, and at the expense of your own feelings, my boy.”

“Yes, my dear patron,” replied Bernard, with a sigh, “you may well say
at the expense of my own feelings. For I too, have just witnessed a
scene which would have moved a heart of stone; and it was at the request
of that poor, weeping, broken-hearted girl, to save whom from distress,
I would willingly lay down my life—it was at her request that I came to
beg at your hands the poor privilege of a last interview with her lover.
Even Justice, stern as are her decrees, cannot deny this boon to Mercy.”

“You have a generous heart, my dear boy,” said the Governor, with the
tears starting from his eyes. “There are not many men who would thus
take delight in ministering consolation to the heart of a successful
rival. You have my full and free permission. Go, my son, and through
life may your heart be ever thus awake to such generous impulses, yet
sustained and controlled by your unwavering devotion to duty and
justice.”




CHAPTER XLVIII.

    “My life, my health, my liberty, my all!
    How shall I welcome thee to this sad place—
    How speak to thee the words of joy and transport?
    How run into thy arms, withheld by fetters,
    Or take thee into mine, while I'm thus manacled
    And pinioned like a thief or murderer?”
                                  _The Mourning Bride._


How different from the soliloquy of the dark and treacherous Bernard,
seeking in the sophistry and casuistry of philosophy to justify his
selfishness, were the thoughts of his noble victim! Too brave to fear
death, yet too truly great not to feel in all its solemnity the grave
importance of the hour; with a soul formed for the enjoyment of this
world, yet fully prepared to encounter the awful mysteries of another,
the heart of Thomas Hansford beat calmly and healthfully, unappalled by
the certainty that on the morrow it would beat no more. He was seated on
a rude cot, in the room which was prepared for his brief confinement,
reading his Bible. The proud man, who relying on his own strength had
braved many dangers, and whose cheek had never blanched from fear of an
earthly adversary, was not ashamed in this, his hour of great need, to
seek consolation and support from Him who alone could conduct him
through the dark valley of the shadow of death.

The passage which he read was one of the sublime strains of the rapt
Isaiah, and never had the promise seemed sweeter and dearer to his soul
than now, when he could so fully appropriate it to himself.

“Fear not for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by my name; thou
art mine.

“When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee; and through
the rivers, they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the
fire thou shalt not be burnt; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.

“For I am the Lord thy God, the Holy one of Israel, thy Saviour.”

As he read and believed the blessed assurance contained in the sacred
promise, he learned to feel that death was indeed but the threshold to a
purer world. So absorbed was he in the contemplation of this sublime
theme, that he did not hear the door open, and it was some time before
he looked up and saw Alfred Bernard and Virginia Temple, who had quietly
entered the room.

Virginia's resolution entirely gave way, and violently trembling from
head to foot, her hands and brow as white and cold as marble, she well
nigh sank under the sickening effect of her agony. For all this she did
not weep. There are wounds which never indicate their existence by
outward bleeding, and such are esteemed most dangerous. 'Tis thus with
the spirit-wounds which despair inflicts upon its victim. Nature yields
not to the soul the sad relief of tears, but falling in bitter drops
they petrify and crush the sad heart, which they fail to relieve.

Hansford, too, was much moved, but with a greater control of his
feelings he said, “And so, you have come to take a last farewell,
Virginia. This is very, very kind.”

“I regret,” said Alfred Bernard, “that the only condition on which I
gained admittance for Miss Temple was, that I should remain during the
interview. Major Hansford will see the necessity of such a precaution,
and will, I am sure, pardon an intrusion as painful to me as to
himself.”

The reader, who has been permitted to see the secret workings of that
black heart, which was always veiled from the world, need not be told
that no such precaution was proposed by the Governor. Bernard's object
was more selfish; it was to prevent his victim from prejudicing the mind
of Virginia towards him, by informing her of the prominent part that he
had taken in Hansford's trial and conviction.

“Oh, certainly, sir,” replied Hansford, gratefully, “and I thank you,
Mr. Bernard, for thus affording me an opportunity of taking a last
farewell of the strongest tie which yet binds me to earth. I had thought
till now,” he added, with emotion, “that I was fully prepared to meet my
fate. Well, Virginia, the play is almost over, and the last dread scene,
tragic though it be, cannot last long.”

“Oh, God!” cried the trembling girl, “help me—help me to bear this
heavy blow.”

“Nay, speak not thus, my own Virginia,” he said. “Remember that my lot
is but the common destiny of mankind, only hastened a few hours. The
leaves, that the chill autumn breath has strewn upon the earth, will be
supplied by others in the spring, which in their turn will sport for a
season in the summer wind, and fade and die with another year. Thus one
generation passes away, and another comes, like them to live, like them
to die and be forgotten. We need not fear death, if we have discharged
our duty.”

With such words of cold philosophy did Hansford strive to console the
sad heart of Virginia.

“'Tis true, the death I die,” he added with a shudder, “is what men
call disgraceful—but the heart need feel no fear which is sheltered by
the Rock of Ages.”

“And yours is sheltered there, I know,” she said. “The change for you,
though sudden and awful, must be happy; but for me! for me!—oh, God, my
heart will break!”

“Virginia, Virginia,” said Hansford, tenderly, as he tried with his poor
manacled hands to support her almost fainting form, “control yourself.
Oh, do not add to my sorrows by seeing you suffer thus. You have still
many duties to perform—to soothe the declining years of your old
parents—to cheer with your warm heart the many friends who love
you—and, may I add,” he continued, with a faltering voice, “that my
poor, poor mother will need your consolation. She will soon be without a
protector on earth, and this sad news, I fear, will well nigh break her
heart. To you, and to the kind hands of her merciful Father in heaven, I
commit the charge of my widowed mother. Oh, will you not grant the last
request of your own Hansford?”

And Virginia promised, and well and faithfully did she redeem that
promise. That widowed mother gained a daughter in the loss of her noble
boy, and died blessing the pure-hearted girl, whose soothing affection
had sweetened her bitter sorrows, and smoothed her pathway to the quiet
grave.

“And now, Mr. Bernard,” said Hansford, “it is useless to prolong this
sad interview. We have been enemies. Forgive me if I have ever done you
wrong—the prayers of a dying man are for your happiness. Farewell,
Virginia, remember me to your kind old father and mother; and look you,”
he added, with a sigh, “give this lock of my hair to my poor mother, and
tell her that her orphan boy, who died blessing her, requested that she
would place it in her old Bible, where I know she will often see it, and
remember me when I am gone forever. Once more, Virginia, fare well!
Remember, dearest, that this brief life is but a segment of the great
circle of existence. The larger segment is beyond the grave. Then live
on bravely, as I know you will virtuously, and we will meet in Heaven.”

Without a word, for she dared not speak, Virginia received his last kiss
upon her pale, cold forehead, and cherished it there as a seal of love,
sacred as the sign of the Redeemer's cross, traced on the infant brow at
the baptismal font.




CHAPTER XLIX.

    “Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
      With a woeful agony,
    Which forced me to begin my tale,
      And then it left me free.
    Since then, at an uncertain hour,
      That agony returns,
    And till this ghastly tale is told
      My heart within me burns.”
                      _Rime of the Ancient Mariner._


The sun shone brightly the next morning, as it rose above the forest of
tall pines which surrounded the little village of Accomac; and as its
rays stained the long icicles on the evergreen branches of the trees,
they looked like the pendant jewels of amber which hung from the ears of
the fierce, untutored chieftains of the forest. The air was clear and
frosty, and the broad heaven, that hung like a blue curtain above the
busy world, seemed even purer and more beautiful than ever. There, calm
and eternal, it spread in its unclouded glory, above waters, woods,
wilds, as if unmindful of the sorrows and the cares of earth. So hovers
the wide providence of the eternal God over his creation, unmoved in its
sublime depths by the joys and woes which agitate the mind of man, yet
shining over him still, in its clear beauty, and beckoning him upwards!

But on none did the sun shine with more brightness, or the sky smile
with more bitter mockery, on that morning, than on the dark forms of
Arthur Hutchinson and his young pupil, Alfred Bernard, as they sat
together in the embrasure of the window which lightened the little room
of the grave old preacher. A terrible revelation was that morning to be
made, involving the fate of the young jesuit, and meting out a dread
retribution for the crime that he had committed. Arthur Hutchinson had
reserved for this day the narrative of the birth and history of Alfred
Bernard. It had been a story which he long had desired to know, but to
all his urgent inquiries the old preacher had given an evasive reply.
But now there was no longer need for mystery. The design of that long
silence had been fully accomplished, and thus the stern misanthrope
began his narrative:

“It matters little, Alfred Bernard, to speak of my own origin and
parentage. Suffice it to say, that though not noble, by the accepted
rules of heraldry, my parents were noble in that higher sense, in which
all may aspire to true nobility, a patent not granted for bloody feats
in arms, nor by an erring man, but granted to true honesty and virtue
from the court of heaven. I was not rich, and yet, by self-denial on the
part of my parents, and by strict economy on my own part, I succeeded in
entering Baliol College, Oxford, where I pursued my studies with
diligence and success. This success was more essential, because I could
look only to my own resources in my struggle with the world. But, more
than this, I had already learned to think and care for another than
myself; for I had yielded my young heart to one, who requited my
affection with her own. I have long denied myself the luxury of looking
back upon the bright image of that fair creature, so fair, and yet so
fatal. But for your sake, and for mine own, I will draw aside the veil,
which has fallen upon those early scenes, and look at them again.

“Mary Howard was just eighteen years of age, when she plighted her troth
to me; and surely never has Heaven placed a purer spirit in a more
lovely form. Trusting and affectionate, her warm heart must needs fasten
upon something it might love; and because we had been reared together,
and she was ignorant of the larger world around her, her love was fixed
on me. I will not go back to those bright, joyous days of innocence and
happiness. They are gone forever, Alfred Bernard, and I have lived, and
now live for another object, than to indulge in the recollection of joy
and love. The saddest day of my whole life, except one, and that has
darkened all the rest, was when I first left her side to go to college.
But still we looked onward with high hope, and many were the castles in
the air, or rather the vine clad cottages, which we reared in fancy, for
our future home. Hope, Alfred Bernard, though long deferred, it may
sicken the heart, yet hope, however faint, is better than despair.

“Well! I went to college, and my love for Mary spurred me on in my
career, and honours came easily, but were only prized because she would
be proud of them. But though I was a hard student, I was not without my
friends, for I had a trusting heart then. Among these, yes, chief among
these, was Edward Hansford.”

Bernard started at the mention of that name. He felt that some dark
mystery was about to be unravelled, which would establish his connection
with the unhappy rebel. Yet he was lost in conjecture as to the
character of the revelation.

“I have never in my long experience,” continued Hutchinson, smiling
sadly, as he observed the effect produced, “known any man who possessed,
in so high a degree, the qualities which make men beloved and honoured.
Brave, generous, and chivalrous; brilliant in genius, classical in
attainment, profound in intellect. His person was a fit palace for such
a mind and such a heart. Yes, I can think of him now as he was, when I
first knew him, before crime of the deepest dye had darkened his soul. I
loved him as I never had loved a man before, as I never can love a man
again. I might forgive the past, I could never trust again.

“Edward returned my love, I believe, with his whole heart. Our studies
were the same, our feelings and opinions were congenial, and, in short,
in the language of our great bard, we grew 'like a double cherry, only
seeming parted.' I made him my confidant, and he used to laugh, in his
good humoured way, at my enthusiastic description of Mary. He threatened
to fall in love with her, himself, and to win her heart from me, and I
dared him to do so, if he could; and even, in my joyous triumph, invited
him home with me in vacation, that he might see the lovely conquest I
had made. Well, home we went together, and his welcome was all that I or
he could wish. Mary, my sweet, confiding Mary, was so kind and gentle,
that I loved her only the more, because she loved my friend so much. I
never dreamed of jealousy, Alfred Bernard, or I might have seen
beforehand the wiles of the insidious tempter. How often have I looked
with transport on their graceful forms, as they stood to watch the
golden sunset, from that sweet old porch, over which the roses clambered
so thickly.

“But why do I thus delay. The story is at last a brief one. It wanted
but two days of our return to Oxford, and we were all spending the day
together at old farmer Howard's. Mary seemed strangely sad that evening,
and whenever I spoke to her, her eyes filled with tears, and she
trembled violently. Fool that I was, I attributed her tears and her
agitation to her regret at parting from her lover. Little did I suspect
the terrible storm which awaited me. Well, we parted, as lovers part,
with sighs and tears, but with me, and alas! with me alone in hope.
Edward himself looked moody and low-spirited, and I recollect that to
cheer him up, I rallied him on being in love with Mary. Never will I
forget his look, now that the riddle is solved, as he replied, fixing
his clear, intense blue eyes upon me, 'Arthur, the wisest philosophy is,
not to trust your all in one venture. He who embarks his hopes and
happiness in the heart of one woman, may make shipwreck of them all.'

“'And so you, Mr. Philosopher,' I replied, gaily, 'would live and die an
old bachelor. Now, for mine own part, with little Mary's love, I promise
you that my baccalaureate degree at Oxford will be the only one to which
I will aspire.'

“He smiled, but said nothing, and we parted for the night.

“Early the next morning, even before the sun had risen, I went to his
room to wake him—for on that day we were to have a last hunt. We had
been laying up a stock of health, by such manly exercises for the coming
session. Intimate as I was with him, I did not hesitate to enter his
room without announcing myself. To my surprise he was not there, and the
bed had evidently not been occupied. As I was about to leave the room,
in some alarm, my eye rested upon a letter, which was lying on the
table, and addressed to me. With a trembling hand I tore it open, and
oh, my God! it told me all—the faithlessness of my Mary, the villainy
of my friend.”

“The perfidious wretch,” cried Bernard, with indignation.

“Beware, Alfred Bernard,” said the clergyman; “you know not what you
say. My tale is not yet done. I remember every word of that brief letter
now—although more than thirty years have since passed over me. It ran
thus:

“'Forgive me, Arthur; I meant not to have wronged you when I came, but
in an unhappy moment temptation met me, and I yielded. My perfidy cannot
be long concealed. Heaven has ordained that the fruit of our mutual
guilt shall appear as the witness of my baseness and of Mary's shame.
Forgive me, but above all, forgive her, Arthur.'

“This was all. No name was even signed to the death warrant of all my
hopes. At that moment a cold chill came over my heart, which has never
left it since. That letter was the Medusa which turned it into stone. I
did not rave—I did not weep. Believe me, Alfred Bernard, I was as calm
at that moment as I am now. But the calmness was more terrible than open
wrath. It was the sure indication of deep-rooted, deliberate revenge. I
wrote a letter to my father, explaining every thing, and then saddling
my horse, I turned his head towards old Howard's cottage, and rode like
the lightning.

“The old man was sitting in his shirt sleeves, in the porch. He saw me
approach, and in his loud, hearty voice, which fell like fiendish
mockery upon my ear, he cried out, 'Hallo, Arthur, my boy, come to say
good-bye to your sweetheart again, hey! Well, that's right. You couldn't
part like loveyers before the stranger and the old folks. Shall I call
my little Molly down?”

“'Old man,' I said, in a hollow, sepulchral voice, 'you have no
daughter'—and throwing myself from my horse, I rushed into the house.

“I will not attempt to describe the scene which followed. How the old
man rushed to her room, and the truth flashed upon his mind that she had
fled with her guilty lover. How he threw himself upon the bed of his
lost and ruined daughter, and a stranger before to tears, now wept
aloud. And how he prayed with the fervor of one who prays for the
salvation of a soul, that God would strike with the lightning of his
wrath the destroyer of his peace, the betrayer of his daughter's virtue.
Had Edward Hansford witnessed that scene, he had been punished enough
even for his guilt.

“Well, he deserted the trusting girl, and she returned to her now
darkened home; but, alas, how changed! When her child was born, the
innocent offspring of her guilt, in the care attending its nurture, the
violent grief of the mother gave way to a calm and settled melancholy.
All saw that the iron had entered her soul. Her old father died,
blessing and forgiving her, and with touching regard for his memory, she
refused to desecrate his pure name, by permitting the child of shame to
bear it. She called it after a distant relation, who never heard of the
dishonour thus attached to his name. A heart so pure as was the heart of
Mary Howard, could not long bear up beneath this load of shame. She
lingered about five years after the birth of her boy, and on her dying
bed confided the child to me. There in that sacred hour, I vowed to rear
and protect the little innocent, and by God's permission I have kept
that vow.”

“Oh, tell me, tell me,” said Bernard, wildly, “am I that child of guilt
and shame.”

“Alas! Alfred, my son, you are,” said the preacher, “but oh, you know
not all the terrible vengeance which a mysterious heaven will this day
visit on the children of your father.”

As the awful truth gradually dawned upon him, Bernard cried with deep
emotion.

“And Edward Hansford! tell me what became of him?”

“With the most diligent search I could hear nothing of him for years. At
length I learned that he had come to Virginia, married a young lady of
some fortune and family, and had at last been killed in a skirmish with
the Indians, leaving an only son, an infant in arms, the only remaining
comfort of his widowed mother.”

“And that son,” cried Bernard, the perspiration bursting from his brow
in the agony of the moment.

“Is Thomas Hansford, who, I fear, this day meets his fate by a brother's
and a rival's hand.”

“I demand your proof,” almost shrieked the agitated fratricide.

“The name first excited my suspicion,” returned Hutchinson, “and made me
warn you from crossing his path, when I saw you the night of the ball at
Jamestown. But confirmation was not wanting, for when this morning I
visited his cell to administer the last consolations of religion to him,
I saw him gazing upon the features in miniature of that very Edward, who
was the author of Mary Howard's wrongs.”

With a wild spring, Alfred Bernard bounded through the door, and as he
rushed into the street, he heard the melancholy voice of the preacher,
as he cried, “Too late, too late.”

Regardless of that cry, the miserable fratricide rushed madly along the
path which led to the place of execution, where the Governor and his
staff in accordance with the custom of the times had assembled to
witness the death of a traitor. The slow procession with the rude sledge
on which the condemned man was dragged, was still seen in the distance,
and the deep hollow sound of the muffled drum, told him too plainly that
the brief space of time which remained, was drawing rapidly to a close.
On, on, he sped, pushing aside the surprised populace who were
themselves hastening to the gallows, to indulge the morbid passion to
see the death and sufferings of a fellow man. The road seemed
lengthening as he went, but urged forward by desperation, regardless of
fatigue, he still ran swiftly toward the spot. He came to an angle of
the road, where for a moment he lost sight of the gloomy spectacle, and
in that moment he suffered the pangs of unutterable woe. Still the
muffled drum, in its solemn tones assured him that there was yet a
chance. But as he strained his eyes once more towards the fatal spot,
the sound of merry music and the wild shouts of the populace fell like
horrid mockery on his ear, for it announced that all was over.

“Too late, too late,” he shrieked, in horror, as he fell prostrate and
lifeless on the ground.

And above that dense crowd, unheeding the wild shout of gratified
vengeance that went up to heaven in that fearful moment, the soul of the
generous and patriotic Hansford soared gladly on high with the spirits
of the just, in the full enjoyment of perfect freedom.

<tb>

Reader my tale is done! The spirits I have raised abandon me, and as
their shadows pass slowly and silently away, the scenes that we have
recounted seem like the fading phantoms of a dream.

Yet has custom made it a duty to give some brief account of those who
have played their parts in this our little drama. In the present case,
the intelligent reader, familiar with the history of Virginia, will
require our services but little.

History has relieved us of the duty of describing how bravely Thomas
Hansford met his early fate, and how by his purity of life, and his
calmness in death, he illustrated the noble sentiment of Corneile, that
the crime and not the gallows constitutes the shame.

History has told how William Berkeley, worn out by care and age, yielded
his high functions to a milder sway, and returned to England to receive
the reward of his rigour in his master's smile; and how that Charles
Stuart, who with all his faults was not a cruel man, repulsed the stern
old loyalist with a frown, and made his few remaining days dark and
bitter.

History has recorded the tender love of Berkeley for his wife, who long
mourned his death, and at length dried her widowed tears on the warm and
generous bosom of Philip Ludwell.

And lastly, history has recorded how the masculine nature of Sarah
Drummond, broken down with affliction and with poverty, knelt at the
throne of her king to receive from his justice the broad lands of her
husband, which had been confiscated by the uncompromising vengeance of
Sir William Berkeley.

Arthur Hutchinson, the victim of the treachery of his early friends,
returned to England, and deprived of the sympathy of all, and of the
companionship of Bernard, whose society had become essential to his
happiness, pined away in obscurity, and died of a broken heart.

Alfred Bernard, the treacherous friend, the heartless lover, the
remorseful fratricide, could no longer raise his eyes to the betrothed
mistress of his brother. He returned, with his patron, Sir William
Berkeley, to his native land; and in the retirement of the old man's
desolate home, he led a few years of deep remorse. Upon the death of his
patron, his active spirit became impatient of the seclusion in which he
had been buried, and true to his religion, if to naught else, he
engaged in one of the popish plots, so common in the reign of Charles
the Second, and at last met a rebel's fate.

Colonel and Mrs. Temple, lived long and happily in each other's love;
administering to the comfort of their bereaved child, and mutually
sustaining each other, as they descended the hill of life, until they
“slept peacefully together at its foot.” The events of the Rebellion,
having been consecrated by being consigned to the glorious _past_,
furnished a constant theme to the old lady—and late in life she was
heard to say, that you could never meet now-a-days, such loyalty as then
prevailed, nor among the rising generation of powdered fops, and
flippant damsels, could you find such faithful hearts as Hansford's and
Virginia's.

And Virginia Temple, the gentle and trusting Virginia, was not entirely
unhappy. The first agony of despair subsided into a gentle melancholy.
Content in the performance of the quiet duties allotted to her, she
could look back with calmness and even with a melancholy pleasure to the
bright dream of her earlier days. She learned to kiss the rod which had
smitten her, and which blossomed with blessings—and purified by
affliction, her gentle nature became ripened for the sweet reunion with
her Hansford, to which she looked forward with patient hope. The human
heart, like the waters of Bethesda, needs often to be troubled to yield
its true qualities of health and sweetness. Thus was it with Virginia,
and in a peaceful resignation to her Father's will, she lived and passed
away, moving through the world, like the wind of the sweet South,
receiving and bestowing blessings.


THE END.


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 | Tanscriber's Notes:                                            |
 | Left inconsistent use of punctuation.                          |
 | Page 19: Changed Virgnia to Virginia.                          |
 | Page 210: Changed wantlng to wanting.                          |
 | Page 228: Changed afaid to afraid.                             |
 | Page 233: Changed Britian to Britain.                          |
 | Page 242: Changed beseiged to besieged.                        |
 | Page 246: Left quote as: It is the cry of women, good, my lord |
 | Page 278: Changed tinings to tidings.                          |
 | Page 281: Changed requium to requiem.                          |
 | Page 351: Changed pefidious to perfidious                      |
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