{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_65637/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_65637","id":"gutenberg_65637","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65637","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Historical Novels","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Pennsylvania -- History -- Fiction"],"text":"THE HAWKS OF HAWK-HOLLOW.\n\nA TRADITION OF PENNSYLVANIA.\n\n\nBY THE AUTHOR OF \"CALAVAR,\" AND \"THE INFIDEL.\"\n\n\n\n\n  Where dwellest thou?----\n  Under the canopy,--i' the city of kites and crows.\n                                              _Coriolanus_.\n\n\n\n\nIN TWO VOLUMES.\n\nVOL. I.\n\n\n\n\n_Philadelphia_:\n\nCAREY, LEA, & BLANCHARD.\n\n1835.\n\n\n\n\nEntered according to the act of Congress, in the year 1835, by CAREY, \nLEA, & BLANCHARD, in the clerk's office of the district court for the \neastern district of Pennsylvania.\n\n\n\n\n_I. Ashmead & Co. Printers_.\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n  \"Esc\u00fachame, y no me creas\n   Despues de haberme escuchado\"--\n\n\n\"Hear me, but don't believe me, after you have heard\"--says Calderon, \nthe Spanish dramatic poet, with a droll spirit of honesty, only \nequalled by the English Burton, who concludes the tale of the \nPrebend, in his Anatomy of Melancholy, by exclaiming, \"You have heard \nmy tale; but, alas! it is but a tale,--a mere fiction: 'twas never \nso, never like to be,--and so let it rest.\" We might imitate the \nfrankness of these ancient worthies, in regard to the degree of \ncredit which should be accorded to our tradition; but it would be at \nan expense of greater space and tediousness than we care to bestow \nupon the reader. We could not declare, in the same wholesale way, \nthat the following narrative is a mere fabrication, for such it is \nnot; while to let the reader into the secret, and point out the \ndifferent facts (for facts there are) that are interwoven with the \nlong gossamer web of fiction, would be a work of both time and \nlabour.\n\nWe have always held the Delaware to be the finest and noblest river \nin the world,--not, indeed, that it _is_ so, but because that was a \ncardinal item in our creed of childhood; and to all such points of \nbelief we hold as strongly as we can, philosophy and experience to \nthe contrary notwithstanding. They are holy and useful, though \nflimsy, ties--little pieces of rose-coloured pack-thread that keep \nsorted together whole bundles of pleasant reminiscences, and \ntherefore as precious in our esteem as shreds of gold and silver. In \nconsequence of this persuasion, we have learned to attach importance \nto every little legend of adventure, in any way associated with the \nGanga of our affections; and of such it has been our custom, time out \nof mind, to construct, at least in imagination, little fairy \nedifices, in which golden blocks of truth were united with a cement \nof fancy. A novel is, at best, a piece of Mosaic-work, of which the \nmaterials have been scraped up here and there, sometimes in an \nun-chronicled corner of the world itself, sometimes from the \nforgotten tablets of a predecessor, sometimes from the decaying \npillars of history, sometimes from the little mine of precious stones \nthat is found in the human brain--at least as often as the pearl in \nthe toad's head, of which John Bunyan discourses so poetically, in \nthe Apology for his Pilgrim's Progress. Of some of the pebbles that \nwe have picked up along the banks of the Delaware, the following \nstory has been constructed; but at what precise place they were \ngathered we do not think it needful to say. The torrent of \nfashionable summer rustication has already sent off a few little \nrills of visitation towards different corners of Pennsylvania, and \none has begun to flow up the channel of the Delaware. In a few \nyears----_Eheu! fugaces, Posthume, Posthume!_----this one will \nincrease to a flood, all of men, women, and children, rolling on \ntowards the Water-Gap; and _then_ some curious individual will \ndiscover the nook into which we have been prying; and perhaps, if he \nchooses, come off with prizes still more valuable. At all events, he \nwill discover--and that we hold to be something worth recording--that \nhis eyes have seldom looked upon a more enchanting series of \nlandscapes than stretches along this river, in one long and varied \nline of beauty, from New Hope and the Nockamixon Rocks, almost to its \nsources.\n\nThe story, such as it is, is rather a domestic tale, treating of \nincidents and characters common to the whole world, than one of which \nthese components can be considered _peculiarly_ American. This is, \nperhaps, unfortunate,--the tendency of the public taste seeming to \nrequire of American authors that they should confine themselves to \nwhat is, in subject, event, and character, indigenous to their own \nhemisphere; although such a requisition would end in reducing their \nmaterials to such a stock as might be carried about in a nut-shell. \nAmerica is a part of the great world, and, like other parts, has \nlittle (that is, suited to the purposes of fiction) which it can call \nexclusively its own; and how far that little has been already _used \nup_, any one may tell, who is conversant with our domestic \nliterature. Some little, however, of that little yet remains; and, by \nand by, we will perhaps ourselves join in the general scramble after \nit.\n\nTo conclude our Prolegomena--we recommend to all Philadelphians, who \nthirst for the breath of the mountains, and are willing to breathe it \nwithin the limits of their own noble State, to repair to the Delaware \nWater-Gap, sit them down in the porch of our friend Snyder, (or \nSchneider--we forget whether he yet sticks to the _Vaterl\u00e4ndisch_ \northography or not,) discourse with him concerning trout, deer, and \nrattlesnakes, and make themselves at home with him for a week. They \nwill find themselves in one of the boldest mountain-passes in the \nUnited States, in the heart of a scene comprising crags, forests, and \na river sprinkled with numerous islands, all striking, harmonious, \nand romantic. There, indeed, is neither a Round-Top nor a Mount \nWashington, with ladders on which to climb to heaven; but there are \ncertain mountain ridges hard by, from whose tops he who is hardy \nenough to mount them, can well believe he _looks down_ on heaven, so \nbroad, so fair, so elysian are the prospects that stretch below. \nThere, also, our friends will find such lime-trees as will cause them \nto rejoice that they have planted scions of the same noble and \nfragrant race at their own doors; and such a glorious display of \nrosebays, or _rhododendrons_, the noblest of American flowering \nshrubs, as may perhaps teach them the wisdom of transferring a few to \ntheir own gardens.\n\nBut we have not space to mention one-half the charms that await them \nin the Gap. If they have eyes to distinguish between the flutter of \nwings and loose hanging mosses, they may behold, at evening, the \nnational bald-eagle soaring among his native cliffs, and winging to \nhis perch on the far-up old hemlock, where they may see his reverend \nwhite head gleaming like a snow-flake among the leaves, until the \nwail of the whippoorwill calls the shadows of night over the whole \nmountain. Besides all this, and the other charms too tedious to \nmention, if they commend themselves to the favour of mine host, they \nwill be roused up in the morning by the roar of a waterfall under \ntheir very pillows, and then, leaping into a boat, and rowing into \nthe river, they may survey it at their ease,--as lovely a sheet of \nfoam, rushing over a cliff an hundred and forty feet high, as was \never stolen from its bed of beauty to drive----_'Eheu! eheu \nconditionem hujus temporis!'_----the machinery of--a saw-mill.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HAWKS OF HAWK-HOLLOW.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n  What man that sees the ever-whirling wheele\n    Of Change, the which all mortall thing doth sway,\n  But that thereby doth find, and plainly feele,\n    How Mutability in them doth play\n    Her cruel sports to many men's decay.\n                              SPENSER--_Faerie Queene_.\n\n\nAmerica is especially the land of change. From the moment of \ndiscovery, its history has been a record of convulsions, such as \nnecessarily attend a transition from barbarism to civilization; and \nto the end of time, it will witness those revolutions in society, \nwhich arise in a community unshackled by the restraints of \nprerogative. As no law of primogeniture can ever entail the \ndistinctions meritoriously won, or the wealth painfully amassed, by a \nsingle individual, upon a line of descendants, the mutations in the \ncondition of families will be perpetual. The Dives of to-day will be \nthe Diogenes of to-morrow; and the 'man of the tub' will often live \nto see his children change place with those of the palace-builder. As \nit has been, so will it be,--\n\n  \"Now up, now doun, as boket in a well;\"\n\nand the honoured and admired of one generation will be forgotten \namong the moth-lived luminaries of the next.\n\nThat American labours under a melancholy infatuation, who hopes, in \nthe persons of his progeny, to preserve the state and consideration \nhe has acquired for himself. He cannot bequeath, along with lands and \nhouses, the wisdom and good fortune which obtained them; nor can he \ndevise preventives against the natural consequences of folly and \nwaste. His edifice of pride must crumble to dust, when both \ncorner-stone and hypogeum are based upon the contingencies of \nexpectation; and the funeral-stone and the elm of his family \nmausoleum will vanish, in course of time, before the axe and plough \nof a new proprietor.\n\nThis is the ordinance of Nature, who, if she scatters her good gifts \nof talents with a somewhat despotic capriciousness, is well content \nthat men should employ them in republican and equal rivalry.\n\nIn a little valley bordering upon the Delaware, there stood, fifty \nyears since, a fair dwelling, within an ample domain, which a few \nyears of vicissitude had seen transferred from its founder to a \nstranger, although wealth and a family of seven sons, the boldest and \nstrongest in the land, might have seemed to insure its possession to \nthem during at least two generations. The vale lies upon the right \nbank of the river, imbosomed among those swelling hills that skirt \nthe south-eastern foot of the Alleghanies, (using that term in the \nbroad, generic sense given it by geographers,) the principal ridge of \nwhich,--the Ka-katch-la-na-min, or Kittatinny, or, as it is commonly \ncalled, the Blue Mountain,--is so near at hand, that, upon a clear \nday, the eye can count the pines bristling over its gray and hazy \ncrags. It stretches, indeed, like some military rampart of the \nTitans, from the right hand to the left, farther than the eye can \nreach, broken only by the gaps that, for the most part, give passage \nto rivers; and but for these, it would be entirely impassable.\n\nThe original proprietor of the estate was an English emigrant of \nhumble degree, and, at first, of painfully contracted circumstances; \nbut having fallen heir to a considerable property in his own land, \nand events of a very peculiar nature altering the resolution he had \nformed to enjoy it within the limits of the chalk-cliffs of Albin, he \nsat himself down in good earnest to improve the windfall at home. The \nlittle farm which he had cultivated with his own hands, was speedily \nswelled into an extensive manor; and deserting the hovel of logs \nwhich had first contented his wants, he built a dwelling-house of \nstone, so spacious, and of a style of structure so irregular and \nfantastic, that it had, at a distance, the air rather of a hamlet \nthan a single villa, and indeed looked not unlike a nest of dove-cots \nstuck together on the hill-side. Without possessing one single \nfeature of architectural elegance, it had yet a romantic appearance, \nderived in part from the scenery around, from the beauty of the \ngroves and clumps of trees that environed it, and the vines and \ntrailing flowers that were made, in summer at least, to conceal many \nof its deformities. It was exceedingly sequestered also; for except \nthe log hovel, into which Mr. Gilbert (for that was his name) had \ninducted a poor widow, befriended out of gratitude for kindness shown \nhim, when their respective conditions were not so unequal, there was \nnot another habitation to be seen from his house, though it commanded \nan extensive prospect even beyond the river. The highway to the \nneighbouring Water-Gap, indeed, ran through the estate; the broad \nriver below often echoed to the cries of boatmen and raftsmen, \nfloating merrily onward to their market; and the village dignified \nwith the title of County-town, was not above seven or eight miles \ndistant; so that the valley was not always invested with a \nSabbath-day silence; and, besides, his proteg\u00e9e, the widow, had, with \nMr. Gilbert's consent, converted her hovel into a house of \nentertainment, which sometimes seduced a wayfarer to sojourn for a \nperiod in the valley. Mr. Gilbert himself did all he could to add \nlife and bustle to his possessions, by doing honour to such well \nbehaved villagers, or even strangers, as he could induce to ruralize \nwith him; for having built and planted, and torn down and \ntransplanted, until he knew not well what to do with himself, he hit \nupon that expedient for driving away ennui which passes for \nhospitality,--namely, converting into guests all proper, and indeed \nimproper, persons from whom he could derive amusement, and who could \nassist him to kill time. To this shift he was driven, in great part, \nby the undomestic character of his children; who, so soon as they \narrived at an age for handling the rifle, individually and infallibly \nran off into the woods, until, as the passion for hunting grew with \ntheir growth, they might be said almost to live in them. It was this \nwild propensity, acting upon a disposition unusually self-willed and \ninflexible, in the case of his eldest boy, Oran, that defeated his \nscheme of spending the remainder of his days in England. He actually \ncrossed the sea, with his whole family, and remained in the \nneighbourhood of Bristol, his native town, for the space of a year; \nbut in that time, Oran, a boy only twelve years old, 'heartily sick,' \nas he said, 'of a land where there were no woods, and no place where \nhe could get by himself,' finding remonstrance and entreaty fail to \nmove his father's heart to his purpose, took the desperate resolution \nof returning to America alone; which he did, having concealed himself \nin the hold of a vessel, until she was out of the Channel. His \nsufferings were great, but he endured them with incredible fortitude; \nand finally after many remarkable adventures, he found himself again \nin his happy valley, in the charge or protection, if it could be so \ncalled, of the good widow Bell,--for that was the name of the poor \nwoman befriended by his father. In a few months, his father followed \nhim, perhaps instigated by affection, (for Oran, being the worst, was \ntherefore the most favoured of his children,) by the murmurs of the \nothers, or by the discovery he undoubtedly made, that his wealth \nwould secure him, if not equal comfort, at least superior \nconsideration, in the New World.\n\nConsideration indeed he obtained, and increase of wealth; but the \nwild manners and habits of his children greatly afflicted him; and \nhaving married a second wife, he was induced, in the hope of 'making \na gentleman,' as he called it, of the boy she bore him, (none of the \nothers having that ambition,) to commit him to the protection of a \nsister, the widow of a Jamaica planter, who had divided with him the \nbequest that had made his fortune, and being childless herself, \ndesired to adopt him as her heir.\n\nThus much of the early history of Mr. Gilbert was recollected with \ncertainty, so late as the year 1782, by the villagers of Hillborough, \nthe county-town already mentioned, who had so often shared his \nhospitality; but long before that time, he had vanished, with all his \nfamily, from the quiet, beautiful, and well-beloved valley. They were \nwont to speak with satisfaction of the good dinners they had eaten, \nthe rare wines they had drunk, the merry frolics they had shared, in \nthe Hawk's Hollow,--for so they perversely insisted upon calling what \nMr. Gilbert, in right of possession, chose to designate as Avon-dale, \nin memory, or in honour of his own buxom river of Somerset; they \nrelated, too, to youthful listeners, the prophetic sagacity with \nwhich they had predicted violent ends to the young Hawks of \nHawk-Hollow, (so they called the young Gilberts,) for their \ndisobedience to father and mother, and their unusual passion for a \nlife of adventure; and, finally, they shook their heads with \nsuspicion and regret, when they spoke of Jessie, Gilbert's only \ndaughter, of her early and mysterious death, and still more, to them, \nunaccountable burial. All that could be gathered in relation to this \nunhappy maiden, was dark and unsatisfactory: her death had seemingly, \nin some way, produced the destruction of the family and the \nalienation of the estate. It was an event of more than twenty years \nback; and from that period, until the time of his own sudden flight, \nMr. Gilbert's doors were no longer open, and his sons were no more \nseen associated with the young men of the county. The maiden had died \nsuddenly, and been interred in a private place on the estate.\n\nIn connexion with this event, some, more garrulous than others, were \nwont to speak of Colonel Falconer, the present proprietor of \nHawk-Hollow, as having had some agency in the catastrophe; but what \nit was, they either knew not, or they feared to speak. Evil \nsuspicions, however, gathered about this gentleman's name; and as he \nwas seldom, if ever, seen in Hawk-Hollow in person, but had committed \nthe stewardship of the property to the hands of a distant relative, \nwho resided on it, the young felt themselves at liberty to fill up \nfrom imagination, the sketch left imperfect by the old; and \naccordingly, the Colonel, in time, came to be considered by those who \nhad never seen him, as one of the darkest-hearted and most dangerous \nof his species. He was very rich; the station he occupied in the eyes \nof his country was lofty, and might have been esteemed noble; for he \nhad shed his blood in the great and fearful battle of rights that was \nnow approaching to a close; and after being disabled by severe and \nhonourable wounds, he had changed the sphere of his exertions, and \nwas now as ardent and devoted a patriot in the senate as he had been \nbefore in the field. Yet in this distant quarter, these \nrecommendations to favour were forgotten; it was said, if he had done \ngood deeds, there were evil ones enough to bury them as in a \nmountain, and if he had fought well for his country, he had struggled \nstill more devotedly to aggrandize himself. In a word, he was called \na hard, avaricious, rapacious man, whose chief business was to enrich \nhimself at the cost of the less patriotic, and who had got the \nmastery of more sequestrated estates than an honest man could have \ncome by. It was a sin of an unpardonable nature, that he had \nsucceeded in getting possession of Hawk-Hollow, when there were so \nmany others in the county who had set their hearts upon it.\n\nHis representative on the estate was a certain Captain John Loring, \nwho, with all the patriotism of his connexion, and perhaps a great \ndeal more, had never been able to turn it to any account. On the \ncontrary, beginning the world with an ample patrimony, at the time \nwhen Mr. Falconer commenced as an adventurer, he had descended in \nfortune with a rapidity only to be compared with that of his friend's \nexaltation. The love of glory had early driven him from his peaceful \nfarm on the Brandywine; and after distinguishing himself as a \nvolunteer in the Indo-Gallic wars of Western Pennsylvania, it was his \nhard fate to bring his career of effective service to a close on what \nhe was always pleased to call the Fatal Field of Braddock. From that \nbloody encounter he came off with more honour than profit, and with a \nbody so mangled and a constitution so shattered, that a quarter of a \ncentury had scarce served to repair the dilapidation of his animal \nman. But the Captain had lost neither his spirit nor his love of \nglory. At the first trump of the Revolution, he donned the panoply of \nvalour; he snatched up the pistols he had taken from a dead Canadian \nat the Fatal Field of Braddock, strapped upon his thigh the sword he \nhad received for his services in storming certain Indian forts on the \nAlleghany river, clapped into his pocket the commission which the \ncolonial government had granted him in reward of that gallant \nexploit, and reported himself, among a crowd of younger patriots, as \nready to do and die for his country. The Commissioners looked at his \ngray hairs and shattered leg, (the latter of which had once been as \nfull of musket-bullets as was ever a cartouche-box,) commended his \nvirtue and enthusiasm, and divided the honours of command among those \nwho were better fitted to do the state service. The Captain retired \nto his patrimonial estate, and there contented himself as well as he \ncould, until the current of conflict, diverted from one bloody \nchannel into another, came surging at last into the pastoral haunts \nof the Brandywine. At that time, his home was blessed with two \nchildren, a gallant boy of eighteen, and a merry little maiden of \ntwelve. But one morning, he heard a trumpet pealing over the hills \nand a cannon roaring hard by, behind the woods. He looked at the face \nof his son, and the eye of the boy reflected back the fire of his \nfather's spirit. Their horses were saddled in the stalls, and the \nspurs were already on young Tom Loring's heels. It was enough--the \nCaptain carried his son to the grave.--But, to his own dying day, he \nrejoiced over the young man's fall. On this subject, the Captain was \ncommonly considered by his neighbours to be crack-brained.\n\nAfter this, came other misfortunes; and the Captain was a ruined man, \nlandless, homeless, and childless, save that his little Catherine was \nstill left to share his poverty, and, like a lamp in a cavern, to \nexaggerate rather than enlighten the gloom of his desolation. At this \ncritical juncture, he found a firm and prudent friend in Colonel \nFalconer, by whom he was installed into the privileges, if not the \nactual possession of Hawk-Hollow, in the supervision and improvement \nof which he seemed now likely to pass the remainder of his days. How \nfar the kindly feelings of relationship, or how far the influence of \nhis daughter's growing beauty, had contributed to secure him the \nbenevolence of this friend in need, was a question frequently \nagitated by the curious villagers. It was settled among them, that \nthere was a wedding in the wind; but whether the young lady was to \nshare the lot of her distinguished patron, or to be given to his gay \nand somewhat wild-brained son, was a point on which busy bodies were \nlong coming at a conclusion. The Captain, though frank enough in his \nway, was not exactly the individual whom one would think of troubling \nwith impertinent questions; and Miss Loring, however hospitable and \ncourteous, had not yet selected a confidante from among the blooming \nnymphs of Hillborough. She was, however, the theme of as much \nadmiration as curiosity; and being very beautiful, and of manners \nalways gentle, and at times irresistibly engaging, the village poet \nimmortalized her in rhyme, and the village belles forgave the \neulogium.\n\nIt remains but to say a word more of the Gilberts, as a necessary \nintroduction to a record, designed to rescue the story of their fate \nfrom the uncertain and unfaithful lips of tradition. After mingling \nin all the border wars, both Indian and civil, that, from the time of \nBraddock's defeat to the dispersion of the Connecticut settlers, \ndistracted the unhappy Susquehanna settlements, they deserted the \ncause of their countrymen at the beginning of the Revolution, and \nappeared in the guise of destroying demons, at Wyoming, on that \noccasion of massacre, which has given to the spot a celebrity so \nmournful. In other words they were traitors and refugees; and however \ndreadful the reputation they obtained as bold and successful \ndepredators, their fate was such as might have been, and perhaps was, \nanticipated by themselves. One after another, they were cut off, some \nby the rifle and tomahawk, one even by the halter, and all who did \nperish, by deaths of violence. It was indeed, at the time we speak \nof, confidently believed that Oran, the eldest of all, and the last \nsurvivor, had fallen within the space of a year, at a conflict on the \nbanks of the Mohawk, along with other refugees of the neighbouring \ncommonwealth, with whom he had associated himself. Great were the \nrejoicings in consequence with all who dwelt among the scenes of his \nearlier exploits; though some professed to have their doubts on the \nsubject, and swore, that Oran Gilbert was not to be trusted, dead or \nalive, until his scalp was seen nailed on the county court-house \ndoor.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n  Come here, my good hostess, pray how do you do?\n  Where is Cicely so cleanly, and Prudence, and Sue?\n    And where is the widow that dwelt here?----\n                                                 PRIOR.\n\n\nThe year 1782 was distinguished on the western continent as the close \nof the great contest, which obtained for America the name and \nprivileges of a free nation. The harbingers of peace came flitting \ninto the land, with the swallows of spring; and before the autumn had \nwithered into winter, so little doubt prevailed of a speedy \nreconciliation taking place between Great Britain and the United \nStates, founded upon a full recognition by the former of all the \nclaims of the latter, that the Continental Congress passed a resolve \nfor the reduction of its army, to take effect on the first day of the \ncoming year. War was no longer waged upon any scale of magnitude; \nsuch hostilities as continued, were conducted almost solely by the \ndesperate and lawless of both parties, and consisted of predatory \nincursions, occasionally attempted in the wilder parts of the \ncountry, by some skulking band of refugees, and of expeditions of \nvengeance, planned and executed in a moment of wrath, by the excited \nsufferers. At this period, the only portion of the States, north of \nthe Potomac, in the hands of the British, was the city of New York, \nwith its dependencies; and around these narrow possessions the lines \nof the Continental army were drawn, extending from the Highlands of \nNew York to the plains of Monmouth in New Jersey. Military posts \ntherefore existed at no great distance from the Hawk's Valley; and \nalthough the wild and mountainous country on either bank of the \nDelaware offered the strongest retreats to men of desperate \ncharacter, it had been very long since the inhabitants had \napprehended any danger from the presence of enemies. In the earlier \npart of the year, at least, they had no cause for alarm; and \naccordingly they mingled, without alloy, their raptures at the \nprospect of returning peace with their rejoicings over the death of \nOran Gilbert, the most dreaded and detested of the Hawks of \nHawk-Hollow.\n\nOne atrocity had indeed been committed, in a neighbouring state, \nwhich, besides exciting the fiercest indignation, had taught the \noccupants of the valley how little their security was owing to any \nrelenting of spirit, or want of military daring, on the part of the \nrefugees, whom the general success of the republican arms had driven \nin great numbers into the city of New York. A certain Captain Joshua, \nor Jonathan, Huddy, of the New Jersey state troops, having been \ncaptured, after a gallant resistance, at one of the posts in Monmouth \ncounty of that state, by a party of loyalists from New York, was for \na while immured in prison, then carried back to his native state, and \nfinally hanged by his captors, without trial, sentence, or any \nauthority whatever, except what was derived from the verbal orders of \na body of men calling themselves the Board of Directors of the \nAssociated Loyalists. The result of this wanton and brutal murder, \nand of the failure of the British authorities to bring the chief \nperpetrator to justice, was an instant order on the part of the \nAmerican Commander-in-chief, to retaliate upon a British prisoner of \nequal rank; and before the month of May was over, young Asgill of the \nBritish Guards, whose story is familiar to all readers of American \nhistory, was conducted to the lines at Morristown, to await, in \npainful uncertainty, the fate that now depended, or seemed to depend, \nupon the movements of his countrymen in relation to the true \ncriminal.\n\nLate in the spring of this year, Hawk-Hollow received a new addition \nto its society, in the person of a stranger, who, one pleasant \nevening, rode up to the hovel, which, as was before mentioned, Dame \nAlice, or as she was more familiarly called, Elsie Bell, had, so many \nyears before, converted into a house of entertainment. But the credit \nof the poor woman, now aged, infirm, and almost friendless, had long \nsince departed; and the tongues of the ignorant and foolish, in an \nage when the most ridiculous superstitions were not wholly confined \nto the brains of children, had invested her habitation with a \ncharacter which repelled alike the curious and the weary. Her age, \nher poverty, her loneliness, her unsocial character, and perhaps also \nher attachment to the memory of a family all others had learned to \ndetest, had brought her into bad odour; and some thoughtless or \nmalicious persons having persuaded themselves that a certain famous \nmortality among their cattle could have been caused by nothing short \nof witchcraft, it was soon determined that old Elsie had stronger \nclaims to the character of a broom-rider than any other person in the \ncounty. It was fortunate for her that the imputation fell upon her in \na land, which once, in the case of an old woman brought before a jury \nunder the same charge, had rendered the wise and humane verdict, that \nthey found her \"guilty, not of being a witch, but of being \n_suspected_.\" It never once occurred to any individual to prosecute, \nor even persecute, poor Elsie; nor is it supposed that any sane man \never seriously believed a charge so cruel and absurd; yet the stain \nrested upon the unfortunate creature, and was the cause of her losing \nall the little custom of her house, and being, at one period, reduced \nto great straits.\n\nHer house had a very lonely appearance, especially dreadful, at \nnightfall, in the eyes of the passing urchin. It was in a hollow \nplace on the road-side, the head of a gully, which, expanding into a \nwide, though broken and winding ravine, ran down to the river, half a \nmile distant, receiving, before it had yet reached it, the waters of \na foaming rivulet coming from another quarter. A little enclosure, or \nyard, serving as an approach to the house, was surrounded by \noak-trees. Its surface was broken, and on one side was a rough and \njagged rock, almost a crag, sprinkled with sumach and other wild \nplants, that hid one half of the lowly fabric, while the other peeped \ninsidiously from under the boughs of an antique, spectral-looking \nsycamore, springing from the side of the ravine, which was, in part, \noverlooked by the hovel. A little runnel crossed the road immediately \nbefore the house; and flowing through the yard, and making its way \namong the naked roots of the sycamore, it fell, with a gurgling \nsound, into the ravine. The murmurs of this little cascade, affected \nvariously by drought and rain, and by the echoes of the hollow, sent \nmany a superstitious thrill to the heart of the countryman whom any \nunlucky accident compelled to pass by the cabin at midnight.\n\nOf a silent, reserved, and even saturnine temper, there was perhaps \nenough in Elsie's cold welcome to repel visitation, even without the \naddition of imputed witchcraft; and long before that heavy charge had \nfallen upon her, it was esteemed a misfortune to be obliged to tarry \nabove an hour at the Traveller's Rest, as the inn had been called in \nits days of credit. To crown all, about the time when men and boys \nwere beginning to talk ominously about the rot and murrain, a rival \nestablishment was set up, a few miles farther down the river, which \noffered the attractions of good liquors, lounging idlers, and a \ntalkative host, who made it his business to be always well provided \nwith news from the market, the army, and Congress. The last resource \nof the Traveller's Rest gave way before such a rival, and never more \n(at least for many years) was there seen a guest quaffing his cider, \nor smoking his pipe, in the shadow of Elsie's porch, except \noccasionally, when some stranger passed by, who boldly disregarded, \nor was entirely unacquainted with the popular superstition in \nrelation to the hostess.\n\nThe privations suffered by the poor old woman, in consequence of this \nfailure of her ordinary means of subsistence, were very \ngreat,--greater, indeed, than was suspected; for she uttered no \ncomplaint, and sought no relief. A few acres of ground had been added \nto the hovel, given to her by the elder Gilbert. The title was not, \nindeed, thought to be very strong, and as it lay in the very centre \nof Colonel Falconer's domains, a true _regnum in regno_, it was \nsometimes wondered he made no attempt to dispossess her, and thus \ncomplete her ruin. From these worn-out fields, had she been able to \nretain any one about her to cultivate them, she might have gleaned a \nscanty yet sufficient subsistence. But neither son nor kinsman of any \ndegree, had the poor widow left in the wide world; and when men began \nto doubt, suspect, and shun her, she was no longer able to procure \nthe assistance even of hirelings; and her fields lay fallow and \novergrown with brambles. Her situation grew hopelessly distressed and \ndesolate; in vain she exposed her slender stores of gingerbread in \nthe window, and her bottles of spruce-beer in the cool brook, to \ntempt the wayfarer to turn aside for such refreshments. If the \nstranger did feel for a moment urged to exchange the scorching road, \non a July day, for the shadowy porch, he cast his eye upon the \ngarden, at the road-side, now the last dependence of the miserable \nwidow, and beholding her uninviting and squalid appearance, passed \non, without thinking how much real charity might have been conferred \nby the disbursement of a few pence at that abode of poverty.\n\nSuch was the condition of this poor solitary creature, when Captain \nLoring was installed into the manor house; and such it might have \ncontinued, had not his daughter, shocked at the discovery of her \ndistresses, and interested doubly when she found in her a tone of \nmind and manners worthy of a better fate, came immediately, like an \nangel, to her aid, and restored her again to a state of comfort. Not \nsatisfied with rendering this assistance, she rested not day or \nnight, until she had procured a labourer to till the neglected \nfields, and had even obtained a little negro wench to dwell with \nElsie as a domestic; and perceiving how much her sufferings were \nreally owing to the ridiculous fears and prejudices of the country \npeople, she made it a point frequently to visit her house in person, \ndragging along with her, when she could, the beaux and belles of the \nvillage, in the hope that others would soon follow the example, and \nthus restore the Traveller's Rest to its ancient reputation. She even \nprevailed upon her father to honour the house with his patronage, at \nleast so far as to visit it, when riding by; and, though there was \nnothing in the tempers of the two to make any intercourse between \nthem very friendly and agreeable, the Captain had humoured his \ndaughter so long in that way, that it grew to be one of his habits; \nand he seldom passed by, without stopping for a moment, to bestow a \nfew civilities upon the widow. Notwithstanding all these benevolent \nexertions of Miss Loring, however, the Traveller's Rest never \nrecovered its reputation or custom; and when the traveller spoken of \nbefore, rode up to the porch, and announced his intention of \nentering, and even sleeping, under her roof, the poor widow herself \nregarded him with a species of amazement.\n\n\"How is it, good mother?\" said he, observing her hesitation: \"They \ntold me, in the village, you could give me both meat and lodging. Do \nnot fear I shall prove a fault-finder;--a crust of bread and a cup of \nmilk, or, if need be, of water, will satisfy me; and as for a bed, \nwhy a sack of straw,--or the floor and my saddle-bags,--will be a \ncouch for a king. Can you not receive me?\"\n\nAs he spoke, he took note of her countenance and appearance. The \nformer was withered and furrowed, for she was very old; her hairs \nwere gray and thin, and one of her hands shook with a paralytic \naffection. Yet she bore her years bravely, and when she had shaken \noff the abstraction of mind, which had become almost habitual from \nher long life of solitude, and lifted her eyes, he saw that they \nshone with any thing but the gleams of dotage. He observed, too, as \nshe rose from the wheel she had been plying on the porch, and \napproached to its verge, that her step was firm, and even, as it \nafterwards appeared, agile. Her dress was of the humblest texture, \nand none of the newest, but studiously clean and neat, and the muslin \ncoif on her head was white as snow.\n\n\"If your wants be indeed so humble,\" she said, with a manner that \nsurprised him, and a voice almost without the quaver of age, \"I can \nreceive you into my poor house, and bid you welcome. But, good young \nsir, here have I no one to help you, and to take your horse. My man \nDancy, is in the field, and the girl Margery\"----\n\n\"Say not a word about them,\" said the traveller, leaping from his \nhorse, \"I am my own groom and lackey of the chamber; and with your \nconsent, I will find my way to the stable, which I see behind the \nrock; and Long-legs here will follow me.\"\n\nHe was as good as his word, and stabled his steed without farther \npreliminary; and thus, by showing himself ready to adapt his manners \nto his circumstances, he won the good will of Elsie immediately. \nIndeed, as if to convince her of his sincerity, he told her at once \nhis name, and his objects in coming to her house. His name, he said, \nwas Hunter,--Herman Hunter,--his country South Carolina; he was a \npainter,--or so professed himself; and his only motive for intruding \nupon the solitude of Hawk-Hollow, was to improve himself in his art, \nby devoting some weeks to study, among the neighbouring cliffs and \nmountains. It had been his intention, he avowed, to take up his \nquarters some miles farther on, in the heart of the neighbouring \ngorge; 'but he liked the neatness and privacy of the Traveller's Rest \nso well, he thought he could do nothing better than remain where he \nwas; at least, he would remain a few days,--perhaps, he might stay \ntwo or three weeks,--he did not know, but he thought Hawk-Hollow \nexceedingly pretty.'\n\nThere were two circumstances which recommended him to the poor \nwidow's regard, even more strongly than his affable and conformable \nbehaviour. In the first place, it appeared that his name Herman, had \nbeen borne by some deceased son or relative, and its familiar sound \nbrought a mournful pleasure to her ears,--in the second, his \nappearance was highly prepossessing. He could not have been above \nfour or five and twenty years old; his figure, though somewhat \nbeneath the middle size, was good, and his limbs well knit and \nactive; his face was decidedly handsome, with a very dark \ncomplexion,--his eyes black and sparkling, and his mouth, which \ndisclosed at every laugh, a set of the finest teeth in the world, \nexpressive of good-humour and a mirthful spirit. As for the ornaments \nof his outward man, they consisted of under-clothes of some white \nsummer-stuff, a frock of blue cloth, a grass hat, short boots and \ngloves; and to show that he was somewhat of a coxcomb withal, he wore \na laced scarlet vest, an embroidered neckcloth, and a huge gold ring \non his finger, glistering with a sapphire, or some cerulean \nsubstitute. He had a good roan horse, too, and saddlebags of enviable \ncapacity; besides which, he made his first appearance with a carbine \nslung to his back, and a leathern portfolio under his arm; so that he \nlooked like one who visited the retreat, with a resolution to make \nthe most of its advantages.\n\nHaving taken a second look around the hovel, he saw no reason to \nabate his satisfaction. Though poverty was apparent on the naked \nwalls and uncarpeted floors, yet every thing was clean and well \nordered. The hands of the widow had eked out the lack of more costly \ndecorations, by sticking in the fire-place and windows, and over the \nmantel and table-tops, green laurel boughs and sprigs of flowers, \nsuch as abounded on the neighbouring hills, or were cultivated in her \nlittle garden, and such as were pleasant enough at this season. \nBesides, a grape-vine had been encouraged to trail over one corner of \nthe porch, and the other supported festoons of nasturtions and \nmorning-glories. His evening meal, though simple and humble enough, \nhe was pleased to commend; and if his bed was hard, and the sheets \nsomewhat coarser than were wont to encircle his limbs, a happy \ntemperament and a heart at ease made them endurable, and even \npleasant. If he found Dancy, the farmer, when he returned from the \nfields, to be taciturn and even stupid, still he liked his honest \nface; and the little negro wench, Margery, ugly, awkward, and a \nthousand times more stupid than Dancy himself, he soon discovered, \nwould prove a source of unfailing amusement.\n\nBeing of this happy mood, and persuading himself that his quarters \nwere exactly to his desire, he prepared, the day after his arrival, \nto approve his zeal and skill, by sketching some one or other of the \npretty prospects presented from the Traveller's Rest. He rose with \nthe dawn and trudged down the ravine, until he reached the river; \nwherein, after looking about him with much satisfaction, at the hills \nsleeping in morning mist, he plunged, and amused himself with a \nbather's enthusiasm, now swimming luxuriously in the limpid and \nserene flood of the Delaware, and now trying his strength against the \nruder current, that came dashing from the rivulet. This bore the \npatronymical title of Hawk-Hollow Run. And here we may as well \nobserve, that upon a promontory at its mouth, he discovered the \norigin of that name, which, notwithstanding the efforts of Mr. \nGilbert to christen it anew, his neighbours had so obstinately \ncontinued to give the valley. Upon a tall and conspicuous oak-tree, \ndead, barkless, and well nigh branchless, a pair of antique \nfishing-hawks screamed over their eyry; and here they had preserved \nit from immemorial ages. The dead tree and the nest of sticks being \nconspicuous objects, even from a distance on the river, the earlier \nnavigators had soon learned to designate the whole valley after the \nmajestic birds that seemed its monarchs.\n\nAfter this, he set himself to work with paper and pencil, but with no \ngood effect, not being in the mood, or because he discovered there \nwere divers obstacles in his way. First, the sun did not shine from \nthe right place, and secondly, it shone in the wrong one; then there \nwas no way of getting a rock converted into a chair, at the precise \nplace where he wanted it, though there were so many thousands where \nhe did not; and, in fine, he found himself, when all was ready, \nwaxing eager for breakfast.\n\nAfter breakfast, he had as many difficulties to encounter; and in \nshort, after making divers essays, he beheld the afternoon sun sink \nlow towards the west, without having accomplished any thing worthy of \nbeing deposited in the port-folio. \"But never mind,\" said he, with a \nphilosophical disregard of his indolence and fickleness, \"we shall \nhave the fit more strongly upon us on the morrow.\"\n\nHe sat down in the porch and cast his eyes towards the manor house, \nwhich was commonly known by the title, so little flattering to the \nfounder's memory, of Gilbert's Folly. At this distance, and from this \nspot, it had an impressive and even charming appearance. It lay upon \nthe slope of a hill, perhaps a mile or more from the Traveller's \nRest; and, as it faced very nearly towards the east, he had remarked \nit, in the morning, when illuminated by the first beams of the \nday-spring, shining, with a sort of aristocratic pomp and pride, at \nits lowly neighbour, from the midst of green woods and airy hills. At \nthe present moment, the front being entirely in shade, it had a \nsomewhat sullen and melancholy look, resulting in part from the \nsombre hue of the stone of which it was built; and though slanting \nrays of sunshine, here and there striking on the sides of chimneys, \ngables, and other elevations, gave it a picturesque relief, it still \npreserved an air of soberness and gloom. It seemed to lie in the \nheart of a mighty paddock, once, however, termed a park, that was \ncircumscribed by a line of pollards, sweeping over the hill-side, and \nhere and there broken by groves of unchecked growth. In one or two \nplaces on the grounds, were rows of Italian poplars, stretching along \nin military rank and file, and adding that peculiar _palisaded_ \nbeauty to the landscape, which is seen to the greatest advantage in a \nhilly country. Here, too, was another exotic stranger, the \nweeping-willow, drooping in the moist hollow, and shaking its boughs \nin the pool. The principal trees, however, were the natives of the \nvalley, most of them perhaps left standing in their original places, \nwhen the grounds were laid out in the forest. The picture is \ncomplete, when it is added that the slopes of the hills were carpeted \nwith the rich embellishments of agriculture: the wheat-fields and \nmaize-plantations, waving like lakes of verdure, in the breeze, were \ncertainly not the least of the charms of Hawk-Hollow, except perhaps, \nat that moment, to the anti-utilitarian painter.\n\nHe regarded the prospect for a long time in silence, and then \nmuttered his thoughts aloud, half to himself, and half to his ancient \nhostess, who had drawn her wheel up to her favourite seat on the \nporch, and added its drowsy murmur to the sound of the oak-boughs, \nrustling together in the breeze:\n\n\"This, then,\" he exclaimed, \"is the little elysium, from which wrong, \nand the revenge of wrong, drove a once happy and honoured family, to \nwander exiles and outlaws in the land? And not one permitted even to \nlay his bones in the loam of his birth-place! and no friend left to \navenge or lament! '_Quis sit laturus in aras thura?_'\"\n\nThe wheel of Alice revolved with increased velocity, but she betrayed \nno inclination to yield to the prattling infirmity of age; though \nshe, doubtless, of all persons in the country, was best informed on \nthe subject now uppermost in the mind of the painter. He was in the \nmood, however, for extracting such information as he could; and after \na moment's silence, he resumed, with a direct question,\n\n\"That is Avondale Hall, is it not, good mother?\"\n\n\"It is Gilbert's Folly,\" replied the hostess, drily. \"We know no \nother name.--There are some call it Falconer's Trump-card--but that \nis nothing.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not,\" said the young man: \"but who can tell better than \nyourself? Good mother Elsie--you must forgive me for being so \nfamiliar; but, in truth, I love the name--it was the name of my \nnurse, the first I learned to utter:--I have a great curiosity about \nthese poor Gilberts; and, I was told, no one could inform me about \nthem so well as yourself.\"\n\n\"And why should you ask about them?\" demanded the hostess, who, as \nHerman had long since observed, conversed in language that would \nscarce have been anticipated from her appearance. \"They can have done \nyou no harm, and certainly they never did you good. You cannot fear \nthem, for they are dead; and you yourself said, they left none to \nlament them.\"\n\n\"But they left many to curse,\" said Herman; \"and it is this that \nmakes me curious to know the truth about them. I have not heard any \nmen pronounce the name, without accompanying it with maledictions; \nwhich were just so many proofs that they were unsafe informants.\"\n\n\"It is better then that they should be forgotten,\" muttered Elsie: \n\"If they did wrong, bitterly have they been punished; if they \nprovoked men to curses, the curses have been heavy on their heads, \nand are now even heaped upon their graves. Yet you speak of them not \nlike others--how comes it that _you_ pronounce their name without a \ncurse?\"\n\n\"Simply because, never having received any hurt at their hands, and \nhaving nothing of the hound about me, I feel no impulse to join in \nthe cry of the pack, until I know what beast they are baying. I saw, \nin the village, an old man begging; I was told, his house had been \nburned down, and his wife and children in it, by 'the accursed \nGilberts;' I saw also, a miserable idiot, or madman, I know not \nwhich, dancing along the road-side, and inviting me to a wedding: I \nasked about him, and was informed he dwelt of yore in the Wyoming \nValley, and was set upon by the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, in the hour of \nhis marriage, and he alone saved of all the bridal party--I saw\"----\n\n\"It is enough--God has judged them,\" said the old woman, with a voice \nboth solemn and reproachful. \"All these things have they done, and \nmany more as dreadful and cruel. These are the fruits of civil war; \nfor men are then changed to beasts. I knew a man of Wyoming, who was \nkilled by his own brother--shot through the head, while he knelt \ndown, begging for quarter of his mother's son! God has judged these \nacts, for they who did them are gone; and God will yet judge the men \nthat drove them into their madness.\"\n\n\"They had cause, then, for what they did?\" asked Herman, with \ninterest. \"It was not in cold blood, and upon deliberate choice, that \nthey sided with the tories against their countrymen?\"\n\n\"Perhaps it was, perhaps it was not,\" said Mrs. Bell, mournfully. \"A \nplough-furrow on the hill-side may grow at last into the bed of a \ntorrent; and what is but a cause for light anger, may, in time, work \nthe brain into a frenzy. But ask me not of these things now: it was \nin a season like this, twenty-four years since--but it is foolish to \nremember me of it,--perhaps sinful. Some time, perhaps, I may speak \nof these unhappy people to you; but I cannot now. Trust, at least, \nthat if the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, as you called them, did much wrong, \nthey also endured it,--and that, too, when they had not provoked it.\"\n\nFinding that his curiosity could obtain no farther gratification at \nthe present moment, Herman Hunter again cast his eyes upon the \nmansion, and being greatly charmed by an effect made by the striking \nof the sunshine on certain parts, while others lay in the broadest \nand deepest shadow, he was seized with a fit of artist-like \nenthusiasm, and arranging his drawing materials upon a little table, \nwhich he drew into the porch for the purpose, he was straightway \nimmersed in the business of sketching. While he was dotting down \nchimneys and windows with great haste and satisfaction, he was struck \nwith a new and unexpected effect in the picture. A scarlet mantle, \nbeside which glittered another of snowy white, suddenly blazed out \nlike a star from a clump of shadowy trees in the paddock, and he \nbecame aware that two females on horseback were issuing from the \npark, and riding down the road. But losing sight of them again, as \nthey ambled into a hollow, and being now really engrossed in his \nemployment, he thought no more of them, until they suddenly \nre-appeared from behind a thicket no great distance off, galloping \nforward with an impetuosity and violence that would have done honour \nto veteran dragoons.\n\nSomewhat astonished at such an unexpected display of spirit, he \ndropped his pencil, and for an instant supposed that their ponies \nwere running away with these damsels errant. They were not attired \nfor the saddle, and seemed rather to have sprung upon their palfreys \nfrom some sudden whim and spirit of frolic than with a purpose of \nleaving the park, in which he had first caught sight of them. They \nwere arrayed merely in simple walking-dresses of white, over which \none had flung a light scarlet shawl; and instead of caps or round \nhats, they had low and broad-brimmed hats of thin felt, without \nveils, much better fitted for rambling in, over sunny meads, than for \ndisplaying to the winds on horseback.\n\nHis suspicion that their ponies had taken the matter into their own \nhands,--or rather the bits into their own teeth, was of short \nduration; and as they advanced with increased rapidity, he saw \nplainly, by the mirthful rivalry displayed in all their actions and \ngestures, that they were positively running a race, the scarlet \nmantle being the winner,--or, so far, at least, as a full length \nwould go, in full prospect of winning.\n\nNot a little diverted at the spectacle, and the merry cries with \nwhich they encouraged their steeds, he rose from the table, to take a \nbetter view of the fair jockeys, as they should brush by; when, to \nhis great surprise, no sooner had they reached the little oak-yard \nthat conducted to the Traveller's Rest, than they made a rapid wheel, \nand came dashing up to the porch in a style worthy of a race-course.\n\nIt happened, either because he was in part concealed by the veil of \nnasturtions that grew near to where he had placed his table, or \nbecause they were too much engaged in their frolic to raise their \neyes, that the young painter was seen by neither of the ladies, until \nthey were within six yards of the porch; when the headmost, suddenly \nobserving him, drew up in such confusion that she had well nigh \njerked her pony over on his back. He perceived at once, that _his_ \nappearance at the Traveller's Rest was wholly unexpected, and was any \nthing but welcome to the adventurous pair. Indeed, it was manifest \nthat the consciousness of having been detected by a stranger engaged \nin such jockey-like amusement, had greatly disconcerted them both.\n\nAll this the young man observed in a moment, and could scarce \nsuppress the smile that gathered over his visage, even when he saw \nthat the confusion of the foremost damsel had discomposed her \npalfrey. However, as he looked into her face, florid at once with \nexercise and shame, he beheld a pair of such radiant black eyes, \nflashing with mingled mirth and vexation, and withal a countenance of \nsuch haughty and decidedly aristocratic character, as instantly put \nhim upon his best behaviour. He took off his hat, like a well-bred \ngentleman, and advancing from the porch, would have taken her pony by \nthe rein, had she not instantly recovered herself, and turned the \nanimal aside, with an empress-like \"I thank you, sir!\" He thought the \nrefusal of assistance, so respectfully offered, was somewhat \nungrateful, and even rude; but she looked so beautiful, he could do \nnothing less than testify his admiration by another bow.\n\nMeanwhile the second maiden, whose confusion seemed, at first, even \ngreater than her companion's, and who blushed at the sight of him \nwith even painful embarrassment, recovering herself more quickly, \n(for her filly was not so restiff as the other,) rode up to the \nporch, and saluting the ancient widow, who had risen to receive her, \nexclaimed, though with a flurried voice,\n\n\"You must pardon us, good Elsie--we came to visit you--but we knew \nnot you had guests with you.\" Then turning to Herman, just as her \nfriend had rejected his proffered assistance, she said, with the \nsweetest voice in the world, as if to make amends for the rudeness, \n\"We are much obliged to you, sir--but the horses are very gentle.\" \nShe then turned again to Dame Bell, and, as if resolved to explain \naway as much of the cause of visitation as possible, said,\n\n\"We are looking for my father, Elsie; and we thought, that, instead \nof waiting for him in the park, we would ride by your house, and ask \nyou how you did. We will not intrude upon you longer.--Good by, my \ndear Mrs. Bell.\"\n\nWith these hurried expressions, and having inclined her head \ncourteously to the painter, she rode out of the yard, followed by her \ncompanion; when having hesitated a moment, as if uncertain whether to \ncontinue upon the road or not, they suddenly came to a decision, and \nrode back towards the paddock, though at a much more moderate pace \nthan before.\n\nSo great was the admiration with which Herman Hunter regarded the \nbeauty of the red shawl, that he had scarce bestowed two glances upon \nher friend. He had noticed indeed, that a profusion of gold-shadowed \nlocks and eyes of extreme gentleness and sweetness, gave a very \nagreeable expression to a countenance at least two years younger than \nthe other's; but as there was none of the spirit of fire breaking out \nat a glance from those loop-holes of the soul, to make an instant \nimpression on his imagination, as had been the case with the other, \nhe lost the opportunity of satisfying himself by another look, how \nwell her charms might endure a comparison with those of her \ncompanion. His admiration was doubly unfortunate; since, little as it \ndeserved such a return, it laid the foundation for a spirit of \nhostility, little short of absolute hatred, in the bosom of the lady, \nas will be seen in the sequel of this tradition.\n\nAs the gay but disconcerted pair rode away together, he could scarce \ncontent himself until they got beyond earshot, before he exclaimed, \nwith the most emphatic delight,\n\n\"I vow to heaven, my dear mother Elsie, she is the most beautiful \ncreature I ever laid my eyes on!\"\n\nAlice responded with a faint sigh and a yet fainter smile; but her \ncountenance immediately darkened, while she muttered,\n\n\"I pity her, poor child. The storm is coming upon her that she dreams \nnot of; the curse will swallow up all that are, and shall be, of his \nhouse; and she in whom there is no wrong, and who was born no child \nof an unjust father, will share the penalty with his children. Yes, \nyes,\" she added, straining her eyes, after the maidens, \"I shall see \n_her_ bright eyes dimmed with tears, and then closed,--_her_ yellow \nlocks parted over a forehead of stone and death,--and perhaps help to \nlay her in the earth out of men's sight, as I have helped with one \nwho was as young and as fair!\"\n\n\"I vow, mother Elsie,\" said the young man, surprised at the prophetic \nsadness and emphasis of her speech, but still more at the mention of \n\"yellow locks,\" while his own thoughts were musing upon ringlets of \nraven. \"I vow, you have mistaken me altogether. I meant the other \nlady, the black-eyed, angelic creature, who tossed her head at me \nwith such disdain,--and, hang it, incivility, too; for it cannot be \ndenied, she was uncivil.\"\n\n\"I thought you were speaking of the Captain's daughter,\" said the \nwidow, coldly.\n\n\"I know no more about the Captain's daughter than my grandmother,\" \nsaid the youth, irreverently; \"nor do I care half so much. But tell \nme Elsie,--who is that black-eyed creature? I never beheld any body \nto compare with her!\"\n\n\"She is the daughter of Colonel Richard Falconer,\" said the hostess, \nresuming her labours at the wheel, yet apparently disposed to reply \nto any farther interrogatories the young man might propose. But the \npainter seemed satisfied with what he had heard. He exclaimed at \nonce, with a look of strong disgust,\n\n\"Why then may the fiends seize the fancy, and my fool's head along \nwith it! Hark'e, good dame Bell, did you ever hear of the old heathen \n_Lami\u00e6_? the _Lemures_, as they were sometimes called?\"\n\n\"I have heard of some such beasts of Peru,\" said the complaisant \nhostess; \"and I believe they are a kind of camels.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's the _llama_, the pretty little llama,\" said the young \nman, with the good-humour that became an instructor. \"The Lami\u00e6 were \nmonsters and sorceresses of Africa, with the face and bust of women, \nand the body of a serpent,--a sort of land mermaids. (By the by, do \nyou know, I saw a mermaid once? Some time, I will tell you all about \nher; but, just now, all I can say is, that she was monstrous ugly.) \nThese Lami\u00e6 often bewitched men, who looked them in the face: if you \nlooked there first, you were so blinded, you could not perceive their \ntrue deformity, until assisted by the counter-spell of some \nbenevolent magician. Now, Elsie, this is my thought: I hold Miss \nFalconer to be a Lamia; and the sound of her father's name was the \nspell that opened my eyes to her true ugliness. Pho!\" continued the \nyouth, observing the incredulity and wonder of his auditor; \"the \nimage is a bad one after all, for it conveys an improper impression. \nI should say, that _I_ am like the Lamia's lover, not Miss Falconer \nlike the Lamia. To tell you the truth, I have heard so many ill \nthings said of the father, that I feel myself heartily inclined to \nhate the daughter. A vixen, I warrant me!\"\n\nThe old woman regarded him earnestly, and then replied,\n\n\"Little cause have I to love Colonel Falconer, or to speak well of \nhim and his; yet why should a stranger like you, assume the post of \nthe judge, and visit the father's faults upon the head of his \noffspring? But you do not speak seriously. I know no evil of Miss \nFalconer, and I have heard none. This is the first time I have ever \nseen her so near to my threshold: and I know not what strange fancy \ncould have brought her hither. As for Miss Catherine, the Captain's \ndaughter, she often comes to inquire about me. Poor child! she fears \nnot the 'old witch,' for she has done no harm to me nor to any other \nmortal; she does not hate 'wicked old Elsie,' for hatred dwells not \nin her nature; but she looks with respect and pity upon the miseries \nof age and penury. And many a good deed she has done me, when others \npassed me by with scorn and hate. Would that I might go down to the \ngrave in her place! were it but in memory of her goodness. But when \nthe bolt is aimed at the little willow, even the withered old oak \ncannot arrest it.\"\n\nWith such expressions as these the old woman, if she did not \nre-inspire Herman Hunter with admiration for Miss Falconer, succeeded \nat least in awakening some interest for the younger lady; which was \ngreatly increased, when he came to suspect, from some expressions \nElsie let fall, that the miseries she seemed so confidently to \npredict as being in store for the maiden, were predicated upon the \nknowledge of a contemplated union between her and the brother of her \nfriend. It was plain, from what Elsie said, that this was to be a \nmarriage of convenience, in which Catherine's affections were to be \nsacrificed, or disregarded. It is true, that Elsie did not directly \naffirm this to be the case; but the inference from her expressions \nwas consequential and inevitable; and Herman only wondered that the \nyoung lady, whom he now pictured to himself as dying of a broken \nheart, should have looked so rosy and happy.\n\nIn the meanwhile, the maidens rode on, returning towards the park, \nuntil they reached the grove in the hollow, where they were sheltered \nfrom view. Here they paused, and the Captain's daughter gave at once \nthe flattest contradiction to all Elsie's piteous allusions to the \nstate of her feelings, by looking archly into her companion's face, \nand then bursting into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.\n\n\"Well, what now, dear Hal?\" she cried, while tears of genuine \nmerriment swam in her eyes and rolled on her cheeks; \"what do you \nthink of your race _now_? Shall we try it over again?\"\n\n\"Upon my word, Miss Loring\"----\n\n\"Kate! call me Kate, or never look to see me laugh more,\" exclaimed \nthe Captain's daughter. \"Now pray, cousin Hal, do you not think we \nhave exhibited our horsemanship somewhat too advantageously to-day? \nFy, Harriet, I will never forgive you! To think we should go \ngalloping in this manner, almost into the arms of a young fellow with \na scarlet waistcoat! It is _too_ ridiculous!\"\n\n\"So much for dragging me along after you, to the old witch's!\" said \nMiss Falconer, pettishly.\n\n\"_After_ me?\" cried the other, with increased mirth; \"why, you were \nleading--you had beaten me by full a length and a half, as the \njockeys call it:--so much for not starting fair! And as for dragging \nyou there, Harriet, pray do me justice; you know it was your own \nwicked suggestion altogether that carried you thither, and my frailty \nthat made me follow. It is all a punishment on you, for breaking the \ncommandment, and running after the forbidden fruit. Oh, curiosity! \ncuriosity! when shall we poor women shuffle the little tempter from \nour bosoms? But pray, cousin, what made you treat the young man so \nrudely? Sure, he was very handsome and well-behaved; and sure, young \ngentlemen, handsome and well-behaved, are not so plentiful in \nHawk-Hollow! I think we will get pa to invite him to dinner.\"\n\n\"Well, Catherine,\" said the other, \"you are merry to-day; but it \nhappens so seldom, and I am so glad of it, that I pardon you, \nalthough your mirth is all at my expense.\"\n\n\"You are angry with me, Harriet?\" said the Captain's daughter, riding \nup to her friend, and stretching forth her hand. Her frolicsome \nspirits vanished in a moment, and the change on her countenance and \nin her whole manner, from extreme gayety to impetuous emotion, was \ninexpressibly striking and touching.\n\n\"Angry? by no means,\" said Miss Falconer, as Catherine flung her arm \nround her neck and kissed her. \"Poor wayward Kate! I would you could \nlaugh at me for ever. Why do you cry, mouse? You are certainly the \nmost extraordinary mad creature in the world!\"\n\n\"Yes, I am,\" said Miss Loring, smiling through her tears; \"I can't \nabide being talked stiffly to. But what shall we do? Shall we ride up \nto the park? Shall we sit down here, and play long-straws for \nsweethearts? Shall we take heart of grace, and ride on in search of \npapa? Or shall we play termagant again, whip, cut and spur, whoop and \nhalloo, and call Monsieur Red-Jacket to stand up for umpire? Any \nthing, dear Hal, to kill time, and find you amusement.\"\n\n\"Was Monsieur Red-Jacket so handsome, after all?\" demanded Miss \nFalconer.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Catherine: \"He kept his eyes so fixed upon your \nown face, I could not half see him. But, really, he seemed to admire \nyou very much--I suppose, because you were first in! I don't see how \nyou could have the heart to treat him so uncivilly, when his \nadmiration was so manifest, and his bearing so respectful?\"\n\n\"Was it, indeed?\" said the other, shaking her head, as if \nregretfully. \"Young, handsome, well bred, and an admirer--and yet, I \nknow, I shall never abide the sight of him. What! see me riding in \nfull race, with whoop and halloo, and all that, as you say, like a \ngrazier's daughter!--poh, it is intolerable: it can never be \nforgiven!\"\n\n\"Why, he saw me, too,\" said Miss Loring; \"and I am sure, _I_ forgive \nhim! And it is no such great matter, after all.\"\n\n\"No great matter, to be sure; but small ones govern the world. No one \ncan forgive being made ridiculous, especially a woman of spirit. \nCome, we will gallop back to the park, and leave the Captain to find \nhis own way.\"\n\nWith these words, they returned to the paddock.\n\nIn the confession of a weak and capricious prepossession, which was \nperhaps more than half serious, Miss Falconer showed an almost \nprophetic sense of what would be the future temper of her mind \ntowards the unlucky Herman. Neither the manifest folly nor injustice \nof the sentiment, even when gratitude should have expelled it from \nher bosom for ever, could prevent it ripening into jealousy and final \ndislike; and unfortunately circumstances of an accidental nature soon \narose to give a double impulse to these unamiable feelings.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n  A man of blood, being brought up in the wars\n  And cruel executions.\n                             BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.\n\n  ------A very foolish, fond old man,\n  Four-score and upwards; and, to deal plainly,\n  I fear, he is not in his proper mind.\n                                         KING LEAR.\n\n\nThe painter, still keeping his eyes upon the pair, pondered over that \npropensity of our nature, which urges even the coldest and demurest \nof mortals into acts of extravagance, when removed a moment from \nartificial restraints. The whole system of social federation is a \nstate of enthrallment and captivity, although undoubtedly a wholesome \none; and he who publicly rejects its fetters, though he may \npersonally enjoy his independence, violates that compact which \nseparates the refined from the primitive and uncivilized states of \nexistence, and encourages others to rush back upon the savage freedom \nof the latter. The preservation of a certain share of dignity is \nincumbent upon men, not merely as a means of holding caste, but of \npreventing a downslide in manners and mind. The hero may properly \nplay at bo-peep with his children, though not at the head of his \narmy; and, by the same rule, a fair lady may shoot and drive, play \nthe fiddle, and race horses, to her heart's content, so long as the \namusement is confined to the proper circle. For our own part, we \nthink there is no more delightful spectacle in the world than is \nafforded by a troop of grown-up hoydens, released from the heavy \ntrammels of etiquette, and yielding, in all the confidence of \nprivacy, to the wild extravagancies of freedom; though a public \ndisplay of the kind would, undoubtedly, be any thing but agreeable. \nSuch were the sentiments of the painter; and however much the young \nladies may have been mortified at an introduction made in a way so \nboisterous and masculine, it is questionable whether any other could \nhave caused them to produce a stronger, or even more favourable, \nimpression on his imagination. Being of a joyous temperament himself, \nhe rejoiced at the manifestation of similar spirit in others; and \nonly regretted that the parentage of the most admired (for his \nprejudice against the name of Falconer had been strongly avowed,) \nshould have so soon driven away the visions of amusement and delight, \nthat, at the glance of her brilliant eyes, came rushing through his \nbrain.\n\nHe had scarce lost sight of them in the park, before the road again \nechoed with the sound of hoofs; and looking round, he beheld three \nyoung men, very genteely dressed, ride by, and make their way to the \npark gate. As they passed the cottage, they turned their faces \ntowards it, saluting the widow by name, and acknowledging the \npresence of the stranger by courteous nods. He perceived, however, \nthat they were somewhat surprised, and not a little diverted, by his \nappearance at such a place; for they exchanged smiles, and by and by, \nwhen they had got a little beyond the brook, they were heard laughing \ntogether.\n\n\"Well done, ye vagabonds,\" muttered the good-humoured youth to \nhimself: \"never trust me, if I do not make you more in love with my \nlodgings than your own empty skulls, before we are many days older. \nThere _is_ some life in Hawk-Hollow, after all.\"\n\nHe had just succeeded in recalling his attention to his unfinished \nsketch, when it was distracted for the third time by the sudden \nappearance of a carriage, somewhat old-fashioned and grim, that \nrolled up to the inn at an unusual speed, and was in the act of \npassing it, when an old gentleman, whose head was thrust from the \nwindow, caught sight of Herman, and immediately diverted it from its \ncourse, by roaring out to the coachman, a venerable negro,--\n\n\"Holla, you Dick! right about wheel,--turn,--halt!\" and the coach, \nguided with ready skill, stopped at the porch-step, almost before the \nlast word had been pronounced.\n\nOpen flew the door, for it was evident the old gentleman was too \nimpatient to await the tardy assistance of his servant, and out flew \nthe steps, unfolding at a kick of his foot, which immediately \nfollowed them. As he thrust himself thus hurriedly from the vehicle, \nHerman observed, that besides his aged appearance, he had another \nclaim to such duties as a young man could render, in a second foot, \nwhich, instead of displaying any of the strength and agility of the \nformer, was battered out of shape by some ancient injury, and was \npendent to a leg unquestionably infirm and halt. Seeing this, the \nyoung painter instantly stepped forward, and assisted him to descend; \na courtesy that was acknowledged by a hearty gripe of the hand, and \nthe exclamation,\n\n\"Surrender, you dog, or I'll blow your brains out!\"--And to complete \nthe astonishment of the young man, he perceived, at the same moment, \na great horse-pistol, which the old gentleman had whipped out of the \nvehicle, presented within three inches of his ear.\n\nAstounded at such an unexpected mode of salutation, the painter could \ndo little more than express his alarm and confusion, by echoing the \nword, \"Surrender?\" when Elsie interfered in his behalf, crying out, \n\"For Heaven's sake, Captain Loring! what are you doing? Do the young \ngentleman no harm!\"\n\n\"_Gentleman!_\" cried the Captain, somewhat staggered himself. \n\"Adzooks! do you say so?--a gentleman? What! and no cut-throat \nGilbert, hah? By the lord, I thought I had him! Why, you vagabond \nyoung fellow, give an account of yourself.--Who are you? what are \nyou? and how did you come here? You are a gentleman, hah? and you \nhave not killed Colonel Falconer, hah? and you profess yourself to be \nan honest man, hah! Why, what will the world come to!\"\n\nAs he spoke, in these abrupt and startling phrases, Herman had \nleisure, notwithstanding his surprise, to observe that he was a \ncomely, eccentric-looking old man, with a bottle-shaped nose, gray \neyes, and huge beetle-brows, his whole countenance puckered into \nwrinkles, that seemed to begin at the tip of his nose, or on his \nupper lip, as a common centre, and radiate thence to all parts of his \nvisage, though they appeared in the greatest luxuriance on the chin \nand forehead. His hair was clubbed, queued, and powdered; and, \nalthough he was evidently battered by time and hard service, and \nlimped withal very uncouthly on his wounded leg, a three-cornered \nhat, and a half-and-half old military dress, gave him a somewhat \nheroic appearance. His coat was blue, his breeches buff; and he had a \nboot on one leg, and a shoe on the other,--or,--to speak more \nstrictly, on the foot thereof, _that_ being incapable of the more \nmanly decoration. But at the present moment, it was scarce possible \nto obtain a just idea of his appearance or character, had Herman been \ncool enough for the attempt. The violence of his attack upon one in \nthe act of rendering him a humane courtesy, indicated that he was \nsomewhat beside himself; and it was equally plain, from the medley of \nexpressions on his visage, agitated at once by suspicion, anxiety, \nindignation, fury, triumph, and doubt, that he was in a condition to \nbe replied to rather with softness than anger. In truth, there was \nsomething so ridiculous in his appearance, as well as in the \ncircumstance of his own unexpected arrest, that Herman was no sooner \nrelieved of the fear of death, by the dropping of the pistol, which \nthe gallant soldier removed at the remonstrance of Elsie, than he \nburst into a laugh, and would have indulged it freely, had not the \nCaptain cut him short by exclaiming,\n\n\"Hark ye, ye grinning cub! is it a thing to laugh at, when a man's \nmurdered, and you arrested on suspicion?\"\n\n\"Murdered, Captain!\" cried the widow, whom some of his previous \nejaculations seemed to have turned into stone:--\"Murdered, Captain, \ndid you say?\" she exclaimed, seizing the soldier by the arm, and \nwholly disregarding the presence of the painter,--\"Richard Falconer \nmurdered at last? and by a Gilbert, when all that bore the name are \nin the grave? Impossible!\"\n\n\"Murdered, I tell you, and given over by the doctors,\" roared the \nCaptain, \"and by one of the cursed Hawk-Hollow Gilberts, if there's \nany believing words out of his own mouth: I have it by express. And \nhark ye, you old beldam, if you have given shelter to the villain, \nnever trust me if I don't burn you at a stake. Adzooks! was there \never such a thing dreamed of?--Hark ye, sir, I arrest you on \nsuspicion.\"\n\n\"What, sir! on suspicion of murder!\" cried Hunter, who had by this \ntime recovered his gravity, and now spoke with as much dignity as \nboldness: \"If you have any authority to apprehend me, I am your \nprisoner, and will accompany you to the nearest magistrate.--This is \nthe most extraordinary circumstance in the world; and let me tell \nyou, sir,\"--but he was interrupted by the widow; who, still grasping \nthe Captain's arm, although he strove to cast her off, exclaimed,\n\n\"Do no rash folly with the young man. Look at him--does _he_ look \nlike a Gilbert? You are mad to think it, Captain Loring!\"\n\nThen, as if satisfied that such argument was sufficient to acquit her \nlodger of all suspicion, she again renewed her questions; and Herman, \ngiving ear to the Captain, gathered from his broken and impetuous \nexpressions, that assassination had been committed, or rather \nattempted, (for it did not appear that the victim was dead,) upon the \nbody of Colonel Falconer, who had been so lately the subject of his \nthoughts and conversation,--that the outrage had been perpetrated at, \nor near, the metropolis of the State,--that suspicion had fallen upon \na man long esteemed defunct,--and that Captain Loring, in the fervour \nof his indignation and zeal to bring the assassin to justice, being \nnever very notorious for the wisdom of his actions, had resolved to \nseize upon all suspicious persons,--that is to say, all \nstrangers,--he might light on, without much question of his right to \ndo so, until he had caught the true offender, who, he doubted not, \nbeing a refugee and a Gilbert, would be found lurking about the \nHawk's Hollow. It seemed, that the suddenness of the intelligence had \noverpowered the veteran's brain, and left him as incapable of \ndistinguishing the appearances of innocence from those of guilt, as \nof understanding the illegal character of his proceedings; yet, being \na man of impulses, excitable both in head and heart, his suspicions \nwere as easily diverted as inflamed; and, accordingly, after having \ncome within an ace of shooting a pistol through the painter's head, \nhis next act was to seize upon him in the most affectionate manner in \nthe world, crying out by way of apology,\n\n\"Harkee, younker,--adzooks, no ill blood betwixt us? When my blood's \nup, I'm an old fool, d'ye see. Didn't mean to insult you; and as for \nshooting, that's neither here nor there. But when we're after a \ndeserter, spy, refugee, murderer, or such dogs, why quick's the word, \nand 'Fall in, friend,' the order of the day. Must catch the villain, \nand take account of all skulking fellows without the counter-sign. \nHere's bloody murder in the wind. The old woman says you are a \ngentleman: so, gentleman, as you were! Adzooks, you look no more like \na Gilbert than a mud-terrapin; but all honest men answer to their \nnames--what's _yours_?\"\n\n\"Hunter,--Herman Hunter,\" replied the young man; \"and, if need be, I \ncan easily convince you that I am no object of suspicion.\"\n\n\"Don't doubt it; you've an excellent phys'nomy,--very much like my \npoor son Tom's,\" cried the soldier, now as much struck with the open \nand agreeable countenance of the stranger, as he had been before \nblinded by his own impetuosity. \"I like you! You're a soldier, hah? \nWhere do you come from?\"\n\n\"From South Carolina,\" said Hunter, exchanging the serious mood in \nwhich he first submitted to examination, for one more characteristic \nof his humorous temper. He began to understand and even relish the \noddities of the inquisitor; and as the Captain's questions were now \nput in a tone indicative of good will and admiration, and it was \nevident his turbulent feelings were giving way rapidly before others \nof a new character, he seemed disposed not only to endure but to \nencourage the ordeal.\n\n\"From South Carolina?\" cried the Captain. \"Too many tories there by \nhalf! But then you have some men there; yes, sir, some men, whom I \ncall men! Sumpter, sir, and Marion, sir,--why I call such fellows \n_men_, sir! I like this swamp-fighting, too; I was brought up to \nit,--took my first lesson among red Delawares, and ended with Mingoes \nand Shawnees. A good tussle at Eutaw, too, sir, it was, by the lord!\" \nexclaimed Captain Loring, warming into such a blaze of military \nardour at the recollection, that he quite forgot the object of his \ndelay, and the assassination of his kinsman into the bargain;--\"a \ngood tussle, (without saying any thing of my friend Morgan's \nrub-a-dub-dub at the Cowpens,)--a good tussle! And such glorious \nweather, too, when a man could fight and keep cool! Now I remember, \nthat, at the fatal field of Braddock, ninth July, '55, it was the \nhottest work, what with the weather, what with the savages, what with \nthe stupid cockney red-coats, that man ever saw,--an oven above, and \na furnace all round; it was all blood and sweat, sir!--the wounded \nwere boiled in their own gore. It was a day, sir, to make a man a \nman, sir,--it taught me to smell gun-powder! It was there, sir, I \nfirst looked in the face of George Washington,--a poor colonial \nbuck-skin colonel then, but now, adzooks, the greatest man the world \never saw! Harkee, sir, have you served? have you smelt powder? have \nyou heard a trumpet? have you ever fought a battle?\"\n\n\"Certainly, sir,\" replied the young man, with humour; \"I have \ninflicted bloody-noses, and received them. I was quite a Hector at \nschool; and, so long as you stop short of killing, I am a Hector yet. \nBut I never could find any appetite in me for bullets and \nbroad-swords; and as for a bayonet, I think it the most inhuman \nweapon in the world. Noble Captain, I am a non-combatant, a man of \npeace.\"\n\n\"Hah!\" cried the Captain, indignantly; \"and how comes that? An \nable-bodied man, with your bleeding country calling on you, and no \nfight in you? Sir, let me tell you, sir, such a pair of legs should \nhave been devoted to the service of your country, sir! Look you, sir, \nmy son Tom Loring was only eighteen years old, when he fought his \nbattle on the Brandywine; and a whole year before, he was ripe for a \nrub, as he often told me. How comes it, sir, you have grown out of \nyour teens, and never faced an enemy? Zounds, sir, I was beginning to \nhave a good opinion of you!\"\n\n\"There is no accounting for it, Captain, except\"----\n\n\"Hark ye, Mr. What-d'ye-call-it,\" said the soldier, the good feelings \nwith which he was beginning to regard the youth, giving place at once \nto contempt and indignation, \"there is every thing in having the \nright sort of blood for these things, and you have no blood at all. I \ndespise you, sir, and, adzooks, I believe you are some suspicious \nperson after all, and very contemptible, for all of your red \njacket.--Holloa, Dick, there! help me into the carriage.\"\n\nAnd thus venting his disgust, and preparing to put the seal to his \ndispleasure by instant departure, the young man was on the point of \nlosing a friend so suddenly won, when, fortunately for him, the \nCaptain's eye fell upon the little table with the drawing materials, \nwhich he had not before observed, and walking up to it, he began, \nwithout a moment's hesitation, to examine the unfinished sketch. The \neffect was instantaneous; the spectacle of his own dwelling, \ntransferred, with not a little skill, to paper, though only in light \nlead marks, and so accurately that he instantly detected (as appeared \nto him wonderful enough) the windows of his own sleeping apartment, \nthrew him into such transports, that he seemed on the point of \ndancing for joy, as he would perhaps have done, had it not been for \nthe infirmity of his extremity.\n\n\"Lord bless us!\" said he, \"here's the Folly! the identical old Folly, \nwith the grape-vine, the stables, the negro-houses, the locust grove, \nthe three tulip-trees, the pot in the chimney, and the old \nmartin-house on a pole! And here's my two negroes, Dick and Sam, at \nthe gate, driving the cows out of the park\"----\n\n\"No, Captain,\" said Herman, with a painter's dignity; \"those are the \ntwo young ladies; and I flatter myself, when I have done a little \nmore to them\"----\n\n\"My girls?\" cried the Captain, in a rapture; \"why, so they are! And \n_you_ did this? and you're a painter, hah?\"\n\n\"A sort of one, as you see, Captain,\" replied the youth, with an air.\n\n\"A painter!\" cried the Captain, grasping his hand, with delight. \"Can \nyou paint a soldier, hah?\"\n\n\"Ay,\" replied the youth, \"if he'll hold still long enough.\"\n\n\"And cannon, and horses, and smoke, and trees, and a dreadful \nsplutter of blood and dead men, hah? Then, by the lord, you shall \npaint me the Fatal Field of Braddock, with the red-coats and the \ncontinentals, the savages and the Frenchmen,--and Braddock, lugged \noff on men's shoulders,--and George Washington rallying the \ncolony-boys for another charge on the red-skins! What a picture that \nwill make!--I'll tell you what, Mr. Harkem What-d'-ye-call-it, you \nshall come to my house, drink and be merry, and then you shall paint \nme that picture. You shall paint me the battle of Brandywine, too, \nwith my poor Tom Loring bleeding to death, like a hero, as he was: \nand hark ye, you may bring _me_ in, too, holding him on my knee,--for \nI did it,--and telling him to die like a man,--for an old fool, as I \nwas, to think he could die like any thing else! And stick in my girl, \ntoo, if you can, weeping and wringing her hands, when I carried Tom \nLoring home that day. And remember the bugles and trumpets, blasting \nup for the charge of cavalry; you should have heard them sweeping by, \njust as Tom was dying.--It was the finest sound in nature!\" continued \nthe Captain, vehemently, and as he spoke, dashing a tear from his \neye; \"the finest music ever heard; as Tom acknowledged himself: \n'Father!' said he, as he bled in my arms, 'it is not hard to die to \nsuch music, for I hear our own trumpets among the others!' And so \ndied Tom Loring; he went to heaven amid thunder and trumpets; and if \nI had seven sons more, I should wish nothing better for them, than \nthat they might go to heaven the same way,--I would, by the lord! For \nwhy? there's no way that's better!\"\n\nThere was something in this eccentric burst of ardour, which, however \nludicrous it seemed, touched some of the finer feelings of the \npainter, and checked the laugh which he could scarce repress, when \nthe Captain began his energetic instructions. Not being disposed to \naccept a commission so capriciously proffered, or to undertake a \ncomposition, in which, it was evident, if he hoped to please his \nemployer, he must mingle together as many different scenes and \nactions as would furnish subjects for a whole gallery, and desiring \nto temper his refusal to the peculiarities of his patron, he was \npuzzling himself in what way to express it, when his good-fortune \nsent him aid in the person of another stranger, who, as the \ncapricious stars would have it, designed, like himself, to make trial \nof the accommodations of the Traveller's Rest.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n  _1st Friar_. No doubt, brother, but this proceedeth of the Spirit?\n  _2d Friar_.  Ay, and of a moving spirit, too; but come,\n               Let us intreat he may be entertain'd.\n                                    MARLOW--_The Jew of Malta_.\n\n\nAs the Captain concluded his eccentric oration, rather from want of \nbreath than because he lacked the will to continue it, a sonorous \nvoice, very manly and agreeable, save that it had a strong nasal \ntwang, was heard pronouncing hard by, with solemn emphasis, the words \nfrom the Apocalypse,--\n\n\"'And I looked, and behold, a pale horse: and his name that sat on \nhim was Death, and hell followed with him. And power was given unto \nthem over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with the sword, and \nwith hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.'\"\n\nStartled at an interruption so unexpected, both looked round at the \nfirst sound of the voice, and even Elsie Bell woke from the trance \ninto which the Captain's news had plunged her, to gaze as eagerly as \nthe others after the cause. As they directed their eyes towards the \nentrance of the little oak-shaded yard, they saw, turning into it \nfrom the road, and slowly riding towards them, an apparition that \nmight almost have been supposed by a profane imagination to imbody \nthe conception of the grisly terror. It was a tall man in black \nraiment, riding an old gray horse, very meager and raw-boned, which \nmoved with a step so slow and drowsy, as to oppose no obstruction to \nthe meditations of the rider, who held a book in his hand, from which \nhe read the words that followed so ominously after the burst of the \nCaptain. He seemed so inwrapt in his study as to be unconscious of \nthe presence of strangers, having apparently yielded up the guidance \nof his course to the animal he bestrode; and as he drew nigh to the \nporch, still pronouncing the words, the first one of which had \nattracted their attention, all had an opportunity of gazing on him at \nleisure. He was a tall man, as has been said, being somewhat gaunt \nand thin in the lower part of his body, though his shoulders were \nbroad and square. His joints were large and bony, and his hands and \nfeet were any thing in the world but fairy-like. His neck was long \nand scraggy, his face of a cadaverous hue and lantern-jawed, and long \nlocks of straight black hair, a little grizzled, fell from beneath an \nold cocked-hat, the brim of which was inclined to go slouching along \nwith them, towards his shoulders. His coat was of black velvet, worn \nand soiled, and indeed extremely shabby, and so long, that, as he \nrode, the wide skirts almost concealed his saddle-bags and flapped \nabout his heels; the collar was straight and short, and its place was \nsupplied by a red bandanna handkerchief, which was twisted round his \nthroat in a thong like a cable.\n\nHe continued to read aloud, until his horse suddenly paused before \nthe porch; then lifting up his eyes, and closing the book, he \nbestowed a gracious stare upon the party, that had well nigh \nconverted the painter's admiration into merriment, it was so \nextravagantly grave and sanctimonious. It dispelled also some of the \nreverence with which the soldier was beginning to regard him; and \nrecurring suddenly to the objects which had brought him to the \nTraveller's Rest, Captain Loring hobbled up to the saintly \napparition, advanced his hand to seize upon the bridle rein, and was \njust saluting him with a \"Harkee, Mister, whoever you are,--being a \nstranger, you must give an account of yourself,\"--when the worthy \npersonage, rolling his eyes once more over the party, and then \ndirecting them to heaven, opened his mouth, and again lifted up his \nvoice.\n\n\"Fellow sinners!\" said he, with as much zeal as emphasis, seeming to \nconsider that he had found a congregation in great need of his \nexhortations, \"you have heard the words of the book: 'And I looked, \nand behold, a pale horse; and his name that sat on him was Death, and \nhell followed with him.' Death comes on the pale horse, and hell \nfollows at his heels! Listen to what I have to say, and let your \nsouls that are a-hungering, open their mouths and be satisfied. He \nthat has ears to hear\"----\n\n\"Is an ass!\" cried Captain Loring, interrupting him without ceremony. \n\"Come, you fanatical fool, none of your babble and sermonizing here \nof a week-day; but answer my questions.\"\n\n\"Will you rail upon the Lord's anointed? will you do violence to my \nholy vocation?\" cried the preacher, hotly. \"Get thee behind me, \nSatan! If thou wilt not profit by the unction of truth, shut thy \nmouth and get thee away, that others may not backslide after thee. \nAnathema upon thee! anathema baranathema! If thou stoppest the flood \nof the sweet waters that are ready to fall upon the thirsty-spirited, \nI say to thee, Anathema! Lo and behold! I am sent upon a mission, and \nthe spirit waxes strong within me, so that I will wrestle with thee \nand prevail. Am not I he that is sent to scatter the good seed by the \nway-side? and art thou not a bush of thorns, that chokes up the grain \nere it reaches the soil, or the rock that has no soil to receive it? \nI will preach the devil out of thee, I warrant thee, thou most \nantique sinner; for what says the word\"----\n\n\"Harkee, friend methodist, or whatever you are,\" said Captain Loring, \nnot a whit abashed by the violent zeal with which the fanatic \nprolonged this remonstrance, \"it is not in my way to insult the \ncloth, all chaplains being non-combatants. But, hark ye, sir, \nadzooks, I don't believe you are a preacher at all, but a rogue in \nanother man's feathers; and if you don't satisfy my mind, I will \narrest you on suspicion of being a rascal, I will by the lord! and \nthat's as true as any Scripture. And do you, you Harper \nWhat-d'ye-call-it,\" (turning to the painter,) \"hand me my pistol, and \nhold him by the leg; and you, Dick! club your whip, and stand by to \nknock him off his horse; and you, Elsie, come forward for a witness; \nfor I believe the dog's a Gilbert. Surrender, you villain, and give \nan account of yourself!\"\n\nGreat was the confusion of the exhorting stranger, at finding he had \nlighted upon a zealot, of fire so much superior to his own, and a \ncongregation so little disposed to bow down to his ministry; and \ngreat was the inclination of Herman Hunter to enjoy a rencounter \nbetwixt two such antagonists, and even to add to its absurdities, by \ntaking part with the Captain against a man who, whatever was his \napparent sanctity, he was persuaded, was nothing more than a low and \nvulgar hypocrite. However, perceiving that the latter worthy, besides \nbeing greatly alarmed, was clubbing his bible as if weighing the \npropriety of employing all its arguments and exhortations together, \nin one fell swoop against the head of his irreligious captor, his \nhumanity and love of peace drove the young man betwixt the eccentric \npair, as a moderator and umpire.\n\n\"Stop, Captain,\" said he; \"this mode of questioning is against the \nlaw; and you, reverend stranger, hearken to me. Being a man of \nreligion and peace, and doubtless good sense and good manners, you \ncan do nothing more than answer a civil question; which will save you \nthe trouble of a ride, or drive, according to circumstances, to the \nnearest magistrate.\"\n\n\"Magistrate!\" cried the preacher, blankly, \"what have the servants of \ntruth to do with a magistrate?\"\n\n\"Yes, magistrate,\" blustered the soldier; \"and then, adzooks, perhaps \nto the hangman afterwards.\"\n\n\"In a word, sir,\" said Herman, \"there has been a murder attempted; \nthough where, when, and how, I do not pretend to know; and this being \na land where suspicion is somewhat capricious and even whimsical, you \nwill see the necessity of doing as I myself have done but a moment \nbefore you;--that is, of declaring your name and business to this \ngentleman.\"\n\n\"Name, gentlemen! business, gentlemen!--Certainly, \ngentlemen,--certainly, fellow christians and sinners!\" cried the \npreacher, recovering his equanimity, which had somewhat deserted him, \nand becoming ten times more nasal and sanctified than before. \"I am a \npoor servant of the word, an expounder of the book, Nehemiah by \nname,--which is to say, Nehemiah Poke,--an humble labourer in the \nvineyard of sin--that is to say, of righteousness--and a warner and \ncrier-out on the way-side, by the side of the great road that leadeth \nto the place of despair, and of wailing, and of gnashing of teeth. \nYou put your scorns upon me, men of the world, and sons of a \nstiff-necked generation; you spit in my face, you strike me over the \nmouth, and you take me by the beard, crying, 'Get up, you bald-head.' \nBut _he_ will reckon with you, who goeth about like a roaring lion, \nseeking whom he may devour. Open therefore your ears, and repent you, \nlest he who comes on the pale horse, with hell after him, shall fall \nupon you in your pride, and twist your necks, as you twist off a quid \nof tobacco from the roll. I come to the house of the good widow, for \nsuch, say the men of the world, is the widow Bell. I design to eat \nand refresh me with sleep; and then crossing over the river that lies \nin my path, wend my way to the scorners of truth, that are thick \namong the men of blood in the army; for among them, Death on the pale \nhorse is ever ramping and roaring. But I see, that wickedness is \nhere, even here, in this 'desert idle,' as it is written: I will \ntherefore tarry awhile, and expound to you the words of comfort, and \nthat before I eat and sleep, lest you fall and perish before the \nmorning. Rest a moment then, irreverent and headstrong old man, and I \nwill wrestle with the devil that is in thee. For I forgive thee, and \nwill arouse thee with an exhortation, strong and fiery, 'fierce as \nten furies, terrible as night,' according to the expression. Listen, \ntherefore, to the words of my text: 'And I looked, and behold.'--And \nbehold! the sinner rolleth away in his pride, rejecting the word! But \nhe of the pale horse runneth after, even in the dust of his chariot \nwheels, shaking destruction from his shoulders, even as 'dew-drops \nfrom the lion's mane,' as it is written. Young man, give me thy hand, \nthat I may descend; and widow, peace be to thy house, and comfort in \nthe midst of thy poverty. He who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, \nas the word has it, and marks even when a sparrow falls to the \nground, will not turn from thine humble tenement, when its door is \nopen to the weary pilgrim, and its porch resounds with the cry of \nprayer and thanksgiving.\"\n\n\"Mr. Nehemiah Poke,\" said Herman, who gave his hand, as required, to \nthe pilgrim, and assisted him to descend, \"you perceive, that your \nexhortations have driven away one-third of the \ncongregation.\"--Captain Loring had been fully satisfied with the \nexplanations of Mr. Poke, or alarmed at the prospect of a sermon; and \nwhile the preacher was kindling into fervour, had suddenly slipped \ninto the carriage, and in a moment rumbled furiously away.--\"You \nperceive that your sanctity has driven away one auditor, and \nconfounded another,--Mrs. Bell here being in a maze. Now know, \nlikewise, that I, the remaining third, have no need of your edifying \ndiscourses, and request you to put an end to them.\"\n\nThis was said with a good-natured smile, and a knowing nod, which \nsomewhat disconcerted the preacher. However, after staring at the \nyouth awhile, he lifted up his eyes, hands, and voice together, \nsaying,\n\n\"Are you a scorner of the word, then, in your early and tender youth? \nand will you shut your ears and harden your heart against the grace \nthat is offered, even by my unworthy lips!\"\n\n\"Even against all that can come from your unworthy lips, as you very \nproperly term them,\" said the painter, with the most significant \ncountenance in the world: \"and to make you easy on that score, do me \nthe favour to believe that I have studied Milton, Shakspeare, Sterne, \nand the Bible, so much more closely than yourself, that I never \njumble them together, nor fail to perceive when another man does so. \nDo you understand me?\"\n\n\"Truly not,\" said the preacher, with a somewhat humorous stare; \"but \nout of the mouths of babes and sucklings we are sometimes wisely \nadmonished. I perceive, that I have fallen among thieves--that is to \nsay, among sinners; and that they are none the better, but much the \nworse, for any comfortable wisdom that is offered them. Therefore, I \nwill hold my peace, lest the devil should be aggravated in your \nbosom; hoping that a better hour may be shown me, in which to warn \nyou of the wickedness of your ways, and so pluck you as a brand out \nof the burning. Good woman,\" he continued, turning to Elsie, and \nspeaking much better sense than before, \"know, that by reason of thy \npoverty and widowhood, I have brought me lucre of silver and \npaper--that is to say, dollars both hard and soft--to reward thee for \nthy hospitality; and that I come, not like a thief and a man of war, \nto prey upon thy substance, and leave thee nothing in return; but as \na guest, in the worldly sense, who will pay scot and lot, as the word \nis, without grumbling.\"\n\n\"Such as I have, you shall share,\" said Elsie, coldly, \"whether you \nhave gold or not, provided you will take the young gentleman's \nadvice, and exhort no longer in my house.\"\n\n\"Woman,\" said Nehemiah, \"let me not think that a devil has seized \nupon you, as well as the others. Shall wisdom cry aloud, not in the \nstreets but at your house-door, and you regard it no more than the \nscoffers? I tell you, and I charge you to hear\"----\n\n\"Softly, Mr. Poke,\" said Herman. \"Remember your promise to hold your \npeace. That scrap from Sir John, though it smacks of a better origin, \nis of as clear an one as the others. Read your Bible, man, for a day \nor two more, and learn your trade better.\"\n\n\"Young man,\" said the preacher, again somewhat abashed, but with a \nstern voice, \"you talk like one of the ignorant\"----\n\n\"Groundlings!\" said the other, laying a ludicrous stress upon the \nword. \"'Thy face is valanced since I saw thee last!'--Does that come \nout of Habakkuk? If you will preach, why here fate sends you another \nauditor, in the form of another patron to the Traveller's Rest! As \nfor myself, I am tired not only of your homilies, but your company; \nand I pray you, for our own two sakes, that you cross the river \nbefore supper. The sooner the better, I assure you; for though at \npresent the 'rack' may 'stand still,' 'the bold wind' be\n\n              'Speechless, and the orb below\n  As hush as death; anon the dreadful thunder\n  Will rend the region,'\n\nand scatter jackdaws, along with the owls and pigeons. Fare you well, \n'Sir Topas, the Curate!'--'I am one of those gentle ones that will \nuse the devil himself with courtesy'--I leave you to the pedler \nthere, who may be of a better temper for conversation. '_Bonos dies_, \nSir Topas!'\"\n\nAnd with these words, and laughing heartily, as at some jest \nperfectly well understood by Nehemiah, he left the porch, only \nlooking once behind him, as the preacher stood regarding him with \nuplifted hands, and bursting into a second peal as he looked. He \nraised his eyes, nodding courteously to the new comer, whom he had \njustly characterized as a pedler--for so he seemed, having a pack \nstrapped to his back, though riding a strong black horse. \"Good luck \nfor poor Elsie to-day!\" he muttered to himself, as if even diverted \nby so slight a circumstance as the unusual windfall of patronage. \"I \nthought I could not be mistaken in the rogue's lantern-jaws and huge \nhands; and I doubt me, his religion is a mere cloak, put on for a \npurpose; though I _have_ heard of such conversions before. However, \nhonest or not, a fool or a scoundrel, a saint or a hypocrite, it is \ncertain he can do me no mischief; and I'll see he does none to Elsie. \nAs for others, they must take their chances.\"\n\nThus reflecting, and amusing himself with his cogitations, he made \nhis way, though apparently without design or object, along the road, \nuntil he had passed the park-gate of Gilbert's Folly, and reached the \nrivulet described before, as emptying into the river at the mouth of \nthe ravine, on which the Traveller's Rest was built. Although shallow \nand of a smooth bottom, where it crossed the road, there were rocks \nlying in its bed both above and below; and he could hear a murmuring \nnoise among the trees that overshadowed it above, as if it made a \ncascade at no great distance in that direction. He had no doubt that, \nby leaving the road, he was trespassing upon the manor; but having no \nfear of intruding upon the haunts of any of its habitants, and being \nmoved by a painter's curiosity, he did not hesitate to clamber over \nthe rude stone wall, and dive at once into the shadowy grove \nbordering the stream.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n  To arched walks of twilight groves,\n  And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,\n  Of pine, or monumental oak,\n  Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke,\n  Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,\n  Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.\n                                      IL PENSEROSO.\n\n\nMeanwhile, the fair jockeys, after being repulsed from the highway, \nhad betaken themselves to the park, where they galloped about for \nawhile, expecting the Captain. As they looked back ever and anon upon \nthe road, they caught sight of the three young men, whom Hunter had \nseen pass the Traveller's Rest but a short time after the ladies \nthemselves.\n\n\"Was ever any thing more provoking!\" cried Miss Falconer. \"Those \nthree rural coxcombs, the doctor and the two lawyers! Will no one \nhave the humanity to break a leg, or his neighbour's bones, so as to \nafford _them_ some employment, and _us_ a little peace and quiet? \nMust we be ever afflicted with their admiration and homage? It is \nmore than a misfortune to be a fine woman in the country, where \nmerit, as the old villanous poet says of female attraction in \ngeneral,\n\n      'In its narrow circle gathers,\n  Nothing but chaff, and straw, and feathers.'\n\nBut we will escape them, if it be only for an hour. Down, Kate! down, \nere they have seen you! Whip your filly, and I warrant me, she will \nfind her way to the stable. We will hide in the woods, as I think we \nhave done before from the same fellows.\"\n\nLaughing heartily at a device that spoke so little in favour of the \nattractive qualities of the village beaux, the Captain's daughter \nleaped lightly from her palfrey, as Miss Falconer had done before \nher; and both flourishing their whips at the same time, the liberated \nanimals fled towards the buildings, whilst their riders lost not a \nmoment in burying themselves from sight, by plunging into a grove, \nfrom which they continued to ramble, until they had reached a little \nbrook, as wild and merry as themselves, that gushed over a remote \ncorner of the park, and then hid its gleaming waters in a hollow, \novergrown with forest-trees.\n\nInto this dell they made their way, following the brook, until it \nfell into a larger streamlet, which was indeed no other than \nHawk-Hollow Run, so often mentioned before. Its banks were strown \nwith huge masses of rock, gray and mossy, through which the waters, \nswollen by late rains, rushed with impetuous speed, and sometimes \nwith great noise and fury, while its murmurs were rendered yet more \nimpressively sonorous by the hollow reverberations of the forest. \nProceeding farther, the woods, which now invested the hills on either \nbank, and the rocks, assumed a sterner character of wildness and \ngrandeur. Hemlocks, and other gloomy trees, with here a rugged maple, \nor ghostly beech, and there a gibbous oak, springing from interstices \nof the rocks, seemed, with their knotted and contorted roots, to bind \nthe fragments together; while their thick and arched boughs flung \nover these ruins of nature a chilly and everlasting gloom. Aloft, on \nthe hill, the grape-vine swung its massy locks from the oak, and, in \nthe lower depths of the ravine, for such it was, the \nswamp-honeysuckle shook its fragrant clusters, and green dodders rose \non the stump of the decaying birch. When their path had conducted the \nfair wanderers beyond the immediate vicinity of the falls and rapids, \nthese exchanged their murmurs for other sounds not less agreeable. \nThe chattering of jays, the lonely-sounding whistle of the \nwood-robin, the cry of a startled dove, and now and then the sudden \nwhir of a pheasant, starting from his lair under a fallen trunk, and \nbustling noisily out of sight,--the small uproar of young rabbits, \nbouncing out of a brier or a bush of ferns, and galloping away up the \nhill,--the dropping of half-eaten nuts from the paw of the retreating \nsquirrel, and a dozen other such noises as invade the solitude of the \nforest, here added a double loneliness and charm to a scene long \nsince a favourite with the maidens.\n\n\"Now are we safe,\" cried Miss Falconer, with exultation; \"for no one \nhaving seen us take this course, our admirers, were they even \nspirited enough to pursue, would think of twenty more reasonable \nplaces to seek us in than this. But let us make assurance doubly \nsure. Don't tell me you are tired--what business has a country-wench \nto be tired? We will go down to the sycamore, and then rest us \nawhile, till the sun peeps red in the hollow. I will bring you to \nyour confession; for, having failed in my precious designs upon the \nold witch there, (may Monsieur Red-jacket sleep harder to-night than \nhe ever did before, for a Marplot!) and my curiosity being so much \nthe more inflammable, I am resolved to learn what I can, and that \nwithout ceremony. So come along, Kate,--\n\n          'Kate of my consolation,\n  'Kate of Kate-hall, my super-dainty Kate,'\n\nas the bear of Verona said of your amiable namesake; all that you \nhave now to do, is to be, like her, 'Kate conformable.'\"\n\nThus whiling away the fatigue of climbing over rocks and creeping \nthrough thickets, with a gay rattle of discourse, the black-eyed \nmaiden dragged her companion along, until they reached a place where \nthe stream was contracted by the projection, on the one bank, of a \nhuge mass of slaty rock, and, on the other, by the protrusion of the \nroots of a gigantic plane-tree,--the sycamore, or buttonwood, of \nvulgar speech. Above them, and beyond the crag, the channel of the \nrivulet widened into a pool; and there was a plot of green turf \nbetwixt the water and the hill, on the farther bank, whereon fairies, \nif such had ever made their way to the World of Twilight, might have \nloved to gambol under the light of the moon. A hill shut up the glen \nat its upper extremity; and it was hemmed in, on the left, by the \nrocky and wooded declivity, over which the maidens had already \npassed. Over this, and just behind a black rounded shoulder that it \nthrust into the glen, a broad ray from the evening sun shot across \nthe stream, and fell, in a rich yellow flood, over the vacant plot. \nThere was something almost Arcadian in this little solitude; and if, \ninstead of two well-bred maidens perched upon the roots of the \nsycamore, on seats chosen with a due regard to the claims of their \ndresses, there had been a batch of country girls romping in the \nwater, a passing Act\u00e6on might have dreamed of the piny Gargaphy, its \nrunning well,--_fons tenui perlucidus unda_,--and the bright \ncreatures of the mythic day, that once animated the waters of that \nsolitary grot. But the fairy and the wood-nymph are alike unknown in \nAmerica. Poetic illusion has not yet consecrated her glens and \nfountains; her forests nod in uninvaded gloom, her rivers roll in \nunsanctified silence, and even her ridgy mountains lift up their blue \ntops in unphantomed solitude. Association sleeps, or it reverts only \nto the vague mysteries of speculation. Perhaps\n\n    \"A restless Indian queen,\n  Pale Marian with the braided hair,\"\n\nmay wander at night by some highly-favoured spring; perhaps some tall \nand tawny hunter,\n\n  \"In vestments for the chase array'd,\"\n\nmay yet hunt the hart over certain distinguished ridges, or urge his \nbarken canoe over some cypress-fringed pool; but all other places are \nleft to the fancies of the utilitarian. A Greek would have invented a \ngod, to dwell under the watery arch of Niagara; an American is \nsatisfied with a paper-mill, clapped just above it.\n\nThe fair ladies of Hawk-Hollow were no more troubled with the absence \nof poetic association in their lovely retreat, than any of their \ncountrymen would have been; as was plainly shown by the first words \npronounced by Miss Falconer, after taking possession of a sort of \narm-chair among the sycamore roots.\n\n\"This is a place, my mannikin,\" said she, bending her head \nmajestically towards her kinswoman, whose seat was not so \nelevated,--\"this is a place where one may think comfortably of \nmurdering, whooping, scalping, and such sort of matters; and its \nsolemnity will therefore give a degree of point to the story. Come, \nbegin; I am all ears--that is, metaphorically speaking; though a \nviler metaphor, to come from men of rational imagination, could not \nhave been invented. I tell you, Kate, I am dying with curiosity about \nthese terrible Hawks; and as I know, you know _something_, I am \ndetermined you shall resuscitate me, in lack of a better physician, \nwith such information as you have. No excuses--I know them all by \nheart, you have repeated them over so often. I declare upon my \njockey-like word, that here I sit, as fixed as the very roots around \nme, and as immoveable; and here I _will_ sit, until you surrender \nyour scruples, and open your mouth, though I should remain until \nwashed away by the next fresh. I am positive; my will is as \ninflexible as the laws of the Medes and Persians.\"\n\n\"You have mistaken me, Harriet,\" said the other, bending her eyes \nupon the stream; \"I know nothing of the matter.--That I have heard \nmany idle whispers, hints, and innuendoes, is true; but there is \nneither wisdom nor propriety in repeating them, particularly to \n_you_.--But is not this the most charming place in the world? Do you \nknow, I have determined upon the spot I am to be buried in? It is \nfurther up the river, where three lime-trees grow together; behind \nthem is a rock, covered with laurels, wild roses, and columbines; and \nthere is such an array of azaleas below, with blood-roots, and \nwind-flowers, and dogwood, as has half-turned my brain. Can you tell \nme, Hal, why I should be ever thinking of a grave, when I stumble \nupon such pretty places? It is always the first thought.\"\n\nAs Catherine spoke, she turned her eyes with much simplicity and \nearnestness of expression, upon her companion's face; and though it \nwas evident, she had introduced the subject, for the purpose of \ndiverting the conversation from the channel in which Miss Falconer \ndesired to have it flow, it was equally plain, that it had already \ntaken hold upon her imagination, and now occupied her mind alone. As \nshe looked up, with such a thought at her bosom, it imparted a \ncharacter of melancholy to her countenance, which, although not her \nnatural and original expression, circumstances had made, of late, \nmuch more common than any other. Her face was the sweetest oval in \nthe world, her features very regular and pretty, the hue of her \ncomplexion less brilliant than might have been expected in one with \nsuch light locks, but of a pleasant healthy tone, and her eyes, \nwithout being bright or striking, were so singularly earnest of \nexpression, with a certain vague anxiety, or imploringness, mingled \nup with every look, as to seldom fail of interesting the feelings of \nthe beholder in her favour. Besides, her brow, from which the hair \nwas parted in the simplest and easiest manner, was particularly \nsmooth and beautiful; and whatever might have been the depth of her \nmelancholy, this noble feature lost nothing of its serenity. Indeed, \nwhen sadness dwelt upon her spirit, it seldom produced a change in \nany part of the countenance except the eyes; and it was in these \nalone, at the present moment, that emotion was betrayed by the change \nfrom the merry brightness which the events of the afternoon had \nthrown into them, to that appealing, anxious expression, already \ndescribed. It must be added to this description that her voice was, \nif possible, even more strikingly expressive than her eyes. It was \nwith her as with the Faerie Queene; always,\n\n                        \"When she spake,\n  Sweete wordes, like dropping honny, she did shed;\n  And 'twixt the perles and rubins softly brake\n  A silver sound:\"\n\nevery exertion was characterized by some appropriate and harmonious \nchange; her joyous spirits broke out with such sweet and jocund \nsounds as come from tinkling bells; and when sadness was at her \nheart, her accents were such murmurs of subdued and contagious \nmelancholy as the wood-pigeon breathes from the depths of the forest.\n\n\"Do I know _why_?\" said Miss Falconer, looking down upon her with a \nmischievous air, and humming instantly,\n\n  \"'The poor soul sat sying by a sycamore-tree,\n      Sing all a green willow;\n    Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,\n      Sing willow, willow, willow.'\n\nBut pr'ythee, be comforted; this is the way with all young ladies who \nhave hair-brained sweethearts. But I assure you, he we wot of is the \nbest, truest, and most amiable creature in the world; and if he be a \nlittle wild, why all men are so, you know.\"\n\nAt these allusions, which were evidently unexpected, Miss Loring \nblushed, then turned very pale; and finally, while Harriet drew \nbreath, as if to continue the subject, she said, recurring abruptly \nto the original topic of discourse, and in a hurried manner,\n\n\"If you insist I should tell you what I have heard, I must obey. The \nstory is singular and melancholy,--melancholy under every aspect, but \ndoubly so, if that be true which I know you are most anxious to \nlearn. But, Harriet, I cannot tell you _all_. What concerns the \nGilberts alone I am ready to relate; but that which involves the \nconnexion between,--that is to say--Harriet!\" cried the young lady, \nafter pausing with embarrassment, \"it does not become a daughter to \nlisten to aspersions cast upon the good name of a parent!\"\n\n\"It does not,\" said Miss Falconer, gravely, \"when they are breathed \nby the lips of an enemy. But fear not, I will not eat you. I do not \nask you to repeat slanders, but to inform me what slanders are \nrepeated by others. You might have added, it did not become me to pry \ninto my father's secrets; but as his child, his daughter--I would to \nheaven I could say his son!--it is fitting I should at least know \nfrom what to defend him. I tell you, Kate, I have this thing much at \nheart. Fear not to shock me by your relations; for, not being \ndisposed to believe them, I shall not be grieved, except at \ndiscovering how extensive may be the malignity of our foes. I shall \nrest more sweetly on my pillow to-night, if I go not to sleep on \nsuspicion. Begin, therefore, Kate, and scruple not to speak boldly.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n  For us, we do approve the Roman maxim,\n  To save one citizen is a greater prize,\n  Than to have killed, in war, ten enemies.\n                          MASSINGER--_The Guardian_.\n\n  Blow, blow, thou winter wind,\n  Thou art not so unkind\n    As man's ingratitude.----\n  Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,\n  Thou dost not bite so nigh,\n    As benefits forgot.\n                           AS YOU LIKE IT.\n\n\n\"You know then, I presume,\" said Catherine, beginning her narrative, \nominously, with a sigh,--\"you know, I suppose, all about old Mr. \nGilbert, and his\"----\n\n\"My dear creature,\" said Miss Falconer, \"I know no more of Mr. \nGilbert than the Grand Turk; and all that I can boast of knowledge in \nrelation to his cut-throat children, is that they were the Hawks of \nHawk-Hollow; but whether they were real kites, with claws and \nfeathers, or only the philosopher's two-legged birds, human \nchanticleers, I could never yet determine. My father is not always so \ncommunicative as might be expected in a dutiful parent; and, once or \ntwice, when I have been curious to come at some of his early exploits \non the frontiers, (for they say he was a great Indian-fighter,) he \nhas not hesitated to assume a severe countenance, and scold me in the \nmost paternal manner imaginable. Nay, my dear, he once assured me \nthat, as it became a woman rather to garnish the outside of her head \nthan the interior, I would do well never to trouble myself by \nsearching after information that could not make me a whit more \nhandsome. I bowed my head at the reproof, and ran straightway to my \nbrother. But Harry, poor fellow, knew no more about these matters \nthan he cared,--that is, nothing. Ah! he is a jewel of a man, and \nwill make the best husband in the world, having nothing of the \nmeddler about him. I have often thought, if pa were to commit a \nmurder, or even break his neck, Harry would not trouble himself with \neither wonder or lamentation; and this, not from any want of \naffection, but simply because he would consider the thing his \nfather's affair, not his. A good easy temper is an excellent thing in \nmen,--as excellent indeed as the 'voice soft, gentle, and low,' in \nwoman. So, now, you perceive the necessity of beginning just where \nyour story begins. Take up the father,--the grandfather, if you \nchoose,--of this savage brood; give me their genealogy, if they have \nany, and if it be german to the matter; draw all sorts of parallels, \nmake all kinds of reflections, and, in fine, do and say any thing you \nmay think proper,--only conceal nothing. My curiosity is as capacious \nof appetite as the Moor's revenge, (so much for ruralizing, when one \nmust kill time with Shakspeare!) and demands that its gratification \nshould be as complete.\"\n\nThus adjured and instructed, Miss Loring began the narration of \nGilbert's story, and the description of his family, as they have been \nalready recorded; into both which, however, she entered in greater \ndetail than it was thought necessary to attempt.\n\nThe first part of the history, which was without melancholy, and \nrelated chiefly to the dilemmas into which the founder of Hawk-Hollow \nHall was thrown by the sudden accession of wealth, and his vain \nstruggles to refine the character of his children, long since \ndetermined by early habits upon rude and adventurous lives, Miss \nLoring, naturally a merry and waggish maiden, with strong talents for \nmimicry, delivered in a manner that soon became humorous, and, at \nlast, highly diverting; so that the hollow forest began to peal with \nthe approving merriment of her companion. Her benevolence to the poor \nwidow had so opened Elsie's heart, that she had cast aside most of \nthe reserve with which she was accustomed to speak of the Gilberts; \nand, in consequence, Catherine was provided with an ample store of \nanecdotes, illustrative of their characters and habits, with which \nshe now amused her friend. She related with what surprise the good \nElsie, one autumn evening, (while Mr. Gilbert was yet in England with \nhis whole family,) beheld the adventurous Oran, in ragged attire, and \nwith a bundle at his back, come trudging up to the Traveller's Rest, \nlooking as bold and resolute, to use her own whimsical illustrations, \nas a soldier marching up to the mouth of an empty cannon, or a \nmilitia-man returning from a campaign without battles; and she even \nmimicked, with voice, gesture, and looks, the appearance and bearing \nof the two friends, in the dialogue that followed as soon as the \ntruant was recognized by the widow.\n\n\"'Heaven bless us!' said Elsie, with uplifted hands, 'is that _you_, \nOran Gilbert?'\"--Thus her story went on: \"'What a foolish question!' \nmuttered the hero of two lustres and a half, who had never affected \nmuch of the dulcet submissiveness of a child to any one, either in \nword or action; 'what a foolish question for you, goody Elsie! Here I \nam in Pennsylvany, and hungry, I reckon!' and with that, without \nwaiting for invitation, he plumped himself down at the table, already \nset out for the widow's evening meal, and straightway fell to work \nwith a zeal and industry that showed he had not mistaken the \ncondition of his appetite. The widow regarded him with undiminished \nastonishment, crying out, for she feared lest some dreadful accident, \nby shipwreck or otherwise, had destroyed the rest, 'But your father \nand brothers, Oran,--where are _they_?' 'In Bristol,' mumbled the \nboy, scowling at her over a bone, but still making the most of \nit,--'in Bristol,--that is, the big English Bristol, and not our \nPennsylvany town, down the river.' 'In Bristol,' echoed Elsie Bell;\n'and what are you doing here without them?' 'Why, eating my supper, \ndon't you see?' replied the juvenal. 'And how did you get here?' \ndemanded Elsie. 'I came in a big ship to Philadelphy,' replied the \nboy, scarce intermitting his agreeable employment for a moment, 'and \nthen, to be sure, I footed it.' 'You have run away from your father, \nOran?' said Elsie. 'Yes, I have,' said the boy, grumly; 'let me eat \nmy supper, and I'll tell you all about it.'\n\n\"The widow held her peace for awhile, until the lad had satisfied his \nravenous appetite; and then, assuming a friendly and coaxing air, for \nwell she knew nothing else would have any effect on that singular \nyoung reprobate, she drew from him a confession of his whole \nadventure, and the causes that led to it.\n\n\"It appeared, that, besides an extraordinary attachment to his native \nhome among the wild woods, Oran had another cause to be discontented \nwith his residence in England; and this he discovered in the public \nschool, to which he was sent with his brother next in age, called \nHyland. 'He sent me,' said Oran, expatiating upon the barbarity of \nhis father, 'to a school, to learn grammar, and Latin, and reading \nand writing, and all that sort of thing!'--For you must know,\" said \nCatherine, speaking to her friend, \"that the want of a teacher, or \nperhaps hard poverty, had prevented Gilbert sending his children to \nany school, before he fell heir to his fortune; which was the reason \nperhaps, that they got such wild notions and propensities among them \nas could never after be eradicated. 'Yes,' the urchin went on, 'he \nsent me to school, and Hy, too; for he has been a sort of crazy man \never since he came to his money. Well, the boys at school called me \nan Indian papoose, and I thumped 'em; and the man that was master he \nthumped _me_, and Hy also; for Hy came to help me. So, when school \nwas out, I took Hyland along; and we went to a corner, and got a \ngreat heap of stones; and when the master came out, we pelted him!' \n'You did?' cried Elsie, in alarm: 'I hit him one polt on the shin,' \nsaid Oran, warming with the recollection,--'I hit him one polt--it \nwas what I call a sogdolloger,--that made him dance like a ducked \ncat; and just as he stooped down to scratch it, we blazed away again, \nme and Hy; and if you ever heard two hailstones rattle on a \nwell-bucket, you may tell how his head sounded, I reckon!'\n\n\"'But your father, Oran?' said Elsie,--'you have not told me what \nmade you leave your father?' 'Father chose to take the master's \npart,' said Oran, sulkily; 'he said as how I must learn to be a \ngentleman, now I was in England, and never behave like a young savage \nno more, because I was never more to come home, meaning to \nPennsylvany; and so I must go back to the master, and be thumped \nagain; for nobody could be a gentleman, without having it thumped \ninto him. Well, Goody, you see, I couldn't stand that; I was not \ngoing to a school to be called papoose, and trounced too; and I was \nmighty sick of England, which is just like a big garden,--you can't \nturn out of the road, without treading on somebody's \nstrawberry-patch, and having 'em holla after you with dogs, and men, \nand such things; and I got into a great pickle once, for killing a \nthumping big rabbit that I saw in a stubble. They called it a hare; I \nkilled it with a stone; they made father pay money about it. Well, I \nmade up my mind to come home, without making any more words about it. \nSo I went down to the river among the docks, and there I saw a ship \nthat was going to sail to Philadelphy next day. I told Hy about it, \nand he agreed we should go over. I went to the captain, and I said, \n\"Captain, I want to go to Philadelphy,\" but he called me hard names, \nand swore at me--there was no getting any thing out of him. I looked \nabout, and saw them putting boxes, and barrels and baskets, and all \nsorts of things, into the big hole below. I went ashore, and laid out \nthe shilling father gave me to go back to school, in gingerbread. But \nHy's heart failed him: I never thought he would come to much, he's \ntoo much of a coward; he began to cry, and said he would go home to \nfather. I gave him a thumping for being such a fool; but that only \nmade him cry harder. So I gave him half my gingerbread, and told him \nto go, letting him know, if he told on me, I would give him another \nbanging. Then I clomb into the ship again, and slipped into the hole \namong the boxes. But before I went down, I looked back to Hy, and \nthere he was on the wharf, eating his gingerbread and crying. I shook \nmy fist at him, as much as to say, \"If you tell, mind you!\" and then \nI went below, and after awhile they fastened me up.'\n\n\"'It was as dark down there as the dickens,' said Oran, in reply to \nthe piteous ejaculations of the widow; 'but there was plenty of \nrats--I tell you what, they scared me! They stole my gingerbread, and \nwhenever I got to nodding, they seized me by the nose and fingers, \nand I thought I should have been nibbled up, like an ear of corn. But \nI knew I must stand 'em as long as I could; or it would be all up \nwith me.--Well, after awhile they came to a place, I don't know where \nit was; but there was a great clatter on the deck, and swearing and \ntrampling, and they opened the trap-doors, as I saw by the great \nflash of light. Then there was a heap of voices, and father's among \nthem, and Hyland's too. The great villain Hy, was telling on me, for \nall I gave him half the gingerbread! When I catch him, I'll pay him \nup, I will, Goody, if I wait ten years!'--And here the young \nscape-gallows, as he revolved the treachery of his fellow truant, \nclenched his fist, and looked as fierce and savage as a young bantam \nin his first fit of valour.\n\n\"'Then,' continued this hopeful junior to the astonished widow, \n'there was father, saying his son Oran was hid in the ship, and he \nwould have him out, or bring the captain to the gallows for \nkidnapping him, meaning _me_; and there was Hy, the villain, telling \nhim how I was to hide among the boxes; and there was the captain and \nthe other folks, swearing that father was crazy, and ought to stay at \nhome; though to make him easy, they had opened the traps, or the \nhatches, as they call them, and he might see for himself. Then father \ncame down, and bawled out after me, and so did Hy; and Hy said, if I \nwould come out, father would not send me to the grammar school, to be \nthumped no more; but he said nothing about father sending me back to \nPennsylvany! no, not so much as a word! I was not to be caught by any \nsuch talking; so I laid snug and as mum as a rabbit. Then father took \non as though I was dead, squeezed to pieces among the boxes, because \nI would not answer him--as if I was such a fool! Then he wanted the \ncaptain to take out the boxes, and the captain would not; then he \nwent after constables; and when he was gone, they clapped down the \nhatches, and sailed away with all their might, and I never heard any \nthing more of father.'\n\n\"'Poor fellow!' said Elsie, her sympathy for the anticipated \nsufferings of her young proteg\u00e9 driving from her mind all \ndisapprobation of the hard-hearted perverseness that caused them, \n'did they keep you long in that dismal, dreadful place?' 'You may say \nso,' replied the boy; 'they kept me down there till I was more tired \nof it than ever I had been of the grammar-school. I don't know how \nlong it was, but I was mighty tired of it. Dickens, goody, but I was \ndry! I was in such a hurry to get down, that I forgot I should want \nwater as well as gingerbread: I eat up all my gingerbread, but I was \nas dry as ever. Goody, you don't know what it is to be dry! I was \nalways thinking and dreaming of springs, and wells, and pumps, and \nthe big Delaware there, and even the ditches and gutters. But I held \nout as well as I could, till I thought we were clear of that hateful \nold England; and then I hollaed to 'em to let me out; but they did \nnot hear me at all. There was a power of big baskets, that were \nrolled all about me; for you must know, a ship never holds still a \nminute at a time, but is always pitching and tumbling, now up and now \ndown, like a cart in a corn-field; so the baskets rolled all over me; \nI thought they would have squeezed the life out of me, and I could \nnot get out from among them. So there I pulled and hollaed, till I \nwas tired of it, or fell asleep; but no good came of it. I tell you \nwhat, goody, I would have taken a thumping for a drink of water! but \nthere was no coming at it. I bawled out, \"Water! water!\" and \"Fire! \nfire!\" but it was no good; nobody heard me; and it set me to crying, \nto think what a hard time I had of it. Well, I reckon!--I was \nscraping about among the baskets, and some gave way, they were so \nrotten. I scraped among the willow twigs, and got my hand among the \nstraw, without so much as thinking what I was about, when, all of a \nsudden, I found I had hold of a glass bottle. \"Oho!\" said I; it was a \ngreat long-necked thing, with wax over the cork. I did not mind that; \nI knocked the neck off against the basket, and, good dickens! such a \nfizzing and spluttering as it made! It foamed all over my face, and \nsome fell on my lips, and it tasted good, like cider--you may be sure \nI drained it.' 'It was wine!' cried Elsie. 'I reckon,' said the \njuvenal; 'and I reckon it made my head sing, too!' he exclaimed, \nsmacking his lips over the grateful recollection; 'such stuff as that \nI never tasted before. It made me feel good,--all comical, and merry, \nand ticklish-like,--I don't know how, but all as if I was rolling up \nhill and down hill,--huzzy-buzzy, sleek, and grand! Then I seemed as \nif I was dreaming, but such merry dreams, and talking, and roaring, \nand laughing; and then some of them opened the traps, and dragged me \nout; and then I had a tussle with some of them, for I felt big enough \nto fight them all; and then somehow I fell fast asleep.'\n\n\"'When I came to, the captain said I was drunk, and he beat me: it \nwas worse than the grammar-man. First, he thumped me for stealing \ninto the ship, then for putting him to a bother, and then for \ndrinking his cider, or champagne, as he called it.' 'He beat you, the \nvillain!' cried Elsie; 'and you the son of Thomas Gilbert!' 'He did,' \nsaid the boy, with edifying coolness; 'he treated me like a dog, and \nhe thumped me every day. I suppose the grammar-man could not have \nbeen harder on me than the captain of that big ship--they called her \nthe Prince of Whales, for, you must know, a whale is a very big fish; \nbut I could never get a peep at one. Goody! I never was so mauled in \nmy life! If I crawled about the quarter-deck, as they call it, \n(because that's a place where the ship-boys never get any quarter,) \nwhy the captain cuffed me off; and it was pretty much the same with \nthe mates, for they cuffed too, and every now and then, some one or \nother beat me with a rope's end, because I would not go up the ropes, \nor do any thing else to make myself useful. I never did believe a \nChristian man's son could be treated so! but that's the way they \ntreat boys on board a ship, only that the regular ship-boys were not \nhandled so hard. They all beat me, captain, sailors, and all; the \ncook boxed my ears when I went to the caboose;--and if I hid on the \nforecastle, as they call it, the sailors run me up a rope and plumped \nme into the sea; and even the ship-boys tried their hands at me, but \nI reckon _they_ got as much as they gave. They all beat me but Jackey \nJones, an old fellow that had but one eye; and if it had not been for \nhim, I believe they would have killed, or starved, or drowned me \namong them. One night he was washed overboard: and after that I was \nbeat worse than ever. It was a great storm, goody; I reckon you don't \nknow what a storm is, ashore, even when the trees are snapping; I \ntell you what, the sea was boiling up, just like a big pot, and the \nship danced about just like an apple-dumpling; all the difference \nwas, the water was not hot. They were all big cowards, for all they \nhad been so big with me; and down they went on their knees, crying \nand praying, like methodist preachers. The captain was white all over \nthe mouth, the chief mate got drunk, and Big George, a sailor that \nused to be hard on me, came to ask my pardon for treating me so \nbadly. I told him, we should have a reckoning about that some other \ntime; and that night he was washed overboard, along with Jackey \nJones, and we saw them no more. I tell you what, goody! it was the \nhappiest time I had aboard that ship; for I supposed it would sink, \nand drown 'em all; which was a great satisfaction for me to think on. \nHowever, it cleared up again next day; and if we had not soon reached \nPhiladelphy, I don't know what would have become of me; for they were \nall worse than ever, especially the captain.' 'And that wretch,' \ncried Elsie; 'did no one punish him for his cruel and barbarous \noppression of a poor, friendless boy?' 'You shall hear,' replied the \nurchin, with a grin that might have adorned the visage of an Indian \ncoming out of battle, with a sack full of scalps; 'he was for \nfastening me up when we came to the wharf at Philadelphy, to see his \nmerchant, and learn what was to be done with me. But I sneaked away, \nwhen he was gone, and hid among some barrels, till he came back. Then \nI watched him come out of the ship again, and ran to a corner, where \nthere was a bundle of green hoop-poles, at a cooper's shop. Well, \ngoody, I took one of the hoop-poles; and when he passed by, down it \nwent, and down went the captain, too, like a butchered ox, with a \ngreat yell like a school-boy, that brought the people up. However, I \ngave him two more, for as long as I had time; and then I had to \nscurry for it.' 'Good heavens!' cried Elsie, 'perhaps you killed \nhim!' 'Well, if I didn't, I'm sure it was all the fault of the people \nthat ran up so fast, so that I had not time. As for the rest of them, \nif I ever catch any of them up here among the hills, you may reckon \nwhat will come of it.' And as he spoke, he raised his eyes to an old \nmusket, hanging on the wall, and nodded his head significantly.\n\n\"This,\" said the merry narrator, \"is the very story I had from \nElsie's lips, only that she spoiled it in telling; and I leave you to \njudge whether there was ever a more exquisite young savage in the \nwhole world, than that same Oran Gilbert.\"\n\n\"Never, truly,\" said Miss Falconer, upon whom perhaps the unusual, \nyet natural, vivacity of her friend, had produced a still more \npleasant impression than the story itself. \"This Oran must have been \nthe Paladin, the Orlando, the very Tom Thumb, of Hawk-Hollow;\n\n              'Though small his body,\n  Yet was his soul like any mountain big;'\n\nand verily, if the other Hawks, callow or full fledged, were of the \nsame colour and quality, you have begun the most diverting story in \nall your budget. Pr'ythee go on; there is a magic in the whole \naffair; for, while you speak it, it makes the teller herself again. \nMethinks you are now the same merry Kate I knew a year ago,--the \nbright Kate, no longer 'kerchieft in a cloud,' as Milton says,--the \ngay Kate, the madcap Kate, the Brandywine Kate\"----\n\n\"Not a word about Brandywine, if you will have me play the fool \nlonger,\" said Miss Loring, hurriedly. \"And after all, there is \nnothing more to tell--that is, nothing more funny; and, after all, \ntoo, there _was_ nothing funny in the sufferings of that poor, \nheadstrong, vindictive boy; absurdity enough, I grant you, there was; \nbut it was my wicked and hard heart that made me travesty an anecdote \nthat poor Elsie considered serious enough.\"\n\nShe then went on to speak of the return of the boy's father, the \nbuilding of the manor-house, the second marriage of Mr. Gilbert, and \nthe exploits of his children. The peculiar temper of Oran soon \ndetermined the course of his life. While yet a boy of sixteen, he had \nextended his rambles over the mountains into the Wyoming valley, then \noccupied by two clans of Shawnee and Delaware Indians, who were often \nat feud together. \"Among these barbarians,\" said the lady, \"the young \nwhite Indian, for such he must be esteemed, fought his first battle, \nand took his first scalp. It was in the Grasshopper War\"----\n\n\"The what?\" cried Miss Falconer.\n\n\"Why, Hal, the Grasshopper War _I_ call it,\" said Catherine, \"out of \ntenderness to our sex; but all others call it the Squaw War. It was \nwaged between those rival tribes I spoke of. The women of the two \nclans met together in a strawberry field, where they gathered fruit \nin company, very pacifically I doubt not, except a little scolding at \none another. The children employed themselves, in the meanwhile, \nchasing grasshoppers; when, unfortunately, two boys belonging to \ndifferent tribes pounced together upon a magnificent insect, that was \nperhaps the emperor of the field, and contended for the possession of \nthe prize. Up ran the mother of the Delaware, and boxed the young \nShawnee's ears; the Shawnee parent ran to avenge her child; and \nothers immediately taking part, in a few moments the whole field was \nin an uproar: such scratching, scolding, and pulling of caps, were \nperhaps never heard of before. Out ran the men from their villages to \nhelp their wives, and to it they went pell-mell; and the war, thus \nbegun, did not end until hundreds had been slain on both sides, and \nthe Shawnees entirely driven from the valley. The less we say of this \nwar, the better; for I heard it instanced as one small proof out of a \nthousand better, that men never fall by the ears, without the women \nbeing at the bottom of the contention. The Delawares, with whom Oran \nfought, made much of him, gave him a name which signifies the Boy \nWarrior, and formally adopted him into their tribe. As his brothers \ngrew up around him, he enticed them one by one into the woods, and \nmade them as wild as himself; and by and by, when those dreadful \nIndian wars, that followed after the defeat of General Braddock, \nextended over the whole western country, and even east of the \nSusquehanna, he acquired a singular reputation as a bold and \nsuccessful scalp-hunter. I don't know what else to call him; he was \nnot a soldier, for he never could be prevailed upon to go out with \nany body of soldiers, under the command of regular governmental \nofficers. He went with his brothers, and seldom allowed even a \nneighbour to join his little party, though this was an object with \nall who knew him; for none of the Gilberts having ever been seriously \nwounded in any of their mad enterprises, the people had a \nsuperstitious belief that good luck and safety went with them.\n\n\"In the meanwhile, Mr. Gilbert had taken a second wife; and being \nwealthy, he was able to choose one of gentler manners and character \nthan her predecessor, who, they say, was a fierce, masculine woman, \nthough devotedly attached to her children. It is said, he married her \nin the hope that her kindness and gentleness might wean his boys from \ntheir barbarous career; but the expedient only served to confirm them \nin their habits. They conceived a violent dislike to their \nstep-mother; and the only bond of union between them--I should say, \nperhaps, the only moderator and protector of the poor woman, was the \ngirl, Jessie, whom they all adored, rough as they were, and \nwho--while she lived, at least--caused them to treat the unfortunate \nlady with some show of respect. I may say, since you are in the \npoetical mood, and have already quoted one of Milton's clouds to me, \nthat Jessie was, betwixt the timidity of the step-mother and the \nrudeness of her brothers,\n\n  'A shelter, and a kind of shading, cool,\n   Interposition, as a summer's cloud;'--\n\n(I found that out myself!)--and, according to Elsie, she was one of \nthe sweetest and warmest-hearted creatures in the world. They had a \nrich relation, an aunt, in the West Indies, who desired to adopt the \nmaiden; but Mr. Gilbert refused to part with her. In her place he \nsent his youngest boy, an infant,--the child, and only one, of his \nsecond wife; I think Elsie told me, she died in giving it birth; but \nI am not certain as to that. This part of the story I never could \nunderstand perfectly; for whenever the poor widow speaks of it, she \nbecomes dreadfully agitated. But certainly, it was most unhappy for \nall, that he did not send the girl.\"\n\n\"And why,--why unhappy, Catherine?\" demanded Miss Falconer, losing \nsomewhat of her serene self-possession, as she heard her friend's \nvoice falter over the words.\n\n\"According to Elsie,\" muttered Miss Loring, with downcast eyes, \"the \nmisfortunes which crushed and ruined the whole family, might have \nbeen thus averted.--But, Harriet,\" she continued, \"let us speak of \nthese things to-morrow. What follows is dark, gloomy, dreadful; and I \ncannot speak it without giving you offence.\"\n\n\"I pledge you pardon and immunity beforehand,\" said Miss Falconer. \n\"The ice is broken, and now I must dare the flood, though it be of \ngall and poison. Dreadful, indeed? What can be more dreadful than the \nstate of a daughter, blindfold at the side of a parent whom all men \nare shooting at with the arrows of malice, which she hears hissing \naround her, yet knows not how to arrest? Speak then, Catherine, for \nyou have placed me on a rack: nothing can be more painful than \nsuspicion.\"\n\n\"Promise not to be offended with me then, dear Harriet,\" said Miss \nLoring, taking her hand, and looking deprecatingly into her face; \n\"and do not think\"----here her voice quivered a little, and\nher eyes again fell to the ground,----\"do not think, because I tell \nyou these things as I have heard them, that I necessarily believe \nthem--or, at least, _all_ of them.\"\n\n\"Certainly, my love,\" said the other, with a slight tinge of \nasperity. \"As you will, one day, have a duty, like myself, imposed \nupon you, to repel all calumnies against my father, the sooner you \nbecome incredulous, the better.\"\n\nCatherine smiled faintly, then blushed, and, as had happened before, \nat a similar allusion, the glow of embarrassment was again followed \nby paleness.\n\n\"I presume,\" she said, after a moment's pause, \"that the Colonel has \noften spoken to you of the dreadful peril at the Moravian \nsettlements, from which he was rescued by Oran Gilbert and his two \nbrothers?\"\n\n\"Never,\" replied Harriet, in a sort of dismay. \"My father rescued \nfrom peril! and by the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow? Why, here is a drama \nopening upon us indeed! But it is not true, Kate!\"\n\n\"This, Harriet,\" replied the other, \"is a circumstance well known in \nthe neighbourhood; and I wonder you have never heard it before.\"\n\n\"On all subjects connected with the family of the Gilberts,\" said \nMiss Falconer, \"my father is reserved and silent--at least to me; \nand, Catherine, I confess with shame, this very circumstance has \noften filled my mind with the most painful misgivings. I know nothing \nabout the Moravian settlements, either. You must therefore tell your \nstory to ignorance itself. I know that my father was, in his youth, \nan officer in the colonial war establishment, and that he did duty \nsomewhere on the frontiers, and came off with scars; but that is all. \nSpeak, therefore, without reserve.\"\n\n\"The country west of yonder blue cliffs, (how sweetly they peep \nthrough the hollow of that hill, and over the yellow tree-tops!) has \nalways been the theatre of the most bloody contentions,\" said \nCatherine. \"That same Wyoming, of which I have said so much, has \nnever been entirely at peace since that redoubtable war of the \ngrasshopper set its inhabitants by the ears. It was settled by \ncertain Yankees from Connecticut, who claimed, and claim yet, to \nerect a jurisdiction independent of Pennsylvania, and to this day the \npartisans of the two powers are quarrelling rancorously with one \nanother, often shedding blood. When the inhabitants are driven away \nby enemies, they are obliged to cross a great swamp, to reach the \nDelaware. This has been crossed so often, and so many miserable \nwounded, and starving, and fainting wretches, have fallen down in the \nretreat and perished among its bogs, that it is yet called the Shades \nof Death. The wars that produced such suffering have commonly been \nwaged in another county; but they have sometimes reached our \nown--(_Our own!_ You see, I am making myself at home here!) The fall \nand winter of the year when Braddock was defeated in the extreme \nsouth-western frontier, were marked by many bloody incursions of the \nIndians, even in this county; and you may judge how terrible was \ntheir ferocity, when you hear that their enmity fell as heavily upon \ntheir friends as their foes. The poor Moravians, who, with a holy and \nunworldly zeal, had devoted their lives to the purpose of instructing \nand reclaiming them from barbarism, were among the first of their \nvictims. The outer settlement of these poor missionaries was beyond \nthe mountain, on one of the springs of the Lechaw, or Lehigh, as we \nnow call it. It was beset, late in November, by the savages, and \ndestroyed, together with many of the brothers. The next settlement \nwas that called Gnadenhutten, where was much valuable property, and \ngreat stores of grain; and when the Moravians fled even from this in \naffright, the colonial government thought it of so much importance, \nthat they directed it to be immediately garrisoned by a company of \nrangers. This was done; a fort was constructed in the neighbourhood, \nacross the river, which was made the head-quarters of the company; \nwhile a detachment occupied the Moravian village. This detachment was \ncommanded by your father, then holding the rank of lieutenant. And \nnow, Harriet, I must tell you, that your father had enemies in these \nwild lands, even at that early day. I will not repeat what I have \nheard said, as the causes of enmity; for I doubt not they are mere \nscandals. I mention them only because some, I am told, yet declare \nthat the barbarous attempt on his life was made by disguised white \nmen, and not by Indians.\n\n\"Although from the time of the massacre of the over-hill Moravians, \nin November, until the end of the year, Indians were ever prowling in \nthe woods, and occasionally carrying the tomahawk and flames to some \nlonely settlement, yet it was supposed that the presence of the \nsoldiers at Gnadenhutten and the fort, would prevent their making any \nserious attempts this side the mountain. This induced a false and \nfatal security; and when the Indians did appear, the detachment and \nvillage of Gnadenhutten were completely surprised. It was upon \nNew-year's day, and all the white men were amusing themselves on the \nfrozen river, without arms, and of course they fell an easy prey to \nthe savage assailants. Many were butchered, the village was fired, \nyour father captured in the vain attempt to escape, and carried off \nto the woods.\n\n\"During all this scene of terror,\" continued the Captain's daughter, \n\"there were no scalp-hunters among the white men so busy, bold, and \nfamous, as the three Gilberts. Elsie Bell says, that Oran was then \nonly nineteen, and the youngest two years short of that; but, it \nseems, men grow old fast in the woods, when Indians are nigh--(it is \nwell the _women_ don't.) They were upon an excursion, fighting for \nthemselves, at the very time of this calamity; and it was their fate \nto encounter the party that bore your father away a captive. It seems \nthat the savages, after completing the destruction of the village, \nretreated in small bands to distract and avoid pursuit, for there \nwere many companies of armed men in the county, ready to march at a \nmoment's warning. Some took charge of the prisoners, and others were \nto strike at small and retired settlements. Your father, who had been \nseverely, but not desperately wounded, was left in charge of one \nlittle division, six in number, and was carried off by a path so \nremote from those followed by others, that, I suppose, it was this \ncircumstance which caused evil-minded persons to affirm he was \ncaptured by private enemies and white men. Their course was at least \nvery singular, for it carried them rather to the north-east, along \nthe foot of the mountain, than to the north and west. They dragged \ntheir prisoner on till after midnight, which has been mentioned as an \nunusual circumstance, at least with Indians; and, at dawn, they tied \nhim to a tree, and piled around him dead boughs and pine-knots, \nintending, as he now saw, to torture him alive.\"\n\nThe narrator here paused, and looked upon her friend, who, after a \nslight shudder, very composedly said,\n\n\"Poor pa! he must have been horribly frightened! I should like to \nknow how he looked, the moment he made the discovery!\"\n\nCatherine heard her with unconcealed amazement, but appreciated her \nphilosophy, when she added, with an affected laugh,\n\n\"Why, my dear Kate, as, after all, he was _not_ tortured, it would be \nbut folly to fall into hysterics. I never grieve over misfortunes \nthat were never happening. But come; how got he out of this doleful \ndilemma? You said something about the three Hawks--Ah! you spoiled \nthe dramatic point of the story, by enabling me to forestall a \ndiscovery. And so the three Hawks discovered the six buzzards, and \nfell upon them, and took their lambkin from them? They are no true \nfishing-hawks, after all; for it is the part of these ravagers, not \nso much to rob, as to be robbed. They should have been called Eagles, \nfor it is these birds that take such little liberties with the \nfeathered Isaac Waltons, as I have once or twice seen with my own \neyes. But these were heroical kites, I must acknowledge.\"\n\n\"They were, certainly,\" said Miss Loring, not well pleased with the \nlevity of her kinswoman; \"and, methinks, you should do them the \njustice to consider that it was no child's play for three men--three \nboys we may call them, to assail six stout Indians, vanquish them, \nand rescue a poor doomed prisoner out of their hands. If you will not \ndo justice to their courage, acknowledge at least, the dreadful cost \nat which they exercised their humanity. Hyland Gilbert, the second \nson, the best beloved of all, as Elsie assured me, was shot dead, \nwhile he was cutting your father loose from the tree.\"----\n\n\"Good heavens!\" cried Miss Falconer, with an emotion, that seemed, \nhowever, to be rather horror than grief, \"was this so indeed? Did one \nof them fall?\"\n\n\"He did,\" replied Catherine, \"and his poor brothers buried him where \nhe fell. According to Elsie's superstitious belief, they were \npunished by the genius of their fate, for exercising their humanity \non an undeserving object. You know _she_, at least, holds on to her \nangry prejudices. She said, that from that moment, which was the \nfirst unlucky one to them, the Gilberts never more prospered in their \nundertakings; every thing that came after was mischance and disaster; \ndeath followed death, sorrow succeeded sorrow, and now not one \nremains alive of the whole family, unless it may be the youngest son, \nwho was sent to the Islands in his infancy, and of whom Elsie knows \nnothing whatever, although they have a report in the village that he \nalso is dead.\"\n\n\"I am much obliged to Elsie,\" said Miss Falconer, sullenly; \"after \neating my father's bread, she might have the grace to abate her \nmalevolence a little.\"\n\n\"Alas, Harriet,\" said Miss Loring, \"do not call it malevolence; but \nthe prejudice, the absurd and unjust prejudice of weak, dreamy old \nage, if you will. And you know, that she is ignorant from whom I \nderived the power to relieve her wants. I did but hint once that your \nfather would befriend her, when she exclaimed, not in the heat of \nfrenzy, but with a cold, iron-like determination, that she would gnaw \nthe flints on the way-side for food, rather than receive a morsel of \nbread from the hands of Colonel Falconer. Indeed, your father himself \ndirected me to conceal his agency in the benefaction.\"\n\n\"Peace to the silly old woman!\" said Harriet, \"and let us speak of \nher no more. Resume your story: I see, by your looks, that the worst \nis yet to come. But fear not: I am not so much shocked as I was, \nsince the thing comes from that bitter old bundle of--oh, prejudice, \nmy dear. Well, the two survivors saved my father's life--what then?\"\n\n\"Then,\" said Catherine, \"they bore him on a litter of boughs to their \nfather's house; for, before they fled, the murderers had assailed him \nwith their axes, and left him almost dying. The journey was very \nlaborious; for to avoid the war-parties, now swarming through the \ncountry, they were obliged to steal along by circuitous paths,--and \nit was several days before they could procure assistance. They got \nhim safe, however, to their father's house, and then played the good \nSamaritan with him. If you would like, I will show you the room where \nhe lay, while recovering,--it is the chamber over the armoury, as you \ncall it,--that is, my father's study, where he takes his afternoon's \nnap. Elsie told me there was a pane of glass on which he had cut his \nname with a diamond ring; but the sashes were changed, before she \ntold me this, and I know not what has become of them. But, if you \nlike, we will inquire about them.--He did not recover entirely before \nthe autumn, and then he left the valley. I am told that there is an \noak-tree on the lawn, at which he used to shoot pistols.\"----\n\n\"Catherine!\" said Miss Falconer, with a piercing look, \"you flutter \nabout the subject, like a bird over the jaws of a serpent, unable to \nretreat and yet afraid to descend. Is there any thing so horrible to \ncome?\"\n\n\"There is indeed!\" said Catherine, trembling; \"but it is not true, \ncousin,--you must not believe it is true! It is about Jessie--they \nsay she was very good and handsome--a kind nurse, simple-hearted, of \nan affectionate disposition, and\"----\n\n\"Hold! hold!\" cried Miss Falconer, vehemently, starting to her feet, \nwith a pale face, and lips ashy and trembling, \"this would be to make \nout my father a fiend! Saints of heaven! this is too much! Come,--let \nus proceed.\"\n\nAnd thus muttering out her oppressive emotion, she darted down the \nstream, followed hastily by her friend.\n\nTall trees still overarched the rivulet; but its bank became smoother \nas they advanced. A few rods below, the channel was again contracted, \nbut not by impending crags. A huge sycamore, ancient and \nthunder-scarred, but still flourishing, had been tumbled over the \nstream by some forgotten tempest; but so tightly were its roots \ntwisted in the rocky soil of the one bank, and so tenacious was the \nhold of its gnarled and elbowed boughs upon the sward of the other, \nthat it maintained its place despite the floods, which, it was \nevident, often washed over it, and thus afforded a bridge, rustic \nenough, but secure, though by no means easy of passage.\n\nUpon this Harriet, still perturbed and driven onward by painful \nemotion, was about to place her foot, when she was restrained by the \ntrembling grasp of her companion.\n\n\"What means the child?\" she exclaimed, with a feverish accent: \"there \nare no savages here.\"\n\n\"But,\" said Catherine, with a faint voice, \"it was over there, by the \nrock, they dug the poor girl's grave!\"\n\nMiss Falconer recoiled for a moment, and then saying, with a firm \nvoice, \"It matters not--let us visit it,\" she sprang upon the bridge, \nfollowed by Catherine, and made her way across. About thirty paces \nbelow, the stream darted over a rock, making a cascade ten or twelve \nfeet high; and it was the roar of this fall, borne downwards by the \nbreeze, which had attracted the painter's curiosity, as he paused for \na moment on the road side. It possessed no very striking beauty, nor \nwas the body of water that leaped over the rock of any extraordinary \nmagnitude; yet it had a violent and even impressive look, and the \nwaters hurrying impetuously towards it from above, shot under the \nsycamore with an appearance of fury that might have tried the nerves \nof any over-timid person, crossing by so precarious a bridge.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n  Dull grave--thou spoil'st the dance of youthful blood,\n  Strik'st out the dimple from the cheek of mirth,\n  And every smirking feature from the face,\n  Branding our laughter with the name of madness.\n  Where are the jesters now?----\n                         --------Ah! sullen now,\n  And dumb as the green turf that covers them.\n                                      BLAIR--_The Grave_.\n\n\nThe spot which the maidens now reached, after crossing the rivulet, \nwas wild and gloomy, yet exceedingly romantic. A little ascent led \nthem up to a sort of platform, or shelf, of earth, the highest \nportion of the table-land, from which the torrent leaped downwards, \nmaking its way, in a series of foaming rapids, to the parent river. \nIt therefore overlooked the sweeping hillocks and rustling forests \nbelow, and commanded a prospect of the river and the southern portion \nof the valley, both extensive and beautiful; and, indeed, a more \ncharming nook could not have been imagined for one, who, though \npreferring personally to be surrounded by solitude, yet loved to send \nback his spirit to the world, and survey it from that distance which \nlends it the sweetest enchantment. On the summit of the platform lay \ntwo huge masses of rock, that approached each other in one place so \nnigh as scarce to permit a passage between them; towards the rivulet, \nhowever, the intervening space was wider, and covered with a grassy \nturf; and a sort of wall, composed of smaller fragments, ran from the \none crag to the other, yet so rudely, that it was difficult to say \nwhether the irregular barrier had been piled up by the hands of \nnature or man. Besides a majestic growth of trees behind and around \nthe rocks, there was one tall beech flourishing within the enclosure; \nand from its roots there gushed a cool fountain, that went dripping \nand leaking through green mosses, until it yielded its meager tribute \nto the streamlet. Both the crags were overgrown with lichens and \nferns; and under the larger one, which, in the afternoon, cast its \nshadow over the whole nook, there flourished a luxuriant array of \narums, mandrakes, violets, and other plants that delight in cool and \nmoist situations. On the face, and at the foot, of the eastern rock, \nwhere the sunshine lingered longer, were dusky columbines, \nrock-daisies, and other plants, now in bloom, and, in the summer, \ntheir places would have been supplied by the aster and the \ngolden-rod; and at the foot of the rock, among a heap of brambles, \nthat seemed to have almost choked it, there grew a rose-bush, the \nonly remarkable thing present, being obviously of an exotic species. \nIt bore a single flower, visible among the green leaves and white \nblossoms of the blackberry, and it immediately attracted the notice \nof the maidens.\n\n\"Elsie told me,\" whispered Catherine, with a voice of fear, \"that the \npoor old father planted a rose-bush on the grave,--it is strange it \nshould live so long.--She said there was a grave-stone too--ah! there \nit is!--Let us go away.\"\n\nAs Harriet, bolder than her friend, or affecting to be so, reached \nforward, to remove the brier from the more lovely plant, in hopes \nthat the rude and thorny veil might conceal other flowers, it yielded \nto her grasp, and revealed a hollow or sunken place in the ground, at \none extremity of which was a rude stone, entirely shapeless and \nundressed, yet so placed as to mark undeniably the couch of some \nhuman clod of the valley. No name, letter, or device of any kind,--no \ninscription to record the virtues of the dead, no legend to \nperpetuate the grief of the living,--appeared on the rude monument; \nand, indeed, however expressive the shape and appearance of the \nhollow place to those already aware that a grave had been dug in this \nunsanctified nook, it is scarce probable that a stranger, stumbling \nupon it by chance, could have believed that in that coarse and \ndishonoured fragment, his foot pressed upon a funeral stone. It was a \nsingular grave--it was a singular cemetery; and the maidens regarded \nthe brambled pit and the solitary flower with awe, the one because \nher spirit was especially susceptible of impressions from melancholy \nobjects, and the other because the legend of her companion had \ninvested the place with an interest personal, it might be said, to \nherself.\n\nHow little reflection is expended upon,--yet how much is called for, \nby the grave,--by the lowliest hillock that is piled over the icy \nbosom, by the grassiest hollow that has sunk with the mouldering \nbones of a fellow creature! And in this narrow haven rots the bark \nthat has ploughed the surges of the great vital ocean! in this little \nden, that the thistle can overshadow in a day's growth, and the \nmolewarp undermine in an hour of labour, is crushed the spirit that \ncould enthrall a world, and dare even a contest with destiny! How \nlittle it speaks for the value of the existence, which man endures so \nmany evils to prolong; how much it reduces the significance of both \nthe pomp and wretchedness of being, reducing all its vicissitudes \ninto the indistinguishable identity which infinite distance gives to \nthe stars,--a point without parallax, a speck, an atom! Such is \nlife,--the gasp of a child that inspires the air of existence but \nonce,--a single breath breathed from eternity. But the destiny that \ncomes behind us,--oblivion! It is not enough that we moralize upon \nthe equality of the sepulchre; that the rich man, whose soul is in \nthe ostentation of a marble palace, and his heart in the splendour of \nthe feast, should consider how small a pit must content him, or that \nthe proud, who boast their 'pre-eminence above the beasts,' should \nknow that the shaggy carcass and the lawn-shrouded corse must fatten \nthe earth together. We should teach our vanity the lesson of \nhumiliation that is afforded by the grave; neglecting the mighty \nmausoleums of those marvellous spirits which fame has rendered \nimmortal, we should turn to the nameless tombs of the million, and in \ntheir deserted obscurity, discover the feeble hold which we ourselves \nmust have upon earth and the memory of men. Friendship forgets what \nthe devouring earth has claimed; and even enmity ceases at last to \nremember the resting place of a foe. Love ourselves as we may, devote \nour affections to others as we can, yet must our memory perish with \nus in the grave; and all the immortality we leave to be cherished \namong friends, is expressed in the distich of a poet, whom the \nanticipation of enduring renown could not blind to the transitoriness \nof real remembrance:\n\n  Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay\n  A week, and Arbuthnot a day.[1]\n\n[Footnote 1: SWIFT--_On the Death of Dr. Swift_.]\n\nBut there were other thoughts necessarily associated, and other \nfeelings excited by this lonely sepulchre; and while Miss Falconer \npreserved a moody and painful silence upon its brink, Catherine bent \nover it, scarce conscious that she bedewed the rose-bush with a tear, \nor that her own shadow had descended, as it were, into the pit, with \nan ominous readiness.\n\nIt was a delightful evening; the air was full of balmy freshness, the \nlandscape resplendently verdant, and the sky cloudless, save in the \nwest, where the sun was sinking among curtains of gold and pillars of \nflame; and the solitude and quiet of the whole scene, broken by no \nsounds, except the ceaseless turmoil of the water-fall, and the \nplaintive scream of the fishing-eagles, which had deserted their gray \nperch, to bathe in the pure floods of sunset, that beautified the \nupper air,--the solitude, quiet, and beauty of every thing around and \nnigh, were additional arguments for silence.\n\nBut silence, long continued, was not consonant to the restless and \nimpatient temper of Miss Falconer; and notwithstanding the indignant \nincredulity with which she had interrupted her friend's narrative, \nthe same curiosity which compelled the commencement of it, still \nthirsted for the conclusion. The presence of the dead, however, in so \nwild, so forlorn, so unblest a spot, where, as it would seem, the \nshame of proud but humbled hearts had dug the neglected grave, worked \npowerfully on her feelings; and it was with a hesitating and \nquivering, though an abrupt voice, that she demanded, after gazing \nfor a long time on the grave,\n\n\"Did others,--did any beside this bitter-tongued woman, accuse my \nfather of this thing?\"\n\n\"I know not,\" replied Catherine, with accents still more unsteady; \n\"all that I have gathered was from Elsie; and when she speaks of \nthese things, as I mentioned before, she becomes fearfully agitated, \nso that I have sometimes thought her wits quite unsettled. She never \npretended to tell me the whole story; nor indeed would I have been \ndisposed to ask or listen, knowing it would be improper to do so. All \nthese things have come in broken hints and exclamations. What others \nin the neighbourhood may say or think, I know not, never encouraging \nany to speak to me on the subject. The step-mother soon followed the \ndaughter,--Elsie says, heart-broken; you may see her tomb in the \nvillage church-yard. The old father, too, became another man, gloomy, \nsolitary, and indifferent to his friends, so that the neighbours \nceased to visit him. His sons no longer hunted with the young men of \nthe country, but went, as in their war-expeditions, alone; and when \nothers thrust themselves into their company, they quarrelled with \nthem, so that they began to be universally feared and detested. To \ncrown all, as soon as the Revolution burst out, they went over to the \nenemy; and being distributed among the wild and murderous bands of \nsavages forming on the north-western frontiers, they soon obtained a \ndreadful notoriety for their deeds of daring and cruelty. Of course, \nthis remarkable defection of the sons caused the unlucky father to be \nsuspected and watched. He was accused, at last, of aiding and \nabetting them in their treasonable practices; and soon, either from \ntimidity or a consciousness of guilt, he fled, seeking refuge within \nthe royal lines. This was sufficient for his ruin; for after the \nusual legal preliminaries, he was formally outlawed, as his sons had \nbeen before, and his property confiscated. He died soon afterward, \neither at New York, or in Jamaica, where he had gone to seek his \nyoungest son--the lad he had sent away as a substitute for the \ndaughter.\"\n\n\"And this son?\" demanded Miss Falconer; \"did you not say that he was \ndead?\"\n\n\"Of him,\" said Catherine, \"Elsie knows nothing; but if we can receive \na belief that prevails in the village on the subject, it would seem \nas if the vials of wrath had been poured to the uttermost on the poor \ndevoted family. They say, that the young man, just raised to wealth \nand distinction by the death of his munificent kinswoman, was one of \nthe many victims to that dreadful tornado which ravaged the island of \nJamaica two years ago. But I never heard how this intelligence was \nobtained.\"\n\n\"And the other sons? the rest of this brood of traitors!\" demanded \nMiss Falconer, who strove to merge the unpleasant feelings that had \npossession of her bosom, in patriotic detestation of the unfortunate \nfamily.\n\n\"They met the fate they must have anticipated,\" said the Captain's \ndaughter. \"They perished, one by one, in different bloody conflicts; \none fell at Wyoming, another at Tioga Point, where the combined \nforces of savages and refugees were routed by General Sullivan; Oran \nhimself, with a fourth brother, was killed at the battle of \nJohnstown, near the Mohawk river, where another refugee leader, \nWalter Butler, not less blood-thirsty and famous, met a similar fate. \nTheir death was terrible; they cried for quarter, being wounded and \nhelpless; but the victors bade them 'Remember Wyoming, and \nCherry-Valley,' two prominent objects of their cruelty, and killed \nthem without mercy. Another, I have heard, was somewhere hanged as a \nspy; and these, with Hyland, killed as I mentioned before, and the \nyoungest, deceased, if indeed he be deceased, in Jamaica, made up the \nwhole seven sons, all of whom therefore died violent deaths. The \neighth child,--the poor daughter,--undoubtedly sleeps under this \nrock; and there are none left to mourn her. The destruction of the \nfamily was dreadful and complete.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n          Run! run! run!\n        Quickly for a surgeon!\n  Call watch, constable! raise the hue and cry!\n          What's to be done?\n        Why the devil don't you stir, John?\n  This way, that way, every body fly!\n                                      DON GIOVANNI.\n\n\nThus ended the sketch of a story, imperfect, perhaps tedious and \nunsatisfactory, but still a necessary preliminary to the series of \nevents that completes the tradition. A mere womanly curiosity was \nperhaps at the bottom of the nobler feeling with which Miss Falconer \nsought to excuse to herself the impropriety of urging the relation. \nFrom the first to the last, it was meted out to her reluctantly; and \nnothing but the command she had long since obtained over a character \nless firm and decided than her own, could have persuaded the \nCaptain's daughter to breathe a syllable of it into ears, which, she \ncould not but feel, ought not to be opened to it. Miss Falconer had, \nmoreover, overrated her powers of scepticism; she had provoked the \nstory, as men commonly provoke an argument,--that is, with a \nresolution not to be convinced; but like the logician, in many \ninstances, when the discussion is over, her incredulity was sorely, \nthough secretly, shaken, and nothing but her pride and strength of \ncharacter checked the humiliating avowal. Some circumstances a \ndelicate consideration for the feelings of her friend, and an \nunconquerable repugnance to speak more on the subject than could not \nbe avoided, had prevented the Captain's daughter from relating. These \nwould have thrown a still darker stain upon the character of Colonel \nFalconer. There was enough, however, said, to force one disagreeable \nconviction upon Harriet's mind; and this was, that, if her parent \nwere even as guiltless of ingratitude and wrong as her fondest wishes \nwould have him, calumny had, at least in one secluded corner of the \nworld, sealed him with the opprobrium of a villain. It was a sore \naddition also to her discomfort, that her penetrating mind discovered \nhow deeply her kinswoman was affected by the hateful history: if she \ndoubted, she did not doubt strongly. Vexed, humbled, displeased with \nherself and with Catherine, she rose from the rocky shelf, on which \nboth had seated themselves when Catherine resumed the story, and \nprepared to leave the scene, equally mournful and unpleasant, when an \nincident occurred, which at once gave a new turn to her feelings.\n\nThe Captain's daughter had observed the look of dissatisfaction, and \nanticipated the movement, by rising herself, to lead the way to the \nbridge. As she started up hastily, her hat, which she had loosened \nfrom her forehead, to enjoy the evening breeze, now puffing among the \nflowers, fell from her head, and her beautiful countenance and golden \nringlets were fully exposed. She raised her hands, naturally enough, \nto catch the falling hat, and thus assumed an attitude, of which she \nwas herself unconscious, but which, to one spectator at least, had a \ncharacter apparently menacing and forbidding. This spectator was no \nless a person than the young painter, who had rambled up the stream, \nand was now making his way across the sycamore, to obtain a view of \nthe cascade, entirely ignorant of the presence of such visiters; for \nwhile they maintained their seats, their persons were concealed \nbehind the low wall, and their voices drowned by the murmur of the \nwater-fall.\n\nA sudden exclamation, loud enough to be heard over this lulling din, \ndrew Catherine's attention to the bridge; and there, to her extreme \nsurprise, she beheld the young stranger struggling among the \nbranches, as if he had lost his footing, while all the time, his \neyes, instead of being employed in the more needful duty of looking \nto himself, were fixed upon her with an air of the most unaccountable \nwonder and alarm. The next instant, she beheld him, to her own \ninfinite horror, fall from the tree, just as Harriet, starting up \nafter her friend, had also caught sight of the strange spectacle. \nBoth beheld the unlucky youth drop through the boughs, and both at \nonce anticipated the most dreadful termination to such a \nmisadventure; for a pitch over the cascade among the savage rocks \nbelow, could scarcely be less than fatal. The very instant she saw \nthat the young man had lost his footing, Catherine uttered a loud \nscream, and then, driven onwards by an irresistible impulse, darted \ntowards the river, to render him what aid she could. As for Miss \nFalconer, the shock had deprived her of her self-possession, and her \ntongue clove to her mouth with terror. She neither screamed nor \nrushed forwards to give aid, until her lethargy was dispelled by a \ndistant voice, that suddenly echoed the scream of Catherine:\n\n\"Hark ye, Kate, you jade! hark ye, Kate, my dear Kate! my beloved \nKate! what's the matter? I'm coming! I'll murder the villain! I'm \ncoming, Kate!\"\n\nThere was no mistaking the tones of Captain Loring, even altered as \nthey were by anxiety and vociferation; and Miss Falconer recognising \nthem, screamed out, \"Quick, uncle, quick! for heaven's sake, quick!\" \nand ran to the side of her friend.\n\nThe torrent, leaping along like a mill-race for the little distance \nthat intervened betwixt the treacherous bridge and the fall, had \nimmediately swept the young man from his feet; and as Catherine \nbounded to the verge, flinging out, with as much daring as presence \nof mind, the scarf of Harriet, which she had instinctively snatched \nup, in hope that he might seize it, she saw him swept by her like a \nfeather in a whirlwind, and instantly hurried over the falls. The \nspectacle was really terrific; and as Miss Falconer caught sight of \nthe dreary figure--the outstretched arm and the despairing \ncountenance, revealed for one moment, as some rocky obstruction on \nthe very brink of the cascade lifted the body half from the flood, \nand then instantly plunged it out of view--she lost what little \ncourage remained, and was no longer capable of yielding the slightest \nassistance. If such was her overpowering terror, it might have been \nsupposed that the Captain's daughter, who, whatever the vivacity and \nquickness of her mind, possessed little of the boldness of spirit \nthat characterized her friend, would have been reduced to a state of \nimbecility still more benumbing and helpless. But this youthful girl \nconcealed within the cells of a heart all of feeble flesh, a \nprinciple of feeling that could upon occasions, though she knew it \nnot herself, nerve the throbbing organ into steel; and, at such \ntimes, if her brain was confounded, impulse governed her actions with \nan influence more useful, because more instant of operation.\n\nDreadful, therefore, as was the spectacle of the youth dashed down \nthe abyss under her eyes, and almost in reach of her arm, she did not \npause, like Harriet, to scream after the Captain, who was undoubtedly \ndrawing nigh, and at an unusual pace; but leaving this to be done by \nher companion, she ran down the rocks that led to the base of the \nfall, and the next moment Harriet beheld her rush boldly into the \nwater. The instant she reached the basin at the foot of the cascade, \nwhich was broken by rocks, black and slippery from the eternal spray, \nshe caught sight of the body--for such it seemed--rolling in the \nflood where it boiled over a ridgy mole in a sheet of foam. It was \nscarce two paces from the bank, and though the torrent gushed over \nthe rock with great impetuosity, it was shallow, at least in the \nnearer portion; and, unless too rash and daring, there was little \ndanger she could be herself swept over the ledge among the deep and \ndangerous eddies below. She stepped therefore upon the rock as far as \nshe durst, and stretching out her hand, succeeded in grasping the \ninsensible figure, as it was whirling over at a deeper place and in a \nfiercer current. All her strength, however, availed nothing further \nthan to arrest the body where it was; and she must have speedily \nreleased her hold, or been swept with it herself from the ledge, when \na new auxiliary, attracted by the same cries that had alarmed Captain \nLoring, came unexpectedly to her assistance, crackling through the \nbushes, and bounding over the rocks on the opposite side of the pool, \nwhich was a wilderness of rock and swamp. No sooner had this \npersonage beheld her situation, than he ran a little lower down, \nwhere the stream was again contracted, sprang across from rock to \nrock, and immediately darted to her side. With one hand he \ndragged--or, to speak more strictly, he flung her, (for his actions \nwere none of the gentlest,)--out of the water; and with the other, he \nlifted the unlucky painter from the torrent, and bore him to the \nbank, saying, as he laid him at the maiden's feet, in a voice none of \nthe mildest in the world,\n\n\"Why, here's fine sport for a May-day, and a rough end to a fool's \nfrolic! How many more of you must I fish up?\"\n\nBy this time the gallant Captain Loring, urged by anxiety for his \ndaughter, (not knowing that the danger concerned another,) into a \nspeed that he had not attempted for twenty-five years, made his \nappearance at the top of the fall, and seeing her stand shivering \nwith fright over what she esteemed a dead body,--for the painter \nshowed not a single sign of life,--with a stranger of questionable \nappearance at her side, he burst into a roar of passion, crying, \n\"Hark ye, you vagabond villain! if you touch my girl\"--when his rage \nwas put to flight by Miss Falconer suddenly finding tongue, and \nexclaiming, \"He has saved the poor youth's life;--that is, Kate saved \nhim, and this man helped her. I never was more frightened in my life! \nLet us go down, uncle--I fear the young man is hurt.\"\n\nMeanwhile, Catherine, whose courage and presence of mind had almost \ndeserted her, so soon as she beheld the young man safe ashore, being \nroused by the rough accents of the stranger, and the death-like \nappearance of the youth, exclaimed, in tones of entreaty, for the man \nhad turned away, as if to depart,\n\n\"Do not go.--Alas! you came too late! Help us yet a little, or the \npoor youth will die where he is. Pray, hold up his head--indeed, he \nis very much hurt!\"\n\n\"Hurt! To be sure he is,\" cried the stranger, with infinite coolness, \nbordering upon a sort of savage contempt, or at least disregard, of \nthe miserable spectacle, \"knocked as clean on the head as if a \nrefugee had been at him. So, d'ye hear, my young madam, there's no \ngreat need of troubling yourself more about him; and here come enough \nof your good folk to groan over him. As for me, I have no time for \nmoaning. If you want help, just scream over again; and, I reckon, \nyou'll have the whole road at your elbow.\"\n\nCatherine had herself performed the office of humanity she had so \nvainly asked of the stranger; she stooped down, and beckoning to her \nfather and Harriet, who were descending the rocks, to hasten their \nsteps, she raised up the painter's head, and endeavoured, with a \nfaltering hand, to loosen the neckcloth from his throat. Struck by \nexpressions so rude and unfeeling, she looked up for a moment, and \nfor the first time took hasty note of the person and lineaments of \nher preserver. He was a man of middle age,--perhaps forty or more, \nwith a long shirt or frock of coarse linen thrown over his other \ngarments, and a broad-brimmed, round-crowned, slouching hat, like the \nfavourite _sombrero_ of the Spanish islands, which was, however, \npainted of a fiery red, and varnished, so as to resist the rain. His \nstature was not considerable, nor was his appearance very muscular, \nyet he had given proof of no mean strength in the ease with which he \ndragged the painter and herself from the water. His countenance, \nwithout being coarse or ugly, had yet a repulsive character, derived \nin part from several scars, the marks of violent blows from sabres or \nother weapons, one of which seemed to have destroyed his right eye, \nfor it was bound round with a handkerchief; but perhaps the forbidden \nair was rather given by the savage fire that glimmered in the other, \nand the perpetual frown that contracted his brows. His hair was \ngrizzled, and fell in a long lock over either dark and bony cheek. \nHis mouth was particularly stern, grim, menacing, and even malevolent \nof character,--or so the Captain's daughter thought. All these things \nCatherine observed in a moment; yet, however unfavourably impressed \nby them, she could not refrain from again imploring his assistance, \nsaying, with the most earnest accents,\n\n\"If you be a Christian man, do not leave us. We are none here but two \nfeeble women, and an infirm old man; and before we can procure \nassistance, the young gentleman may perish. We will thank you,--we \nwill reward\"----\n\n\"Good heavens!\" cried Miss Falconer, who had now reached the foot of \nthe rocks, and beheld the pale and bleeding visage that Catherine so \nfalteringly supported, \"he is dying!\"\n\n\"Dying! Who's dying?\" echoed the Captain, limping up to the group; \n\"Adzooks; what! my painter? my handsome young dog, that was to paint \nme my son Tom Loring? my Harman What-d'ye-call-it from Elsie Bell's? \nHark ye, Mr. Red-hat, or whatever your name is, I intended to arrest\nyou on suspicion----Adzooks, I believe the young dog's dead! He looks \namazingly like my son Tom. Hark ye, Mr. Harmer What-d'ye-call-it, how \ndo you feel? Why, adzooks, he's clean gone!--Hark ye, Mister \nRed-head, fetch him up the rocks----We'll carry him to the Folly.\"\n\nWhile the Captain thus poured forth his mingled wonder and \nlamentation, a surprising change came over the visage of the \nstranger. He no sooner understood from the mention of the \nlodging-place and profession of the young man, that he did not belong \nto the party before him, and had therefore no greater claim upon \ntheir humanity than on his, than he at once dropped his rude and \ndisregardful air, saying, as he released the others from the care of \nsupporting the wounded unfortunate,\n\n\"I am neither stock nor stone; but I thought you had idlers enough to \nbury your own dead. And so the younker is a stranger to you? a bird \nof old Elsie's, and none of your own roost? And this young lady was \ntrying to save his life? I beg your pardon, if I have been rough with \nyou, young madam.\"--He pronounced these words with a tone mild, and \nalmost regretful; then turning to the Captain, he resumed, \"Well, \nCaptain Loring, for I believe that's your name,--what shall we do \nwith this broken-headed fool? You see, here's an arm broke, and a \ngash on the head that might do credit to a tomahawk! How shall we get \nhim to Elsie Bell's? I can carry him, sure enough--but 'tis a long \nmile off.----And then for a doctor? Here's a shoulder slipped, \nCaptain. The fool! that must tumble down this dog-hole water-fall! \nCaptain, you have servants and horses--you must send for a \ndoctor.--Poor boy, how he groans!\"\n\n\"Hark ye, Mr. Red-head,\" said Captain Loring, \"we will carry him to \nthe Folly, and cure him like a Christian. Just get him up these rocks \nhere, and I'll give a lift myself; and hark ye, Mr. Read-head\"----\n\n\"But the doctor, Captain? the doctor?\" cried the stranger.\n\n\"He is at the house!\" cried Catherine, eagerly. \"We saw him ride \nthere ourselves!\"\n\n\"Adzooks! to be sure he is! so Sam told me! What a fool I was to \nforget it!\" exclaimed the Captain. \"Come along, up the rocks, \ndouble-quick step--march!\"\n\nThe eyes of the stranger sparkled at the announcement of surgical \nassistance being so unexpectedly close at hand; for he seemed to have \nconceived as sudden a liking to the luckless painter as had the \nCaptain himself. He raised him tenderly, and with singular ease, from \nthe ground, and without a moment's delay, clambered up the rocky path \nthat led to the platform. Then striding rapidly to the treacherous \nbridge, though encumbered by a burthen at once so inconvenient and \npiteous, he crossed it with a better fate than had distinguished the \nattempt of the painter, and, almost before the others had reached the \ndeserted grave, was making his way over the shaded path at a pace \nthat soon promised to carry him out of sight.\n\n\"Haste, father, dear father!\" cried Catherine, to whom the terrible \nscene of peril and suffering she had witnessed and almost shared, had \ngiven a new energy, and, indeed, a new nature; \"haste, or the man \nwill miss the path, and the young gentleman die. Or stay--I will \nclimb the hill here, and run to the house for assistance, and Harriet \nwill walk faster, and point out the way.\"\n\n\"The path is broad, the wild fellow pursues it,\" cried Miss Falconer, \ngiving the veteran the impulse of her own activity. \"What could have \nbrought the young man to the brook? What could have brought this wild \nbarbarian? Nay, uncle, what could have brought yourself?\"\n\n\"Sam told me,\" muttered Captain Loring; and of a thousand broken and \nconfused expressions that now fell from his lips, all that the \nmaidens could understand, as they hurried him along, was that he had \nmet one of his labourers at the park-gate, who had seen them take \nrefuge in the wood, and was then engaged catching their ponies, which \nwere running wildly about,--that he had instantly left his carriage, \nand was seeking them along the stream, when he heard the shriek of \nhis daughter. Something else of much more importance, he seemed \nlabouring to give utterance to; and this being nothing less than the \nfearful intelligence in relation to Colonel Falconer, which he knew \nnot how to impart, his mind became so confounded betwixt fear of its \neffect upon the lady, indignation at the outrage, and the thousand \nother emotions which were distracting his breast, that the more he \nessayed to speak, the more mysterious became his expressions; so that \nthe whole group had reached the door of the mansion, before a single \nsuspicion of his object had entered the mind of either Miss Falconer \nor her friend. He mingled the oft-repeated name of her father with \nthat of the dreaded Gilberts, and this again with Tom Loring's, and \nthe painter's; now he burst into a frenzy of apprehension lest \nCatherine, whose garments were dripping with wet, and, in one or two \nplaces, spotted with blood from the wounds of Herman, should have \nsuffered as many hurts as the youth himself, and now he fell into \nlamentations over the loss of 'that grand picture of Tom Loring \ndying!' which, it seemed not altogether improbable, death might \nprevent the poor painter ever attempting.\n\nBut if the Captain brought confusion with him to the mansion, it was \nevident, at the first glance Miss Falconer had of it, that the \nderanging fiend had been there before him, and still kept possession. \nThe sun was then setting--a multitude of persons, old and young, \nsallow and sable, were bustling about in the shadows of the porch, \nsome running to and fro with burthens in their hands, others shouting \nand screaming, or staring about them in speechless wonder; the \ncarriage stood at the door, the ancient charioteer sitting whip in \nhand, as if expecting orders to start at a moment's warning, while a \nsmart mulatto in livery was engaged strapping a portmanteau behind \nit. Horses, saddled and bridled, were hitched to trees, or held by \nservants; dogs were barking; pigeons flying about; and in a word, it \nseemed as if the inhabitants of the Folly, male and female, human and \nanimal, were one and all preparing, in some ecstasy of confusion, to \ndesert its troubled walls.\n\n\"In the name of heaven, uncle! what means all this?\" cried Miss \nFalconer, recognising in the livery-servant a personal attendant of \nher own father, and in the portmanteau which he was fastening to the \ncarriage, one of the repositories of her own womanly vanities.\n\nBefore the Captain could answer a word, the confusion was doubly \nconfounded by the clatter of hoofs, and in an instant two horsemen in \nmilitary apparel, came thundering up the avenue, as if the lives of a \ncommunity depended upon their speed.\n\n\"My brother Henry, as I live!\" cried the lady, starting forward. \n\"Captain, what _is_ the matter? Brother! heavens, brother! what can \nall this mean?\"\n\nAt this, one half of the human elements of the chaos lifted up their \nvoices, and groaned aloud, \"Oh, the Gilberts! the bloody Gilberts!\"\n\n\"Sister!\" cried the foremost of the young soldiers, flinging himself \nfrom his steed, catching Miss Falconer in his arms, and speaking with \na manner strangely compounded of horror and merriment,--\"they have \nbeen at dad again! but don't fall into a fit--there's no murder this \ntime! no, egad, only a few scratches. Don't be alarmed.--Ah, Miss \nLoring! my dear Miss Catherine!--you look dreadful pale--don't be \nfrightened--beg pardon for coming in such a condition. Heard of it, \nHarry?--(my friend, Brooks,--Lieutenant Brooks, of the troop)--knew \nthey'd send for you,--bent out of course--deflected, made a _detour_, \nas we say,--to fetch you. Not a moment to lose--must be in town by \nsunrise, if horse-flesh can carry us.--How d'ye do, Captain? All \nready for marching?\"\n\n\"Yes, all ready,\" said the Captain, recovering his tongue. \"Don't be \nafraid, Harriet, my dear--Kate, bid your cousin good-bye. No great \nharm done,--only a little flesh wound that you can stitch up with \nyour needle--by the lord, that's all! Must send you away--father sent \na message after you--must have you to nurse him. Be a good girl, \ndon't cry; 't an't all bad wounds do damage; saw many \ntomahawk-slashes at the fatal field of Braddock, and some got well. \nTell the Colonel I'll be down to see him, and hope to fetch the \nassassin along.\"\n\n\"The assassin, Captain?\" cried the young officer, as he leaped upon \nhis horse, his sister having been already, almost without any \nexercise of her own will, thrust into the carriage, and the door \nsecured. \"Quick, Phil, you scoundrel, will you never have done \nstrapping?--The assassin, Captain! oh yes, the assassin!--Remember \nthe description--tall man, lantern-jawed, white horse, with a dappled \nnear fore-leg, a black coat, and preaches!\"\n\n\"Hah!\" cried Captain Loring, with a shout of triumph, \"saw the \nrascal, and meant to arrest him, but couldn't stand his sermons! I \ncouldn't, by the lord!--Your horse, Phil! your horse! doctor, I'll \ntake yours!--Whoop, Harry, you dog! down to the old witch's, and \nwe'll nab him yet!\"\n\nWhile the Captain gave utterance to these expressions, he seized upon \nthe nearest horse, and mounted him--a feat, that nothing but the \nfrenzy of his enthusiasm could have urged him to attempt; for his \ninfirmity had almost altogether incapacitated him from riding, save \nat the gentlest pace. But the recollection of the zealous Nehemiah, \nthe assassin of his friend, now sheltered under a roof that he \nfancied, in the ardour of the moment, he could almost touch with his \nhand--and that holy impostor a villain so notorious and redoubted as \nthe chief Hawk of the Hollow!--the fiery conception scattered his \nyears and infirmities to the winds, and in an instant he was astride \nthe beast of mettle, galloping over the park at full speed, followed \nby the two soldiers, as soon as they comprehended the meaning of his \nwords--by the coach, which the venerable Richard set in motion upon \nan impulse of his own--and by some half a dozen of the male loungers, \nsome on foot, some on horse, and all fired with the prospect of \ncapturing a foe so famous and so deeply abhorred.\n\nThe pale gibbering ghosts, that start in affright at the magical \nalarum of the early chanticleer, could not have vanished from their \ndoleful divan with a more impetuous haste, than did full two-thirds \nof those human beings from the mansion, who had given such life to it \na moment before. In an instant, as it seemed, the hall was left to \nsolitude; and the rough stranger, who still sustained the mangled \nframe of the painter, and had stood staring in astonishment at a \nscene so unexpected and confounding, had some reason to fear he was \nleft to relieve the sufferings of his charge as he could, and to \nrelieve them alone. A dark frown gathered over his visage, as he \nbeheld the crowd rush away almost without bestowing a look upon his \npiteous burthen, or upon him; and he was about to mutter his \nindignation aloud, when it was pacified by a husky voice exclaiming \nin his ear,\n\n\"Hum, hah! bless my soul! what, drowned, eh? is the gentleman \ndrowned? a case of suspended animation?--Hillo, Jingleum, stop! Come \nback, Pepperel! 'Pon my soul, 'tis the identical red-jacket we saw at \nthe Rest! Why, what the devil's all this?--Beg pardon, Miss \nLoring!--Bless my soul, I hope you ain't hurt? Blood about your \nsleeve, and look very pale and nervous! A little wine, with\"----\n\n\"Think not of me, doctor,\" replied Catherine. \"Attend to the young \ngentleman. This dreadful surprise and the hurry of my father--it will \nexplain all, and excuse all. Aunt Rachel will show you a chamber: \ncommand every thing--every thing shall be done that you order. \nHasten, doctor, pray hasten, and relieve the young gentleman's \nsufferings. Gentlemen, pray give your assistance to this good man, \nand heaven--yes, heaven will crown your exertions with success!\"\n\nWith these hurried expressions, and still more earnest gestures, the \nyoung lady gave an impulse to the group now gathered about the \nwounded man, and he was immediately carried into the house and out of \nher sight.\n\n\"Oh, Miss Katy,--beg pardon--that's to say, Miss Catherine,\" cried a \nbuxom, blubbering damsel, whose quavering treble had borne a \ndistinguished part in the late din of voices, and who had no sooner \nlaid eyes on the young lady, which she did as soon as the tumult was \nover, than she ran bustling hysterically to her side,--\"never saw you \nin such a pucker! hope we shan't all be murdered. Such dreadful \ncontractions were never heard of--great big hole in your sleeve--the \nGilberts all come to life again, and will murder us as sure as we \nlive!\"\n\n\"Be quiet, Phoebe--come with me to my chamber--I don't think he will \ndie!\"\n\n\"Hope not, Miss Katy,--that's Miss Catherine; but they shot him right \nthrough the head with a blunderbush, and slashed him to pieces with a \nbaggonet. Oh, the cruel murderers! And Philip, the yellow boy, \nsays----Lor' 'a' mercy! Miss Katy, what's the matter?\"\n\n\"I am sick, Phoebe, very sick--it will be over directly. Don't call \nyour mother--don't disturb any one; let them stay with the young \ngentleman.\"\n\nWith great difficulty, assisted by the girl, whose station in the \nhouse, without being altogether so exalted as that of an humble \ncompanion, was yet, at least in her own estimation, far removed from \nthat of a menial--the young lady made her way to her apartment; when \nthe impulse that had supported her energies through a scene of \ndistress for so long a time, passed away, and was succeeded by \nprostration both of mind and body--by shuddering chills and assaults \nof partial insensibility, that terminated in fits of weeping, and \nthese again in deep dejection of spirits, such as of late years had \nbeen a more prevailing characteristic than any other.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nWhither shall I go now? O Lucian!--to thy ridiculous purgatory,--to \nfind Alexander the Great cobbling shoes, Pompey tagging points, and \nJulius C\u00e6sar making hair-buttons, Hannibal selling blacking, Augustus \ncrying garlic, Charlemagne selling lists by the dozen, and King Pepin \ncrying apples in a cart drawn with one horse?----\n\n  Then here's an end of me; farewell, daylight;\n  And, oh! contemptible physic!----\n                    WEBSTER--_Vittoria Corombona_.\n\n\nConducted by the old woman, an heir-loom dependant in the Captain's \nfamily, whom Miss Loring had designated by the familiar and somewhat \nendearing title of Aunt Rachel, the grim-faced stranger bore the \nyoung painter to a chamber, where he was laid upon a couch, breathing \nforth occasional groans, but still insensible. His bearer, having \nthus finished what might have been considered his peculiar charge, \nlifted up his eyes, and looked around him, not however with any \nintention of departing. On the contrary, his rude indifference seemed \ngradually to have melted away, and been succeeded by an anxious wish \nto render further services to the youth, or at least to be assured \nthey should be rendered by others as capable as himself. He fixed his \neyes upon the physician, as if to determine the amount of his \nprofessional ability by such outward manifestations of wisdom as \nmight be traced in his visage and person; and the result was so \nlittle to his satisfaction that he resolved to remain in the \napartment, to give the physician the benefit of his own counsels.\n\nThe man of science, who bore the undignified name of Merribody, was a \nyouth of twenty-five or six, though the gravity of his countenance \nwas worthy a practitioner of fifty. His frame was short, and roundest \nin the middle, and his limbs and neck of conformable brevity and \ndumpiness. His face corresponded with his body, being round as a \nmelon, with features all highly insignificant, except his nose, which \nhad a short and delicate pug that gave it some importance. His \ncomplexion had been originally fair, and his locks flaxen; but a few \nyears' exposure to sun and sleet had communicated a certain foxy \nswarthiness to both, so that his eyes, which were of a light gray, \nwere now entirely visible. His eye-brows had maintained their \noriginal creamy hue; and being the only part of the countenance \npossessing any great mobility, their motions up and down, and to and \nfro, were always distinguishable; and indeed they flitted about under \nthe shadow of his hat, like two snowy moths entangled in a cobweb. \nThough no figure in the world could have been worse adapted to \npurposes of dignity, Dr. Merribody had thought proper to assume an \nimportant air, which he always preserved, except when irritated out \nof his decorum; a circumstance that not unfrequently happened, owing \nto a temper naturally testy and inflammable. His countenance he kept \nin a perpetual frown; and he cultivated an attitude he thought \nexpressive of professional dignity, in which his feet were planted as \nfar from one another as the length of his legs permitted, his head \nthrown back, or rather his chin turned up, for his neck was too short \nto allow much liberty to the temple of the soul, and his hands thrust \ninto his breeches pockets; in which attitude he presented a miniature \nrepresentation of the Rhodian Colossus. He had even bestowed much \ncultivation upon his voice, which being of a childish treble, and \ntherefore highly incompatible with all pretensions to gravity, he \nforced it into artificial profundity, and spoke with a husky, \ncatarrhal tone, a sort of falsetto bass, exceedingly pompous, and \nindeed sometimes majestic. However, the same testy temper which so \noften robbed him of his dignity of carriage, as frequently threw his \nvoice into its hautboy alto; and on those occasions, he did not \nappear to advantage. At the present moment, the doctor certainly \nmight be said to be in his glory; for the sight of a patient threw \nhim into the best humour in the world;--and by the presence of his \ntwo friends, without counting the stranger and Aunt Rachel, he was \nassured of witnesses to his skill in a case, which he declared, while \ntrudging up stairs, to be 'exceedingly critical and interesting.' \nNotwithstanding this favourable condition of things, however, the man \nof the red hat conceived but a mean opinion of Dr. Merribody's \nprofessional skill; and having eyed him a second time, without \nfinding any reason to alter his opinion, he demanded, in no very \nrespectful terms,\n\n\"Well now, doctor, here's the man lying half dead and \ngroaning,--what's to be done with him?\"\n\n\"What's to be done?\" echoed the doctor, turning up the cuffs of his \ncoat, throwing out his legs, and looking important and complaisant \ntogether; \"Why, sir, we are to----but, hark'e, sir, who are you? \nDon't know you--thought you was Dan Potts, the raftsman, but see you \na'n't. Who are you? and what are you doing here? Can't suffer a crowd \nin the room; it smothers the air. Must beg you to decamp, sir. Have \nplenty assistance, sir,\"----\n\n\"Be content, doctor,\" said the man, drily, but not roughly. \"My name \nis Green, John Green, the trader; every body knows Green, the York \ntrader, as they call me. I fished up the young gentleman;--that is, I \nhelped the lady; and I must see him through his troubles.\"\n\n\"Never heard of you, Mr. Green,\" said the doctor; \"but you may stay. \nYou have something the matter with your eye! Now I don't boast; but I \nbelieve I am good at the eyes--I will look at it directly.\"\n\n\"I don't doubt it, doctor,\" said Mr. Green; \"but suppose, instead of \ntalking of my eyes, you make the best use of your own. Here's the \nyoung man in great suffering.\"\n\n\"Oh, ay,\" said doctor Merribody. \"The first thing to be done is to \nstrip the patient, and see what's the matter with him. Method is the \nsoul of business. Hurrah, Jingleum; come, off with his coat,--strip \nit off.\"\n\n\"_Rip_ it off, you mean,\" said the trader, touching the fractured arm \nsignificantly, and indeed somewhat angrily. \"Of all fools I ever \nheard of, those are the greatest who break their arms, when necks are \nso much less valuable. Here's his right arm smashed like a \nsassafras-bough; and, I reckon, slipped at the shoulder, too!\"\n\n\"Ay! the deuce! you don't say so? a luxation!\" cried the physician. \n\"Set the old woman to work with her scissors. Aunt Rachel, my good \nwoman, rip up this sleeve; and rip it as gingerly as if every stitch \nwas the nerve of a man's elbow. A comminuted fracture, I can tell by \nthe feel!--Here, Pepperel, pour some warm water into the basin, chill \nit a thought from the ewer, and soak this rag in it. A very \ngenteel-looking dog, I protest!--Jingleum, lay out my pocket-case, \ntear an old shirt into bandages two and a half inches wide, and roll \n'em up; and you, Mr. York,--that is, Mr. Green, hand me the crooked \nscissors there, till I shave some of the hair from the wound. A devil \nof a job, if it turns out a trephine case! We must send off to town \nfor Dr. Muller and his case of round saws--I don't object to consult \nwith Dr. Muller; and if it comes to trephining, why the sooner we are \nready for it the better. Method is the soul of business!\"\n\n\"The cut on the head is but a scratch,\" said the trader: \"I v'e \nlooked at it myself. Goody, rip up the shirt-sleeve here, or let me \ndo it--there's blacker work to look at.\"\n\n\"Method is the soul of business,\" cried the doctor, whose spirits \nwere beginning to rise to a rapture, as business thickened on his \nhand, and who now raised himself a tip-toe among his temporary \nassistants, like a generalissimo surveying the manoeuvres of his \nsubordinates on a field of battle, which is perhaps to determine the \ndestinies of a nation; \"there's nothing like method!\" he ejaculated. \n\"Aunt Rachel, scrape me a little lint--there are more scratches to be \nfilled.--Hah! what! what the devil's the matter?\" he cried, as the \ntrader, groaning with sympathy at the sight, tore away the damp shirt \nfrom the shoulder, and displayed it deformed and shapeless from \nluxation. \"Bless my soul, what! a dislocation, really, under the \n_pectoralis major_, anteriorly luxed! Oh, here's the devil to pay! \nMethod is the soul of business: but what method is there in having at \nonce an arm broke, a shoulder disjointed, a head cracked, and to be \nhalf drowned into the bargain? Murdering work, sir! murdering work! \nWhere the deuce can I clap my pulley? and where the deuce, now I \nthink of it, am I to get one?\"\n\n\"A pulley!\" exclaimed the trader, with scorn and indignation; \"a \npulley to drag a man's arm off! Why, where's your fingers? Come, \ndoctor, now's the time.\"\n\n\"Method is the soul of business!\" exclaimed the physician, waxing \nwroth. \"Are you a doctor, a surgeon, a gentleman of the profession, \nMr. What-d'-ye-call-'em, that you take it upon you to instruct _me_ \nwhat to do? I tell you, sir, a physician is not to be prescribed his \nduty, sir; and I allow no man to interfere with me in my practice, \nsir!\"\n\nThe strength of this declaration was increased by its being delivered \nin the doctor's natural voice, high and shrill; but it produced \nlittle effect on the obdurate trader.\n\n\"Come, doctor,\" said he, \"I know all about these matters of broken \nand disjointed bones, from the toe up to the top-knot, having had a \nhand in making many of them, as a man who has been an Indian trader, \nin war-times, may well say. So take the benefit of my advice; for I \nintend to give it.\"\n\n\"Then, sir,\" said Dr. Merribody, with becoming indignation, \"you may \ntake the matter into your own hands; I wash mine clear of it. I'm not \nto be ruled by any ignoramus Indian trader, who, I believe, is no \nbetter than an Indian himself, and blind of an eye into the bargain; \nif you are to dictate, you Mr. What-d'-ye-call-'em, I'll have nothing \nto do with the case,--if I do I'll be hanged. No, sir! work away \nyourself, and kill the patient as soon as you like: he is at death's \ndoor already.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" said Mr. Green, with a bitter sneer; \"if he had been in \nany danger, I should have taken the matter up myself. Come, doctor,\" \nhe added, more civilly; \"don't be in a passion, and don't play the \nfool. I tell you, if it will be any satisfaction to you to know, that \nI, John Green, simple as I stand here, have seen more wounds and \nbroken bones than you, and a dozen other such younkers, will ever \nhave the mending of; and, for the matter of that, I have seen more \nmended than ever you will see hurt, ay, and helped in the mending, \ntoo,--as any man must, who has traded among Indians. So, come; look \nto your duty; the young gentleman will pay you for your services; \nand, as he seems to be forlorn-like, with no better friend at hand, I \nshall stand by him, to see he gets the worth of his money.\"\n\nThe amazement with which the insulted leech listened to these \ncontumelious expressions, was prodigious, and would have been \nexpressed otherwise than by a simple, common-place \"whew!\" had it not \nbeen for the dark scowl that clouded the trader's visage, at the \nfirst sign of explosion. It was a look of more than ordinary \nresentment or menace; and, indeed, expressed equal malignance with \nthe grin of a wild-cat, preparing for the spring. The terror it \nstruck to the bosom of the doctor, was communicated to his friends, \nwho betrayed at first some inclination to enter into the controversy, \nbut ended the heroic impulse in sundry grumbling murmurs.\n\n\"A devilish strange fellow as ever I saw!\" growled the doctor in the \near of one. \"A case of _monomania_, sir; he is mad, sir: yes! I see \nmania in his eye; he has been hurt on the head, you can tell by the \nknocks there, the scars on his phys'nomy; and his eye shows the \ninfirmity. So we must humour him, sirs, we must humour him.--'Tis the \nmethod; and method is the soul of business.\"\n\nThus apologizing for the surrender of his wrath and dignity, the \nsurgeon betook himself again to his patient.\n\n\"Hum! hah!\" he cried, laying his fingers on Herman's wrist,--\"pulse \nirregular, intermittent.--The struggle between life and death--very \nlow, sir, very low!--Aunt Rachel, make me half a dozen \nmustard-plasters, roast me a dozen bricks, and get me a coal of fire, \nto try if there's any feeling in him. One dare not bleed with such a \npulse as this.\"\n\nGreen listened with visible impatience to the physician; and then, \nwith as little consideration as before, exclaimed,\n\n\"What needs all these knick-knackeries? Clap this shoulder into \nplace, and then think of them.\"\n\n\"My friend,\" said the doctor, his indignation supplying the place of \ncourage, \"I don't like to offend the feelings of any man; but you \ntalk like an ass. Method is the soul of business; and there is no \nmethod in reducing a luxation for a man hovering upon the brink of \nthe grave, unless you may consider the act a method of helping him \ninto it. No, sir; the violence of the operation would do his business \nas expeditiously as a thump over the head with a tomahawk, which I \nthink, as you are an Indian trader and fighter, you know something \nabout. Yes, sir; I'll allow you to be a complete master of the \nscience of tomahawking, skinning, and scalping; but when you come to \ntalk of bones and dislocations, then, sir, I say, in the words of the \nLatin poet, _Ne sudor ultra crepidam_--I don't know whether it is \n_sudor_ or _sutor_; but it means, 'Mind your own business.'\"\n\n\"I speak of nothing but what I know,\" replied Green, impatiently; \n\"and I say, now is the time to fix the bone with the least trouble. \nFeel the lad's muscles; they are as loose and limber as a girl's in a \nswoon; wait till he opens his eyes, and you will find them as tough \nas ash-boughs. So go to work, doctor; for if you don't, _I_ will--I \nhave clapped a bone in place before now. So, doctor, you or John \nGreen, the York trader; and much good may it do you, when I tell the \nfolks up the river how I out-doctored you!\"\n\nThe argument was conclusive, and luckily it was given more in the \nspirit of persuasion than command; Dr. Merribody condescended to \nadopt the advice of the rude philosopher. As he had intimated, the \nmuscles of the sufferer were in a condition so relaxed, that it \nrequired but little effort to restore the bone to its place.\n\n\"There! it is done!\" cried the surgeon, triumphantly; \"but it hurt \nhim like the mischief! He groaned as if I had been cutting his \nthroat. Now for the mustard-plasters\"----\n\n\"Now, if you please,\" said the trader, \"for your lancet; and leave \nsuch things for the old women.\"\n\nThe doctor was again offended; but the interference of his adviser \nhad effected one desirable object, and he now thought him worthy of \nremonstrance:\n\n\"This, my friend,\" said he, striking his attitude, sinking his voice \nto its most majestic depth, and stretching forth his hand, to give \nemphasis to the oration,--\"this is a case of concussion of the \nbrain,--that is, while considered without reference to other minor \ninjuries, such as the wound, the fracture, and the luxation. In \nconcussion, sir, I would have you to understand, sir, the \npractitioner has to contend, or rather to provide beforehand, sir, \nagainst two insidious and dangerous consequences, _videlicet_ \ndepression and inflammation. Ehem, sir! do you understand that? If \nyou don't, sir, you are no better than a--I won't say numskull, \nsir,--but something of that sort. Bleeding may undoubtedly prevent \nthe latter, but it may as certainly aggravate the former,--it may \nsink the patient into the grave,--it may send him to the devil,--it \nmay\"--\n\n\"Open his eyes, and so rob the doctor of a patient,\" said the trader, \ngruffly. \"Do you see how the blood begins to flush over his face? do \nyou hear how hard he draws his breath? Bleed him, and he opens his \neyes; warm him with bricks, and plasters, and such stuff, and he will \nhave a brain-fever. Come, doctor, I'll take the blame. If it should \nhurt him, why a vein is easier stopped than a fool's mouth.\"\n\n\"_Probatum est_,\" muttered the physician; \"for nothing but a gag \ncould do that for one that shall be nameless.--The fellow has some \ngumption, though,\" he muttered to himself. \"Well, I'll bleed him but \nI _should_ like to put Dan Potts, the raftsman, on him, or some such \ntwo-fisted fellow, and have him drubbed for his insolence! yes, I \nshould like it!\"\n\nAnd grinning with the agreeableness of the fancy, the doctor \nphlebotomized the patient.\n\nThe wisdom of the trader's suggestion was again shown in the event. \nThe blood, at first merely oozing in drops from the vein, at last \ngathered strength and volume, and the poor painter opened his eyes, \nand rolled them wildly from person to person. The trader surveyed him \nfor a moment with a much gentler visage than he had hitherto \ndisplayed; then turning to the doctor, he said, softly, as if to \navoid disturbing the patient,\n\n\"Now you can bind up the broken bone at leisure. Only keep him quiet, \nand the hurt is nothing. I did not mean to offend you, doctor--I have \na rough way with me. Treat the young man well, and he will soon \nrecover.\"\n\nWith these words, he took up his hat, left the apartment, and was \nsoon heard stepping from the porch down to the avenue through the \nlawn.\n\n\"An impudent, ignoramus, unconscionable, rascal, with no manners, and \nhalf mad!\" growled the doctor, giving his indignation full swing.\n\n\"A wasp-mouthed, sharp-tongued, malicious savage!\" exclaimed his \nfriends; and even the matron, who had all the time bustled about, \nseemingly regardless of all conversation that was not specially \ndirected towards herself, concluded the chorus, by muttering,\n\n\"And a man that never goes to meeting, I warrant me!\"\n\n\"Let's have candles here, Aunt Rachel!\" cried the doctor, indulging \nhis importance, in all the joy of liberation from restraint. \"It is \nas dark as--oh! here they come, eh? Hark! there's horses' feet in the \npark! They're coming back from the Rest.--Bless my soul! I forgot all \nabout the murder and the assassin! Hope they don't bring him here, \nslashed all to pieces by the soldiers; work enough on hand for one \nsurgeon.--Only a simple fracture, after all! Hold the splints here, \nJingleum. Don't be distressed, sir; won't hurt you more than I can \npossibly help.\"\n\nWith these words, the surgeon proceeded to tie up the fractured limb, \nthe painter having recovered so far as to be able to wince and groan \nto the heart's content of the practitioner. Before the operation was \nconcluded, Captain Loring came puffing and blowing into the room, and \nbeing instantly assailed by the doctor's friends with anxious \nquestions concerning the result of the late assault upon the \nTraveller's Rest, answered in his usual hurried and broken manner,--\n\n\"Bird flown, adzooks--beat retreat in time,--struck colours, crossed \nthe river; young Brooks and a posse after him; will have him before \nmorning,--we will, by the lord! But, adzooks, here's my young painter \nthat's to paint me that picture. Hark ye, Harman What-d'-ye-call-it, \nmy boy,\" he exclaimed, taking a seat on the bed-side, and speaking \nwith rough hospitality; \"glad to see your eyes open. Mean to treat \nyou as well as if you were my son Tom. How do you feel now, hark ye, \nmy lad? What the plague sent you tumbling down the rocks, hah? A \nmighty stupid trick, that, adzooks! How d'e do?\"\n\nThe young man's wits were not yet clear enough to comprehend the \nquestion, or to digest a reply. He merely turned his eyes, with a \nwild and ghastly stare, upon the interrogator, and then rolled them \nvacantly from one individual of the company to another. He sighed \nheavily, and mumbled a little, as the doctor proceeded to secure the \nsplints, but made no resistance.\n\n\"I don't like that stare,\" cried the Captain; \"he looks as wild out \nof the eyes as a squeezed frog; and that's no good sign. I remember \nme, Tom Loring stared the same way, when the doctor was fishing for \nthe bullet among his ribs. He'll never live to paint me that picture! \nHe'll die, doctor, won't he?\"\n\n\"Can't venture to say, Captain,\" replied Merribody; \"a very critical \nsituation, sir, a very critical situation. But I never despair, sir; \nfor while there's life there's hope. My preceptor, the late \ncelebrated Dr. Bones, of Bucks county, used to tell his patients, 'he \nnever despaired till he heard the joiners screwing up the coffin.' A \nvery good rule, that, sir! We'll hope, sir, we'll hope. Pulse very \nfull and vigorous--will take a little more blood, and remain a few \nhours to watch him.\"\n\n\"Stay all night,\" said the Captain; \"won't let you go, sir.\"\n\n\"As to staying all night, Captain,\" said the physician, with an air, \n\"I can't say. Must look to my patients in the village----but will \nstay to tea with great pleasure. Jingleum, hold the basin!\"\n\nThe practitioner removed the bandage from the vein he had before \nopened, and (the Captain, in the meanwhile, hobbling out to inquire \ninto the condition of Catherine,) had soon the pleasure of seeing his \npatient recover his wits so far as to be able to answer questions, \nthough he displayed a much greater inclination to ask them.\n\nHis first demand was, \"What's the matter? what ails my head, and my \narm? and who are you all here about me?--Oh! ay!\" he continued, \"I \nremember--that confounded brook! I vow to Heaven, I thought I saw a \nghost, though 'twas broad daylight! Heavens! how my shoulder aches, \nand my arm, how it twinges! Are you a doctor? Where's Elsie?\"\n\n\"Well, now, I warrant me, doctor,\" whispered Aunt Rachel, \"he begins \nto wander.\"\n\n\"My dear sir,\" said the physician, \"I must beg you to hold your \ntongue. Take this cooling draught, and go to sleep; and, for your \ncomfort, know that you are now in much better quarters than you could \nhave had at old witch Elsie's. You are now in Captain Loring's \nhouse.\"\n\n\"In Captain Loring's! What, Avondale? Gilbert's Folly,\" cried the \npainter, starting up.\n\n\"Be quiet, sir,\" cried Merribody. \"Lie down, and keep yourself quiet; \nor I won't insure your life two hours.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, sir,\" cried the patient, petulantly. \"I will dress, and \nget me to the Rest forthwith; and I warn you to take your hand from \nmy shoulder; for, besides that, you hurt me insufferably, I don't \nchoose to be treated like a prisoner of war, nor to be quartered on \nstrangers.\"\n\n\"I warn you,\" cried the physician.----\"There! was there ever such a \ndolt?--Hartshorn, Jingleum!\"\n\nThe painter's resolution was greater than his ability. His struggle \nto arise upset the little strength he had remaining, and he fell back \nalmost immediately in a swoon. When recovered again from this, he \nseemed sufficiently sensible of his impotent and helpless condition; \nbut was still reluctant to remain where he was. He conjured the \ndoctor to have him carried in a coach, an arm-chair, a cart,--in any \nthing,--but certainly to have him carried to the widow's hovel. Then, \ndiscovering the physician to be inflexible, he lowered his tone, \nconsented to remain in the Captain's house, but implored so earnestly \nthat he should send immediately for old Elsie to nurse him, that the \ndoctor's heart was moved, and he condescended to argue the matter:\n\n\"Sir,\" said he, \"I never saw a man with such ridiculous notions. Mrs. \nRachel Jones here is the best nurse in the world. Old Elsie Bell is a \nwitch and an ignoramus, and knows no more about nursing than she does \nabout Greek; and she would poison you with some quack weed or \nanother. I never trust these old women, that ramble about among the \nwoods. And then, sir, what makes you think she will come to you? Why, \nsir, it is notorious, she never comes nigh the Folly; they say she \nswore an oath, when the Hawks were driven out, never to cross the \nthreshold again, until they returned to it. Sir, a lady in this house \nhas as much as admitted, that the old hag refused to come to it \npoint-blank, a dozen times over. She won't come.\"\n\n\"Try her,\" murmured the patient, eagerly. \"Say, I conjure her to come \nto me; tell her I am sick, dying, and will trust nobody's nursing but \nher's. And, hark'e, doctor, where's my waistcoat? There's a key \nthere--it opens my saddle-bags----that's it! Send it to her; bid her \nfetch me some linen, and such things as she thinks I may want. My \nlife upon it, the good old soul will come. Send it, doctor, and I'll \ntake all your vile stuff without grumbling,--yes, all you have the \nconscience to give me. It is an awful thing to take physic!\"\n\nHaving prevailed thus upon the physician to send his message and \nsummons to the Rest, though no one perhaps save himself, expected to \nsee it followed by the widow in person, he swallowed, with divers wry \nfaces, the draught repeatedly offered to him before, groaned heavily \nonce or twice, and then turning his face towards the wall, \nendeavoured to compose himself to sleep, while the physician and all \nhis attendants, save the matron, Mrs. Jones, stole from the chamber.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n  The trout within yon wimplin burn\n    Glides swift, a silver dart,\n  And safe beneath the shady thorn,\n    Defies the angler's art:\n  My life was ance that careless stream,\n    That wanton trout was I.\n                                     BURNS.\n\n\nTo the surprise of every individual in the mansion, who had been made \nacquainted with the summons sent by the painter to his late hostess, \nit was answered in less than an hour by the appearance at the door of \nElsie herself. She was followed by the little negro wench, bearing a \nbundle of linen and other apparel, and in a short time was inducted \ninto the sick chamber, from which she contrived, before many hours, \nto expel dame Rachel, whom she had found listening very curiously to \nthe sleeping murmurs of the sufferer, as well as all the officious \nauxiliaries. Indeed, she betrayed some inclination at first to be as \nfree even with the physician, who had been easily prevailed upon to \nremain all night at the Folly, while his friends returned to the \nvillage; but the young man became so extremely ill in the course of \nthe night, that she soon pretermitted her scruples, and was glad to \nreceive the doctor's assistance in quelling the threatened \nbrain-fever.\n\nThis remarkable repugnance of the old woman to divide with any one \nthe labours of watching over the stranger's couch, excited no little \nsurprise among the domestics, and seemed to them to attach a degree \nof mysterious importance to his character, which none had dreamed of \nattaching before. Long and anxiously, in consequence, did the good \nAunt Rachel and her daughter Phoebe, in the dearth of all better \noccupation, apply their ears to the chamber door, and their eyes to \nthe key-hole, in the hope that some murmur of the sick man, some \nwhisper of his privileged attendants, or perhaps some movement in the \nroom, might give a clew to the enigma, of the existence of which \nevery circumstance now left them still more strongly convinced. Thus, \nthey persuaded themselves that in the delirium, which all night long \noppressed the painter's brain, he was betraying divers dreadful \nsecrets, not at all to his interest to be generally known; and they \ndemonstrated also to their entire satisfaction, that Elsie Bell, who \nhad acquired by some witchcraft or other a complete knowledge of the \nyoung stranger's history, was imparting it to the physician, coupled \nwith many injunctions on the one hand, and as many promises on the \nother, of honourable secrecy. Nay, they both affirmed, in after days, \nthat they distinctly heard Dr. Merribody, in reply to some question \nor appeal of Elsie, say, with a manner highly characteristic of his \ndignified sense of honour, \"The secrets of the sick room are as \nsacred as those of the confessional; and as for a doctor, Mrs. Bell, \nwhy you must know, we are all as mum as blacksnakes. A snake was the \nancient symbol of physic, you know; because that's an animal which, \nif it don't _hold_ its tongue, never makes any great noise with it!\" \nThey observed, too, as they surveyed her through the key-hole, that \nElsie's countenance was darkened and troubled in an unusual degree; \nand once, they thought, they saw her shedding tears. However, they \nheard and saw little except what inflamed their curiosity to an \nintolerable extent; and, in consequence, they came within an ace of \nbeing caught in the act of eavesdropping by the physician himself, \nwho came suddenly out of the room to demand ice to apply to the \npatient's head. Luckily, however, the degree of trust reposed in him \nby the widow, as they supposed, had filled him with uncommon \nimportance, so that he made no remark on discovering them so near at \nhand, except to express his pleasure; \"for,\" said he, \"I supposed you \nwere all sound in bed, and that there would be the devil to pay to \nget any out-of-the-way thing that might be wanted.\"\n\n\"Lord love you, doctor,\" said Aunt Rachel, \"why we're all keeping \nawake, just a-purpose to be ready and handy; and besides, the young \ngentleman makes an awful groaning and taking on; and besides, there's \nmy young madam, Miss Katy, who can't sleep a wink, out of concern for \nthe young man; and she told me to ask you, doctor, what you thought \nof the young man's case, and whether he'll die or no?\"\n\nTo this the doctor answered, with a look of great wisdom, 'that every \nthing depended upon circumstances.'\n\n\"And besides, doctor,\" said Phoebe, emboldened by the gracious reply \nvouchsafed to her mother, \"she is mighty curious to know what all \nthese things is, the young gentleman is talking about?\"\n\n\"Sorry it is not consistent with the honour of the profession to \ngratify Miss Loring in that particular,\" replied the physician, with \nextreme gravity. \"Must have ice, Mrs. Jones. Mighty fortunate I was \nable to remain all night! You must bring me ice, Mrs. Jones; and you \nmust just scratch on the door, to give me warning; and then you must \nkeep all quiet, and let none approach the room, unless summoned by \nmyself. And if you can venture to disturb the Captain, and tell him \nto turn over on his side, (the _right_ side, mind you,) he won't \nsnore so hard. Very prejudicial, to sleep on the back, I assure you! \nIt sets the liver tumbling over the lungs, and so half smothers one. \nBut let me have the ice, d'ye hear; and keep all things quiet in the \nhouse.\"\n\nNotwithstanding the skill, and (what was perhaps a less questionable \nvirtue,) the zeal of Dr. Merribody, and the faithful vigilance of \npoor Elsie, the patient continued to grow worse, and was indeed, \ntowards morning, in an alarming situation, and so remained during the \ngreater part of the two following days, not a little to the surprise \nof the physician, who phlebotomized him with extreme liberality, \nexpecting on each occasion to give the _coup-de-gr\u00e2ce_ to the \ndisease. The truth is, the doctor, from having witnessed its efficacy \nat first, had grown enamoured of the remedy, and now applied it, we \nwill not say without judgment, but entirely without mercy; and had \nnot Elsie at last rebelled against his blood-thirsty humour, and \nresolutely resisted all further encouragement of it, there is no \nsaying where the matter might have ended, unless in the grave. \nHowever, as the patient possessed a youthful and vigorous \nconstitution, capable of withstanding disease and his tyrant \ntogether, he was at no time in absolute peril of death; and being \nleft a little to himself, he began at last to mend, and in the course \nof the fourth day was, to the infinite satisfaction of Captain Loring \nand his fair daughter, pronounced entirely out of danger. His \nconvalescence was rapid, and would perhaps have been still more so, \nhad it not been for the pains his hospitable host took to expedite \nit; for Captain Loring beset his bed-side from the first appearance \nof a favourable symptom, mingling many joyous congratulations with a \nthousand exhortations and instructions in relation to 'that grand \npicture of the battle of Brandywine, and Tom Loring dying!'\n\nFrom Captain Loring he also learned some of the particulars of those \nbustling events, which had taken place during the evening of his \ninsensibility. He was much struck with the strange transformation of \nthe sanctimonious Nehemiah Poke into no less a personage than the \nrefugee and assassin, Oran Gilbert, and was very curious to hear the \nparticulars of his escape. They were told in a moment: the pursuers, \nheaded by Lieutenant Brooks, (young Falconer having proceeded on his \njourney with his sister, and the Captain, much the worse for his \ngallop, having been forced to return to the Hall,) had followed \nacross the river, and continued the search until nightfall rendered \nit useless to prolong it. They had, at one time, been close upon the \nfugitive's heels, having lighted upon a pedler, (not, however, Mr. \nJohn Green, the Indian trader, who was safely lodged at the time in \nthe wounded man's chamber,) to whom the pretended preacher had sold \nhis old gray horse, or exchanged it for a better; and from this man \nthey obtained instructions, which put them in good hopes for awhile \nof coming up with him. Night, however, fell upon them, and the \nLieutenant returned to the right bank of the river, to rejoin his \nfriend and Miss Falconer, committing the whole charge of the pursuit \nto his volunteers, from whom the fugitive escaped, having baffled \nthem completely. As for Mr. Green himself, he left the little inn \nbetimes on the morning after the accident, and was seen no more.\n\nIn regard to the outrage upon Colonel Falconer, Herman was informed \nthat it had been committed in a mode especially daring and audacious. \nHe was entertaining certain gay and distinguished guests at his villa \non the Schuylkill, and had stepped for a moment, in search of certain \npapers, to a little pavilion, which he had caused to be fitted up as \na study, not sixty paces from the house, where he was presently found \nweltering in his blood by the guests, whom his sudden shrieks had \ndrawn to the place. The assassin had already vanished, having added \nrobbery, as Captain Loring averred, to murder. The sufferer had, \nhowever, recognised his well-known visage, and in the course of the \nfollowing day some traces of him were discovered. It was found, at \nleast, that a man answering the description had stolen a horse from a \nneighbouring farmer; and upon this horse, or one very like him, Mr. \nNehemiah Poke, the parson, had been seen wending his way up the \nDelaware; and as no one knew or had ever before heard of this \nreverend gentleman, it was at once supposed that the assassin had \nassumed the character as a disguise. Before this second discovery had \nbeen made, a courier, whom the Captain stumbled upon in the village, \nwas despatched to Hawk-Hollow, to recall Miss Falconer to the city. \nHis intelligence therefore, though it caused the Captain to arrest \nthe true offender, was not sufficient to legalize the capture, \nespecially when this was opposed so strongly by the zealous \nexhortations of Nehemiah, and the discreet remonstrances of the \npainter. When Captain Loring remembered the agency of Hunter in \nrobbing him of his prey, he burst into a towering passion, and \nreproached and railed at him with as little ceremony as he would have \ndone with his own son, or near kinsman. It was in vain that Herman \npointed out the improbability of a wild hunter of the hills, like \nOran Gilbert, being able to assume the character of a ranting \npreacher, and preserve it so well, and endeavoured to convince him, \nthat, if Nehemiah were really not the assassin, he must be some other \nand some secret enemy. The Captain swore that Colonel Falconer had no \nother enemy in the world, and therefore, of course, Nehemiah, the \nparson, must be the identical Oran of the Hollow. This opinion he \nmaintained with such fury, that the painter, if indeed he had no \nstronger reason for holding his tongue, did not choose to meet it \nwith an argument derived from his own previous acquaintance with \nNehemiah. He suffered the Captain to have his own way, and believe \nwhat he liked; and, in consequence, the Captain soon dropped the \nsubject altogether, to take up another that now occupied his brain, \nalmost to the exclusion of every other. This was the picture of the \nbattle of Brandywine, and Tom Loring dying, the consideration of \nwhich, and of the painter's ability to execute it to his liking, was \nthe main cause of the extraordinary affection he conceived for the \nyouth.\n\nAnother piece of information, which the young man obtained from the \nCaptain, was an account of the agency of Miss Loring in his \ndeliverance from the brook, and perhaps from death. He had turned \nupon her a despairing eye, at the moment when, as he was pitching \nover the fall, she had cast out the end of the shawl to him; but of \nthis circumstance he had retained not the slightest recollection, and \nindeed, it is more than probable that his faculties were at that \nmoment in a state of torpor. Not content with this deed of daring \nhumanity (for if he had clutched upon the mantle, the chances were \nthat she would have been jerked into the torrent after him,) she had \nplunged among the boiling eddies below, and thus preserved him from a \nsecond and perhaps greater peril, and all the time with imminent risk \nto herself. His emotions upon making this discovery, mingled surprise \nand admiration with the gentler sentiment of gratitude.\n\n\"Is it possible,\" he cried, \"that a young lady should have such \nspirit, such presence of mind, such courage?\"\n\n\"Adzooks!\" said the Captain, setting the matter to rest at once, \n\"isn't she _my_ daughter? By the lord, sir, when my son Tom was but a \nboy of ten years, he could trounce all the boys of the Brandywine of \nhis own age, and two years older.\"\n\n\"So heroic!\" ejaculated the painter; \"instead of committing me to my \ndestiny, with a pathetic scream, to run at once to my assistance, \nlike an angel, rather than a woman!\"\n\n\"Adzooks,\" cried Captain Loring, \"it was no such thing, when I \ncarried Tom Loring home; for then she fell to weeping and bewailing; \nand hark ye, Herman, my boy, that's the way you must paint her.\"\n\n\"So noble! so benevolent! so humane!\" continued Hunter. \"Noble \nimpulses are only produced in noble spirits.--And I really, then, owe \nmy escape, perhaps my life, to the humanity of this young lady, to \nwhom I was but a stranger!--Captain, it was the noblest act in the \nworld!\"\n\n\"Adzooks,\" cried the Captain, \"do you think so? Why then, by the \nlord, we'll paint that too! And, now I think of it, 'twill make a \nmost excellent picture! Why, yes,--what a fool I was, not to think of \nit before! 'Twas very brave of her, and it shall be painted: You \nshall stick yourself at the bottom of the brook, and my Kate Loring \nfishing you out, with Harriet and me on the top of the rock; and as \nfor that rusty fellow, the pedler, why you may leave him out.\"\n\n\"I am very curious about that man,\" said Hunter; \"but 'tis no \nmatter.\"\n\nThen he fell to musing, and in spite of the noisy rapture with which \nthe Captain danced about his bed, filled with the new conception of \nimmortalizing paint,--of a picture which was to perpetuate the \nheroism of his daughter as effectually as the other was to record the \nglorious death of his son,--the painter indulged his meditations for \na considerable time. The result was, first, a perfect conviction that \nthe sooner he made a due acknowledgment of his gratitude the better; \nand, secondly, that he felt himself strong and well enough to \nundertake a duty so pleasing, without further delay. In this opinion \nCaptain Loring coincided with great satisfaction; and neither the \nphysician nor his nurse being at hand to restrain him, (for so soon \nas he recovered his wits, and began to amend, they deserted his \nbed-side, returning only at stated periods,) he got up and dressed \nhimself as well as he could, the Captain having in the meanwhile, \ndescended, to apprize his daughter of the meditated visit. It was \nindeed lucky that the Captain did so; for after the young man had \nrisen, and caught a view of himself in a mirror, his resolution \nmelted away like wax in the fire.\n\n\"Heavens!\" said he, \"how villanous I look! Such lobster eyes, and \nsuch lantern-like jaws! That confounded doctor has bled me like a \nTurk: I wonder he did not make a Turk of me in earnest, and leave me \nwith a poll as naked as a peeled yam. Truly I am now the _Caballero \nde la Triste Figura_, Don Quixotte in good earnest, as far as looks \ngo; and truly I had better get me to bed again, and wait a month or \ntwo, before showing myself to any handsome young lady.\"\n\nHis objections, however, to descend were overruled by the Captain, \nand having been announced at his own instance, and the young lady \nhaving expressed great satisfaction at the happy change in his \ncondition, as indicated by a renovation of strength so unexpected, he \nwas even forced to do as he proposed, and suffer himself to be \nconducted into her presence.\n\nMiss Loring was evidently surprised and shocked by the change in his \nappearance, which was still odiously visible, notwithstanding the \ngreat pains he had been at to arrange his battered person to \nadvantage. The hair, massed over his forehead, to hide an envious \npatch, added but little ornament to his bloodless visage; nor did the \nsplint on his right arm, the riband-ties of his sleeve which could \nnot wholly conceal it, and the black silk sling that supported the \narm on his breast, impart any peculiar elegance to a person of \nghostly tenuity. However, the surprise of the young lady, though \nconfirmatory of his own assurances in relation to his unprepossessing \nlooks, served the good purpose of drawing what blood was left in his \nbody into his cheeks, and thus, for an instant, removed one item of \ndeformity.\n\nThe little confusion into which he was thrown by this inauspicious \nreception, was luckily driven to flight by the boisterous and \ntriumphant introduction immediately commenced by Captain Loring.\n\n\"Look ye, Catherine, my girl,\" he cried; \"here's my young Herman \nHunter, the painter, that you fished so finely out of the water; and, \nadzooks, he says, he'll paint the action for you, as well as your \nbrother Tom on the Brandywine, and General George Washington on the \nfatal field of Braddock! You see how quick we are curing him--begin \nto have quite an opinion of that fellow, Merribody!--As soon as we \nget his arm out of the stocks here, he's to begin. Don't intend to \nlet him go back to Elsie's; but Elsie's a good nurse,--will say that \nfor her. Have somebody to talk to, now! Will have cousin Harriet back \nas soon as possible. So be civil to my young Herman \nWhat-d'ye-call-it.--Think he looks very much like my poor Tom!\"\n\nWith such characteristic expressions, the ancient soldier dispelled \nthe young man's embarrassment; and Herman now turning his eyes upon \nthe maiden with a disposition to be pleased, he found, in her \ncountenance, so much to admire of beauty both physical and spiritual, \nthat his approbation added a double emphasis to his expressions. \nIndeed he spoke of her act of heroism, and his own gratitude, with a \nwarmth and energy of feeling that, to her own surprise, nearly \nstartled the tears into her eyes, while they filled the Captain with \na new sense of his daughter's merits.\n\n\"Adzooks!\" he cried, in a rapture, \"he tells the truth, and he speaks \nlike an honest fellow! 'Twas the noblest deed in all the world, and \n't shall be painted.\"\n\nAnxious perhaps to escape the praises of her father, which, as he had \na whimsical docility of temper, might be obtained at any \nmoment,--rather than to avoid those of the guest, which struck her as \nbeing unusually agreeable, Miss Loring hastened to protest against \nall panegyrics, by referring to the more efficient aid rendered by \nthe trader; and then, with an attempt at pleasantry, to lead the \nconversation still further from herself, she required to know 'to \nwhat mysterious cause of alarm on Mr. Hunter's part she owed the \nhappy opportunity she had enjoyed of playing the heroine?'\n\n\"You will be astonished, Miss Loring,\" he replied: \"but you were \npositively the cause yourself.\"\n\n\"I?\" said she. \"Ah! I understand,\" she continued, with a smile of \ninfinite mirth--\"you were thinking of the assault made by the two \ndragoons upon poor Elsie's habitation, which we were so near taking \nby storm; and you looked for nothing less than a repetition of the \ncharge, while you were at a disadvantage on the narrow bridge!\"\n\n\"By no means,\" said Herman, sharing somewhat of her animation, and \nsmiling--\"I really took you for a spectre; and being of a \nsuperstitious turn\"----\n\n\"A spectre!\" cried Captain Loring; \"does my Catherine look like a \nghost?\"\n\nAnd \"A spectre!\" re-echoed Miss Loring, though with a more serious \nemphasis.\n\n\"I had heard,\" said the young man, \"that there was a grave beyond the \nfalls\"----\n\n\"Adzooks!\" exclaimed Captain Loring, \"I never heard of it.--Who's \nburied there? One of the Hawks, hah? By the lord, I'll root him \nup--have no such villain's bones lying about the place\"----\n\n\"Father,\" said Catherine, \"it is a woman's grave.\"--Which answer \ninstantly checked the veteran's rising indignation, and some little \ndisgust with which Hunter heard him threaten the lowly sepulchre with \nviolation.\n\n\"In truth,\" resumed the painter, \"my mind was affected by the solemn \nscenery that conducted me to the burial-place; and when I had reached \nthe bridge, and, lifting up my eyes, beheld a figure rising, as it \nseemed out of the earth, and to all appearance commanding me, by \nmenacing gestures (for such, Miss Loring, was your appearance,) to \nretire, you may judge how much my imagination was excited. I assure \nyou, such was the hallucination of my mind, that I beheld, even in \n_your_ countenance, the pallid hues of death, with tears, too, \ndropping from your eyes, and such an expression of mingled sorrow and \ndispleasure, as I thought could exist only on the visage of a \ndisembodied spirit. In the sudden alarm produced by such an \nimpression, I forgot entirely where I was, and so stepped off the \nnarrow bridge into that malicious torrent, and thereby, as I may also \nadd, fell under the obligation of owing you a life--an obligation, \nwhich, I assure you, is of so agreeable a nature, that\"----\n\n\"If you say so,\" cried Catherine, perceiving that her father was \npreparing for another burst, and interrupting the speaker with a \nsmile, \"I shall undoubtedly expect you to give occasion for some \nsecond display of my heroism, by leaping into the brook again, as \nsoon as you have recovered your strength. You have indeed lowered my \nown vain estimate of the obligation conferred, by showing how much I \nwas the cause of your misfortune; and I now perceive, that I shall \nnot have entirely atoned for my fault, until you are wholly restored \nto health. Allow me therefore to work out my pardon, by assuming the \ncharacter of a mentor and governess.--You are yet unfit for the toils \nof a courtier, and the exertions of the visit have already exhausted \nyour strength. I must command you back to your chamber, to rest and \nrecruit your spirits; and to-morrow, if Dr. Merribody consents to \nsuch unusual grace, I will perhaps permit you to enjoy another \nhalf-hour of liberty.--You must obey me, Mr. Hunter; my father is a \nsoldier; and, in his house, you are under martial law.\"\n\nThe painter would willingly have disputed the orders of the \n'Lieutenant-commandant,' (for such Captain Loring, transported with \nher military spirit, immediately pronounced his daughter to be,) but \nMiss Loring spoke as if she had assumed the command in earnest; and \nHunter admired how so much firmness could be expressed with so much \npleasantry, and how both these qualities could be mingled in the same \nspirit with the maidenly gentleness becoming her youthful age. But, \nindeed, the young lady had found it convenient to put on both the \nformer appearances, to terminate an interview irksome to herself, and \nperhaps prejudicial to the convalescent; for no sooner had he taken \nhis leave, and her father with him, than she immediately walked into \nthe garden, the supervision of which was the chief delight, and \nindeed passion, of her existence, and, sitting down under an arbour \nof honey-suckle and trumpet-flowers, indulged herself in a long fit \nof weeping.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n                              Ladies' honours\n  Were ever, in my thoughts, unspotted ermines;\n  Their good deeds holy temples, where the incense\n  Burns not to common eyes. Your fears are virtuous,\n  And so I shall preserve them.\n                             BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.\n\n\nThe happy constitution which had empowered the young artist to \ncontend successfully with fever and phlebotomy, soon enabled him to \nexchange his quarters under the Captain's roof for those he had \noccupied so short a time in the cottage of Elsie. This was a change \nhe made with no little reluctance; for, independent of the superior \ncomfort of Gilbert's Folly, there was a charm in the society of the \nCaptain's daughter, which, with all the drawback resulting from the \naddition of the Captain's company, was not to be replaced by the \nattractions of the melancholy widow. Nevertheless, a consciousness \nthat his presence at the mansion, however welcome to its inmates, \nwas, at best, an intrusion, soon forced itself upon his mind; he felt \nthat it was highly improper to take advantage of the affection of a \nwhimsical old man, and the kindness of a solitary and almost \nunprotected girl; and accordingly he revealed the determination he \nhad made to leave them, upon the third visit he made Miss Loring. His \nresolution was however combated with such violent hostility on the \npart of the veteran, who commonly devoted three-fourths of his time \nto expatiating upon the subjects of the three great pictures, and \nwith such agreeable dissuasives on that of the lady, that his \nresolves easily melted away, and his sojourn was prolonged for a week \nor more beyond the period of his first visit. At last, however, he \ngrew ashamed of his effeminate abandonment to an enjoyment which he \nhad no right to consider his own; and one morning, having surveyed \nhimself in the glass, and discovered with peculiar satisfaction, that \nhis cheek-bones were burying themselves in their former \ninsignificance, and that his eyes were twinkling again with their \nnatural sunshine, he took the sudden resolution of retreating to the \nTraveller's Rest that day; and this design, maugre all the furious \nopposition of the Captain, he was strengthened to put into immediate \nexecution, by the frankly-expressed consent of his fair governor.\n\n\"Yes, I will go,\" he soliloquized, in his chamber, to which he had \nascended for the purpose of collecting his scattered moveables; \"it \nis plain enough, the girl is vastly delighted to get rid of me. 'You \nare now well enough to be released from captivity.' These were her \nvery words; and she smiled as she uttered them, as if my discharge \nwere a deliverance to herself!--Well,--and why should it not be?\" he \nmuttered, after a pause; \"Why should my presence be a pleasure to \nher? and why should my departure afflict her? and why should I care \nwhether she be pleased or not? A girl engaged,--betrothed,--and \nbetrothed to a Falconer! Tush, I am a fool. I was a fool to come \nhither, too. The devil take the wars, and the king's commission into \nthe bargain. I will leave the place--I would my arm were but sound, \nand I would leave it to-morrow,--ay, I vow I would!\n\n  'Oh, the bonny bright island.'--\n\nI wonder she don't sing: for a speaking voice, she has the richest \n_soprano_,--a _mezzo-soprano_, I think,--I ever heard; it is a \npositive music, mellow, rich, and wild, like the hum of a pebble in \nthe air, darted out of a sling--a most delicious, wondrous,\nincomprehensible voice. And then her eyes----Death! what care I for \nher eyes?\n\n  'Oh, the bonny bright island'--\n\nPshaw! I would I were home again.--Home? _home!_\" he muttered, with \nlong pauses betwixt each interjection, and nodding his head the \nwhile, as if surprised at his own reflections. Then, as if these \nsilent comets of the brain had returned to the orbit in which they \nhad so lately vapoured, he resumed,--\"At all events, old Elsie's is \nnot far off; and in common civility I must call and see her two or \nthree times.----And, besides, I don't see how I can get off without \npainting the Captain 'that grand picture of the battle of Brandywine, \nand Tom Loring dying.' What an absurd old fellow!--A precious picture \nI should make of it! Yet I must do something to requite their \nkindness.--Kindness! There's no doubt she saved my life. The Captain \nswears, nothing living that gets into the deep eddy under the fall, \ncan get out living. His cow lay under there three days. To think I \nwas so near my head-and-foot-stone! and to think this girl, this \nCatherine Loring, saved me from the destiny of a crumpled-horn! The \nmost remarkable, fascinating.----Ah! the island's the place for me, \nafter all.\n\n  'Oh, the island! the bonny bright island!'\n\nWell, now she's in the garden among the flowers, and the Captain's \ntaking his siesta. A little medicine, with some of its concomitant \nstarvation, is quite a good thing for the voice.\"\n\nDuring all the time of this soliloquy, the young man had ever and \nanon, sometimes insensibly to himself, been humming the _refrain_ of \na familiar air; until at last, being seduced by the sound of his own \nvoice, and betrayed into a mood of melody by his reflections, he \ngradually fell to humming with more confidence; and, finally, \nsupposing no one to be nigh, he even began to sing, though in a low \nvoice, the following idle stanzas, that had been all the time \njingling through his brain.\n\nI.\n\n  Oh the island! the bonny bright island!\n    Ah! would I were on it again,\n  Looking out from the wood-cover'd highland,\n    To the blue surge that rolls from the main.\n  How sweet on the white beach to wander,\n    When the moon shows her face on the sea,\n  And an eye that is brighter and fonder,\n    Looks o'er her bright pathway with me!\n\nII.\n\n  Oh the island! the bonny bright island!\n    Never more shall I see it again,\n  Never look from the wood-covered highland,\n    To the blue surge that rolls from the main.\n  Never more shall I walk with the maiden,\n    On the beach I remember so well:\n  Farewell to my hope's vanished Eden--\n    Oh my bonny bright island, farewell!\n\n\"Pshaw,--nonsense!\" he went on, pursuing his reflections; \"'the \nisland, the bonny bright island,' is a very fine thing, but what do I \ncare about it? I wonder if Elsie spoke the truth about the match? If \nI thought the girl's heart were not in it.--Pshaw again! She is the \nmerriest-hearted creature I ever saw,--only of quick feelings, and \nstrangely attached to the memory of her brother: her eyes always fill \nwhen the Captain talks of him--the very name makes the tears start; \nand good heaven! how superb her eyes look, with tears in them! But \nthen the Captain is poor, and she knows it,--bent upon the match, and \nshe knows that, too; and young Falconer is a soldier, and a handsome \nfellow, and she knows that, too. And he was here! I wish I had seen \nhim. He has wealth, too--so have _I_; he is gay and handsome--I am \nneither sour nor ugly.--'Sdeath! where am I getting? I will find out, \nat least, what are her feelings towards him: if her heart be not in \nthe match, why then.----Could any man stand by and see such a saint \nof heaven bartered away, sacrificed--sold to tears and captivity?\"\n\nHere he fell to musing again, and again his spirits seeking that vent \nto melancholy, he began to hum an air, extremely mournful, the words \nof which were in unison with his reflections.\n\nI.\n\n  Darkly the wretch that in prison is pining,\n    Turns to the dim, dismal grating his eye;\n  Darkly he looks on the day-star that's shining,\n    The far-soaring eagles that float in the sky.\n      In the pale cheek, so furrow'd and wet,\n        The story of anguish is spoken;\n      The sun of his hope it is set,\n        The wing of his spirit is broken.\n  Darkly the wretch, &c.\n\nII.\n\n  Heart! in thy dreary captivity heaving,\n    The fate of the poor, hopeless pris'ner is thine--\n  To look through a grate at the world thou art leaving,\n    And slowly the long silent sorrow resign.\n      But the vial is emptied at last,\n        The bolts have been shot from the quiver,\n      And the future has buried the past,\n        With the tears of the captive, for ever.\n  Heart! in thy dreary, &c.\n\nHaving despatched this second madrigal and his preparations together, \nhe descended into the little apartment in which Miss Loring was wont \nto while away the time in reading, or plying her needle,--which \nlatter employment she often followed in company with the girl Phoebe \nand the matron. On these occasions there commonly prevailed a proper \ndegree of female noise and chatter; for which reason such \nconvocations were strictly forbidden during that portion of the \nafternoon which Captain Loring devoted to napping--not indeed because \nany sound short of the blast of a trumpet or the roar of a musket, \ncould disturb his slumbers, but because his brain was of too \nexcitable a nature to sink into repose, so long as a single vocal \nmurmur came to his ear. Herman had chosen this period to take his \ndeparture, for the sake of avoiding any altercation with his violent \nhost; and he now stepped into the parlour, which opened into the \ngarden, where he expected to find the Captain's daughter. However, he \nhad no sooner entered the apartment, than he saw her therein, sitting \nby herself, plying her needle with unwonted industry, and her eyes \nfilled with tears.\n\n\"Good heavens! Miss Loring,\" said he, \"I hope nothing has happened?\"\n\n\"By no means,\" she replied, displaying her countenance frankly, with \na smile, and then proceeding, without any embarrassment, to wipe her \neyes. \"You must know, in the first place, that I come of a tearful \ntribe, a very lachrymose stock, and shed tears very often for no \ncomprehensible purpose, except to pass the time; and in the second \nplace, I have been paying the auditor's tribute, and rewarding your \nmusic with the utmost stretch of sentimentality,--that is to say, by \ncrying. I wonder where you could light upon such melancholy tunes? \nBut I like the last song extremely: that release from \ncaptivity,--that ending of\n\n  'The tears of the captive for ever,'--\n\nI should suppose you would have sung that line to the gay whistle of \na blackbird!\"\n\n\"I assure you, Miss Loring,\" said the painter, \"my deliverance comes \nto me with no such spirit of rejoicing. I am ashamed you overheard \nme--I thought you were in the garden; I would not have otherwise \npresumed to hum so loud.\"\n\n\"Oh, I like your singing, I protest; and if you remain long enough in \nthe valley, I shall claim a future exertion of the faculty, perhaps \neven a serenade. But beware of my father; if _he_ discovers this new \nvirtue in you, rest assured, you will have to sing him Yankee Doodle \nand God Save Great Washington, all day long; and this too,\" she added \nwith a mirthful smile, \"without any hope of escaping from 'that grand \npicture of the Battle of Brandywine and--and Tom Loring dying.'--Ah, \nMr. Hunter,\" she said, apologetically, for her eyes again glistened, \nand her lip quivered, as she pronounced the familiar name, \"you have \nperhaps laughed at my father, perhaps you will laugh at me, when you \nbehold our usual insanity on the subject of my brother. But he was \none whom it was not easy to forget,--one long to be remembered by \nboth sire and sister.--But I see you are displaying your generalship; \nyou intend to beat a retreat, while the enemy is sleeping. Perhaps \nyou are wise. Richard will have the carriage ready in a few moments.\"\n\n\"Not so, Miss Loring: I will depart on foot, like a pilgrim, as will \nbe best. An unlucky jolt in the carriage over a stone, might bring me \nunder the tender mercies of the doctor again.\" And he touched his \nwounded arm significantly.\n\n\"You are right,\" said Catherine, after a pause. \"The distance is \nshort; Richard shall escort you, for fear of accident; and Phoebe and \nmyself will add to your retinue as far as the park-gate. Do you \nreally consider yourself equal to the walk?\"\n\n\"I do,\" replied the young man; \"but pray be not in such a hurry to \ndischarge me. In a very few days,--perhaps as soon as I am able to \nresume the saddle, I must take up my line of march, (to borrow your \nmilitary illustration;) from Hawk-Hollow, with but little \nexpectation,--that is, I think so,--of ever seeing it again.\"\n\n\"Must you, indeed? I thought you were to explore every cliff and \nbrook in the county. However, I cannot blame you. I am afraid my \nfather's strange conversation about 'those grand pictures,' must \nannoy you; and you are right to escape.\"\n\n\"On the contrary, Miss Loring,\" said the painter, \"I am sincerely \ndesirous to gratify him in that fancy; and, though sorely convinced \nof my inability to paint him any picture worthy acceptance, yet, were \nmy arm well, I should do my best to paint him something; and if I had \nbut a portrait or miniature of your deceased brother for a few hours, \nto secure a likeness\"----\n\n\"You must not think of it seriously, Mr. Hunter. It is but a \nwhimsical fancy, which my father will soon forget. There is no \nportrait of my brother; he was but a boy of eighteen, and his \nlikeness was never painted. Indeed, I wish it had been, for my \nfather's sake.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I can yet gratify him,\" said the painter. \"I owe you a deep \ndebt of gratitude--I have some skill in taking likenesses, and \nsometimes obtain them, even with but little aid of the sitter. The \nCaptain has averred that you yourself bear an extraordinary \nresemblance to your brother----Perhaps, perhaps, Miss Loring, if you \nwere to honour me so far--that is to say\"----\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Catherine, with sparkling eyes, \"I see! Do you think it \npossible? I am indeed like my poor brother, if I can trust my own \nrecollections. Do you think it practicable, from _my_ visage, to \nconstruct a likeness of my brother's? Then, indeed, I would sit to \nyou, and gladly!\"\n\n\"With such a resemblance to begin upon,\" said Herman, greatly pleased \nwith the satisfaction of the young lady, \"and the help of your \nrecollections and criticisms, I do not doubt of success; and then the \npleasure of presenting such a portrait!\"----\n\n\"Of _presenting_, Mr. Hunter!\" cried Catherine; \"we cannot permit you \nto think of that. We will not convert your gratitude for a slight \nhospitality into an excuse for taxing your professional exertions.\"\n\n\"Professional, madam?\" said the other, with some little petulance; \"I \nhope you will not consider me a mercenary, hireling dauber?\"\n\n\"A dauber, we hope not,--mercenary, assuredly not;--and hireling is a \nword not to be applied to one who receives payment for any generous \nlabour,\" said Catherine. \"If you insist upon painting 'the grand \npicture' for nothing, Mr. Hunter, you will certainly escape from all \ntrouble in relation to it. Not even my father would think a moment of \nimposing such an unrecompensed task upon you, or such dishonour upon \nhimself.\"\n\n\"You mortify me, Miss Loring,\" said Herman: \"I can scarce call myself \na painter by any thing more than inclination. If I have adopted the \nprofession, it is not to make my bread by it; and indeed I can scarce \nsay, I have adopted it at all.--That is,\" he added, in some \nconfusion, for Catherine regarded him with a look of surprise--\"In \nshort, Miss Loring, it has been my good fortune to be put above the \nactual necessity of adopting this profession, or any other, for my \nsupport. I paint, because I love the art, and have nothing better to \ndo; it suits my idle habits. I never have received a recompense for \nmy labour, (you should have called it my amusement, for such it is,) \nand perhaps I never will;--not that I scorn recompense as being \ndegrading, but because I need it not. The pleasure I feel in the \nlabour is my reward; and I am doubly rewarded, when my poor sketches \nafford pleasure to those whose good opinion I covet. You have thrown \nme under obligation, Miss Loring; and I claim of your generosity, or \nif that word will not be permitted, of your justice, an opportunity \nto oblige in return.\"\n\n\"Your argument is singular, yet almost conclusive,\" said Catherine, \nwith a pleasant accent, yet with a more distant air. \"And so you are \nno poor painter--a wandering son of genius--after all; but a knight \nof romance, roaming the world over, with palette for buckler, and \nbrush and maul-stick in lieu of lance and sword? Really, you have \nlost much by the transformation: it was a great pleasure to me, to \nthink I could patronise you--encourage an unfriended genius. But \nnow--ah! my folly offends you! I beg your pardon; I will trifle no \nmore.\"\n\n\"I am not offended, Miss Loring,\" said the youth, who had coloured \ndeeply while she spoke; \"but I _did_ think your tone satirical, and \nindicative of a suspicion that I was not what I profess myself to be. \nSuffer me then to be a poor painter, as I really am; though not a man \nin very restricted pecuniary circumstances. I confess, that I was \npresumptuous, to think you--that is, your father,--would accept any \ngift at my hands; yet the persuasion that I had it in my power to \ngive you--that is, _him_, a particular gratification, emboldened me \nto think I might presume to attempt what I thought a mere simple, \nallowable compliment.\"\n\n\"Pray, Mr. Hunter,\" said Catherine, \"say nothing more about it. I \nbelieve you are right, and I wrong. We act here\"--and here she smiled \nas merrily as before--\"entirely upon impulses and instincts; and if \nimpulses and instincts be conformable, as doubtless, some day, they \nwill, we will accept the picture as freely as it is offered. But I \nsee you are impatient to go;\"--this was a discovery authorized by no \nparticular symptom of dissatisfaction on the part of the painter, \nwho, on the contrary, seemed well pleased to continue the \nt\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate;--\"you are impatient to go, and here comes \nPhoebe.--Phoebe, my dear, have the goodness to call Richard, to \nattend Mr. Hunter to Mrs. Bell's.--I am glad to see you walk so \nfirmly, and look so well.--I will positively be your escort to the \ngate. It becomes me in my function of Lieutenant-commandant; and I \nwill dismiss you with all the honours of war.\"\n\nThus speaking, and whiling away the walk with light and joyous \nconversation, Miss Loring conducted the guest to the park gate; where \nher eye suddenly caught sight of a little bush, of no great beauty of \nappearance, but exhaling an agreeable odour. This she instantly began \nto rob of its branches, expressing pleasure at the discovery.\n\n\"It is sweet-fern,\" she said, in answer to the painter's question, \n\"not very rare, to be sure, but the first specimen that has come into \nthe paddock of its own accord; all the rest I planted myself. Now, \nsir, this is neither myrtle nor sweet-grass; but it is good to smell \nat; and in token that my extreme hurry to drive you out of my \nfather's house proceeded from no ill will, but from true benevolence, \nand as much friendship as one can feel at a week's notice, I present \nyou this same odoriferous plant, and advise you to make a medicine of \nit. It is said to be a fine tonic and cordial; and, I warrant me, \nElsie will know all about it.\"\n\n\"I shall apply it to a better use,\" said the painter, gaily. \"You \nknow, it is fern-seed which enables man to walk invisible.--Now, as a \nknight of romance, I may have need of such a magical auxiliary.\"\n\n\"Oh, if you laugh at me for that,\" said Catherine, \"I see there is \npeace between us.\"\n\n\"You could have added but one more injunction,\" said Herman, \"to make \nthe gift agreeable. Had you told me to follow its example--you know \nit came into the paddock of its own accord!--I should have\"----\n\n\"Thought me immensely witty,\" said Catherine. \"Certainly, Mr. Hunter, \nI will expect you to call upon my father if you remain in the valley; \nand certainly, if he do not fetch you to the Folly to-morrow, I shall \nbe vastly astonished. But pray, sir,\" she added, observing that the \ngentleman looked mortified, and abashed, \"do not consider such an \ninvitation necessary. A visiter at Gilbert's Folly is too much of a \nPhoenix--a _rara avis_, I think you scholars call it,--to be turned \nlightly away. I wish you, sincerely, a happy and speedy \nrecovery.--Good day, sir--I commit you to Richard's keeping.\"\n\nWith these words she turned from the gate, plucked another branch \nfrom the fern-bush, and then, with Phoebe, pursued her way back to \nthe house. The painter received her valediction with much less \nsatisfaction than had been produced by the fragrant present. He saw \nher return to the bush, and then, looking once back, and waving her \nhand, resume her steps, walking on towards the mansion; and he was \nhimself astonished at the feeling of melancholy that instantly came \nover his spirit. \"What is there in her,\" he muttered within the \nrecesses of his bosom, \"that should interest me so strongly? Why \nshould I be gladdened by the wave of her hand? why darkened at once \nby the turning away of her face?--She _is_ unhappy after all, \nwhatever skill she may have to conceal it; and, by heaven, it is a \npiteous thing to ponder on. Well, well.--Such an admirable creature! \nso gentle, and yet so firm! so frank, yet so modest! so merry, yet so \ndignified! so natural in manners, yet so refined! so sensitive, yet \nsensible! so kind,--nay,--openly affectionate of disposition, yet so \nwomanly in all!--sure I shall never more see her equal!\"\n\nThus the young man mused, remaining so long with his eyes following \nthe retreating figure of the young lady, that Richard, the venerable \ncoachman so often mentioned before, thought fit to presume upon the \narguments of his age and standing, as a faithful and highly-prized \nservant, and interrupt the meditations of his charge. He first \nscraped his feet over the gravelly road, then coughed, then hemmed, \nand at last opened his lips, and spoke:\n\n\"A-well-a, massa Hunta,\" he said, \"werry bad practice this here, \n'sposing broken bones in the open air, 'specially when a gemman are \nsickish-like. No offence, massa,--but why we no go down to Missus \nElsie's?\"\n\n\"Right, Richard, let us go,\" said Hunter, walking down the hill, but \never and anon casting his eye over his shoulder, as long as Miss \nLoring was visible, or a single flutter of her garment could be \ndetected among the green shades of the avenue. \"How long have you \nlived with Captain Loring, Richard?\"\n\n\"Ebber since he wa' born.--Wa' a mighty fine boy, Massa John Loring!\"\n\n\"Oh, then you were in the family long before Miss Catherine was \nborn?\"\n\n\"Lorra-golly, yes!\" said the negro, with a triumphant grin; \"Massa no \ns'pose young missus born afo' her fader: Lorra-massy, yaugh!\"\n\n\"An excellent, lovely young mistress!\" said the painter.\n\n\"Lorra, massa, yes; a lubly young missus; and makes lubly fine \nhoe-cake, if massa Cap'n would let her.--Old Nance taught her, when \nshe wa' no bigga naw my foot. Massa must know, old Nance wa' _my_ \nwife Nancy. So't o' nuss'd young missus Katy, for all what missus \nAunt Rachel say; always liked old Nance betta, 'case how? Why old \nNance larned her all she knew, make hoe-cake, corn-cake, johnny-cake, \nshort-cake, hominy, pie, pone, and cream-cheese.\"\n\n\"Well Richard, and so you are to marry her off, and see her no more?\"\n\n\"Golly, massa, yes; what for she young lady, if no?\"\n\n\"And when's the wedding to be, Richard? Merry times you'll have!\"\n\n\"Lorra, massa, don't know. Some says one day, some anoder. Wa' to \nbeen married soon, but faw the white nlgga Gilbert, what cut the \nColonel's throat!\"\n\n\"What, so soon?\" said Herman, feeling a sudden thrill run through his \nframe. \"Why, Richard, they were in a hurry, for such young folks. \nMiss Catherine is only seventeen--a very great hurry!\"\n\n\"No, massa; long standing 'fair that; and put off, put off, Lorra \nknows how long; 'case young missus says she too young. Lorra-golly! \nold Nance wa' but fo'teen o' so; and I reckon there's more naw all \nthat. An old nigga man, what's brought up a gemman, knows what's \nwhat!\"\n\n\"Eh, Richard! you don't say so? You have the secret then? Come now, \nmy old boy, here's a dollar. Come, put it in your pocket.\"\n\n\"Saddy, massa; God blessa massa!\"\n\n\"Well now, Richard, what's the reason the marriage has been put off?\"\n\n\"Golly! massa gib me the dolla' to tell?\" cried Richard, looking \nalarmed.\n\n\"Certainly, Richard.--It's not a long secret, I hope?\"\n\n\"Lorra, massa, can't do dat. Gib back a dolla', if massa call him \nback; but no tell on young missus. Brought up a gemman, massa; and no \ntell secrets out of the house.\"\n\n\"Oh, well, never mind, Richard; keep the money; I did not want to \nbribe you to tell any thing improper on your mistress; and I am glad \nto see you are so honest. It makes no difference: but what's the \nreason your young mistress does not like the Colonel's son?\"\n\n\"Not like Massa Harry?\" cried the coachman, in great dismay. \"Sure \nold fool Dick no tell massa dat?\"\n\n\"Oh, no; you kept the secret very well. But it is quite odd the young \nlady should not like so fine a young man?\"\n\n\"Yes, massa, wery strange; but women's women, massa. Massa Harry \nwerry fine young man.\"\n\n\"Well!\" muttered the painter to himself, \"I am playing an honest \ngentleman's part with this old ass, truly! I'll befool him no more. \nIt is true, then!--even this dolt can tell that his mistress is \nsacrificed. So young, so fair, so good!--I would I had never seen \nher.\"\n\nWith such reflections as these, and many others of a painful nature, \nthe young man continued his path; and, finally, having come within a \nshort distance of the hovel, he discharged his attendant, and bade \nhim return to the mansion. He then pursued his way alone, and \nreaching the solitary cottage, took possession of his former quarters \nwith a sigh, a saddened brow, and a spirit no longer composed and \nmirthful. The bunch of fern he placed betwixt two leaves of paper, \nwith as much care as became the first tribute to an herbarium.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n  Oh, now I see where your ambition points.--\n  Take heed you steer your vessel right, my son:\n  This calm of heaven, this mermaid's melody,\n  Into an unseen whirlpool draws you fast,\n  And, in a moment, sinks you.\n                    DRYDEN--_The Spanish Fryar_.\n\n\nThe summer had just set in, when the painter returned to the \nTraveller's Rest, with the prospect, so rapid was his convalescence, \nof being able to leave the valley within the space of a fortnight. \nBut week came after week, June exchanged her green cloak for the \ngolden mantle of July, the laurels bloomed on the hills, and the \nfire-flies twinkled in the evening grass, and still he lingered among \nthe pleasant solitudes of Hawk-Hollow, as if unable to tear himself \naway. This faintness of purpose, for weekly, at least, he vowed he \nwould depart, he excused to himself, by pleading the strong necessity \nhe was under of delighting Captain Loring's heart with a picture, \nwhich he could not begin until his arm was released, not only from \nthe wooden bonds of splints, but from the weakness resulting from the \nfracture. Until that happy period arrived, he was a frequent and \nindeed a welcome visiter at the mansion, his society being not less \nagreeable to Catherine than it was absolutely indispensable to her \nfather. Young as she was, and with a spirit so gay and frank, there \nwas much good sense in all Miss Loring's actions; and this had been \ndoubtless sharpened by the necessity, imposed upon her so early, of \nplaying the matron in her father's household, and guarding against \nthe consequences of his many eccentricities. It was this good sense \nwhich taught her the propriety of getting rid of the stranger guest, \nas soon as humanity would sanction his expulsion; and this she had, \nin part, indirectly confessed to the party herself, with her usual \ngood-humoured openness. This being accomplished, and Herman now \nassuming his proper station at a distance, and visiting the house as \nan avowed favourite of her father, she felt herself delivered from \nrestraint, and received him without reserve. His manners and \nconversation were at all times those of a gentleman; and this is \nalways enough, in America, to entitle a stranger, of whom no evil is \nknown or suspected, to hospitality and respectful consideration, \nespecially at a distance from the larger cities. That curiosity, \nwhich travellers have chosen to saddle upon Americans as a national \ncharacteristic, along with the two or three forms of speech that have \nbelonged to the mother-land since the days of Chaucer, is in no \ncountry less really intrusive than in America. If it be irksome, and, \nat times, ludicrously impertinent, it is easily satisfied. It \nsprings, indeed, not from a suspicious, so much as an inquisitive, \ndisposition; and is the result of a certain openness of character, \nsuch as arises under every democratic government, and is well known \nto have prevailed to an extraordinary extent among the old Greek \nrepublics, notwithstanding the proverbial craftiness of individual \ncharacter. With this curiosity is associated an equal quantity of \ncredulity; and Americans are very content to receive the stranger, \nwhose deportment is at all prepossessing, entirely upon his own \nself-recommendations. No jealousy accompanies an introduction made \nonly by accident; and the same generous confidence is reposed in the \nnew acquaintance, which the bestower will expect, under similar \ncircumstances, to have lavished upon himself.\n\nIt did not, therefore, enter into the thoughts of Miss Loring to \nquestion Hunter's claims to such friendly courtesies as were accorded \nto him; and if any doubts of the propriety of continuing his \nacquaintance had occurred, they must have been dispelled by a \nremembrance of the circumstances under which he was introduced. Her \nhappy instrumentality in rescuing him from a dreadful peril, had \ngiven her a right to be interested in his behalf; and the great \npleasure the young man's society afforded her father, was an \nadditional argument to banish reserve. The visits of Herman were \ntherefore received and encouraged; the young lady's spirits, animated \nby such companionship, became more elastic and joyous; and Captain \nLoring rejoiced in the painter's acquaintance as much on her account \nas his own. \"Adzooks, Kate,\" he was used to exclaim, \"the young dog \nis as good company for you as cousin Harry,\"--so he often called Miss \nFalconer, as well as her brother,--\"and the lord knows how much \n_better_ for me! And then the picture, Kate, adzooks, is'n't it a \ncharmer! that is to say, it _will be_; but the young dog won't show \nit to me.\"\n\nThe picture,--'the grand picture of the Battle of Brandywine, and Tom \nLoring dying,'--had been at last begun, or rather a drawing in water \ncolours, meant to represent that double calamity; and from the few \nsamples of proficiency in his art which Herman had already shown, the \nexpectations of the daughter were almost as agreeably kindled as \nthose of the parent. The painter had presented Catherine with a few \nlittle sketches from his port-folio,--landscapes, representing views \nof Southern scenery, which to her appeared highly spirited, while to \nthe Captain they seemed sublime,--only that _he_ had a perverse \nfacility at seeing rocks and stumps of trees in groups of kine on the \nmeadows; and in distant flocks of sheep, nothing better than so many \nrambling killdeers on the barren upland. Notwithstanding these \nunlucky mistakes, he conceived so high an opinion of the artist's \nability, that he strenuously urged him to begin the Battle of \nBrandywine upon a scale of magnitude commensurate with the grandeur \nof the subject; 'He would have it,' he said, 'done magnificently. He \nwould go down to the village, and buy Ephraim Gall, the \ntavern-keeper's, big sign, that had the great Black Bear on it; or he \nwould have another made just like it; and, he had no doubt, his young \ndog Haman,'--for the Captain could never fall upon his proteg\u00e9's true \nname,--'would beat John Smith, the sign-painter, hollow,'--a flight \nof panegyric that somewhat nettled the artist, but vastly diverted \nMiss Loring.\n\nBut the greatest accession to his reputation was obtained when \nHerman, as the only means of securing a likeness of the Captain's \ndeceased son, prevailed upon Catherine to sit to him for hers, and \nthe radiant features beamed at last from the ivory. The delight with \nwhich the Captain seized upon this happy effort of art, was not \nmerely boisterous; it was obstreperous,--nay, uproarious; and \nCatherine, laughing and weeping together, acknowledged that, in thus \nenrapturing her father's heart, the painter had made her his friend \nfor ever.\n\n\"Now, Captain,\" said Hunter, with a beaming eye, \"now, all I have to \ndo, is to take that sketch home\"----\n\n\"Shan't let it go out of my hands!\" cried Captain Loring. \"Why, it's \nmy Kate herself! Give up my heart's blood first.\"\n\n\"You shall have it again, Captain; I promise you that. It is only to \ncopy it, you know--that is, to paint the likeness of your son from \nit.\"\n\n\"Shall do no such thing--must do another,\" cried Captain Loring; and \nit required all the arguments of the painter, backed by those of \nCatherine, to prevail upon the obstinate old man to surrender the \nsketch, that it might be devoted to the purpose for which it was \nexecuted.\n\nThus passed the time of the painter in an employment, which, as much \nas his conversation, recommended him to the friendship of two \nisolated beings, simple-hearted, guileless, and unsuspicious of any \ncoming ill. Thus he passed his time, confiding and confided in--the \ngayest, the merriest, and perhaps the happiest visiter who had ever \nbeen admitted to the privileges of Avondale; yet, all the time, \nwhether rambling with the frank maiden in search of summer flowers to \ntransfer to her garden, whether listening to the gay music of her \nconversation, or gazing, in the exercise of his art, upon her \nbeautiful features, drinking in a poison which he felt and feared, \nyet without knowing the deep hold it was taking upon his spirit, \nuntil the sudden crash of coming events made him dreadfully aware of \nits influence. He was neither too young nor too short-sighted to be \nignorant of the impression made on his feelings by each daily \ninterview with a maiden so bewitching; nor did he attempt to repress \nthe humiliating consciousness, that, in thus giving his heart to the \naffianced bride of another, he was preparing for himself a \nretribution of pain and penitence, and perhaps of shame. From the \nmoment in which he discovered himself treasuring away with such \njealous care, the gift of withering fern,--a bagatelle of compliment, \nwhich, he well knew, was only given by Catherine to remove a \nmortification she had inflicted,--he saw that he was sporting upon \nthe brink of a precipice--trifling upon some such slippery bridge as \nthat of fatal memory over the streamlet, from which his folly might \nat any moment hurl him. With this consciousness before him, he \nperceived the necessity of flight, yet fled not, deeming that the \npower of escape at the right moment could not be denied him--of \ntaking some antidote with the poison, but took none, resolving it \nshould be swallowed thereafter; and, in fine, while still thinking \nthat he resisted, or was prepared to resist, when the peril should \nbecome urgent, he gave himself up to the intoxication of the new \npassion, and, in reality, sought every means to augment it.\n\n  'When the flame of love is kindled first,\n   'Tis the fire-fly's light at even,'--\n\nthe flash of an insect, which one can admire, without fearing its \npower to create a conflagration. A vague impression that Catherine's \nwant of affection for the licensed lover would prevent the completion \nof the marriage contract, gave a sort of encouragement and hope to \nhis selfishness, which he interpreted into the more generous sympathy \nof one who lamented her hard fate, and desired only to shield and \nprotect her. In this delusive thought, in this romantic willingness \nto watch over the safety of another, he lingered around the vortex of \nfate, until the ripple became a current, and the current an impetuous \ntide, from which there was no escape, except by exerting his \nremaining strength to the utmost. At the very period when the \nexertion should have been made, he bore to his solitary chamber the \nidol lately completed by his own hands, and as he gazed upon it, felt \nthat the moment of salvation had passed by.\n\n\"Yes, it is now too late,\" he muttered, apostrophising the miniature; \n\"I have fooled myself a second time into the whirlpool; and who, \nCatherine, will play thy part with me again, and again save me? It \n_is_ too late; it is too late to retreat, and now therefore I must go \non--yet with what hope go on? With none. She heeds me not, she dreams \nnot of my folly, she cares not. Friendship is the grave of love; and \nin her friendship my love is entombed, before it has breathed twice \nin existence. I will speak to her, and be derided!--I will confess \nmyself, and be driven from her presence! And this is honourable of me \ntoo! to take advantage of her unsuspicious frankness, her anxious \ndesire to gratify her father, and steal a portrait from her! I saw \nshe doubted the propriety of sitting; and yet I, by base \ndissimulation and affected indifference, cajoled her to consent. \nWell, if I can copy, I can destroy; and if this fool--this \nslave--this Falconer wed her, why, then good-by to the knavery and \nthe folly together! I will tarry, at least, until I see the \nprivileged woer; and then, if she like him not, if she recoil--nay, \nif she shed but a tear of repugnance, may heaven forsake me if I do \nnot----Well, what? Kill him!----There has been enough of that among \nus already.\"\n\nThus murmuring to himself, and expressing invectives against his \nfolly, with the usual arguments for continuing to indulge it, he sat \ndown before a table, and despite his convictions of the impropriety, \nif not the meanness of the act, began to copy the miniature. He \nlaboured assiduously until he had completed the outline, and then \nexclaimed, with a species of reproachful triumph,\n\n\"Now, foolish father of the best and loveliest! though you rob me of \nmy labour, yet have I secured its counterpart. Send me a thousand \nleagues away, and within this dim outline shall my hand reproduce the \nimage of your sacrifice.--But here come the fools again! Now for a \nsmooth face, a merry voice, and a frolic with my jolterhead \nadmirers.\"\n\nThe vow which the painter had made, when the doctor and his two \nfriends passed by the widow's cottage, and smiled at his choice of \nlodgings, that he would make them fonder of the Traveller's Rest than \ntheir own village quarters, he had in part fulfilled. Whatever was \nhis secret and growing care, it was yet confined to his own bosom; \nand he was altogether of too joyous a temperament, had he even \ndesired to nourish his melancholy, to bear a sad spirit in company. \nHe was one of those who suffer most, and suffer longest, by grieving \nonly at intervals, and enjoying themselves heartily among friends. \nThe idea of a continuous grief, of any duration, at least, is \npreposterous. The body can live upon the rack only a few hours, or \ndays; and the spirit's powers of endurance are not much greater.\n\nHis gay and agreeable manners had strongly recommended him to the \ntrio; and the two lawyers, having nothing better to do, were wont to \nmount their horses, and accompany the doctor on his professional \nvisitations, which he continued for some time after the patient had \ntaken refuge within the Traveller's Rest; and even after he insisted \nupon being cured, they wasted their tediousness upon him at least \ntwice or thrice a week, in the way of friendly calls; and he was wont \nto entertain them as well as he could. Of the doctor he had made a \nconquest by asking for his bill, and paying it in good English \nguineas, a handful of which coin gave doctor Merribody more sensible \ndelight than could the bushel of paper with which he expected to fill \nhis saddle-bags; the amount charged against the unlucky amateur being \nsome few thousands of dollars,--Continental currency.\n\nOne of the doctor's friends, whom he usually addressed by the \nfamiliar title of Jingleum, but whose real name was Jackson, or \nJohnson, or some such unhappy dissyllable, was the poet of the \nvillage, and a bard of renown for at least ten miles round. Him the \npainter won by praising his verses, and what was still more \ncaptivating, by singing them, and what was yet more enslaving, by \nrequesting permission to cull all the stanzas of a _cantabile_ nature \nfrom the long blue-covered log-books, in which Mr. Jingleum had \ncarefully recorded his labours. Seeing what a congenial soul he had \nfound in the painter, Jingleum freely supplied his wants, and wrote \ndivers madrigals at his suggestion, with which Herman charmed the \nears of Miss Loring. The poet soon became his intense admirer and \nperpetual visiter; they grew fast friends, and soon came to regard \neach other, the one as the divinest poet, the other as the most \nfinished singer, under the moon. It would have been an interesting \nsight, could one have invaded the sanctity of the painter's \napartment, on such occasions, to see them together, industriously \nfixing a tune to each affecting ditty,--a labour that was sometimes \nnone of the lightest; and sometimes, when the genius of the bard, as \nit often did, chose to disdain the base bonds of metre and rhythm, \nand none of the thousand melodies in their service could be forced or \nwheedled into nuptials with his independent verse, they were fain to \nbetake themselves to their own resources, and finish the business \nwith such a _quodlibet_ as they could manufacture between them. It \nwas a divine enjoyment to the poet, when they had at last succeeded \nwith any refractory song, to hear his lines breathed out from the \nmellow lips of his friend; for then his poetry seemed as celestial as \nhis pleasure. His bliss, however, was not complete, until he lighted \nby accident, one day, in the village, upon a battered guitar,--an \ninstrument of such venerable antiquity, that there was not a soul \ntherein who was able to pronounce for what unheard-of purpose such an \nextraordinary engine had been framed, until Herman Hunter, swearing \nit could discourse most eloquent music, and was _not_ a banjo, \nmanaged, by dint of much exertion, to fit it up with fiddle-strings \nand the savings of some demolished harpsichord, and set its dumb \ntongues twangling: it was not until he heard his rhymes trolled forth \nto the clatter of this romantic instrument, that the joy of the poet \nmounted to the heaven of ecstasy. He would sit distilling with \ndelight, while the lips of his friend warbled over the seraphic \nlines, and while his fingers hopped over the amaranthine strings; and \nthen, sometimes, with a sudden feeling of inspiration, he would \nsnatch the lyre, as he poetically called it, into his own hands, \ndoubtless expecting an overflow of ineffable harmony from the mere \nfulness of his spirit, until warned by the dreadful dissonance of his \ntouches, and the remonstrances of his admirer, he found, however \nextraordinary it seemed, that the drum and the jewsharp were the only \ninstruments the playing of which came by nature.\n\nThis peculiar friendship betwixt the bard and the singer it is \nperhaps necessary here to mention, in order that it should be \nunderstood to whom should be given the credit of those canzonets sung \nby the painter, which seem to have any peculiar reference to his own \ncondition. He did not carry his affection so far as to bestow any of \nhis private confidence on the bard; nor did the latter ever suspect \nthat any call, however urgent, for a ballad especially sad and \namatory, was to be understood as indicating a passion deeper than \nthat of the mere songster. There was little suspiciousness in the \npoet's frame, and no scandal-mongers in the neighbourhood. It was \nindeed the golden age of that part of the world; although the country \nwas somewhat overflowed with paper-money.\n\nIt was one result of this generous spirit, doubtless, that caused the \nstory of the resuscitation of a Hawk of Hawk-Hollow to be so soon \nforgotten. The account of the outrage upon Colonel Falconer, as \nhaving been perpetrated by Oran Gilbert, did indeed at first create a \nconsiderable sensation; and many excitable individuals, hearing of \nthe chase after the fugitive Nehemiah, mounted their horses, and \nresumed the trail, the next day, with the resolution of sifting the \nmystery to the bottom. But the trail ended where Lieutenant Brooks \nhad left it; the raw-boned white horse had passed through divers \nhands, and was, in course of time, supposed to have been recovered by \nthe rightful owner; but the rider had vanished as if swallowed up by \nthe earth, or melted into the air, and was never more heard of. The \nstory died away, or was remembered only as a jest, which finally \nexpired in the vapour of its own silliness. The reasonable men \nlaughed at their late fears, and forgot them.\n\nAbout the present time, however, there arose a rumour, no one knew \nhow or why, which created a new sensation among the credulous and \nforeboding. It was whispered that a band of tories was secretly \nforming among the hills; but where, or for what purpose, no one \npretended to say. It was a vague and mysterious apprehension, that \nspread from person to person, by virtue, perhaps, of its enigmatic \ncharacter; for no inquiry could detect a better reason for its \nprevalence. As it carried its contagion further and further, men \nbegan again to talk of the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow; the refugees, in \nimagination, rose again from their tombs, and the scalp-hunter stole \nanew through the forests. The rumour had reached the Traveller's \nRest; but it made little impression on the spirit of the painter.\n\nHe laid aside his drawing in haste, so soon as he heard that clatter \nof hoofs in the oaken yard, which, he thought, betokened the coming \nof his friends; and having secured it beyond the reach of any prying \neye, he descended to meet them.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n  \"Unto you,\" quod I, \"with all my whole assent,\n  I will tell trouthe, and you will not bewraye\n  Unto none other my matter and entent.\"\n  \"Nay, nay,\" quod he, \"you shall not see that daye:\n  Your whole affiaunce and trust well ye may\n  Into me put; for I shall not vary,\n  But kepe your councill as a secretary.\"\n                            HAWES--_Pastime of Plesure_.\n\n\nInstead of the bard or the physician, Hunter discovered that the \nclatter which had interrupted his secret labours, was caused by the \narrival of a personage entirely unknown, and, as he soon began to \nbelieve, unworthy his notice. He was a stout but ill-looking man, \nwith a soldier's coat and hat, both worn and shabby, and Herman \ninferred at once, that he was some private from a disbanded regiment, \nreturning to the life of industry and obscurity he had left for the \nwars. As he reached the porch, Herman saw that Dancy, the farmer, who \nhappened to be about the house, was showing the new guest the way to \nthe stable; and, however unprepossessing his appearance, he soon \nperceived that he had already struck up a friendship with Dancy, who \ntalked and laughed, as they jogged together round the crag, as if \nwith an old acquaintance. This set the painter's heart at rest; and \nhe soon afterwards discovered that the man, being as humble in his \ndesires as prospects, had visited the Traveller's Rest less in search \nof entertainment than employment, and had agreed with the widow, or \nrather with Dancy, who assumed the privilege of striking the bargain, \nto remain and assist the hireling in the labours of the approaching \nharvest, in consideration of receiving free quarters and forage \nduring that period.\n\nIn the conversation of such a man it is not to be supposed the \npainter could have looked for any source of interest; and, \naccordingly, he merely gave him a glance as he strode away with \nDancy, leading a sorry gelding in his hand, and then took a seat on \nthe porch by Elsie, whose wheel, as usual, was droning out its \nmonotonous hum near the door. Though hand and foot plied their \naccustomed task with accuracy and effect, it was evident that the \npoor widow's thoughts were not with her employment; on the contrary, \nshe was engaged in profound and sorrowful contemplation; and, indeed, \nfor a sennight past, Herman had observed that her fits of abstraction \nwere unusually deep and frequent.\n\nHe sat down at her side, and addressed some few questions to her in \nrelation to the stranger, but received such vague and irrelevant \nanswers as convinced him her meditations were too engrossing to be \neasily broken. He proceeded therefore without delay to seek some \nother means of amusing his mind; and casting his eyes towards the \ndistant hall, he was, in a few moments, plunged in reflections as \nabsorbing, or even more so than her own. Indeed, his interrogatories, \nthough they did not immediately rouse the old woman from her \nlethargy, served the purpose of interrupting and distracting her \nthoughts a little; so that she, by and by, woke up, and recovered \nherself so far as to look round her, and perceive she was not alone \non the porch. She surveyed the young man very earnestly, until, at \nlast, tears gathered in her eyes, and her wheel stood still. The \nsudden ceasing of the sound at once broke the spell that enchained \nthe painter's spirit; and looking up to Elsie, he displayed a \ncountenance on which the turn of some darker thought had imprinted a \ncharacter of sternness, and even fierceness.\n\nElsie rose up, and stepping towards him, laid her palsied hand upon \nhis shoulder, saying, in tones both solemn and impressively \nappealing,\n\n\"Drive these thoughts from your bosom, and now depart. Why should you \nrest longer in this place? Your limb is sound, your strength is \nrestored; and now begone, ere the calls of others, and the anger of \nyour own heart, shall drive you into acts of blood, which, if you die \nnot among them, you will live only to repent.\"\n\n\"Fear me not, mother,\" said the youth, with a faint smile. \"On this \nsubject, I have told you my resolution before. I am, at the least, as \ngood an American as yourself; and whatever may have been my original \nloyal and subjugating propensities, I have now not a wish, nay, not a \nthought, of playing the enslaver. Nothing on earth shall draw me into \nthe matter you think of.\"\n\n\"Ay, but revenge though!\" said the widow, warningly. \"You are \ndreaming of him whom you think you should hate, and thirsting perhaps \nfor an opportunity to shed his blood?\"\n\n\"You are deceived, Elsie. I will never lift my hand against him, \nunless in self-defence. God is the avenger, and, one day, he _will_ \navenge. I hate, Elsie, but I will not shed blood.\"\n\n\"And why then do you remain? If _he_, whom neither knife nor bullet \ncan destroy, looks upon you again, as surely he will, and that \nperhaps sooner than you dream of, he will entice you into his bloody \nschemes; and though he escape, yet will you perish.\"\n\n\"Into his schemes I will not be enticed,\" said Herman; \"and I rather \nhope, by argument and persuasion, to draw him from them.\"\n\n\"Argument and persuasion! and these to be tried on _him_?\" muttered \nElsie, looking around her as if in dread. \"When you can argue the \nwolf from the neck of the dying deer,--when you can persuade the \nrattle-snake not to strike the naked foot that is trampling his back, \nthen may you think of turning him from his purpose, or changing his \nwild and dreadful nature. He will have revenge, and I know that he \nwill obtain it. Years have passed by,--(how many and how \nbitter!)--the gray hair has joined with the black, the smooth brow \nhas turned to the furrowed, but the purpose of his heart has not \ngrown old and fainted; all is now as it was, and so will be till the \nend. Think not of drawing him to your opinions; but be certain he \nwill draw you to his. Go not near him, avoid him, let him not see \nyou, or speak with you.\"\n\n\"Fear me not, Elsie\"----\n\n\"I _do_ fear you. Alas, young man, trust not yourself in his power; \nif he touches you with his hand, you will fall. God forbid you should \nbe joined with him in the matter that is coming! I had rather you \nwere struck down by lightning where you stand;--better were it for \nyou, had you slept under the Fall of the Grave.\"\n\n\"Sure, Elsie,\" said the young man, \"there is nothing so criminal and \nhorrid in the enterprise, after all. The rescue of a poor captive,--a \nboy, too, of nineteen years, and the only son of a doting and noble \nmother, condemned to death unjustly and perfidiously, (that is a \nharsh word, Elsie!) to expiate a crime committed by another,--sure, \nthis is an enterprise of humanity rather than iniquity.\"\n\n\"And do you think this is all?\" cried Elsie. \"A darker project is in \nhis mind, and a darker deed will be soon accomplished. Why then do \nyou stay? Have you not seen enough, and mourned enough? I tell you, \nwhen the marriage-day comes, the wronger will come, and after him the \navenger; and who knows what dreadful deeds will be done, before all \nis over?\"\n\n\"If it be a marriage of blood,\" said the youth, \"why so let it be. \nThey are, I firmly believe, leading Catherine Loring like a sheep to \nthe shambles. If they mean to wed her to young Falconer against her \nwill, why then, though there should be no other man in the world to \nbefriend her, I will stand by her myself;----I will, Elsie,\" he \nexclaimed, impetuously; \"and, if Falconer do not at once surrender \nhis claims, I will compel him!\"\n\n\"What!\" cried the widow, starting from him in dismay: \"What is this I \nhear? What! you,--have _you_ looked at Catherine Loring, then, as a \ncreature to be loved! Have _you_ dared\"----\n\n\"Nonsense!\" cried the young man, with a visage of flame; \"I am \nenslaved to her by gratitude, and I wish to do her a service. I owe \nher a life, Elsie; and I will yield it up ten times over, before she \nshall be driven into a marriage she abhors, and which, I believe, is \nbreaking her heart.\"\n\n\"Miserable, insane, cruel young man!\" cried the widow, with \nunexpected energy,--\"and it has come to this, then? You have repaid \nher humanity and kindness, by stealing away her affections from her \nbetrothed husband, and so making a lot, sorrowful enough before, \nstill more wretched! You have\"----\n\n\"Hold, Elsie,\" exclaimed Herman; \"it is you who are insane. You told \nme yourself, she was averse to the match.----And, as to stealing her\naffections, I have done no such thing--they are not so lightly come \nby. If they were, Elsie,--nay, if they were really mine, Elsie, why \nshould I not make my claim to them, as well as another? I am neither \npoor nor humble, neither degraded nor corrupted; in all things of \nworldly good, I am young Falconer's equal, and perhaps, in some, his \nsuperior.\"\n\n\"Ay!\" cried the widow, with increasing vehemence, \"and if she smiled, \nand if that would win her, you would shoot Harry Falconer through the \nbrain! Is it not so? This is dreadful! Oh, young man, begone; remain \nnot a moment longer in the valley. You will commit a crime worse than \nself-destruction, and one more hard to pardon!\"\n\n\"I will commit no crime, Elsie; and none have I yet committed. Your \nanxiety is absurd; and so is your suspicion. That I have the most \nfriendly regard for Miss Loring, the most ardent friendship, is true; \nbut as to loving her, Elsie, that--why that is all nonsense.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it is,\" cried the widow, \"and Heaven grant it may prove so. \nBut go not near her again, do not expose yourself to the intoxication \nof her society. If not a wrong to yourself, it is an unkindness to \nher. If you talk to her of escaping from the marriage she hates, and \nshe finds she has a friend left in the world to aid her--ah, that \nwould ruin her! The desire of escape may madden the wisest.\"\n\n\"Fiddlesticks!\" cried the youth; \"I have no such coarse and meddling \nways of testifying my regard; and a presumption of that kind would \nbanish me from her presence for ever. But, Elsie, I tell you, I \ncannot bear the thought of her being married against her will.\"\n\n\"And how can you prevent it? By wedding her yourself? That cannot be. \nBy breaking her heart? Yes, there you may succeed----it is breaking \nalready; and when you have added one more pang to it, it will soon \ncease to suffer. Hearken, young man; if you persist in this thing, \nyou will be a villain. Go up to the grove--get you to Jessie's \nsleeping place; and consider how fast you are treading in the steps \nof him who slew her.\"\n\n\"I, Elsie! This is extraordinary!\"\n\n\"It is true. Both of you were carried, sick and dying, into the house \nof a stranger; both of you were received by guileless and open \nhearts; and, when you have gone a little farther in your folly, it \ncan be perhaps said, that both left sorrow and death behind them.\"\n\n\"Elsie, this is shocking? Do you think me such a villain as that \nman?\"\n\n\"I do not,\" said Elsie; \"if I did,--if I thought you were now, like \nhim before you, plotting, even in conceit, a wrong to that noble \ngirl,--if I thought this,\" she added, with singular asperity, \"I \nwould put hemlock into your food, though you were the child of my own \nsister, and you should die before morning!\"\n\n\"I commend your zeal in the lady's cause, and will myself endeavour \nto imitate it. But there, an end, Elsie; we will talk of this no \nmore. Your fears are even more groundless than injurious. I will \nleave the valley soon--perhaps very soon; and I will murder no one, \nwhile I remain in it.\"\n\nSo saying, to end a discussion which was becoming disagreeable, he \nleft the house, resolved to make his way to the scene of his late \ndisaster. In this resolution he continued, until he reached the \npark-gate; when, suddenly observing the flutter of a white garment \nunder the trees near to the mansion, he turned from his path, and \nagain found himself in the presence of the Captain's daughter.\n\nAnd thus it happened with him on the next day, the next, and again \nthe next; until the little thread that tangled his spirit had become \na web from which there was no escape, unless by rending away some of \nthe vital limbs it encircled. He sang and painted as before; nay, he \nassailed the Battle of Brandywine with zeal and industry, and had \nadvanced so far with the work, before the occurrence of unlooked-for \nevents chilled his enthusiasm and palsied his hand, that he was able \nto carry it to the mansion, and exhibit it to the father and \ndaughter, that he might derive all the advantage of their remarks on \nthe most difficult feature of his subject,--that is to say, the \nfigure of the Captain's deceased son.\n\nIn the meanwhile, he confirmed the good impression he had long since \nmade on his two friends, and was indeed admitted to such intimacy \nwith both, as marked, not only their sense of his merits, but their \nown simplicity of character. In the case of the Captain, he certainly \nbegan to fill up the gap made in his affections by the death of his \nson; and as for Catherine, she soon appreciated the value of a \nfriendship based upon grateful recollections, and, what seemed to \nher, a delicate and purely disinterested regard for her weal and \nhappiness.\n\nThe situation of this unhappy girl,--for such, in truth, she \nwas,--was of a nature to engage her feelings warmly in favour of any \none approaching her with real friendship, as it was also to touch the \nsympathies of the discerning and compassionate.\n\n  \"Naught is there under heaven's wide hollownesse,\n     That moves more dear compassion of mind,\n   Than beautie brought t' unworthie wretchednesse,\n     Through envie's snares, or fortune's freaks unkind.\"\n\nShe was still very young, yet old enough to feel the desolation of \nher father's house and fortunes, and to be willing to sacrifice her \nown happiness to secure that of her parent. At the very moment when \nher father became a beggar,--an outcast from the home of her \nnativity,--her charms had won the heart of the young Falconer,----'A \nlad,' as Captain Loring was wont to say, 'after a man's heart, and a \nwoman's too;' and the enamoured youth, with his father's fullest \napprobation, and indeed warm encouragement, claimed permission to \nthrow himself at her feet, and received it. Perhaps the consideration \nof her father's misfortunes had greater weight with Catherine than \nthe temptation of wealth and splendour; and perhaps the indifference \nof a young and wholly unoccupied heart had also its share of \ninfluence in determining her decision. It is certain, if she did not \nconsent with alacrity, she did not refuse so earnestly as to make the \nCaptain believe the proposal was otherwise than vastly agreeable to \nher; and, in truth, it was some considerable time before she began to \nlament her easy consent, and to feel that there was merit, because \npain, in the sacrifice. The great youth of the pair (for at the time \nof betrothal, the lover was yet in his minority,) had caused the \nnuptials to be deferred until the close of the spring of the present \nyear, but a short time previous to which the attempt was made on the \nlife of Colonel Falconer; and that occurrence had necessarily \nproduced another postponement. In the meanwhile, the maiden had grown \nolder and reflected more deeply; and the regrets that began to wake \nin her spirit, though, at first, she scarce knew why, became more \nfrequent and painful, as fame, or scandal, brought to her ears \nstories of wild frolic and dissipation on the part of her absent \nlover. These reports, to be sure, were combated by Miss Falconer, and \nthe excesses they proclaimed made to appear, as they always are in \nthe case of the rich and happy, only the natural outbreakings of a \njoyous and generous spirit. But Harriet's skill could not prevent her \nfriend discovering that the young soldier had little beside a comely \nface and a merry temper to recommend him to her favour; and perhaps \nno circumstance will sooner prejudice a woman against a lover, not \npreviously adored, than the discovery that his mind is inferior to \nher own. The _passion_ of love is a material instinct; the \n_sentiment_ is a particle of the divinity, and can only exist when \ncalled into action by the breath of spirit. Woman's love is only \ndeserving the name when it is purely a sentiment, and based upon \nreverence for the idol of her affections. In a word, Catherine found \nshe was to be wedded to a man she could never hope to love; and it \nrequired her constantly to keep before her eyes the situation of her \nfather, himself wholly incapable of retrieving, as he had been of \npreserving, his fortunes, to prevent her openly repining. To him, \ntherefore, she could not look as a friend, in her difficulty; his \naffection could be indeed counted upon, but it could be exercised in \nher favour only at the price of his ruin. As for Miss Falconer, \nthough she loved her well, she knew that _her_ spirit was entirely \nwith her brother, and that she encouraged, and did all she could to \npromote, the match, for his especial benefit, as a means of weaning \nhim from a gay and dissolute career, which threatened, if not \nspeedily checked, to terminate in confirmed profligacy.\n\nWith feelings of this kind constantly weighing upon her breast--a \nconsciousness ever present, that in the death of an only and beloved \nbrother, she had lost a friend to whom she might have unbosomed \nherself in grief, and from whom she might have expected sympathy and \nrelief,--it is not extraordinary that the kindness even of a \nstranger, expressed ever with delicacy and gentleness, and uttered \nnot so much in words as actions, should make a strong and enduring \nimpression upon her feelings, and that she should bestow upon him the \nfrankest evidences of regard.\n\n  \"Ne evil thing she fear'd, ne evil thing she meant.\"\n\nA circumstance--and it was the only one--which seemed at first to \nthreaten a speedy interruption of their good understanding, served in \nthe end even to strengthen her confidence and friendship. In an \nunguarded moment, and while under a strong impulse, the young man \nalluded to the approaching nuptials, and that in a manner so plainly \nindicative of his knowledge of Catherine's feelings, and of the \nsacrifice she was to be compelled to make, that she was justly \nalarmed and offended. She felt as a woman, that this was an indecorum \nand presumption of the most unpardonable nature; and the reproof it \nbrought upon the offender's head, was the stronger for being mingled \nwith the tears of humiliation. But even this was forgiven, when \nseveral days elapsed without bringing the youth back to the mansion, \nand she reflected how much his offensive intermeddling must have been \ncaused by the sympathy she was ever so glad to possess. She was \nreally rejoiced, when her father, astounded and concerned, and \nfinally enraged, at the unaccountable absence of his favourite, \nsought him out, and dragged him, almost by force of arms, to the \nmansion, and she heard his footsteps once more sounding on the porch; \nand Herman soon perceived that she had discharged from her mind all \nanger, if not all remembrance of his ungoverned zeal, and was \ndisposed to treat him with as much confidence as before. In truth, \nshe was one of the few we meet in the world, and perhaps as seldom \neven in woman as man, of that angelic quality of spirit, which \nmingles inaptness to take offence with the greatest readiness to \nforgive it; and as all he had said was made offensive not so much by \nits nature as by the position of the offender himself, and would have \nbeen proper in the case of a near kinsman or old and familiar friend, \nshe easily persuaded herself that the very rudeness was an evidence \nof regard, which she did wrong to punish with severity. She never \nperhaps afterwards smiled with the same gayety, or conversed with the \nsame unreserved freedom; but she treated him with much confidence; \none proof of which, from its singular nature, and the important, \nthough secret, influence it had upon the young man's conduct, it is \nnecessary to mention. She took occasion one afternoon, when her \nfather was sleeping, and her female companions were occupied afar-off \nin various domestic duties, to call his attention to the subject of \nthe outrage on Colonel Falconer, with which, as an intimate at \nGilbert's Folly, he was, of course familiar. 'She had,' she said 'a \nletter from Miss Falconer in relation to the unhappy and mysterious \naffair, and to certain steps that lady was taking in consequence of \nit. These,' she added, 'though of a singular nature and questionable \npropriety, she would not perhaps have presumed to communicate to \nanother, as they were in a degree confidential, were they not \naccompanied by a call upon herself for co-operation, under \ncircumstances so perplexing and embarrassing, that she felt herself \nat liberty to ask Mr. Hunter's assistance and advice,--the former for \nher friend, the latter for herself. She judged, from many expressions \nhe had let fall, that Mrs. Bell had made him acquainted, in part at \nleast, with the history of the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow; for which \nreason, he would be able to understand the letter without comments \nfrom her. He had seen one individual who figured prominently in the \nletter; and his opinion and recollections of _him_ would undoubtedly \nbe acceptable to Miss Falconer. On the whole, she was persuaded he \ncould assist her in what she felt to be a difficulty; and perhaps he \nmight be able to suggest something for the benefit of her friend.'\n\nWith this preliminary explanation, she proceeded to read Miss \nFalconer's letter, not stopping at those parts which alluded to the \npainter himself, and of which she made diverting use, though here and \nthere for obvious reasons, altering some of the expressions, and \napologizing for others in a humorous way. It may be supposed, and \nwith justice, that she carefully abstained from reading all those \npassages in which she was herself spoken of, in connexion with her \naffianced lord; and, indeed, the occurrence of these always caused \nher lip to quiver, and her finger, tracing the lines as they \noccurred, to hasten onward to the next fitting paragraph.\n\nThe letter was to the following effect:\n\n\n\"And so Monsieur Red-Jacket is alive and well, and handsome, and \npaints, and has a good singing voice, and is altogether a genteel \nyoung personage! Well now, though I detest his very memory, and never \nsee a scarlet waistcoat, without thinking of two galloping fools, and \nanother standing on a porch grinning, I am quite glad you fished him \nout of the river, since you have thereby got such a conformable \nwell-behaved young man to keep you company, for lack of a \nbetter,--the doctor and the rest of those village noddies being all \ninsufferable, as I always agreed. If he can really succeed in \nobtaining your likeness, retain him in the Hollow by all means, even \nif you have to break an arm for him over again. We must have at least \ntwo copies, one of which will set our beloved Harry frantic, and the \nother I will keep myself. The man may fix his own price; and, \nbesides, I'll patronise him, though I _do_ detest him. Harry shall \nsit to him, I assure you; and perhaps I also--just as I happen to \nlike him--that is his painting, not himself. Do you remember, as we \nsat at the sycamore tree, I wished him 'a harder sleep that night \nthan he ever had before?' There's something odd in the coincidence; a \nhard night he had of it, from your own account, poor rogue. I only \nthought of an old bed and damp sheets, such as I supposed it likely \nenough he would find at that old witch's. I will wish bad luck no \nmore, believing I have some magical power that way, which might, \nsooner or later, lead me to commit murder. However, I have more \nimportant matter for discoursing on.\n\n\"Papa is recovering fast; indeed, he was pronounced out of danger \nbefore I reached him; and he already talks of banishing me again to \nthe green fields. To tell the truth, I have grown more inquisitive \nthan ever; and it is plain, he is tired of me. That story, Kate, has \nset my brain spinning; but blessed be thou for telling it! There will \nsuch good come of my knowledge as will perhaps astound you, and him \ntoo.--But you shall hear.\n\n\"The assassin is wrapped round about with mystery,--a most singular \ndoubt. My father is, or rather _was_, (for he never pronounced the \nwretch's name, except in the first moment of confusion and terror,) \npositive that the blow was struck by the Hawk of the Hollow; and who \nshould know better? Yet, I can tell you, there are circumstances \npointing so strongly at another man, that every body pronounces him \nguilty, except myself and, I suppose, papa; and these they are. There \nwas (I speak of the man as if he were dead, for he seems to have \nkilled and buried himself,) a certain vagabond in our town, called \nSterling, or Starling,--a man of much shrewdness, some talent, and \npossessing a degree of rough humour and wit which made him a \nfavourite with many of our citizens, some of them quite respectable, \nand delegates in Congress. Nobody exactly knew how the man lived; \nthough it was generally supposed by gambling. An accident of no great \nimportance in itself, revealed the fellow's true character and \noccupation to my father, who forthwith acted as honour and patriotism \ncommanded him to do. This Sterling was a spy,--a pensioned spy, whose \nduty was to reside at our Congressional head-quarters, and by \ncultivating acquaintances among the honourables, pick up as much \nintelligence in relation to secret legislation as he could; and there \nis no doubt, the villain has laboured so well in his vocation, that \nthe British commander-in-chief has been often apprised of our \nintentions as early as our own leader. It is said that Sterling was \nonce an actor; they say, he has strong comic talents, but has a mad \nconceit he was made to shine in tragedy. He once got up a sort of \ncompany in our town, with the expectation of establishing a theatre. \nHowever, his friends all turned upon him the first night, the piece \nbeing tragedy, and laughed and ridiculed, and finally carried the \nmatter so far as to hiss the poor wretch off the stage. They say, my \nbrother Harry (I believe it was before he entered the army,) was a \nringleader among the hard-hearted censors.--An exemplary youth, he! \nHe was ever a most incorrigible mischief and plague, notwithstanding \nhis excellent heart; and the duel he fought with his captain last \nwinter, (a warm friend of his now,) was caused by one of his freaks \nof humour.--But marriage cures all that, you know.--However, I must \nspeak of Mr. Sterling.\n\n\"My father obtained such proofs of the treason of the lord of the \nbuskin as might have brought him to the gallows, and he was thrown \ninto prison; from which, however, he escaped as soon as was \nconvenient. I think, it happened eleven days before the outrage was \nattempted; and long before that, he was supposed to have succeeded, \nby verifying Shakspeare's words, (that is, by esteeming the world at \nlarge the boards of a theatre, and playing many parts thereon,) in \npassing the lines of the army, and reaching New York in safety. \nIndeed, he was, in a week's time, almost forgotten. But now comes the \nmarvel.\n\n\"My father had entered the pavilion, (as I wrote you before,) to get \ncertain papers. They were the very documents in relation to this \nman's case,--the proofs of his treasonable practices, &c., which were \nput into papa's hands, when he volunteered to conduct the \nprosecution. The man was really such a favourite, that all others \nwere quite cool in the matter, and rather disposed to let him off, \nthan push matters to extremity, especially as hostilities were almost \nover: even Harry interceded for him. Papa, however, was determined to \nbring him to justice; and therefore volunteered in the case. He had \nthese very documents in his hands, when the assassin, (whoever he \nwas,) who had previously concealed himself in the pavilion, or stole \ninto it after him, suddenly assailed him; and, what is curious, it \nwas found, when they came to examine afterwards, that these papers \nhad all vanished, together with my father's purse, and a small-sword \nwhich he always kept hanging up in the study.\n\n\"The next thing discovered was, that a certain horse, the property of \nthis Sterling at the time of his arrest, but which some one had \nseized upon and sold, to satisfy some claim or other, had disappeared \nfrom a neighbouring farm, where it was at pasture. The animal being \ntraced, it was found that he had ambled up the river, supporting the \nweight of an individual, who, although assuming to be a fanatical \nparson, had so many points of resemblance to the original owner of \nthe horse, that it was immediately affirmed, he could be no other \nthan Sterling himself, playing off a character of which he was \nnotoriously fond;--a ranting, canting parson, as Harry says, being \none of the impersonations with which he was wont to set the table in \na roar. You know the rest of this man's story; his sudden appearance \nat Elsie Bell's, at the very moment when we were discoursing of the \nHawks under the sycamore;--his flight over the river, and his sudden \ndisappearance. I suppose, he assumed some new disguise that deceived \nthe pursuers.\n\n\"These things favour the opinion of the mass, who will believe \nnothing less than that the murder was attempted by Sterling, in \nrevenge of my father's zeal in bringing his villany to light. But now \nremember, that papa was the only one who _saw_ the assassin; that he \nknew the faces of both parties; and that he affirmed the villain to \nbe Oran Gilbert, without so much as mentioning Sterling's name. Can \nthere be any striking resemblance between the two traitors? Might not \na course of extraordinary coincidences have assisted the Hawk in \nadopting (even without knowing it himself) the appearance and manner \nof Sterling in disguise? Nothing should be thought too incredible in \nsuch a case, for the whole matter is a wonder.\n\n\"I have not space to mention all I wish, or all I have learned, that \nconfirms my father's words. This, however, is certain: Oran Gilbert \n_is not dead_, but alive, and is engaged _somewhere_ upon _some_ \nvillany; but where and what--ay, there's the rub. I have received \nintelligence not to be doubted a moment, that he was in New York, and \nthat he left that city, about two months since, on some secret \nenterprise.\n\n\"Now, Kate, I have little more to tell you, except that I have turned \nthief-taker; that I am convinced Oran Gilbert was the midnight \nassassin, and is, at this moment, lying in wait in a certain place, \nwith the expectation of renewing the attack on my father's life; and \nthat I, weak woman as I am, have laid a trap for the cruel and \nremorseless villain, which may bring the doom he is projecting for \nanother upon his own head. Don't stare; and don't say any thing of \nthe matter. You cannot comprehend the spirit that now inspires me; I \nam playing the part of a man, but in a very ladylike way, and all to \nguard my father from the knife that is still outstretched against \nhim. You shall know all in good time--sooner perhaps than you \nimagine. It is necessary to my purpose that I should have a minute \ndescription of Gilbert, his height, figure, eyes, hair, nose, mouth, \nhis age, &c.: get it of Elsie Bell, and don't let her suspect you \nhave any object beyond mere simple curiosity. If we could make the \nold creature speak, I warrant me she could tell us enough of the \nvillain. I entrust this matter to you. Don't scruple: you _can_ \ndeceive as well as any body, when the spirit of woman seizes you; and \nthe end we have now in view will excuse a mountain of duplicity. You \ncan also make inquiries (but, mark you, _not of her_--don't let her \nsuspect suspicion,) in relation to the appearance of the preacher \nPoke. Your bonny Red-Jacket, the dauber, can doubtless answer \nsatisfactorily on this point, painters being commonly good observers. \nAs for your father, I interdict all counselling with him; for, first, \nhis memory is not to be relied upon, being somewhat dependent upon \nhis imagination, you know; and secondly, because we must take no more \nconfidants into the confederacy than we can help. Every thing depends \nupon secrecy. I long to tell you the whole matter, but dare not \n_yet_--no, not even so much as the names of my counsellors, \nauxiliaries, agents, &c. By the way, did you observe Lieutenant \nBrooks? He is very genteel and agreeable, I assure you--and the \nshrewdest, boldest-witted brain for his youth I have ever seen. He \nwill attend upon Harry, and you will adore him.--But my third sheet \nis out, and so I must conclude.\n\n\"As for your fourth of July jollification that you talk of so \nsentimentally, I hate all such merry-makings. What do I care about \nJingleum, and his orations? Could they find no more reasonable \nDemosthenes? And then the folly of dragging up drums, and cannons, \nand militia companies, dogs, horses, and women in their Sunday \nclothes, to the sacred solitudes of Hawk-Hollow! Sure, you are all \ngone crazy: it is profanation. I should not wonder if the martial din \nof the jubilee should bring a regiment or two from the lines upon \nyou. We shall see what will come of it.\n\n\"_Addio_----Do my bidding, and keep my counsel.\n\n\"_Mem._ It is very odd, I forgot the postscript.\"\n\n\nThe contents of this epistle, as Catherine saw, greatly surprised, \nand indeed confounded the painter; and it was some moments before he \ncould shake off his embarrassment so far as to comment upon it. 'He \nesteemed it very singular,' he said, 'and very improper, that Miss \nFalconer should engage in an enterprise such as she so significantly \nhinted at; and he thought she was impelled by a species of frenzy. \nHer suspicions, that the assault upon her father had been committed \nby a Gilbert, were ludicrously absurd. How was it possible her father \nshould, in a single glance, and almost in darkness, recognise a \ncountenance he had not seen for more than twenty years? How could it \nbe believed that such a man, a refugee captain, long since formally \noutlawed, should force his way into the very strong-holds of his \nenemy, commit a crime of unexampled daring, and then, with audacity \nstill more astonishing, direct his steps towards the district where \nhe was so well known? How incredible, that a man of his wild and \nstubborn habits could adopt a disguise so outr\u00e9 as that of Nehemiah! \nHow much more incredible, having taken such pains to shed a foeman's \nblood, that he should have done his work so bunglingly! The idea was \npreposterous. Every thing went to show that Sterling was the \nassassin; and it was quite probable, nay, it was almost certain, that \nNehemiah and Sterling were one and the same person. He could not \npretend to say, or to know, or to be very certain, of course; but he \nwas sure Nehemiah was an impostor, much more familiar with tags from \nplay-books than scraps from the Bible, and so he had told the man \nhimself, though not in direct words; the consequence of which was, \nthat he instantly took the alarm, crossed the river, and escaped. As \nto the request made of Miss Loring in relation to the information she \nwas expected to obtain of Mrs. Bell, that was as unworthy of Miss \nFalconer as compliance would be on the part of Miss Loring. It was \nquite proper, indeed, she should ask Elsie for information, but not \nwithout apprizing her of the object in view. But even this was \nneedless; _he_ had heard Elsie speak of Oran Gilbert's appearance, \nand he could assure Miss Loring that no two persons could be more \nunlike than he and the ranting Nehemiah, the one being a man of \nmiddle size, the other a giant. He would advise Miss Falconer to \nadopt two measures, which would go farther to effect her objects, \n(which, he supposed, were, to protect her father from future danger, \nand to punish his enemy,) than all the witty and masculine stratagems \nin the world. If Oran Gilbert were really alive, and within the \nAmerican lines, then let her persuade her father to remain in the \ncity, afar from his dreaded vengeance; _there_ he most certainly was \nsafe. To punish the assassin, application should be made to the \nBritish commander-in-chief at New York; and as the atrocity was \npurely of a civil nature--a case of malicious, inexcusable \nviolence--it was highly probable he would be at once brought to \njustice.'\n\nWith remarks of this kind, which appeared to her to be founded in \ngood sense, he satisfied Catherine that her confidence had not been \nmisplaced or unprofitable; and the time waxed on, without causing any \nabatement of her good opinion, or any interruption of an intercourse \nhighly agreeable to her own feelings.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n  I called on Vengeance; at the word\n  She came.\n                      SIR EUSTACE GREY.\n\n\nThe letter of Miss Falconer contained an allusion to an approaching \nfestival, which she characterized as a '4th of July jollification.' \nThis day was already rendered sacred in the affections of Americans; \nand the prospect of a speedy and successful close to the battle of \nindependence had disposed them, throughout the whole confederacy, to \nsignalize its recurrence with all the pomp and glory of observance. \nThe spirit had awakened even in the precincts of Hawk-Hollow; and the \nvillagers, taking advantage of the patriotic offers of Captain \nLoring, had made extensive preparations to celebrate it among the \nsolitudes of that lovely valley. They assembled in public meeting, \nappointed committees of arrangement, purveyors, marshals, and masters \nof ceremonies; and that the occasion might not pass without a due \nshare of national glorification, they selected an orator, who, it was \nuniversally supposed by all his friends, would electrify the souls of \nhis auditory by a display of impassioned and heaven-inspired \neloquence. It happened, however, that the appointment of Mr. Jingleum \nto this honour had disgusted the adherents of another candidate; and \nthe consequence was, that, in the end, there were two different \ncelebrations, held at different places, one in the village itself, \nwhich being more convenient to the mass of citizens, was much more \nnumerously attended than the rival jubilee in the Hollow. Indeed, the \nspirit of faction running very high, there were found so many \narguments against holding the convocation at the latter place, that \nthe current of public opinion soon set decidedly against it, and it \npromised to be quite a failure. It was indeed but thinly attended; \nalthough circumstances arose to give it an _\u00e9clat_ entirely wanting \nat the other.\n\nThe gentlemen of the committee, finding how matters were going, \nredoubled their exertions, and by adding preparations for a _f\u00eate \nchamp\u00eatre_ to those for the more public object, succeeded in \nawakening an interest on the side of the female portion of the \ncommunity; so that, as the day drew nigh, they began to hold up their \nheads and boast aloud, that, go the day as it might, the beauty of \nthe country would be found displayed only in the valley. The scene of \nfestivity determined upon was the little promontory at the mouth of \nHawk-Hollow Run, and the river-bank at its base, where were such \ngreen plots as might have enticed fairies, as well as mortal women, \ninto the joys of the dance. A small piece of ordnance was dragged \nupon the promontory; the venerable habitation of the fishing-hawks \nwas tumbled about their ears, and the tall and naked trunk that \nsupported it, converted into a gigantic flag-staff, from which the \nstriped banner was seen waving as early as the afternoon of the 3d. A \nscaffold some five or six feet in height was also erected around the \ntrunk, and a tribune, or orator's desk, with seats behind it, \nconstructed thereon; the whole forming a rostrum suitable to the \noccasion, which the good taste of the supervisors caused to be \ncanopied and adorned with branches of laurel, that were also wreathed \naround the tree almost to its top. The whole of the day preceding the \ncelebration was occupied with these and other preparations, in most \nof which the painter contributed his personal assistance with great \nzeal. He had consented, after first flatly refusing the honour, \ntendered him at the instance of his friend the poet, to accept the \nappointment of reader of the Declaration, with the pronouncing of \nwhich sacred instrument the exercises of such a celebration are \nalways begun; and although, on many occasions, when his auxiliaries \nwere all as busily occupied as himself, he betrayed a strong \ndisposition to desert, and betake himself to the distant mansion, \nthere was no one, when all were assembled together under its roof, \nsharing the hospitality of the Captain and the smiles of his \ndaughter, who exhibited a more disinterested anxiety to hurry all \nback again to their duties.\n\nThe evening came, and the preparations having been completed, the \nbustling Committee-men mounted their horses, and retreated to the \nvillage, leaving Gilbert's Folly to solitude; for not even Herman \nreturned to it that evening. But an unexpected guest made her \nappearance, an hour after night-fall. As Catherine sat musing on the \nporch, perhaps moralizing, as she watched the spark of the fire-fly, \nnow struggling in the moist grass, now flitting among the oak-boughs, \nand traced the resemblance it seemed to figure forth to the life of \nman,--a tissue of linked light and darkness,--a bolder beam flashed \nalong the park, the roll of wheels was heard on the gravelled avenue, \nand before she had time to wonder or surmise, a carriage stopped at \nthe door, and in a moment she was clasped in the arms of Miss \nFalconer.\n\n\"Brava for my dear self!\" cried the lady; \"my generalship is \ncomplete--I take even my friend by surprise! Wo therefore to my \nenemies! for this is a part of my practice. _Eureka!_ _Eureka_, Kate! \nas the old philosopher said, when he discovered what the little \nfishes knew before him: I have discovered the enemy, and to-morrow I \nwill take him! Never trust me if Congress do not order me a vote of \nthanks for my doughty services.--Where's your father?\"\n\n\"Sleeping in his arm-chair,\" replied Catherine, confounded by the \nvivacity of her friend's expressions; \"tired with entertaining so \nmany people, and being so much on foot; and I believe he would have \ngone to bed, except for Mr.--that is to say, Monsieur Red-Jacket.\"\n\n\"Hang Monsieur Red-Jacket!\" cried Harriet, quickly: \"If he is here, \nget rid of him,--I've a thousand things to tell you.--Not here, then? \nbut coming? Shut up the house, and fasten the doors--no admission to \nany superfluities to-night. And pa's sleepy, too? Pack him off to \nbed, dear Kate; tell him 'tis ten o'clock; or wait till we get the \ncarriage away, and all quiet, and don't let him know of my arrival; \nwe'll surprise him in the morning. I tell you, you unconscionable \ngirl, I have such a secret to relate!--a secret so big and mighty, \nthat I have been more than half dead with keeping it already!\"\n\nArdent as were the lady's desires to escape the welcome of the return \nfor that night, she was doomed to a disappointment. The bustle of \narrival broke the Captain's slumbers, and he rushed into the porch, \nafter a host of domestics bearing lights, expressing his rapture that \n'his dear Harry' had arrived at such a lucky time; \"For,\" said he, \n\"we've laid in two hundred and fifty charges for the six-pounder, and \nwe'll have such a roaring racket as has never been heard this ten \nyears; and there's Tom Terry, the trumpeter,--was regularly brought \nup in the troop school, and blasts a charge to make your blood boil! \nand there's the drums and fifes! and there's my boy Haman to read the \nDeclaration! and, by the lord, now I think of it, there's the Battle \nof Brandywine and Tom Loring dying! There never was such likenesses \npainted by mortal man.\"\n\nThe Captain yawned fearfully while he spoke; but his enthusiasm was \nfast dispelling his drowsiness. Miss Falconer groaned in spirit; but \nwoman's wit came to her assistance. She imitated his example, opened \nher lovely mouth, with an expressiveness his own could not resist, \nexclaimed, \"Oh, how tired I am!\" and concluded by vowing she could \nnot keep her eyes open, but must retire to rest forthwith. In this \nmanner, she succeeded in escaping to Catherine's chamber, whence she \nimmediately expelled both Phoebe and her mother, charging the latter, \nas the Captain had also signified his disposition to retire, to lock \nup the house, and admit no visiters to disturb her or her companion.\n\nAs soon as these instructions were given, she turned to Catherine, \nand cried, with extraordinary eagerness,\n\n\"The man with the red hat! that fellow that helped the painter out of \nthe brook,--what has become of him?\"\n\n\"I know not,\" replied Catherine, surprised at the question.\n\n\"What! has he never been seen in Hawk-Hollow again?\"\n\n\"Really, I know not--I have never heard: I suppose not.\"\n\n\"Oh, you poor owls! blind birds that you are!\" exclaimed Harriet, \nlaughing, yet preserving an earnest air: \"I believe, if Beelzebub \nhimself came riding into the valley, nobody would suspect him to be a \nbad Christian, provided he kept his tail in his coat-pocket. As for \nthe cloven hoof, he might wear that naked; no one would think of \nlooking at it. And Gilbert, the Hawk of the Hollow? have you heard of \nhim no more?\"\n\n\"Oh, there is some idle rumour among the people, but I think it \nfoolish. But, Harriet, you got my letter, with the advice I gave you? \nYou must know, I had that from a sensible person I was obliged to \ntake into the secret\"----\n\n\"Good Heaven!\" cried Harriet, in alarm, \"you have not told any one? \nCatherine, how could you? This may ruin all.\"\n\n\"I do not know what it is to ruin, Hal; but it will not ruin by \nbetrayal of the secret. Mr. Hunter is\"----\n\n\"Mr. Hunter!\" exclaimed Harriet, in as much wonder as dismay. \"What! \nRed-Jacket? a stranger, a vagabond dauber, to be made the repository \nof such confidence! Really, Kate, you will drive me mad. How could \nyou be so insane?\"\n\n\"These are severe rebukes, Harriet,\" said Miss Loring, \"and perhaps, \nin my case, they are just and well deserved; but you will not be so \nharsh with Mr. Hunter, when you know him better. He is a gentleman, \nHarriet,--in every particular, a high-minded, honourable man. On his \ngood will and friendly co-operation, I knew I could rely; he was \nshrewd, sensible, and had seen one individual you inquired after; I \nhad no other person to look to for advice. I acted with my best \ndiscretion, Harriet, and for your sake.\"\n\n\"Well, don't pout now,\" cried Miss Falconer, throwing her arms round \nher neck. \"Soldiers--that is, generals,--as Harry vows, are ever \npestilent scolds; and you must lay my shrewishness to the door of \nmilitary impulses. The thing can't be helped; I don t blame you; if \nRed-Jacket be really a sensible fellow, why there is no harm done; \nand, as I said before, I'll patronise him; and if the matter be not \nblown already, in good truth, he will not have time left him to do \nmischief. But now for my story--and know, Catherine, in the first \nplace, you are surrounded by cut-throat tories,--by skulking \nrefugees,--by the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow!\"\n\n\"Sure, Harriet, you are raving!\" cried the Captain's daughter, in \naffright.\n\n\"It is as true as that the stars are shining above us,\" said Miss \nFalconer, her eyes flashing with a soldier-like fire; \"and to-morrow, \nwhen you look only for mirth and merry-making, you will perhaps \nsee--ay, Kate, _see_ them fight their last battle. It is well you had \nme to watch over you, you poor cowardly mouse; or you might have been \nscalped and murdered, a week before your wedding-day. But all's safe, \nKate; so leave trembling, and put yourself under my protection. To \nthink we had that blood-stained demon so near to us, when we were \ntalking about him! Nay, to think we had him in the house here, and my \nbrother and myself standing hard by! Truly, Kate, had I known him, \nand could have laid my hand on a pistol, I should have fired it at \nthe audacious monster--though I have no doubt, I should have hit some \none else. That vagabond, malignant-mouthed villain with the red \nhat--who would have dreamed that blood-coloured covering was on the \nhead of Oran Gilbert?\"\n\n\"Impossible, Harriet! Remember, that he was in the house here nearly \nan hour,--that Green, the Indian trader; and at that very moment, the \nparty was chasing the true murderer beyond the river.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" cried Miss Falconer,--\"nonsense and ignorance together. \nListen to my story, and talk no more of impossibilities.\"\n\nShe then proceeded to relate, that, having recovered from the shock \nand confusion of mind produced by the sudden intelligence of her \nfather's mishap, she began at once to gather all the information she \ncould in relation to the outrage, and rack her ingenuity to penetrate \nthe mysteries that attended and followed it. The information \ncommunicated by Lieutenant Brooks in relation to the fugitive of the \nwhite horse, though it added to the perplexities of others, threw a \ngleam of light upon her active imagination. It has been mentioned \nthat this young officer, while in full pursuit of Nehemiah, had \nlighted upon a certain pedler who had, but a few hours or moments \nbefore, exchanged horses with the parson,--a piece of traffic which \nthe trader was then bitterly lamenting; for though he confessed he \nhad received a reasonable 'boot,' or consideration, he declared he \nwas never more cheated in his life, the horse being knocked up and \nalmost wholly worthless, as any one, he said, might see; he had been \nthrown off his guard by the holy character of Nehemiah; \"for who,\" \nsaid he, \"would think of being cheated by a parson?\" He was very \ndesirous, so great was his rage at the imposition, to guide the party \nhimself after the cheat; but his horse being incapable of keeping up \nwith the others, they were fain to receive his instructions, and \nleave him behind.\n\nTwo suspicions instantly entered Miss Falconer's brain; first, that \nin the indignant pedler, the pursuers had found and suffered to \nescape, the very rogue they were seeking; or, (and the second \nconjecture seemed to her the more rational,) that they had lighted on \nsome agent he had despatched across the river for the purpose of \nmisleading the avengers, he himself assuming a new disguise, and \nboldly remaining in the Hollow, until the hue and cry were over. She \ncould give no particular reasons for turning her suspicions upon the \nIndian trader, save that his fierce countenance and savage bearing \nhad made a strong impression on her imagination; and as she did not \nfor a moment dream that the assassin could be any other than Oran \nGilbert, she was as ready to discover his identity in the person of \nGreen as in that of Nehemiah. In all this there was evidently, as \nCatherine in fact perceived, a degree of confusion and hallucination \nin Miss Falconer's mind. The idea had seized upon her, and it was \nimpossible to shake her faith in the conception. It was in vain that \nCatherine urged the impossibility of merging the gigantic bulk of \nNehemiah in the more moderate proportions of the trader. Her mind was \nmade up; on that persuasion she had governed all her actions; and the \nresult satisfied her that she was right, as the events of the morrow \nwould show to the whole world.\n\nShe went on to relate, that, having communicated her suspicions to \nLieutenant Brooks, as well as her belief that the bold outlaw would \nsoon gather about him all the disaffected of the country, and strike \nsome unexpected blow, that he instantly declared his readiness to \nsift the matter to the bottom, and at once devised a scheme that had \nalready satisfied himself and his superiors of the justice of her \nmonitions. A certain private of his own company, a man of bad \ncharacter, but of the most crafty and daring spirit, had been \nselected as a fitting instrument; and, after a singular course of \nduplicity, which she related at length, had not only discovered that \na band of refugees was already formed in those deserted solitudes, \nbut had intruded himself among them. He had managed to communicate \nwith his officers through _her_; he had discovered that the band, \nwhich was scattered in squads through the country, was actually \ncommanded by Oran Gilbert; and though he had never yet set eyes on \nthis redoubtable chief, he had heard and communicated enough to prove \nthat he and John Green the trader were one and the same person. He \nhad discovered, also, that one object of the rising was to be the \nrescue of young Asgill, the British guardsman, then under peril of \nsuffering, by the mere law of retaliation, for the execution of \nCaptain Huddy, mentioned in a previous chapter; after which was \naccomplished, (and until then no danger was to be apprehended,) he \ndid not doubt they would begin to burn and murder, according to the \nusual system of tory tactics. One effort had been already made by the \ndesperate partisan, single-handed, to rescue the young prisoner, \nwhile riding out on parole; and this was only defeated by Asgill's \nfirm refusal to dishonour the pledge he had given his enemies. It was \ndesigned therefore to carry him away by force, which might easily \nhave been done, so much license being allowed him in riding out for \nexercise, had not the communications of Parker (for such was the bold \nagent's name,) put the keepers on their guard. By the same hands, she \nhad been informed of one haunt of the outlaws, at which Parker was \nhimself posted, and where he pledged his soul to yield up the tory \ncaptain on the day of the approaching festival, provided the \ninstructions he gave should be implicitly followed by his officers.\n\nShe then drew, from among divers other mystic-looking documents, a \nscrap of dirty and crumpled paper, which she declared, with a laugh, \nwas the last epistle she had received from her new and highly \nesteemed correspondent, which was as extraordinary in style of \nwriting as in appearance, being obviously the production of a rude \nand illiterate soldier, making unusual efforts at composition on \naccount of the dignity of the correspondence and the character of the \ncorrespondent. It began by styling Miss Falconer 'Honourable madam to \ncommand,' and ended, after a postscript, in which he showed a \ndiscreet regard for his own safety, by cautioning the lady to 'let \nall the boys on duty remember the two rabbit-tails he was to wear in \nhis hat,'--'as a sign for to be known by, and not shot at by \naccident; for, these vagabond refugees being uncommon crusty \ncut-throats, there was no use in being banged at on both sides,'--and \nby 'hoping, as before, that her honourable madam was well, and \nbegging her pardon for singing a soldier's song,--\n\n  'God bless George Washington, God d----n the King!'\n\nand was dated on the '29th June, if I reckon right, in the year of \nour Lord, Anno Domini, 1782.'\n\nIt was stated in this precious epistle, that the different squads \nwere to meet on the 4th July, at a general rendezvous within seven \nmiles of Elsie Bell's tavern; but for what purpose he could not \ndivine; they were, however, to meet their captain there. The place he \ncould not describe; but as he was ordered, with six others, to take \npost in it two or three days before the 4th, he promised, on the \nnight of the 3d, to deposite a letter containing a full description \nof the place, together with his final instructions, at a certain spot \nnear the park-gate, which he described with a soldier's precision. \nThere was much other matter in the scrawl, which Catherine only read \nso far as to satisfy herself that this bold traitor had laid a scheme \nfor surrounding the whole lurking party; and Harriet assured her, \nthat his advice had been followed to a letter, that, at that very \nhour, a strong force was marching thitherward from the army, and \nwould be, by sunrise, perhaps earlier, in command of all the escapes \nfrom Hawk-Hollow.\n\n\"Besides this,\" she cried with triumph, \"you will see some visiters \namong the feasters you have not dreamed of,--Harry himself, Mr. \nBrooks, and Captain Caliver, at least,--to receive the instructions \nof the last letter. _That_, Kate, we will seek at the dawn of day: \nsee how methodically my martial swain discourses of the place of \ndeposit:\n\n\n\"'It's a spot you can't miss,--but to be certain, you should start \nfrom the middle of the gate, facing right towards the house,--march \nnineteen steps, then halt, face to the left, dress, and fetch five \nsteps and a half more, which fetches you to a bush that has a sweet \nsmell, with long leaves, notched like a saw,'\"----\n\n\n\"My bush of sweet fern, as I live!\" cried Catherine, in whom the \nrevealments of her friend had produced an agitation bordering on \nterror.\n\n\"Do you know it, then? Good luck to my trusty Parker, knave though he \nbe. I have promised him a hundred guineas for his services; and, o' \nmy word, I'll make papa double them. Can't you lead me to the bush \nto-night? But no--he may not yet have sought it out, and the sight of \npersons stirring in the park might frighten him away. Come, Kate, out \nwith the light; we must sleep fast, and be up early: I will rouse you \nat the first gray streak of the dawning, I warrant me; for I shall be \ndreaming of the matter all night. Oh, that letter! that letter! if a \nmaiden adoring looks for the billets of her swain with more anxious \nimpatience than I do for honest Parker's greasy hieroglyphics, sure \nam I, I should myself soon die of expectation, so soon as I got me a \nwooer. Oh, lack-a-day, Kate, kiss me, and good night; for I think we \nhave talked evening into midnight.\"\n\nAnxious as was the lady's desire to fall instantly asleep, she was \ndoomed to a disappointment. Scarce had she murmured out the last good \nnight in the arms of her friend, when a sudden strain of music woke \nin the outer air, mingling the jangling of strings with the hum of a \nthousand nocturnal insects, flitting among the trees. Surprised, nay, \nalmost startled at the sound of a guitar (for such her practised ear \ninstantly knew the instrument to be,) in a region so remote and \nunsentimental, she raised her head from the pillow, and had soon the \nsatisfaction of hearing an agreeable voice, manly yet capable of much \ntenderness of expression, added to the instrument.\n\n\"Oho, Kate,\" said she, \"do you hear that? Now suppose my mad \nconfederates should have stolen a march upon me, and, in their zeal, \nmade the dawn of the 4th out of the midnight of the 3d? They say, Mr. \nBrooks sings well and plays--but, foh! I never heard that voice \nbefore--I was dreaming. Listen!\"\n\nShe held her peace, and hearkening with no little curiosity, was able \nto distinguish (a window of the chamber having been left open to \nadmit the balmy night-air,) the words of the following little \nserenade.\n\nTHE WHIPPOORWILL.\n\nI.\n\n  Sleep, sleep! be thine the sleep that throws\n  Elysium o'er the soul's repose,\n  Without a dream, save such as wind,\n  Like midnight angels, through the mind;\n  While I am watching on the hill,\n  I, and the wailing whippoorwill.\n                Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill.\n\nII.\n\n  Sleep, sleep! and once again I'll tell\n  The oft-pronounced, yet vain, farewell:\n  Such should his word, oh maiden, be,\n  Who lifts the fated eye to thee;\n  Such should it be, before the chain\n  That wraps his spirit, binds his brain.\n                Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill.\n\nIII.\n\n  Sleep, sleep! the ship has left the shore,\n  The steed awaits his lord no more;\n  His lord still madly lingers by\n  The fatal maid he cannot fly,\n  And thrids the wood, and climbs the hill,\n  He and the wailing whippoorwill.\n                Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill.\n\nIV.\n\n  Sleep, sleep! the morrow hastens on;\n  Then shall the wailing slave be gone,\n  Flitting the hill-top far, for fear\n  The sounds of joy may reach his ear;\n  The sounds of joy!--the hollow knell\n  Pealed from the mocking chapel-bell.\n                Oh whippoorwill, oh whippoorwill.\n\n\"Mighty well!\" exclaimed Miss Falconer, so soon as the roundelay was \nfinished. \"That is one of Jingleum's madrigals, I dare be sworn; for \nthere's the 'ship' and the 'steed' in it; and I never yet saw or \nheard of one of his compositions that had not a touch of salt water \nand the saddle. And so the dear ape has got to singing, has he? and \nhe mourns the merry marriage-bell, the goose-cap! Really, I had no \nidea the youth had so good a voice.\"\n\n\"You are mistaken,\" said Catherine, who, Miss Falconer almost \nsuspected, was asleep, for she did not lift her head from the pillow, \nand rather muttered out the words than spoke,--\"it is the young \ngentleman,--Mr. Hunter.\"\n\n\"Hah, indeed!\" cried Harriet, quickly: \"And _he_ has got to chains \nand chapel-bells, too? But, pho, I forgot you told me about his \nsinging. This serenading, though, is somewhat presumptuous. Well now, \ngood youth, get you gone, and let us to our slumbers. I'll rouse you, \nKate, I warrant me.--Why, good heaven, what is the matter? Crying \nagain, Catherine! Sure, if I spoke roughly to you, Kate, I did not \nmean to offend you; and you must remember, it was on my father's \naccount I became so suspicious, and averse to strange advisers and \nconfidants.\"\n\nShe did not doubt that Catherine was brooding over her former hasty \nand reproachful expressions; and she knew her too well to be \nsurprised, when the maiden replied to her apology only by flinging \nher arms round her neck, and sobbing on her bosom. Before she could \nattempt to soothe her, the serenader again struck his instrument, and \nbegan chanting a melody of extreme sadness, but to words of such \nmystical purport, that they instantly engaged her whole attention, in \nan eager desire to penetrate their meaning.\n\n  Shall I speak it to the night-wind?\n    Shall I breathe it to the sky?\n  It is spoken in a whisper,\n    It is uttered in a sigh:\n  And the sigh shall be the saddest,\n    And the whisper shall be low,\n  Like the sound of hidden runlets,\n    In their melancholy flow.\n\n  There's a sigh comes on the west wind--\n    Hark! it rustles through the leaves,\n  Like the moan----\n\nBut here the artist abruptly ceased singing; his voice and the sound \nof the instrument were as suddenly hushed as if annihilation had on \nthe instant rapt him into the world of spirits. Miss Falconer sprang \nfrom bed, and ran to the window, hoping to discover the cause of so \nextraordinary an interruption, but without any success. A sable \ncloud, gradually stealing up from the west, and at intervals \nglimmering with faint flashes of lightning, had invested the heavens, \nand all was darkness, especially under the lime-trees near the \nwindow, from which the music proceeded. She thought, at first, that \nshe heard the murmuring of voices, as if the singer had been arrested \nin his task by the coming of a second individual; but they were low, \nand so mingled with the rustling of leaves, that she doubted if her \nears had not deceived her. She peered through the curtains and the \nvines that encircled the window, into the darkness, without being \nable to detect any thing like a moving figure; and she listened with \nas little effect for the sound of voices or footsteps. Whatever had \nbrought the serenade to so abrupt a close, it was certain that it was \nover, and that the singer had departed.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" she said, as she again threw herself into the couch, \"the \ntender youth is afraid of the rain; and in truth, there was a drop \nfell upon my hand. So much for spoiling a lady's rest, good Red \nJacket! I hope he may get a ducking before he reaches the hovel. This \nis rather an odd sort of a man for a painter. Good night, Kate--now \nwe will sleep in comfort and quiet.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n  \"I do not like thee, Doctor Fell;\n   The reason why I cannot tell,\n   But I don't like thee, Doctor Fell.\"\n\n\nAnxiety, expectation, and perhaps an unusual degree of restlessness \non the part of her friend, who soon fell asleep, kept Miss Falconer \nawake until a very late hour; and when she opened her eyes, after a \nshort and uneasy slumber, she found a streak of sunshine playing on \nthe window curtains. She started up hastily, yet so softly as not to \ndiscompose the Captain's daughter, with regard to whom she seemed to \nhave altered all her resolutions. She arrayed herself with such \ncelerity and silence as indicated a desire to escape while Catherine \nyet slumbered; and indeed it appeared, that, so far as the sleeping \nmaiden was concerned, Miss Falconer had changed her feelings, as well \nas designs. She eyed Catherine occasionally with a countenance on \nwhich suspicion seemed struggling with anger; and when she had \ncompleted her toilet, she stole up to the bedside, and surveyed her \nwith a look of anger, which was the more extraordinary as Catherine, \nat that moment, presented an appearance of the most attractive and, \nin fact, seraphic beauty. Her hands were clasped together under her \nchin, as if some thought of rapture were shining through her spirit; \na smile of such delight as can only come from a heart both guileless \nand happy, beamed from her visage; her lips moved, as if breathing \nthe accents of joy, though no sound came from them; and the tears \nthat stole from beneath the closed eyelids, were evidently shed in \npleasure, not sorrow. Miss Falconer's countenance darkened, as she \ngazed; but she gazed only for a moment; and soon stealing from the \nbedside, she crept out of the chamber.\n\nThe rattling of the latch, as the door closed, dispelled the dream of \ndelight, and Catherine instantly arose, and prepared to follow her \nfriend, whom she had in vain called after to return. Miss Falconer \nhad already left the house, and long before Catherine reached her, \nshe saw that she had found her way to the memorable bush of fern. She \nsaw also, without explanation from her friend, that some singular \naccident had defeated, at the very moment of its accomplishment, the \nplan so subtly laid and so zealously pursued. No letter or scrap of \nany kind was found in the appointed place; yet it was evident the \nbush had been visited by at least one, perhaps by two persons, in the \ncourse of the night. It was deranged and torn; two flat stones were \nfound lying at its roots, which Miss Falconer did not doubt had been \ndesigned to protect the paper from the dews of the night, as well as \nthe eyes of passers-by; and there were foot-prints in the grass, some \nof which were very distinct, having been left since a light rain, \nthat had fallen during the night.\n\nThe chagrin and dismay of Miss Falconer at this unlooked for \ntermination of her hopes, entirely drove from her mind the \nrecollection of her late displeasure, together with its secret cause. \nShe wondered and lamented, and devised a thousand suppositions for \nexplaining the phenomenon, but without satisfying herself. Was it \npossible the treachery of her agent could have been discovered by his \ncomrades, at the very moment of its consummation? Could such a \ndiscovery have been made by accident, and in the dead of the night? \nWhat now was she to do? how supply the information of which she had \nbeen robbed? how act upon that already received? how avert the \nridicule of the coadjutors she had drawn into her schemes? how \npropitiate her brother?--For sure he had not ceased laughing at her, \nfrom the hour he was let into the secret, and would make it the theme \nof raillery to his dying day.\n\nTo the latter questions Miss Loring could frame no answers; but in \nregard to the former and more important, she expressed her doubts \nwhether the agent had really visited the appointed place at all. It \nwas _not_ probable he could himself have found his way to the bush at \nnight, or that another should have followed him to it. The marks of \nfootsteps were, in all likelihood, left by some of the patrons of the \njubilee, collecting shrubs and flowers to adorn the rostrum--her \ngarden had been thrown open to them for the purpose, and, she doubted \nnot, they had already despoiled it. What was more probable than that \nsome of those persons, returning from the house to the promontory, \nshould have nosed the sweet-smelling shrub, as they passed by, and \nappropriated its leafy honours, along with those of other plants \ndiscovered on the way? Parker might yet come, and deliver his \ncommunication in person; or perhaps he found it impossible to escape \nthe vigilance of his wild comrades, now rendered doubly watchful by \nthe gathering of so many people in their neighbourhood. It was plain \nthat Harriet must now give up the prosecution of the scrutiny into \nthe hands of more fitting agents. If there were refugees in the land, \na single word could convert the assembled revellers into soldiers, \nwho would instantly scour the hills in every direction, and rid their \npeaceful solitude of such dangerous intruders; and if the companies \nand officers Miss Falconer had spoken of, had taken position in the \nwoods, a general rising of the people must result in the capture of \nperhaps the whole gang. It was plain, at least, that the wisest plan \nto be followed was, to remain in tranquillity, until her military \nfriends arrived; when it would remain for them to determine what \nfurther steps were to be taken.\n\nThe frustration of her sanguine hopes threw a shadow over Miss \nFalconer's spirits, and plunged her besides into a fit of \npeevishness, which she, before long, indulged to an extent that both \nsurprised and pained her friend. Thus, her father making his \nappearance the moment they returned to the house, and, so soon as he \nhad expressed his joy at seeing her, declaring she should see 'his \nexcellent young dog, Hunter, the painter, the greatest genius and \nmost capital fine scoundrel in the whole world,' she let fall certain \nexpressions of scorn that might have stirred the Captain's choler, \nhad his mind not been wholly occupied with 'the grand picture,' which \nit was now in his power to exhibit. The painter had laboured with \nmuch zeal, and, three or four days before, had brought his sketch to \nthe mansion, to receive the father's and daughter's criticism on what \nhad been done, as well as to introduce the Captain's figure; and he \nwas easily prevailed upon to accept his patron's invitation, and \ncontinue his labours, until the sketch should be completed, on the \nspot.\n\nNotwithstanding her dissatisfaction of mind, Miss Falconer could not \ndeny, that, so far as he had gone, the artist had exhibited no little \nskill in the design and execution of his piece. It represented the \nyoung hero lying across the knees of his father, while Catherine \nknelt at his side, her hands clasped between those of her dying \nbrother. A dead horse, a young oak-tree, shivered by a cannon-ball, a \nbroken gun-carriage, and two or three other characteristic objects, \nmade up, with this group, the fore-ground of the picture; while the \nback-ground, to which little had been yet done, was sketched over \nwith hills and trees, and a confused medley of contention--broken \ncolumns of men, flying horses, and wreaths of smoke. With the three \nportraits Miss Falconer was very much struck; she had the vehement \ntestimony of Captain Loring, and the melancholy assent of his \ndaughter, in regard to the likeness of the expiring youth; and she \ncould see with her own eyes, how well the painter had succeeded with \nboth the others; though, as Captain Loring averred, 'he did not like \nso much red on his nose;' \"and as for the tears that the young fellow \nhas put into my eyes,\" he exclaimed, blubbering as he spoke, \"why \nthat's all nonsense, for I never shed a tear in my life--adzooks, I \ndidn't!\"\n\nAs there was a violation of the unity of place in the introduction of \nCatherine upon the battleground, so also there was an evident \nanachronism, which the painter had been guilty of, in depicting her, \nnot as a little girl, as she was at the period of her brother's \ndeath, but a woman, such as she now appeared. The fault, such as it \nwas, was easily pardoned, since it perhaps allowed a wider scope for \nexpression; and on this visage, it was obvious, the artist had \nexhausted his skill. Independent of its beauty, it had such an air of \ndeep grief as almost conveyed the history of the after life and \nfeelings of the subject--secret sorrow, and a sense of lone, \nunfriended destitution, never to be banished a moment from her bosom.\n\nWhile the three were engaged surveying the sketch, the painter \nhimself entered the apartment. Piercing, almost fierce and menacing, \nwas the look with which Miss Falconer regarded him; and her \nrecognition of his salutation was haughty in the extreme. She \nobserved, too, with high displeasure, with what frank and almost \neager haste Catherine extended him her hand, and how her voice \ntrembled in the uttered welcome, as if it were bestowed upon one \nendeared by long years of friendship; and she turned upon Catherine a \nlook that almost frightened her from her propriety, when the latter, \nleading Hunter up, to present him with a more ceremonious form than \nher father had thought fit to use, said, as if to bespeak her good \nwill at once,\n\n\"This, Miss Falconer, is my good and valued friend and _confidant_,\" \n(she strove to pronounce the word archly,) \"Mr. Hunter.\"\n\n\"It is very well,\" said Harriet, turning coldly away, and fixing her \neye upon the picture. \"I am admiring his work, and striving to \nunderstand it.\"\n\n\"I do not pretend to be very perspicuous,\" said the painter, \ndisregarding the mortifying reception and the perhaps equally \nungrateful sarcasm. \"Mystery is said to be an ingredient in the \nsublime; and as that is my aim, _of course_, (it belongs to the \naspirations of all youthful candidates for immortality,) I always \ncontrive to be as full of mystery as possible.\"\n\nTo this speech, which was uttered with an air of pleasantry, Miss \nFalconer only replied by a second penetrating stare; and then fixed \nher eye again upon the sketch. The painter, determined not to find \noffence where it was palpably meant, resumed his discourse, saying,\n\n\"I am afraid that my foolish music, last night, may have disturbed \nMiss Falconer. I forgot she had a right to be fatigued after her \njourney, until the plash of a rain-drop in my eye, as I lifted it \nromantically to heaven, brought me to my senses, and, ludicrously \nenough, in the very middle of one of Mr. Jingleum's best pieces.\"\n\n\"You knew, then, that I----Oh, certainly! the carriage rattled by \nElsie's door. I am sensible of the compliment, sir, and return you my \nthanks.\"\n\nThese expressions Miss Falconer uttered with much vivacity, and began \nthe question which she ceased so abruptly, in a voice of eagerness. \nIndeed, she felt that she had been almost thrown off her guard; and \nshe therefore, without any purpose, except to divert the attention of \nthose present to another subject, and certainly with no definite \nobject in view, said, laying her finger at the same time on the \nsketch,\n\n\"I do not well understand this tree, sir. What kind do you call it?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Hunter, with a smile, \"that is a palm.\"\n\n\"A _palm_!\" cried Miss Falconer, eyeing him with surprise; \"and pray, \nsir, how came a palm on the hills of the Brandywine?\"\n\nThe question threw the painter into confusion, which was increased by \nthe keen and searching glances of the critic, over whom this third \nviolation of propriety seemed to produce as strong an effect as the \ndetection of it did on the unlucky artist.\n\n\"A palm! good heavens,\" he stammered, with a laugh; \"and I did not \nmyself discover the incongruity before? Ah, Miss Falconer, you are \nthe very princess of censors; and I am glad you saw the fault, before \nit might have been too late to remedy it. But 'use doth breed a habit \nin a man,' as the great poet says; and painters are only flesh and \nblood, after all. This comes of taking my first lessons in painting, \namong the lagoons of Carolina. I must look close: I warrant me, I \nhave stuck a live-oak into the picture also.\"\n\n\"Really, sir,\" said Miss Falconer, whom the opportunity of playing \nthe critic seemed to have put into a better humour, \"I must beg \npardon for my ignorance. I thought that in Carolina we had no palms, \nexcept cabbage-trees; and this has a marvellous soaring, long-leaved, \ncocoa-nut appearance, judging from the prints I have seen of that \ntree, for of the tree itself I am quite ignorant.\"\n\n\"You are right, madam,\" said the painter; \"the cocoa-nut is, in every \nway, a much finer palm than the cabbage-tree; and for that reason, I \nhave always been accustomed to take a painter's license with the \nlatter, to make it as graceful and stately as possible. Painting, you \nknow, is a sort of palpable poetry; and one must not be tied down too \nclosely to nature.\"\n\n\"The cocoa-nut has an immensely long leaf, has it not?\" demanded Miss \nFalconer.\n\n\"Full fifteen feet,\" said the painter, warming into enthusiasm; \"and \neach one so much shaped like a great waving feather, that you might \ndeem it a plume plucked from the wing of Lucifer, or some other \ncolossus of demons. One can never forget its majestic appearance, who \nhas once looked upon the tree.\"\n\n\"You have been, then, in the Islands?\"\n\n\"Certainly, madam, yes;--that is to say, in my early youth, when the \ntree made a great impression on my mind. You may judge, therefore, \nhow natural it is that I should amend our inferior palms by adding \nsomewhat of the beauty of those that belong to the tropics.\"\n\n\"Oh, very natural,\" said Harriet; \"but it is quite droll you should \nput one upon the Brandywine.\"\n\nAnd with this indifferent remark she closed a conversation that \nseemed, even to the unsuspicious Catherine, to be somewhat \nembarrassing to the painter, though she was glad to find how quickly \nit dispelled her friend's peevish humour.\n\nThey were soon summoned to the breakfast table, to partake a hasty \nrepast, previous to visiting the scene of celebration, towards which \nseveral merry-makers were seen directing their way, even at this \nearly hour. Miss Falconer appeared surprised that the young man did \nnot instantly take his leave; but she soon discovered he was there \nfor the purpose of attending her kinswoman to the promontory, that \nduty having been expressly delegated to him by the Captain, who had \naccepted the honourable and highly responsible command of the \nsix-pounder, and the three or four vagabonds who were to serve it, \nand had therefore duties of his own to look after. He soon deserted \nthe table, saying he left his young painter 'to look after her and \nhis Kate; his rogues were coming after the powder, and he knew they \nwould shoot off some of their legs or arms, adzooks, unless he \naccompanied them back to the hill.'\n\nIn the meanwhile, Miss Falconer, discharging her hauteur and \npetulance altogether, talked freely with the Captain's guest, and \nappeared much interested in his conversation, and many obvious good \nqualities. But it was observable, that as her ease and frankness \nincreased, those of Hunter proportionately fell, until he became \nvisibly reserved, and almost silent. This mood, however, did not last \nlong; and by the time the little party was on its way to the scene of \nfestivity, he was as gay and spirited as ever.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n  Then came the felon on his sable steed.\n                         THEODORE AND HONORIA.\n\n\nThe festival, so far as events allowed it to proceed, was rather a \npic-nic, of a somewhat patriotic character, than a true national \ncelebration; and such indeed it might have been esteemed, had it not \nbeen for the occasional roar of the six-pounder, and the ambitious \ndin kept up by the muskets, and the drum and fife of a small company \nof volunteers, the only portion of the county military who could be \ninduced to honour Hawk-Hollow with their attendance. Few, however, as \nwere the persons present, they claimed to form in themselves the \nflower of the district; and rather rejoicing in than regretting the \nabsence of the great multitude, they proceeded with zeal to despatch \nwhat was esteemed the business of the day, in order that they might \nthe sooner advance to its pleasures. In fact, all interest in the \nproper business of celebration was soon found to be confined to \nCaptain Loring, the officers of the day, and their immediate \nadherents and partisans; the greater number of revellers, both male \nand female, preferring to ramble about in groups along the river \nshore, rather than to sit in solemn expectation on the promontory, \nawaiting the beginning of the proceedings. There were more attractive \ncharms to the mass in the grassy glades below, where attendants were \nbusily occupied in preparing for the feast and the dance, some \narraying stores of napkins and platters along the course of the \nbrook, and others matting together bushes and branches of trees, so \nas to form temporary canopies. In some places might be seen a knot of \nSabbath-clad bumpkins, moving among the horses that were tied under \nthe trees, and discoursing learnedly upon their good and bad points; \nin others, were collected divers rural beauties, admiring one \nanother's bonnets, or exchanging, like merchants at a fair, their \nlittle stock of innocent scandals--the peculiar products of their \nrespective neighbourhoods; and in one place, an amalgamation of the \ntwo interests was already effected, and a romping country-dance begun \nupon the green sward. Some idlers, incapable of any other exercise of \ntheir faculties, had begged pins of their cousins and sweethearts, \nconverted them into minnow-hooks, and were already angling from the \nrocks; some, more gallant, were paddling their favourites about in \ncanoes; some were singing; some rejoicing in the felicity of a jest; \nand in two different places afar off, was heard the screaming plaint \nof flutes, sounded by as many youthful followers of the Musagetes, \nwho had stolen to their solitudes alone.\n\nIn the meanwhile, those who were most zealous in the cause which had \nbrought them together, remained on the top of the promontory, whiling \nthe time in conversation, until the moment should arrive fixed on for \nopening the rites of the day. The prospect from this elevation was \nextensive, and, at one spot, it comprehended a view of a horse-path \nsloping down the hills on the further bank of the river, which, in \nseasons of drought, like the present, was there fordable. It looked \nbesides over a part of the valley, and afforded a clear glimpse of \nthe public highway at a place near to the park-gate, where it ran \nover a hill. Both these roads possessed, on the present occasion, a \npeculiar interest in the mind of Miss Falconer, and she had chosen \nher resting place, with the view of keeping them always in her eye. \nShe was followed to it by a select group, consisting, besides the \nCaptain's daughter, of the painter, the orator of the day, Dr. \nMerribody, and a few of that immediate coterie. Her vivacity on this \noccasion was remarkable; but it was observed by many that there was a \ndegree of restlessness and even uneasiness in her deportment, which \nwere displayed in her frequent changes of conversation, and the \npiercing looks she occasionally bent on all present, as if in some \nsudden and short-lived fit of abstraction, that rendered her \nunconscious of them herself. These glances she bestowed more \nfrequently upon her friend Catherine than any other person present; \nthough some supposed they proceeded from solicitude; for it was now \nremarked that the Captain's daughter was thinner and paler than of \nold, as if suffering from some hidden or not yet fully developed, \nindisposition. There was an air of lassitude in her countenance and \nmovements; and the bursts of merry humour that once marked her \nconversation, were now few and far between.\n\nThe individual who shared her piercing looks in the second degree, \nwas undoubtedly the painter, with whom she carried on a conversation \nfrequently very animated, and distinguished by a kind of malicious \nambition, no one knew why, unless it proceeded from sheer good will, \nto betray him into inconsistencies and contradictions. She took \noccasion to recur to the subject of the serenade, and requested him, \nwith many compliments, to resume 'the pretty little ditty of the Sigh \nand the Whisper,' as she called it, which had been so abruptly \nterminated on the preceding night by the rain-cloud, and the request \nbeing backed by that of others, he very good-naturedly consented to \nsing, objecting however to the lay in question, that being entirely \nof a serenading character, and therefore unfit for chanting by \nday-light. \"Instead of that,\" said he, \"I will sing you the song of \n_River, O River_, which always brings back the dear Pedee to my \nrecollections.\" And so saying, with but little of that hemming and \ncoughing, which we have good authority for esteeming the 'prelude to \na bad voice,' he immediately sang the following little roundelay, \nturning his eyes the while, with a mournful earnestness, upon the \nDelaware, as if _that_, by a turn of prosopopoeia, was made to supply \nthe place of the Southern river.\n\nI.\n\n  River, O River of light! whereon\n    The eyes of my youth were cast,\n  And many an idle hour and day\n    In mirth and joy were past;\n  Still bright and quiet thou flowest on,\n    As flow'd my earlier years,\n  Without a ripple, save those that rise\n    Beneath my dropping tears.\n\nII.\n\n  River, O River! the trees still shake\n    Their leaves in thy passing tide;\n  And the nodding flowers the glass'd flowers see,\n    That mock them as they glide.\n  'Twas thus, even thus, in ages gone;\n    But others,--alas, all flown!--\n  Were wont to sit on thy gray old rocks,\n    Where now I rest alone.\n\nIII.\n\n  River, O River! thy charm is gone,\n    For those that gave it are fled;\n  And the thoughts thou wakest are dark and sad,--\n    The thoughts of the distant dead.\n  None of them rest where they should rest,\n    By the waters they loved to see;\n  And thy green banks a grave shall yield\n    To none, unless to me.\n\nIV.\n\n  River, O River! my lady yet\n    Walks on thy verdant shore;\n  But though she smiles on thy bright blue waves,\n    She smiles on me no more.\n  I will not look on thy happy tide,\n    Nor list to thy breeze's stir,\n  When knowing, however she sighs by thee,\n    Another sighs with her.\n\nA deep sigh came from the breast of Jingleum; but before it had \nreached any ear but his own, Miss Falconer fixed her eyes on the \nsinger, and asked him, with much inquisitorial emphasis,\n\n\"Pray, sir, how came those 'gray old rocks' into the Pedee?\"\n\n\"_How!_\" echoed Herman; \"Truly, I know not; that is a question for a \ngeologist.\"\n\n\"Really, sir,\" said the lady, maliciously, \"I am surprised they \nshould be found in the Pedee, which, I have heard, rolls through a \nquagmire.\"\n\n\"You are right, Miss Falconer. The Pedee _proper_ is without rocks; \nbut the Yadkin, which is the upper portion of it, and mountainous, \nhas as rugged a bed as any other river. But allow me to say,\"--this \nhe uttered with a smile of triumph, as if aware of her desire to \ncatch him tripping,--\"you appear to suppose the song commemorative of \nmy native river; whereas, if I can believe the poet, my friend Mr. \nJingleum, it relates entirely to the Delaware before us.\"\n\n\"Ah! I forgot--I thought you were speaking of the Pedee; and I longed \nto show my knowledge of geography,\" said the lady. \"But, hark, sir; \nthere is the roll of the drum; the volunteers are cocking their \npieces, the Captain is just priming the artillery, and now we shall \nhave the signal for beginning the ceremonies.--I hope, sir, you have \nwell studied the Declaration?\"\n\n\"I have, madam,\" said the youth, who seemed to discover something \noffensive in the bantering question; \"and, however incompetent to the \ntask of pronouncing it with eloquence, or even effect, I believe \nthere is no one present who has given it more thought than my own \nunworthy self.\"\n\nAt the signal thus indicated, the various truants on the river-bank \nwere seen thronging hastily up the hill, and the orator, reader, and \nofficers of the day, immediately ascended the rostrum. Before the \npreliminaries were all completed, an exclamation from Captain Loring, \nwho had mounted with them, drew the eyes of all across the river.\n\n\"Soldiers, by the lord! adzooks, soldiers!\" he cried, and the \npatriots beheld three horsemen, in military attire, riding down the \nhorse-path on the opposite bank of the river. \"Look, Harry, my dear, \nlook!\" continued the Captain, eagerly; \"'tis our brother Harry, I'll \nbe sworn! Could tell him among ten thousand. Sits his horse like a \ngeneral; and a wonderful handsome dog--and, see, he is waving his \nhandkerchief!\"\n\nBut Miss Falconer was at this moment staring at another object in a \ncontrary direction, of more attraction even than her brother. She \nbeheld a single horseman, riding slowly along the road by the \npark-gate, wending his way towards the cottage of Elsie Bell, and \napparently too much wrapped up in his own reflections to bestow a \nglance, or even a thought, upon the scene of commotion presented by \nthe promontory. The distance of the road was at least a mile; but it \nwas easy to perceive, first, that the man was mounted upon a white \nhorse, and, secondly, that his head-gear was of a flaming red \ncolour,--two circumstances that filled both the eyes and the heart of \nthe gazer with fire. She turned her face to the rostrum, on which \nHunter was already displaying the record of a nation's \nenfranchisement; but interrupted his proceedings without ceremony, \ncrying eagerly,\n\n\"You have a painter's eyes, Mr. Hunter--do you know that man on the \nroad yonder? A red hat, I think?--a rawboned horse?--An acquaintance \nof yours, Mr. Hunter?\"\n\n\"An acquaintance?\" echoed the painter, with a look of surprise. \"At \nthis distance, it is impossible\"----\n\n\"Mr. Jingleum, what say you?\" cried Harriet, hastily; \"or you, Mr. \nPepperel?\"\n\n\"The midnight oil, Miss Falconer,\" murmured the modest bard; but was \ninterrupted by the lawyer, saying,\n\n\"It is necessary, before arriving at a conclusion, to examine into \nthe premises; and before deciding upon this matter, I should like to \nhave, not only the evidence of my own eyes, but the evidence of the \neyes of other persons,\"----when he was, in turn, silenced by the \nsudden exclamation of Dr. Merribody.\n\n\"I know the fellow, as well as I know my own patients,\" he cried, \npursing his eye-brows together; \"'tis that scoundrelly quack fellow, \nJohn Green, the Indian trader; and I hope he may come here before \nnight, that somebody may get drunk and trounce him.\"\n\n\"Bravo!\" cried Miss Falconer; and turning towards the river, she \nwaved her handkerchief, as if to hasten the advance of her martial \nfriends.\n\n\"Nonsense!\" cried Hunter, eagerly, but manifesting some little \nagitation. \"What! Green, the good fellow that pulled me from the \nbrook? Nonsense, doctor; that man is twice as tall; and besides, he \nrides quite a different horse.\"\n\n\"I'll stand up to it,\" said the doctor, with dignity. \"As for his \nhorse, why these traders are always buying and stealing; and there's \nhis red hat, as clear as a bunch of sumach, the red-headed villain! \nBut never mind any such vagabonds: read away, Hunter, my boy, and let \nJingleum begin; for I am as hungry as a horse-leech, and I long to be \nat something more substantial than all your confounded orations.\"\n\n\"Hang the reading,\" cried the painter, petulantly; \"let us see what's \nin the wind first.--We should at least be civil to the army officers: \nyou see, they are regulars; and, there, they have given up their \nhorses to old Richard, the coachman, and are running up the hill, \nlike three hounds after breakfast.--Rogues, you will be sorted! and \nfair Britomart, you shall this time wave the lance of cunning in \nvain!\" The last expressions were muttered within the recesses of his \nown heart.\n\nIn the meanwhile, the three officers, ascending the hill quickly, \nwere met by Miss Falconer, who flew to meet them, crying, \"To horse, \ngentlemen, to horse! the game is riding into your very arms.\"\n\nThese words were heard even at the rostrum, and filled all present \nwith surprise; which was not much allayed, when the youngest of the \nthree martialists, seizing upon Miss Falconer's hand, exclaimed, with \na laugh,\n\n\"Egad, sister Hal, we have resolved to convert you into Prince Hal, \nand make you Tory-taker General. Here's my friend, captain Caliver, \nwho admires your abilities at strategy immensely; as for Brooks, why, \ngad's my life, he is your Grand-Vizier. But where's our dog Parker? \nand what news of those vagabond Hawks of the Hollow? Where's the \nthief, Joram, or Oram, or what d'ye call it? Ah, Captain Loring, my \nexcellent friend! Ah, Miss Loring! ah, Miss\"----\n\n\"Brother,\" cried Harriet, with an energy that startled all present, \n\"you have no time for compliments. Accident has repaired the injuries \nof accident, and fate has thrust him you seek into your very hands. \nMount, gentlemen, mount!--Mount, all who have horses, and ride up the \nravine to the witch's cottage: the volunteers, and all our friends \nhere who are on foot, can run across the fields, and secure the road, \nso as to prevent retreat. The man in the red hat, and with a white \nhorse,--the canting Poke, or the sour-mouthed Green--all is one for \nthat; seize him, and you seize the most audacious of traitors, the \nmost ferocious of assassins!\"\n\n\"Adzooks!\" cried Captain Loring, \"what's all this?\"\n\n\"It means, Captain, egad,\" said young Falconer, grinning with pure \ndelight, \"that Hal here has been hunting your famous Hawks, till she \nhas found them; and now, egad, if we can believe her, she is about to \nnab them. As for the road, sister, we have that safe enough, with \ntwenty foot, and ten picked horse, coming down from the Gap; there \nare two companies, also, ordered to the village; and if you want more \nforce, why we must e'en call upon the volunteers. The end of all \nthis, gentlemen,\" continued the delighted lieutenant, \"is, that you \nhave a gang of refugees among you; and that their leader, Oram or \nJoram Gilbert, or whatever you call him,--captain Gilbert, they call \nhim,--a very bold, murdering fellow, has just ridden by, as Miss \nFalconer says, and in a red hat, egad, and on a white horse, and with \nsome dozen names or two; and so, gentlemen, we'll mount horse, and \ntake him.\"\n\nHad a thunderbolt darted from the blue sky among the group assembled \non the hill, it could not have produced a more sudden terror, than \ndid the name of the renowned refugee, with the announcement of his \nproximity to the scene of celebration. The name of the outlaw was \nfamiliar to all, as an omen of fear and blood; and while many of the \nyoung men re-echoed it after the lieutenant with open dismay, it \nproduced such a general scream from the women as made the rocks \nresound, and added but little to the courage of their protectors. As \nfor the lieutenant himself, he seemed to be vastly diverted by the \ngeneral explosion of fright; though he instantly waved his hand to \nhis friends, calling upon captain Caliver to mount, and waggishly \ndirecting his brother lieutenant to 'form the women and volunteers, \nand march them to the scene of action;' when Hunter, leaping down \nfrom the rostrum, exclaimed,--\n\n\"This is a mistake, an absurdity; I can assure Miss Falconer that the \nman who rode by is no more a Hawk of the Hollow than I am; at least, \nI am certain he is not Green, the trader, whom I will avouch to be an \nhonest man.\"\n\n\"Let Mr. Hunter first avouch that for himself,\" said Miss Falconer, \nwith a glance of fire; \"the question will soon be asked him.--Quick, \nbrother, quick! haste, gentlemen, haste! and all who can do nothing \nbetter, follow me up to the road-side.\"\n\nPerhaps the singular sarcasm the young lady thought fit to fling at \nthe painter, was unheard by him,--for finding that, despite his \nremonstrance, the officers were running down the hill towards their \nhorses, he uttered a sudden shout, and immediately imitated their \nexample, bounding along at such a pace that he soon outstripped the \nfleetest.\n\nIn a moment, the assembly was broken up, and the revellers flying in \nall possible directions. Here were seen women running to conceal \nthemselves among rocks and bushes; and there one or two prudent \ngentlemen, who declared themselves 'men of peace, and no fighters,' \npaddling across the river, to get out of harm's way, with but little \nregard to the beauties they left screaming after them on the shore. \nBut the torrent of fugation, though it sent off so many irregular \nrills, was seen dividing into two chief currents, one of which, \nconsisting principally of mounted men, went, like the back-water of a \nflood, rolling up the ravine leading to the Traveller's Rest, while \nthe other, consisting of such volunteers as had not already broken \nand followed after the officers, and such worthy celebrators as had \nthe courage to imitate the example of Miss Falconer and Captain \nLoring, made its way on foot towards the public road.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n  Thorough brake, thorough brier,\n  Thorough muck, thorough mier,\n  Thorough water, thorough fier,\n  And thus goes Puck about it.\n                      DRAYTON--_Nymphidia_.\n\n\nIt has been seen, that if the painter made an effort to restrain the \nenthusiasm of the multitude, he instantly proved that he was not \nwithout the virtue himself, so soon as he found it was really \ndetermined to pursue the suspected person. The horses of the officers \nhad been led round the hill to the covert where the others were tied; \nand towards this place he directed his steps, crying out all the \ntime, with encouraging alacrity, \"Quick, gentlemen, quick!\"\n\nBut the strongest proof of his zeal he gave, the moment he had \nreached the horses, by vaulting upon the back of the nearest, (and, \nin his estimation, the best,) which happened, at that moment, to be \nin the hands of the venerable coachman, Richard, who was leading the \nanimal round with a degree of solicitude and attention, that were \ntestimonials enough of its value. Herman's lodgings being so nigh at \nhand, he had thought it wholly superfluous to trouble himself with \nhis own roan charger; and the present emergency was of a nature so \npeculiar, he did not stop a moment to consider the lawfulness of the \nseizure. He leaped therefore into the saddle, jerked the reins out of \nRichard's hand; and the wrath of the owner, who was no other than \nlieutenant Falconer himself, was extreme, when he beheld the \naudacious stranger, his own loud calls to the contrary \nnotwithstanding, bestride the captured steed with the air of an \nemperor, and instantly put him to his speed.\n\n\"Harkee, halt! stop! you've mistaken your horse,\" cried the \nlieutenant. \"_Who_ is that impudent scoundrel? My horse, you rogue! \nGive me a pistol, Caliver, and I'll shoot him off.\"\n\nBut the anger of the soldier was unavailing; the painter swept out of \nsight, and while Falconer was calling on his friend Caliver, (a \ngentleman of a weather beaten face, very lantern-jawed, and with a \nred nose,) he also darted forward and vanished. Nothing remained for \nhim but to follow the example set him by Hunter; and accordingly, he \nseized upon the best charger he could find, and with his brother \nofficer and others, galloped after the two leaders.\n\nThe reader may remember that the Traveller's Rest was described as \nlying at the upper termination of a ravine, which swept down to the \nriver, and just before it debouched thereon, received the waters of \nHawk-Hollow Run. From the promontory so often spoken of, the cottage \nwas plainly visible, and approachable along the bed of the river, \neven by horsemen, provided they were of the steeple-chase order, or \nwere moved by any occasion so stirring as the present. The \nobstructions and difficulties, nevertheless, were of a nature, to \ncall for great circumspection on the part of the riders; and \naccordingly the greater number of pursuers began to exercise their \ndiscretion so soon almost as they had well set out. The two leaders, \nhowever, dashed onwards with fiery zeal, and performed feats of \nhorsemanship that gained them the applause of the laggards. It was \nfortunate for Herman that his spirit and address soon won him the \ngood will of the cavalry officer, (for such was captain Caliver) at \nhis heels. He had remarked the seizure of his friend's charger, and \nat first meditated a wrathful reprimand. He succeeded in coming \nwithin speaking distance, as Hunter toiled up an ascent of unusual \nruggedness, and instantly hailed him:\n\n\"Harkee, my friend,\" said he, \"you ride like a gentleman, and a \nlittle training would fit you for the army: but do you know you have \nmistaken your horse?\"\n\n\"Faith, there is no mistake about it,\" cried the painter, \"for my \nhorse was not on the ground. In such an emergency, sir--but enough. \nAre you armed, captain? are you armed?\"\n\n\"Surely my holsters are at my saddle-bow,\" quoth the cavalry officer, \nspurring up, as he reached a more level ground, on which he could \ndisplay all the qualities of his charger; \"and as surely you will \nfind Harry Falconer's at his, if you know how to use them. Harkee, my \nfriend, I will not make so bold as to consider you in a fright; but \nyou are quite white about the lips.\"\n\n\"Ay, true,\" said the painter, clapping his hand to the holsters, and \ndrawing forth a weapon, but taking no particular notice of the \nsoldier's insinuation: \"Captain, had you not better draw up, and wait \nfor some of the company, while I push on, and secure the road?\"\n\n\"I vow to heaven,\" said captain Caliver, \"I would knock you off your \nhorse, did I not know you spoke in the ignorant innocence of your \nheart. Draw up, and wait for company? It is not in my nature to call \nany man an ass, except a private; and you are here, I think, as a \nvolunteer. So, Mr. Gentleman-volunteer, be pleased to look upon me as \ncommander-in-chief, and attend to my instructions.--Do you know that \nOran Gilbert, when you see him?\"\n\n\"How should I? The Indian trader, to be sure, I know; and you will \nsoon find, that this fellow of the white horse is no more like him \nthan I am.\"\n\n\"Very well--Fall behind, Mr. Gentleman-volunteer, and\"----\n\n\"I will do no such thing,\" said the youth, stoutly; \"I will ride, \nfight, and kill refugees with any man in the county; and if you show \nme one, I'll engage to shoot him at sixty paces,--that is, with a \ngood pistol,--I will, by the lord!\"\n\nAnd so saying, the volunteer brandished his pistol with such ardour \nthat it suddenly went off in his hand, with a report that set the \nwhole ravine roaring, and materially expedited the march of their \nfollowers, who responded with an instant cheer.\n\nThe captain of cavalry stretched forth his hand, seized Hunter's \nbridle, and was about to express certain rough suspicions which this \nuntimely explosion created in his mind, when the painter cried out, \nwith as much apparent innocence as confusion,\n\n\"Egad, I believe 'twas a hair-trigger!\"\n\n\"Spur up, and no more firing,\" cried the soldier; \"or by the eternal \nJupiter, I'll knock you off your horse. You have alarmed the wigwam; \nsee what a hubbub you have raised in the van, as well as on the rear! \nthe tavern is in commotion. Hah! by the eternal Jupiter, there goes \nRed-hat! Spur up, gentleman volunteer; or by the eternal Jupiter, the \nfellow will escape!\"\n\nThe report of the pistol had indeed reached the Traveller's Rest, and \ndrawn forth its two or three inmates; who could now easily behold the \nwhole train of horsemen dashing furiously up the ravine; and the \nquick eye of captain Caliver was not slow in detecting a person on \nhorseback, with a red hat, pricking hastily away from the cottage.\n\n\"The game is sprung,--the rabbit is up!\" he cried, while the fire \nthat burned on his thin nose, seemed to have raised a kindred flash \nin his dark gray eyes. \"Gentleman-volunteer, do you see? Now you \nshall behold the doings of Sky-scraper, the best horse for a long \nrace on short fodder, that was ever galled by saddle. Up the bank \nhere, and after!\"\n\n\"You are wrong, captain, you are wrong,\" cried the painter, eagerly. \n\"'Tis a white horse, you know; and this is a roan, or sorrel.\"\n\nThere could be no truth more incontestible than this; yet captain \nCaliver was of too sagacious a spirit, or perhaps was warming with \ntoo much fire, to be led from his purpose by an argument not of his \nown devising.\n\n\"I will be uncivil to no man but a private,\" he cried, fixing his eye \nupon the fugitive, (who was for a moment's space plainly visible, as \nhe galloped up the road,) compressing his lips, till they actually \nseemed to have vanished, and, at the same time, driving his spurs \ndeep into his steed; \"I say, I will be rough-spoken to none but \nprivates, for it does not hurt their feelings; but, by the eternal \nJupiter, there goes our man!--or what does he mean by wearing a red \nhat? and, lastly, what does he mean by beating a retreat in such a \nfashion? Harkee, Mr. Gentleman-volunteer, I am glad now you fired \nthat pistol. Had we come upon the dog silently, why then I should \nhave picked him up, rolled up in a ball, like an opossum; which is a \njob for a black man, and not a captain of cavalry. I say,\" he \ncontinued, with increasing animation, \"I am glad you have roused him, \nand shown him a fair field; for, by the eternal Jupiter, I have not \nseen a race worthy to speak of for two weeks; and, by the eternal \nJupiter, you shall see such a one now as will make your blood run; \nand, by the eternal Jupiter, I hope his horse is blooded, for, by the \neternal Jupiter, I will run him, or any other respectable tory \ngentleman, from time temporal to time eternal, from post to pillar, \nfrom Sunday to Saturday, and from life and the dinner-table to death \nand\"----. And here the captain of horse, who was something of a horse \nhimself when his blood was up, ended climacterically with a most \nsoldier-like word, which, although it may be found in any English \ndictionary with which the public is acquainted, will nevertheless \nread more agreeably in a dictionary than any where else. He added, \nindeed, three more words; for turning his horse's head towards the \nsteep bank that bounded the ravine on the right hand, he twisted a \nlock of the charger's mane round his finger, and uttered the \ncabalistic ejaculation,--\n\n\"Go it, Sky-scraper!\"\n\nThe words had an immediate effect; no sooner did they reach his ear \nthan Sky-scraper, with a plunge that carried him half a length ahead \nof the painter, darted to the brow of the acclivity; and Herman \nfollowing, he beheld the Indian trader, (for it was this identical \nindividual they were now pursuing,) some five or six hundred paces in \nadvance, travelling at a very unusual pace up the highway. As Hunter \nreached the road, he cast his eye backwards to the hovel, and beheld, \nriding into the oak yard, a man whom he knew at once to be the person \nthat had first attracted Miss Falconer's notice. He rode a white \nhorse, and there was a red covering to his head; but this latter \nphenomenon, as it appeared, was owing entirely to the presence of a \nred handkerchief drawn over the horseman's hat, doubtless to shield \nhis eyes from the sun-beams, or from the dazzling rays reverberated \nfrom a dusty road. There was nothing at all warlike in the appearance \nof this individual; on the contrary, he seemed, from his dress, to \nbelong to the community of Friends; and he paused at the entrance of \nthe yard, looking back on the chase he had left behind, with much \ninnocent curiosity and wonder.\n\n\"Captain,\" cried the painter, at the top of his voice, \"wheel about. \nYou are leaving the true man: here he is, full in view, behind us!\"\n\nThe captain answered only by repeating the charm that had already \nnerved the limbs, and fired the spirit of his steed; and Herman, \nurged by feelings and inducements of his own, followed after him; and \nin a few moments, the fugitive and his two pursuers were alike buried \nin a cloud of dust, raised by the fleet chargers.\n\nWhen the two leaders so suddenly left the ravine, they were beyond \nthe sight of those who brought up the rear; and these, not doubting \nthey had continued their original route, galloped on themselves until \nthey reached the little inn; where the first person they saw was a \ntall, middle-aged, gawky quaker, the same that had been seen by \nHerman, sitting astride his horse, and staring on them with gaping \nastonishment.\n\n\"Surrender, you villain!\" cried Harry Falconer, with a whoop of \nvictory; \"surrender, you bloody Hawk, or I'll blow your brains \nout,--or I'll make Brooks do it, that scoundrel having run away with \nmy pistols.--Hillo-ah-ho, Caliver!--What has become of the \ncaptain?--Down, you dog, and we'll tie you!\"\n\n\"'Nan!\" cried the astounded Friend: \"What does thee mean, young \nperson?\"\n\n\"Death and Beelzebub!\" cried Brooks, \"What have we here? Why, old \nfather Broadbrim, who the devil are you? Sure, I know this horse!\"\n\n\"Sure thee may, and sure thee may not,\" replied Broadbrim, looking \nwrathfully upon his captors, who were evidently nonplussed at sight \nof him. \"He is an honest man's horse, friend foul-mouth and sauce-box \nwith the coat of the slayer on thee back!\"\n\n\"The spot's on the wrong leg!\" cried Brooks, who had been inspecting \nthe stranger's horse with a curious eye. \"Hah! d'ye see the dust on \nthe hill? Some of you guard father Broadbrim; he's suspicious: we'll \nexamine him directly. Hillo-ho, Falconer! I'll have you! oho! oho! \noho!\" and away darted the young officer after his brother lieutenant, \nwho had galloped off so soon as he discovered the course pursued by \nthe leaders.\n\nBy this time, all the young men present had grown warm with exercise, \nand were now waxing valiant, as they began to understand the little \ndanger there was in chasing, so many of them together, a single \nrefugee, who, although desperate and dangerous enough, had shown so \nlittle inclination to face them. They began to be apprized, too, of \nthe nature of the service in which they were rather co-operating than \ncompulsorily engaged; and all seemed to know, that the farther they \nrode up the highway, the nearer they would be to an armed force, \nmarched into the county for the express purpose of ferreting out and \ndestroying the band of outlaws. This being the state of their \nfeelings, there were few of them willing to accept the ignoble trust \nof guarding the body of the Quaker prisoner; though, having had it \nurged upon them by the cautious lieutenant, they were loath to \ndischarge him without authority. It was proposed by some to lock him \nup in the Traveller's Rest, and entrust the ward entirely in the \nhands of Elsie and her little negress; while others pointed to \nGilbert's Folly as a safer prison-house; and some even talked of \ncarrying him to the woods, and tying him to a tree, until the chase \nthey were so anxious to share in, was over. The dilemma, such as it \nwas, was already proceeding to altercation, when Broadbrim, having \nunderstood that they were in chase of a famous tory, proposed to ride \nwith them in pursuit; adding with a zeal that delighted, as much as \nit astonished them,--\n\n\"A man of war am I not, neither a slayer nor a fastener of bonds, \nneither a firer of pistols nor a brandisher of swords and spears; \nyet, friend younker whom they call Andrews, if thee is the man to \nshow me a tory who hath broken the law, then verily am I the man that \nwill hold him hard and fast, till the law hath spoken with him; yea, \nverily, I am. Ride on, therefore, with whip and with spur; only swear \nnot, and be not awroth; and do thou, friend Andrews, ride at my side; \nfor my horse is a horse of peace and not a horse of war, sure-footed \nbut slow, and peradventure I may be left behind. It doth not become \nme to say, I hate a tory, for a tory is a man, and hate belongeth not \nto a fellow creature;--but, verily, I have heard of the man called \nOran Gilbert, the Hawk of the Hollow; and, verily, I should not like \nto be summoned on the jury to try him for his manifold crimes; for, \nverily, it would be against my principles to judge him to death, and \nverily it would be against my heart and conscience to let him off \nwith aught less than hanging. So let me detain none from the good \ndeed of catching the wicked man; and peradventure, if this animal \nbeneath me hath any vigour left in his legs and reins, I may stretch \nforth my hand afar, and take the sinner by the nape of the neck.\"\n\nThe manifestation of such spirit on the part of Broadbrim, who seemed \nwell prepared, so far as strength of arm and resolution of heart were \nconcerned, to take even a huger man than the Indian trader betwixt \nhis finger and thumb, determined the course of his sentinels at once. \nThey gave a loud shout, and bidding him follow, rode after the \nofficers as hard as they could; and it was worthy of remark, that the \nwhite horse, notwithstanding the hint the prisoner had given of his \nslowness, began gradually to warm into mettle and fleetness, so that \nbefore the race had extended many miles, he bade fair to outstrip his \nattendants altogether.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\nIf you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life: no, I \nam no such thing; I am a man as other men are:--And there, indeed, \nlet him name his name; and tell them plainly, he is Snug the joiner.\n                                   MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.\n\n\nMeanwhile, the party of footmen, consisting of some dozen or more of \nthe volunteers, and such revellers as were brave enough for the \nexploit,--followed, or rather led by the valiant Harriet, who \ndisplayed the energy of a Penthesilea, and by Captain Loring, who \nforgot his lameness in the ardour of the moment,--succeeded in \ngaining the highway just in time to catch the most favourable view of \nthe fugitive, as he thundered up the hill upon which they were \nthemselves rushing. Indeed, they came upon him so suddenly, that when \nhis ears, which as well as his eyes, seemed to be fully occupied in \ntracing the signs of pursuit, were surprised by the sudden shout they \nset up, the jerk which he instinctively made at the reins, brought \nhis steed (a goodly roan charger, which was afterwards discovered to \nbe the property of the painter) upon his hams, and had well nigh \ntumbled him in the dust. At that moment, the volunteers, in an \necstasy of excitement, raised their muskets, and fired together upon \nhorse and man; so that, had there been any better ammunition in the \ndeadly tubes than blank-cartridges, both must have been blown to \natoms.\n\nThe appearance of the trader, as he rose up in his saddle, and looked \nupon the throng around him, apparently as much astonished at his \nescape from death as he was infuriated by such a display of mortal \nopposition, was wild and terrific; the broad red hat had fallen back \nfrom his forehead, disclosing his whole countenance; the eye with \nwhich he glared upon his opposers, had a certain ghastliness mingled \nwith its fury, that was infinitely appalling; the retracted lips, \nexposing the set teeth, seemed widened into a grin that might have \nbecome the visage of a nether imp; and his hand, with which he had \nsnatched up, and now brandished, a huge horse-pistol, could not have \nappeared more dreadful, had it been dripping with fresh blood. When \nit is remembered, that the whole throng were now impressed with the \nconviction, (a conviction which their reason had no time to \nquestion,) that, in this man, they beheld the most renowned and \ndreaded of the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, and perceived that he had the \nlife of at least one individual in his power, it is not to be \nwondered at that their courage gave way, so soon as they perceived \nhim unharmed by the volley. In truth, they began to shout and fly; \nand even the volunteers waited no longer than to see the pistol aimed \ntowards them, before they took to their heels as hastily as the \nothers. It was in vain that Miss Falconer cried out, \"Now is the \ntime, gentlemen! seize him!\" The only individual who thought fit to \nobey the mandate, was Captain Loring, who, having just hobbled up to \nthe road, sprang from a bank, and before the rover had fired, or even \nraised up his steed, snatched vigorously at the bridle, roaring out,\n\n\"I've nabbed you, adzooks, you rascal!--Surrender!\"\n\nTo this bold summons the demi-barbarian answered by turning his \nweapon from the flying assailants, and clapping it instantly to the \nCaptain's ear; when a shriek from Catherine startled, or conjured, \nhim out of his bloody intention; and instead of shooting the veteran \ndead on the spot, he struck him a blow with the heavy barrel, that \nbrought him to the earth. He then uttered a yell like the whoop of an \nIndian; and the roan horse, leaping over the Captain's body, bounded \nbeyond the crest of the hill, and was in an instant concealed from \nview.\n\nThe next moment, and almost before the terrified rustics had plucked \nthe unlucky veteran from the road, the thunder of hoofs again shook \nthe hill, and the captain of cavalry, looking almost as grim and \nterrific as the fugitive, was seen to shoot by, pronouncing his \nmagical war-word, \"Go it, Sky-scraper!\" Then, at his heels, came \nHerman, the painter, who, without seeming very sensible of the \npresence of any earthly spectators, gave forth, as he passed, a bold \nand stirring hurrah, that almost made Miss Falconer reject as \nimprobable certain wild suspicions that had already crept into her \nbrain. Then came the lieutenants and their long train of volunteer \nfollowers, bestowing as little notice upon the individuals on the \nroad-side as the others had done; and these defeated worthies were \nleft to themselves, busied in restoring the Captain to his senses,--a \ndesideratum, that, to the delight of all, was soon effected; for \nindeed the Captain's cocked hat had done him the service his gray \nhairs had not; and it was soon found, that, except his being thrown \ninto a violent passion, he was none the worse for his misfortune.\n\n\"I'll have the villain's blood!\" he cried, starting up in a fury, \nwhich he expended upon all around him without much discrimination. \n\"What are you blubbering about, Kate, you jade? Adzooks, but I'll \nhave the blood of the rascal! Hark ye, Mr. Doctor Merribody, and you \nMr. Orator Jingleum, and the rest of you, and especially _you_, you \nconfounded cowardly volunteers! what did you mean by not rushing in \nupon the dog, when I had him, you puppies? Adzooks, you \nwhite-feathered hen-bantams, I had sooner trust to a regiment of \nsuttler's wives, in a bayonet-charge, than to any such poltroonery \nrascals, even in the small matter of taking a tory by the ears. \nAdzooks, you gallimaufry what-d'ye-call-'ems, is this the way you \nkeep the Fourth of July?\"\n\nWhile the veteran thus poured forth his indignant rebukes, which he \ncontinued until his daughter succeeded in pacifying him, the captain \nof cavalry, followed at but a little distance by Herman, still \npursued the chase with untiring ardour, now catching view of the \nfugitive as he flashed over the brow of a hill, but oftener losing \nsight of him altogether, so winding and broken was the road, and so \ndeeply embowered by forest-trees. Caliver marvelled greatly at the \nexcellence of the roan steed bestridden by his quarry, upon whom, \nafter riding several miles, he did not seem to have gained an inch; \nbut, in truth, the horse was of approved speed and bottom, the rider \nwas himself a master of the art of horsemanship, and was besides, at \nleast, a stone and a half lighter than his pursuer. He continued, \nhowever, to follow, cheering himself with the reflection, that, by \nand by, the appearance of the infantry, already posted on the road, \nmust bring the fugitive to a stand. \"And then,\" quoth he to himself, \nwith a grim chuckle, \"he must e'en turn about; and then, by the \neternal Jupiter, I will shave off the top of his poll with my sabre, \nor shoot him through the gizzard with my pistol, according to \ncircumstances. Go it, Sky-scraper; and don't let it be said of you, \nyou were ever beaten, in a fair race, by a rascally refugee!\"\n\nAs for the painter, he possessed but little of the unflagging spirit \nof his leader; and seeing there was small prospect of gaining on the \ntrader, he soon became tired of pursuing, and began to devise in what \nmanner he might, without loss of honour, discontinue the pursuit. \nFirst, then, having reached a wild hollow, where a little runlet \ncrossed the road, and was immediately lost amid a labyrinth of great \nrocks, trees, and brambles, he gradually slackened his pace, until \nthe cavalry officer vanished among the windings of the road. As soon \nas he had lost sight of him, he came to a full halt, greatly to the \ndissatisfaction of his borrowed steed, whose heart was already warmed \nfor battle. Here the painter listened a moment, as if to gather some \ntokens of the approach of others. A few straggling shouts came to his \near from a vast distance behind. He hesitated an instant; the cries \nof pursuit came nearer. He then dismounted, reversed the saddle on \nthe horse's body, gave him a lash and a shout, and away went the \nliberated animal, leaving his rider standing in the middle of the \nhighway. Here, however, he did not long remain. Another chorus of \nshouts, coming still nearer, reverberated through the woodland; and \nwithout waiting for a fourth, the young artist instantly deserted the \nroad, and plunged into the wildest and deepest part of the hollow.\n\nAnd now appeared the two lieutenants, rushing vociferously on, with \nsome two or three young men who were better mounted than others, \nclose at their heels. Then, strange to be said, came the zealous \nBroadbrim, the spirit of whose lank steed seemed to grow with his \nexertions, and who had left the rest far behind. It was the destiny \nof this worthy personage, like the painter, here to end the labours \nof the day; but with this important difference, that, whereas the \npainter had relinquished the pursuit, because it was his will to do \nso, the quaker, on the other hand, terminated his career, because it \nwas the will of his horse he should do so. In other words, this \nhighly republican animal, having debated in his body (for, being a \nhorse, he had no mind,) the absurdity of the burthen being all on one \nside, and reflecting, that, as he himself could not ride, there was \nno reason why he should be ridden, now began to broach his rebellious \nprinciples in the most expressive language he could make use \nof,--that is, in sundry curvets and escapades; the result of which \nwas, somewhat to the astonishment of honest Broadbrim, that the \nmagnanimous insurgent suddenly broke his base bonds, and fled away, \nwhinnying with the delight of freedom, while his oppressor, after \nadmiring the print his back had made in a spot by no means dusty, now \nsat down pensively on the road-side, and began to ponder his \nmisfortunes.\n\n\"'The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon!'\" were the first \nwords he uttered; and he uttered them with much sincerity of \nindignation. \"Had the gallows been close by, thou ungrateful beast, I \nbelieve thou wouldst have been just as malicious. Wilt thou never be \ndone thy tricks, White Surrey? Out upon thee, thou ass of a horse! I \nhave helped thee out of all manner of difficulties, and, in return, \nthou never missest an opportunity of flinging me into one. 'A horse, \na horse, my kingdom for a horse!' Now am I in a quandary, like a fish \nin a net.--And suppose some one of these malapert blue-jackets should \nlook into my saddle-bags, and pull out, one after another, first Tom \nHunting-shirt, then long-tailed Nehemiah, then Will Tapes, the \npedler, and then--and then, and then?--Hillo, you vagabond Hawk! you \nskulking tories, that have fern-seed, and walk invisible! where are \nye? Now am I like a rat between six cats.--Come to me, and ye shall \nhear the words of grace, the comfortable and fructifying words, ye \nmen of Belial, that hide your faces in woods and in desert \nplaces!--Hearken to me, friend Gilbert, whom men call the Hawk of the \nHollow: does thee not perceive I am in great straits, and that I am \nthy friend in the spirit, and will hold thine enemies very fast and \nhard, and will peradventure strike one of them under the fifth rib, \nso that he die?--Out, you inhuman rascal! you captain Gilbert! come \nto my assistance, or,--'_paucas palabras_,'--I shall be hanged.\"\n\nAs the mysterious quaker proceeded in his musings, which he \noccasionally vented aloud, his looks, fixed mournfully on the ground, \nfell by chance upon a shrub-leaf close to the earth, the under \nsurface of which was turned up, looking white and glistening among \nthe green fronds. This he, at first, regarded with great \nindifference; but having observed it a second time, a thought entered \nhis brain, which caused him to rise and advance towards it, to \nexamine whether it had been deranged by the winds, by the foot of a \nbeast, or by some more important agency. Its foot-stalk was broken; \nand divers decaying leaves beneath it were crushed into the ground. \nThese appearances induced him to look about him with much care; and \nthe search terminated in the discovery of several foot-marks in the \ndamp soil, evidently impressed by a pair of moccasined feet, and that \nvery recently. This discovery infused singular animation into his \nspirit, which was quickened by a sudden shout from the road behind. \nHe sprang behind a bush, until the comer, one of his late sentinels, \ndashed by; then resuming the search, he found himself following a \nhuman trail, that led him into such a labyrinth of bog and bramble, \nas might have made him repent his presumption, had he possessed the\ngrace to repent any thing. He persisted however with much resolution, \nand still made his way by the tracks, until the sudden appearance of \na huge rattlesnake, bruiting under his nose, startled him out of his \npropriety and the path together. In a word, he soon proved himself to \nbe no woodman; and, in the course of five or ten minutes' walk, was \nso completely lost and mazed among the depths of a wild swamp, as to \nhave lost even the power of extricating himself.\n\n\"'Ay, now,'\" said he, with a groan, \"'I am in Arden; the more fool I; \nwhen I was at home, I was in a better place; but travellers must be \ncontent.'\"\n\nThen looking about him disconsolately, he perceived, through the \ntrees, a little eminence, where he could rest himself, and whence, he \nthought, he might discover some path out of the wilderness. He \nproceeded towards it forthwith. It was a swell of land, on the summit \nvery rocky, covered with beech and maple trees, and with an \nundergrowth of spice-wood and its fragrant sister, the sassafras. \nAmong these he thought he heard the babbling of a little \nwater-course; and this sound he hailed with satisfaction, for he was \nalready tormented with thirst. As he passed up the hill, he stepped \ninto a little nook, not above a dozen paces in circuit, enclosed by \nrocks and bushes, and so overshadowed by beeches as to form a \nthick-roofed grotto, on the floor of which sparkled a meager rill, \nflowing from a spring at the bottom of a rock.\n\nAn abrupt turn round a mass of protruding stone brought the wandering \nman of peace unexpectedly upon this scene; but before he had time to \nsurvey it, he was suddenly seized upon by an arm of iron, and hurled \nupon the ground. The next moment, a strong hand was at his throat, a \nheavy knee on his chest, and a long, bright knife gleamed like a \nflash of lightning before his eyes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\n            That you are rogues,\n  And infamous base rascals, (there's the point now,)\n  I take it, is confess'd.----\n  May a poor huntsman, with a merry heart,\n  A voice shall make the forest ring about him,\n  Get leave to live amongst ye?--true as steel, boys!\n                                         BEGGARS' BUSH.\n\n\n\"Speak--who and what are you? and what seek you here?\" said the harsh \nvoice of the conqueror.\n\nThe intruder looked up in his face with some wonder, and beheld the \nfeatures of a man of middle age, very dark and fierce of aspect, with \nlong black locks of hair hanging from his temples, wild, \nIndian-looking eyes, and a mouth expressive of as much inherent \nferocity as was ever betrayed by the visage even of a red-man.\n\n\"Speak,\" repeated the apparition, impatiently, \"or never speak more!\"\n\nTo this the prisoner replied with less confusion of mind than \ndifficulty of articulation,--\n\n\"Hark ye, Mr. Green, or Gray, or Black,--for a deuced black face you \nhave!--or, if you like that better, Mr. Hawk-of-the-Hollow Gilbert, \n'what is the reason that you use me thus?' 'I would be friends with \nyou, and have your love;'--but not while I am on my back, to be sure. \n'Call you this backing of your friends?' 'Slife, sir, take away your \nfingers, and let me up: I am Iago, the 'honest, honest' man. At any \nrate, be so civil as to consider, that, though your knee may find its \ncushion agreeable enough, my lungs do not.\"\n\n\"And what will they think of a knife in them?\" cried the fierce \ncaptor, without relaxing his hold. \"You were among the hounds that \nwere hunting me!\"\n\n\"Ay; and had they caught you, I should have been among the hunters \nthat were hanging you,--provided they had not tucked me up first. \nHark ye, friend Hawk, I should have known you better, had you stuck \nto the gray whig; I remember you of old, Mr. Green, the trader. I am \nan honest man; ask Sir Guy Carleton else; if he don't know Ephraim \nPatch, who is just as honest as myself, why then ask him about one \nLeonidas Sterling, an old friend and correspondent of his worship at \nPhiladelphia. 'Slife, sir, I tell you I am a true man.\"\n\n\"Give me some proof, and I will release you. Trifle with me, and you \nare a dead man.\"\n\n\"Put your hand into the right pocket of my vest,\" cried the prostrate \nsufferer, \"and you will find it.\"\n\nThe conqueror did as directed, and drew forth a guinea.\n\n\"You asked for proof,\" said the other, with a grin, \"and there you \nhave it! Were I a rebel, you would have found naught but a roll of \nbeggarly continentals; had there been more, I should have been an \nhonest quaker, and neither rebel nor tory. Are you satisfied? I came \nhere to seek you, and save my neck, which is in danger. There are men \namong the rebel officers that know me; and to be known, sir,--'by \nthese pickers and stealers,' 'tis true!--'twere as good as a word to \nJack Ketch, under the sign and seal of a State governor! Captain \nGilbert, I come to volunteer my services under your command; and the \nsooner you introduce me to your rascals the better.\"\n\n\"Rise, and behold them!\" said the refugee, leaping to his feet; and \nfriend Ephraim Patch, or Mr. Leonidas Sterling, as he had called \nhimself, looking up, beheld to his extreme surprise, for he knew not \nhow they got there, two men standing hard by, in green hunting \nshirts, with each a hatchet in his hand, as if ready to use them, and \ncountenances grimly forbidding.\n\n\"'The earth hath bubbles, as the water has!'\" he \ncried,--\"'Peas-blossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustard-seed!' 'I cry your \nworships' mercy!' Your hands, gentlemen: I am as honest a scoundrel \nas any of you, though somewhat more unfortunate.\"\n\n\"Honest or false,\" said the refugee, giving a sign with his hand, on \nwhich the two instantly stepped from the den, and were concealed \namong the bushes, \"it signifies but little to me. You are among \nfriends, if you speak true; otherwise, among hangmen.--Your name is \nPoke?\"\n\n\"'That's he that was Othello'--a poor servant of the word, an \nexpounder of the book, a sower of good seed on the way-side,\" said \nthe Proteus, in the tones of the quondam Nehemiah.\n\n\"You are Tapes, the pedler, caught stealing through the American \nlines at Morristown, and in good hopes of dying on an oak-tree?\"\n\n\"True for you, captain Gilbert!\" cried the other, with a stare; \"but \nwhere did you learn that? Hah! I see! the roguish refugee that \nassailed young Asgill's guards, while he was riding out on parole, \nand would have plucked him out of the bonds of Egypt, had not the \nfool gripped tight to his honour, very much as a drowning man hugs a \nship's anchor, at the bottom of a river, and so remained in \ncaptivity.--What, captain! was that one of _your_ clap-traps?\"\n\n\"You are the impudent scoundrel who has been cutting throats, and \nlaying them at honest men's doors? cried the other, without regarding \nthe question.\n\n\"Softly, captain--a mere matter of accident.\"\n\n\"And, moreover,\" said the refugee, sternly, \"you are the masking, \nblundering meddler, who has twice drawn the hue and cry after \nmyself?\"\n\n\"Verily, so it appears,\" cried Sterling; \"but now that we have met at \nlast, we shall play no longer at cross-purposes.\"\n\n\"What seek you here? Why have you returned to a place where your life \nis in danger?\"\n\n\"Zounds, sir!\" cried Sterling, stoutly, \"you ask questions enough to \npuzzle a regiment. But here is my whole story,--the history of my \ndeeds, dangers, and desires. I am a gentlemanly scoundrel and \nunfortunate man, like others that shall be nameless; and after \nseeking my fortune in divers parts of the world, and making a grand \nsensation on the boards of the regimental theatre among Howe's \nofficers at Philadelphia, I e'en consented to take service under the \nKing, and therefore staid behind, when he ran away, and have been \never since a particular confidential correspondent of the royal \ngenerals at New York.\"\n\n\"That is to say, a spy?\"\n\n\"Why, if you like the word better, e'en use it; the more elegant word \nis, correspondent. I am told, you have an excellent friend in \nCongress, a certain Colonel Richard Falconer\"----The refugee's brow \ngrew as black as midnight----\"Well, sir, this gentleman is e'en an \nexcellent friend of mine also; and having somewhat of the cunning of \nthe devil in him, became busy, one morning, and entirely ruined my \nfortune and reputation together; in other words, he discovered and \ndenounced me, threw me into prison, and volunteered to help me to \nparadise. I broke jail, concealed myself for a time; until, one \nnight, accident drove me into his presence. I found the good-natured \ngray-beard alone, studying my case as hard as he could, and out of my \nown papers! I am quite a peaceable man, captain, 'yet have I in me \nsomething dangerous;' I became choleric, and finding a sword hanging \nup just at my hand, I took the liberty of thrusting it into his \ngizzard.\"\n\n\"Fool!\" said the refugee, grasping him by the arm, \"the throat is the \nonly true place!--But, hark ye,\" he added, abating the wolfish sneer \nthat accompanied his words, \"you robbed as well as murdered?\"\n\n\"Ay, 'by St. Paul,' I did,\" said Sterling, with infinite composure; \n\"having declared war, I made free with the spoils of victory; and the \nColonel's purse has lasted very well, all circumstances considered; \nthough, wo's me, that say it! besides the guinea in my waistcoat \npocket, there are but two more remaining, and they on the back of \nWhite Surrey. Concerning White Surrey, you must know, he is a devil \nborn, like yourself,--I mean to say, myself; fleet of foot, untiring \nof spirit, and nothing against him but his ugliness and starved \nappearance, and, by the lord, some touch of the Marplot, especially \nin times of trouble. I could not think of leaving him behind me; and \nI was on my way to the rogue he called master, with a whole \ntheatrical property-room on my back, when I stumbled in the dark on \nmy friend Falconer. You must know, I had a woodman's dress on\"----\n\n\"Hah!\" muttered the refugee: \"it was not all conscience, then?\" Then \nchanging his tone, he continued, \"You have said enough. You have \nsought to escape, and find yourself unable?\"\n\n\"Ay; and hearing the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow were out again, I even took \ncounsel from despair, painted White Surrey's legs over again, and \ncame hither to throw myself among them. Faith, I knew Hawk-Hollow \nwould be the fairest place to seek them in. I volunteer, captain, I \nvolunteer; but I hope you have a stronger force than Moth and \nMustard-seed? I volunteer, and, by the lord, I am ready to go into \naction as soon as you order. But would to the lord I could catch \nWhite Surrey.--Harkee, captain, can you hide a man, at a moment's \nwarning, out of the sight of a gallows?\"\n\n\"Ay: there are dens hereabout deep and dark enough for a royal \nrefugee to take his rest in.\"\n\n\"Hark ye, captain; give me a carbine, and I'll do you a service. I \nhave heard,\" he added, with a shrug meant to be significant and \nconfidential, \"of that matter betwixt Falconer and your \nblack-eyed\"----\n\n\"Villain!\" cried the refugee, seizing him by the arm, and giving him \na look that curdled his blood, \"you are venturing upon a subject that \nwill bring the knife to your throat! Pho, you are a fool;\" he added, \nchecking his impetuosity, and grinning,\n\n  'A strange, uncomely, jawbone smile;'\n\n\"we are Christians here, and we forgive our enemies.\"\n\n\"Forgive?\" cried Sterling, \"come now, captain Gilbert, that's \nslippery. I know you better; and I know you have been wronged.\"\n\n\"You are deceived,\" said Oran Gilbert, laying his hand, with another \nominous smile, on the volunteer's shoulder, \"I am not an Indian, but \na white man, and as you may have seen, forbearing and forgiving. They \nhave told you, (for they have told the same to _me_,) that I am a \nwolf's whelp, an eater of men's flesh, and a drinker of blood; and \nthat I never pardoned an injury, though I had grown gray thinking of \nit. Lies, lies all! I can walk by my father's house, and see the sons \nof his destroyer sitting in the doors; and yet carry myself like the \nbest Christian of them all: I can be told, too, even by a \nfoul-mouthed dolt like yourself, how shame and sorrow, came into the \nhouse, and afterwards death,--and yet feel no hotter for vengeance. \nAll this I can do, because I have a bad memory for matters twenty \nyears old, or more.--Look you,\" he continued, dropping his tone of \nirony, and adopting that of menace; \"I can forgive treachery as old \nas that; but I remember a nave's trick a full year. If there be any \ndeceit in you, look well to yourself during that time. You were \nbetter to have been hanged as a spy, than to come to me as one.--You \nshall see!\"\n\n\"'Slife, sir!\" cried Sterling, \"you have no consideration for a man's \nhonour!\"\n\nBut while he spoke, the refugee had raised his finger to his lips, \nand drawn forth a low whistle; which was almost immediately answered \nby the appearance of the two individuals who had been in the covert \nbefore.\n\n\"Bring up the prisoner, and let the men follow,\" said Gilbert; and \nthey immediately retired.\n\n\"Prisoner!\" cried Sterling, in surprise, \"Male or female?\"\n\n\"You have volunteered your services among the royal refugees,\" said \nGilbert, turning again to Sterling, and displaying a sardonic grin: \n\"you shall be put on duty forthwith.--Have you ever killed a man?\"\n\n\"Dozens of 'em!\" replied the other, promptly; when seeing the tory \nstare in surprise, he fell into a laugh, saying, \"That is, not in \nyour barbarous, blood-thirsty way; but in the heroic, poetic, \ndramatic manner: in which mode I have also fought divers battles, \nfrom Bosworth Field to Dunsinane. No, captain, as to the real \nred-paint, as we call it on the boards, I have shed no more than a \nlamb, save in the matter of my friend, Colonel Falconer; but I am in \nthe mood to learn: I have had a great appetite for war and glory come \non me of a sudden. Hark ye, captain: my friend Falconer's son was one \nof the chasing party, and by and by he will be returning to the \nHollow.\"\n\n\"Ay!\" said the refugee; \"what then?\"\n\n\"I like that doctrine of the savages,\" said Sterling, with an amiable \nsmile, \"which teaches one who has a wrong to revenge, how unnecessary \nit is to be particular as to the individual he is to retaliate on. \nNow the son, I take it, is a good substitute for the father; and to \nmy mind, it would be a pretty thing to lie behind a bush on the \nroad-side, with a musket or pistol, as he passed by, and then,\n\n  'Like a rat without a tail,\n   To do, to do, to do!'\n\nNow, supposing, as my commander, you should order me to such a \nservice, why,--'_sessa_, let the world slide,'--I should obey; that \nis, provided you stood by, to help me to one of those dens deep and \ndark enough for a refugee to take his rest in.\"\n\n\"If the young ape has done you a wrong,\" said Gilbert, coolly, \"shoot \nhim the first opportunity. You will have a chance by and by. You say, \nyour horse is good and swift?\"\n\n\"The best, were it not for his deviltry, ever bestridden by a \ngentleman in trouble. And then, captain, the ungrateful scoundrel \n(sure I might have escaped a dozen times, had it not been for my \nconcern for him!) has all my munitions of war upon his back,--some \nsix or seven coats and wigs of approved manufacture, a pair of \npistols and a stage-dagger, a gold sword-hilt and two new tragedies \nin manuscript, a pair of green spectacles, and a horn pair \nuncoloured, a bottle of good brandy, a bible, a copy of Shakspeare, a \nfiddle, and my friend Falconer's two guineas.\"\n\n\"You must recover him,\" said the tory captain: \"but now for duty. You \nshall see how treachery is rewarded by the royal refugees!\"\n\nAs he spoke, there came into the den eight men attired like the two \nfirst, who were included in the number, all of them with green stuff \nshirts, edged and furbelowed with wolf, raccoon, and other skins, \nleather leggings and moccasins, and fur caps with hawks' feathers \nsticking in them. Each bore a thick rifle in his hand, and had a long \nknife in his pouch-belt, as well as a light axe suspended, \nquiver-wise, over his shoulder. They were dark, fierce-looking men, \nand perhaps an unusual degree of sternness was communicated to their \nfeatures by the fearful duty they had now in hand. They led with \nthem, or rather carried, for he was bound hand and foot, a ninth man, \ndressed in many respects like themselves, though he wore an old \nmilitary hat, and was without leggings or moccasins. His countenance \nwas as rude as those of the others; but instead of exhibiting the \nsame cold and stern resolution, betrayed a look of dogged sullenness, \nmingled with anxiety.\n\nAs soon as he was brought into the little inclosure, he was tossed, \nwith but little ceremony, at the feet of the tory captain, the band \nforming a circle around,--each, as if by previous concert, drawing \nthe tomahawk from his back, and resting his left hand upon his rifle.\n\n\"Oho!\" said Sterling, looking into the prisoner's face, \"whom have we \nhere? 'By this light, a most perfidious and drunken monster!' 'Most \nreverend seignior, do you know my voice?' 'Oho, my sprightly Scot of \nScots, Douglas, that run'st o' horseback up a hill perpendicular!' \nWhy this rascal was he, one John Parker, a soldier on the lines, that \nnabbed me, being too drunk to understand the claims of my coat to \nbetter treatment. Oh, you vagabond, I knew you would come to the \ngallows!\"\n\n\"Raise him on his feet,\" said the tory leader; then turning to the \nvolunteer, he drew from his bosom a soiled and crumpled paper, which \nhe put into Sterling's hands, saying, with a sternness that was \nperhaps assumed to cover the shame he felt at his own ignorance,--\n\n\"Read it.--Our merry men here can make nothing of such pothooks. Read \nit aloud; and then we'll proceed to judgment.\"\n\nThe volunteer obeyed, and succeeded in deciphering a scrawl, of a \nstyle of composition and penmanship so similar to that Miss Falconer \nhad shown the Captain's daughter, that, had he ever seen the latter, \nhe could have been at no loss to identify the correspondent. It was \nbrief, and clear, and to the following effect:\n\n\n\"Honourable Madam to command--\n\n\"This here is the letter what I promised to put under the bush; and I \nput it this night, the 3d of July, in the year of our Lord, Anno \nDomini as before. The rendezvous is a place called the Tarrapin Hole, \na swamp on the east of the road, six or eight miles above Captain \nLoring's. You turn off from the road at a place where a fresh blazed \nbeech tree grows by a rock; but the path is astonishing twistified, \nand not fit for horse, but can be surrounded. I had some thoughts of \ndeserting, for I reckon some of these dogs is suspicious; but that \nmight throw them into a panic, and so drive them to the hills, where \nthe devil himself (begging pardon for swearing) could not find them. \nThey say the captain (that's the Hawk) is in the village, or to be \nthere to-morrow, when it would be easy to take him--(remember the red \nhat; as for the horse, there is no depending on that, for he has 'em \nscattered all about in depots;) and then the rest is nothing, seeing \nas how they are in some of a panic already, as not knowing what is to \nturn up. Howsomever nevertheless, there's one thing I've found out \nquite astonishing; and that is, that our lieutenant, a most impudent \nchap as ever you saw, walks about openly, and lives at the old widow \nBell's, and\"----\n\n\n\"Hah! enough!\" cried the leader, suddenly snatching the epistle out \nof the volunteer's hands. \"Have we more traitors than one among us? \nWho has forgotten orders, and told secrets to new men?\"\n\n\"I, captain,\" said one of the men, breaking silence. \"This here John \nParker and myself were boys together in Monmouth; and so, for old \ncompanion's sake, I was more free about the lieutenant, and other \nmatters, than stood in orders, not thinking there could any harm come \nof it. But I knock under to punishment, seeing the man has been \nbetraying us all, and am ready to do justice on him with knife, rope, \nhatchet, or rifle-butt; though it goes ag'in' my conscience to take a \nman that's tied up like a shambled ewe.\"\n\n\"Cut the thongs from his legs,\" said Oran Gilbert, \"or slack them a \nlittle. John Parker, I give you three minutes to pray. What, Tom \nStaples, have you never a rope here that might serve the traitor's \nturn?\"\n\n\"I have been twisting one all the morning,\" said the man who had \nspoken, displaying a sort of cable constructed of the shreds of a \nblanket; \"for I hoped it might be _that_, rather than knifing.\"\n\n\"Good Lord!\" cried Sterling, shocked by the sudden preparation for \nsuch a catastrophe, \"you don't mean to hang the poor devil?\"\n\nThe sound of a friendly and interceding voice seemed to thrill the \nbaffled traitor out of his apathy. He stared at the pseudo-quaker, \nand at once displayed the reckless hardihood of his character, though \nhis old friend Staples was at that very moment forming a noose in the \nrope, by laughing and saying,\n\n\"Well done, old Tapes, is that _you_? You're no Johnny Raw, I see; \nbut you'll come to the acorns yet! Don't go for to make a fuss about \nthe hanging; for, you see, it's according to law, and hanging's the \nword; and these here raggamuffin refugees must have their way; and so \nlet 'em hang and be d----d! that's my notion. But look ye, Mr. \nCaptain Gilbert, and all you tories, and you Tom Staples into the \nbargain, here's a notion of mine: you see, you're come to the hanging \ntoo late, for all the good it is to do; for the thing's done up so \ncleverly already, you're just as good as dead men, you are, damme; \nfor I've fixed you in a hole you can't creep out of without my \nassistance, you can't, damme. Now, captain, here's a bargain I'll \nmake: you'll just spare my life, and drum me out of camp in an \nhonourable, soldierly way; and, in return, I'll show you the way out \nof the trap; for, damme, comrades, you're surrounded: and so we'll \nsquare matters betwixt us, and say nothing more about it.\"\n\n\"Peace, rogue,\" said Oran Gilbert; \"were the whole army round us, you \nshould have your dues. String him up to the oak tree.\"\n\n\"Well now, captain,\" said Parker, \"that's what I call being \nunreasonable. But some of you give me a drink at a canteen, for \nthere's no use being strung up thirsty: and, Tom Staples, give me \nyour cuffers, in token there's no ill-will between us; and let's have \na quid of tobacco to chaw on.--Hark! there captain! do you hear? The \nroad's in a swarm, I tell you! That, I reckon, was the squeak of \ncaptain Caliver; you can hear him a mile, of a clear day; and, you \nmay depend on it, he'll have some of you, afore I've done kicking. \nWon't you hear to reason?\"\n\nThe coolness of the man was, to Sterling at least, astonishing. They \nwere fitting the halter round his neck, when a faint shout from the \nroad was heard, but whether from a new batch of pursuers, or from the \nold ones now returning, could not be determined. He took the \nopportunity afforded by the sudden surprise to beg Staples 'to be in \nno such fool's hurry with his blanket, and slack it off a little, for \na word with the captain.'\n\n\"Harkee, captain,\" said he, \"it's the last offer I can make. Now \nlet's argue the case.\"\n\n\"Up with the babbling fool!\" cried Gilbert, who had been hearkening \nattentively to the sounds.\n\n\"You won't?\" cried the hardened desperado--\"why then here's my \nservice to you, and the devil take us all to supper \ntogether.--Hillo-ah-ho! Murder! Refugees!--in the swamp here, quick!\"\n\nHe elevated his voice to a yell that caused the very leaves to shake \nabove him; and would undoubtedly have given the alarm he intended to \nthose on the road, had not the refugee captain snatched an axe from \nthe nearest hand, and instantly felled him to the earth. Then, giving \nhis orders anew, the wretch, before he had recovered his \nconsciousness, shot up among the leaves of an oak tree; and Sterling, \nwho watched the whole proceeding with mingled admiration and alarm, \ncould not trace a single writhing or quivering of limb afterwards.\n\n\"'Slife!\" said he, \"you killed the fellow with the hatchet! But, \ncaptain, concerning that surrounding; I don't like that\"----\n\n\"Peace!\" said the tory; \"the first duty you are to learn is, to hold \nyour tongue--the next, to obey.\" He gave the wild band a signal, and \nthey instantly betook themselves to the bushes, or to hiding-places \nof which Sterling was ignorant. \"This man came to me as a deserter, \nand was therefore trusted by one who should have been wiser: he has \nmet his fate. You I can trust, because I know you are a doomed man \nlike myself. You must recover your horse.\"\n\n\"Ay, faith; but how?--'Slife! what's the matter now?\" he cried, \nobserving his companion start suddenly at what seemed to him the \nwhistle of a wood-robin, and look eagerly from the covert. The sound \nwas repeated once, and once again; and then the refugee, turning to \nhim, said,--\n\n\"You must claim him. Get you quickly to the wood-side, and follow on \nafter the others, so as to recover him before they open your \nsaddle-bags.\"\n\n\"Death and the devil! you are joking! What! run my head into the \nlion's jaws? and just to recover a vagabond horse, that flings me \nwhenever the humour seizes him?\"\n\n\"If you lose your horse, you lose yourself. We can be burthened by no \nfootmen.\"\n\n\"Footmen? why I see no horses!\"\n\n\"Ay: but away with you. Seek the men you came with, and return with \nthem to Elsie Bell's.\"\n\n\"God bless my soul!\" said Sterling, in alarm; \"that young knave \nFalconer will smoke me in a moment.\"\n\n\"Knock him on the head then.\"\n\n\"And then the other lieutenant, that was so curious with the spots of \nWhite Surrey's legs! a marvellous shrewd fellow, I assure you.\"\n\n\"Why, do the same with him then; and stay not here babbling like a \nhelpless boy. Protect yourself. Fear not: your present coat suits you \nbetter than the parson's. Return to Elsie Bell's, secure your horse \nand other property, and see that you feed him well; by midnight you \nwill be called for, and placed in safety. Keep a firm countenance, as \nI think you can, and you are in no danger.\"\n\n\"Ay; but what excuse shall I make for leaving the road, and diving \ninto these damnable abodes of refugees and rattlesnakes?\"\n\n\"Tell them any lie you will,--your horse ran away with you into the \nwoods, and then----Or stay,\" he added, looking grimly up to the body \nof the spy; \"tell them you were seized by the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, \nand that you saw them hang their tool. Bring them to the spot, and \nlet them bury the carrion: it is good they should know what value we \nset on traitors. And, hark ye, tell them we mustered at least a \nhundred strong, and that we stole off across the road, swearing \nvengeance upon the village. Mind you, the village: make them believe \nwe are marching to surprise it by night. Now, get you gone--off with \nyou. Set your face to the west--there; walk onwards five hundred \npaces, without looking to the right or the left, and you will find \nyourself on the road. Begone, and look not behind you.\"\n\nThe volunteer perceiving that remonstrance with such a commander \nmight prove as dangerous as it was really unavailing, turned to \ndepart, but not before he had seen the refugee clap his fingers to \nhis lips, and draw forth a whistle similar to that which had \nattracted his own attention. There was one injunction, however, which \nthe retreating Sterling thought it entirely superfluous to obey. He \nhad no sooner reached a spot proper for such a proceeding, than he \ncame to a stand, and cast his eye backward towards the den. He beheld \na light figure ascending the knoll among the bushes and under the \nembowering trees; and just before it vanished into the greater gloom \nof the grot, a sunbeam, peeping through the branches, fell brightly \nover it, revealing to his somewhat astonished eyes the person of that \nidentical youth whose mysterious hints had been of such service in \nawaking the fears and stimulating the energies of the hard-beset \nNehemiah.\n\n\"Zounds!\" he cried, \"have we any such gentlemanly fellows in the \nconfederacy! Oho! I recollect now,\" he added, conning over the words \nof the letter,--\"'our lieutenant, a most impudent chap as ever you \nsaw, walks about openly, lives at the Traveller's Rest, and,'--ay, \nfaith, there was something about that old fool, Captain Loring, and a \ngirl. Very well, young one, you will be hanged like the rest of us!\"\n\nSo saying, and murmuring other expressions of a similar nature, he \nmade his way to the roadside, almost at the very spot where a \n'_blazed_' beech-tree flung its silver limbs over a rock.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\n            If thou long'st\n  To have the story of thy infamous fortunes\n  Serve for discourse in ordinaries and taverns,\n  Thou art in the way; or to confound thy name,\n  Keep on, thou canst not miss it;\n  Keep the left hand still, it will bring thee to it.\n                  _The Roaring Girl, or Moll Cut-purse_.\n\n\nWith a better fortune than had awaited the volunteer, Herman Hunter \nstepped into the grot; but with much less display of heroism; for he \nno sooner found himself in presence of the renowned Hawk of the \nHollow than he bent his eyes upon the ground, and stood silent before \nhim.\n\n\"You are come at last!\" said the refugee, giving him a piercing look, \nand with a voice none the less expressive of indignation for being \nsubdued to the lowest tones, as if he feared a witness even in the \ndead malefactor; \"you are come at last; and the son of my father \ncomes with my enemies and hunters!\"\n\n\"So I come,\" said the painter, raising his eyes, and speaking firmly; \n\"I come as the friend, who, having saved you from one danger, desires \nto rescue you from another yet greater. I warned you last \nnight,--nay, I sent you word long since, that you were watched: I \nbetrayed a confidence reposed in me by one it was a double duplicity \nto deceive, in order that you might escape the net that was secretly \nclosing around you. Nay, I discovered the presence and machinations \nof the daring spy, who but this morning was selling you into the \nhands of your enemies; I found his letter, and left it where you were \nsure to obtain it.\"----\n\n\"Ay; while you were yourself playing the fool among the Independents, \nand leaving me to the care of a stupid ploughman and a dotish old \nwoman!\"\n\n\"It was all I could,\" said Herman: \"I knew it was better I should be \non the ground, when the officers came. Had I not been there, to join \nthe first of the hunters, as you call them, and to fire an alarm in \nthe hollow, neither your own cunning nor the fleetness of the roan \nhorse could have saved you from capture.\"\n\n\"It was bravely done,\" said the refugee, with a softer voice, \"and it \nwill excuse what is passed. Where found you this dog's paper? and \nhow?\"\n\n\"Near the park-gate, under a bush, where I saw the man hide it, as I \napproached the place by accident. This fellow knows all your haunts: \nwill he not bring the troops to this very spot?\"\n\nThe refugee laughed, and at that moment Herman heard a noise on the \nbough of the oak tree, as of some animal rending away the bark; and \nlooking up, he beheld what he had not before seen in the gloom,--the \nbody of the dead traitor swinging with a sort of jerking, convulsive \nmotion, as if still alive. The rope had slipped a little along the \nbough, and though soon arrested by some knot or other roughness, it \nwas some moments before the motion entirely ceased. The dreadful and \nunexpected spectacle of a man, who, it was evident, the painter \nthought, had made his escape, thus hanging dead before him, filled \nhim with horror, and he exclaimed at once,\n\n\"Oh, Oran! Oran! it is this dreadful cruelty of spirit which has made \nyou what you are,--which has made us all what we are! For God's sake, \nlet us cut him down, and see if he be yet alive.\"\n\n\"He was stiff before the rope touched his neck,\" said Oran, grimly; \n\"I never struck _twice_ with the hatchet. Let him hang: he died the \ndeath of a spy and betrayer. I have invited the county to his \ndeath-bed!\"\n\n\"Daring, as well as cruel! Why do you linger here? It is plain, you \nare surrounded: before the sun sets the whole county will be out; \nand, to-morrow, there will not be a den of the woods, or a hollow of \nthe hills, left unvisited.\"\n\n\"Why, this is what I want!\" cried the fierce outlaw; \"the general has \ntied my hands to act only on the defensive; and here are forty devils \nwith heads of iron and fingers of fire, that are lying asleep in the \nwoods like winter bears, for want of something to warm the blood in \nthem. I am ready.\"\n\n\"Ready to die!\" said Herman, solemnly; \"ready to throw away your life \nat the bidding of a master, or the prompting of an insane passion. \nFly, while you yet may: the attempt to rescue young Asgill must be \nnow fruitless, as it is needless--even the Americans say, his life is \nin no danger. Fly, then, Oran, and give up your bloody designs in \nthis fatal Hollow. Hearken to me, Oran,\"----\n\n\"Hearken to _me_,\" said the outcast, sternly. \"Has your blood turned \nto milk, and your heart to water? Are your wounds healed, your bones \nknit, your strength restored, and do you talk of leaving Hawk-Hollow \nat this moment? What is this they say of you? You were among the \nforemost of the rejoicing fools at the Hawks' Nest--have you turned \nAmerican?\"\n\n\"I was born upon these hills; but I will not strike the friends and \ncountrymen of my father.\"\n\n\"Will you strike his foes?\"\n\n\"They are in the grave with him,\" said the youth, sorrowfully; \"and \nhe has forgiven them.\"\n\n\"They are upon the earth, and his spirit is not satisfied!\" cried \nOran, with the wild energy, and almost in the favourite language, of \nan Indian orator. \"Have you rested under his roof? have you sat in \nhis flower-garden? have you walked on his path by the Run-side? have \nyou spoken with the people that drove him in his old age from his \nfireside? Hyland Gilbert! they broke his heart, and then trampled him \nto death. Will you not do him right and vengeance?\"\n\n\"Oran!\"----\n\n\"Changeling!\" cried the refugee, with a scowl of savage contempt; \"if \nyou have not the feelings of a man, you have at least the gewgaw \nbrain of a boy. Look!\" he continued, drawing from his bosom, and \ndisplaying with a sneering grin, a roll of written parchment, \ndecorated with the due pomp of martialness; \"you begged for the toy \nthat would make you a servant of the king; and here it is. Take it; \nand for the sake of a red coat and feather, do what you would not for \nthe name and honour of your father.\"\n\nHyland--for the assumed name of the young Gilbert must now be \ndropped--recoiled from the emblem of distinction as much as from the \nfrowning eyes of the speaker, but answered firmly,--\n\n\"When I was in the Islands, it is true, I desired the king's \ncommission; and, it is also true, I left them to obtain it; and had I \nreached the royal army at my first landing, no doubt I should have \naccepted it. But it was my fate to be cast ashore far in the south; \nand I esteem it no bad fortune that I obeyed a whim of adventure, and \nmade my way through my rebel countrymen (they are _ours_, Oran,) to \nthis spot. I have thus been made acquainted with some of the \nprinciples on which this war is contested; whereby, I thank heaven, I \nhave been spared the shedding of innocent blood in an unjust cause.\"\n\n\"Do you say this to me?\" cried the refugee, with a wild laugh.\n\n\"Oran!\" said the young man earnestly, \"your heart is not with the \nside you have espoused; and fierce and cruel as may be your acts, \nthey are, they must be, at variance with your conscience. A moment of \nfury drove you into a cause you abhor; and if you give the bloodiest \nproofs of your fidelity, you are impelled to them only by remorse and \ndespair.\"\n\n\"You are a philosopher!\" said the renegade, with another bitter \nlaugh; \"but we will play the fool no longer. Will you have the \ncommission? See, it has the royal mark upon it!\"\n\n\"Oran,\" said Hyland, mournfully, \"after yourself, I am the last of my \nfather's house. You ask me to do what has brought the others to their \ngraves--to early and ignominious graves; and what, though you have \nbeen spared, has left you the prey of shame and sorrow. Why should I \nstrike those men, who, besides fighting against tyrannous oppression, \n(such it was, Oran,) are also the children of the same soil--our \ncountrymen and brothers?\"\n\n\"You are the last of the seven,\" said the refugee, taking both the \nyoung man's hands into his, and looking at him with mingled affection \nand anger; \"four of your brothers were slain--one of them hanged upon \na gibbet--and all by 'our countrymen and brothers!' The fifth--look \nyou, Hyland, the fifth--the second-born and the beloved, whose name \nwas given you, that you might never forget him, fell in battle, \nsaving the life of one of these--my countryman and my brother!\"\n\nThe face of the outcast blackened, and Hyland trembled in his glance; \nhe stepped out of the nook, and leading the young man along, \nconducted him up the hill to a place where a vista through the trees, \nlooking over the green swamp, disclosed a glimpse of the blue ridgy \ncliffs of the Kittatinny, to which he pointed.\n\n\"Come with me to that mountain,\" he said, \"and when you stand upon \nthe summit, gazing to the right and to the left, you will look upon \ntwo graves. One of them lies in the desert, among the hills: I \nplanted a pine tree on it, and you can see its blue head afar off. Do \nyou remember who sleeps in it?\"\n\n\"I do,\" said Hyland, with emotion; \"it is my brother.\"\n\n\"And do you bethink you what laid him there?\"\n\n\"His humanity and his noble heart.\"\n\n\"He died,\" said Oran Gilbert--\"he died that a villain might live; and \nyou call that villain 'my countryman and brother!'\"\n\n\"No,\" said Hyland, with some of his wild brother's spirit; \"I except \n_him_.\"\n\n\"Then look to the left,\" continued Oran, with a glance of painful \nhumiliation: \"on the brook, and in a little bower, there is a second \ngrave.\"\n\n\"It is the grave of my poor wronged sister!\" cried Hyland, \nimpetuously.\n\n\"Of your sister, and of ----. Ha, ha! Is not this a merry subject for \ntwo brothers to talk on! 'My countryman and brother' destroyed her \nand fled.\"\n\n\"May heaven pardon him,\" cried Hyland; \"but I cannot.\"\n\n\"We buried her in secret, and in night, that none might look upon her \nshame, or upon ours,\" said the refugee; \"and that night came into the \nworld her brother, whom we called Hyland, that we might better \nremember her destroyer.\"\n\n\"Oran! Oran!\"\n\n\"Your mother,\" continued the elder brother, with a cruel pertinacity, \n\"loved the girl well, and died of sorrow for her. My 'countrymen and \nbrothers' pointed at our shame; they visited the sins of the children \nupon the father, and drove him forth in his old age, a childless and \nruined man.\"\n\n\"They did,\" said the youth; \"he came to the island, and he died in my \narms.\"\n\n\"My 'countrymen and brothers,'\" added Oran, with a ferocious sneer, \n\"have left the oldest and youngest to weep for the others.--Here is \nthe commission----We will avenge them!\"\n\nFor a moment Hyland seemed to share the fire of the outcast; for a \nmoment he grasped the parchment which the other had put into his \nhand. His face flushed,--then turned pale; he hesitated,--faltered; \nthe badge of honour fell to the earth; and clasping his hands \ntogether, he looked at Oran imploringly, and said,\n\n\"My father died in my arms, and charged me, with his last breath, to \nforget that he had been wronged.\"\n\n\"It was the weakness of his death-hour,\" said Oran.\n\n\"He bade me,\" continued the youth, \"leave his enemies to God, and the \ndestroyer of his peace to his fate.\"\n\n\"Look at his fate!\" cried the refugee: \"wealth surrounds him, and he \nis envied for his happiness; while you are ashamed of your father's \nname, and I am poor, and abhorred, and miserable.\"\n\n\"We will go to the island, and forget\"----\n\n\"Will you have the commission?\" said Oran, abruptly. \"You have youth, \ntalents, education and fortune,--and will rise. This commission is to \nserve among the royal refugees; but if you carry it bravely at the \nfirst bout, I have the General's word you shall be transferred to the \nline, with a fair field for promotion.\"\n\n\"Look, Oran,\" said the youth, manfully, \"I will not take the \ncommission, nor will I trust your commander's promises. You have \nserved him from the beginning; and none have served him better. How \nhas he rewarded you?--You are still a captain of refugees!\"\n\nA shadow of humiliation passed over the face of the renegade; but he \nanswered without emotion.\n\n\"I sought nothing better, nor am I fit for promotion. My station is \nwhere my habits and inclinations put me,--among the free rangers. But \nyou have learning, youth, ambition; and are capable of training into \ndiscipline.\"\n\n\"I will not take the commission,\" said Hyland, with increasing \nresolution. \"I have been enough with our people,--with the \nAmericans,--to know that their cause is just, and holy, and is \nprevailing. Nay, you must know, that, at this moment, commissioners \nare deliberating over the preliminaries of negotiation, and that \npeace must soon be concluded.\"\n\n\"It is false,\" said the refugee, fiercely; \"a trick of the \nministers,--a common stratagem.\"\n\n\"True, or false, then, yet am I resolved to shed no blood in the \nquarrel; and, certainly, I will take no commission to distress the \npeople of this neighbourhood. Oran, I am resolved; I will not fight; \nand I adjure you by the last wish of our poor father, and by your own \nhopes of future quiet, that you give up your schemes of blood, and \nleave this fatal valley for ever. Disband your followers; and take \nheed you be not suddenly deserted by your employers.\"\n\n\"Boy!\" said the outlaw, \"you are not white-livered, or you would not \nsay these things to me! Look you, I know your folly: it is not for \nme,--not because you love liberty and peace,--not because you have \nlaid to heart the dotish words of a half crazed father,--that you are \nso cold and shameless; but because you have set your eyes on the baby \nface of a girl, who will laugh at you, when the last fit of your \nfolly is over. Hark you,--read me this knavish letter, and see what \nis already said of you.\"\n\n\"I have read it,\" said the young man, faltering.\n\n\"Ay, but read it again: let me know how far your madness has been \ntalked of.\" And Hyland, summoning courage, took the letter and read \nit, though his embarrassment increased at the paragraph concerning \nhimself, which had caused Oran to snatch it so suddenly from the \nhands of the volunteer. This paragraph, couched in the coarsest \nterms, expressed a knowledge of his affections, which had alarmed him \nat first excessively, though, it was probable, it was nothing more \nthan the shrewd guess of a keen observer; and it concluded by showing \nhow easily he might be 'nabbed, while at his gallivanting.'\n\n\"And this, then,\" cried the refugee, \"it is that makes you so tame, \nso spiritless! Poor fool, could you look on none but the betrothed of \na Falconer? Look you, boy, you are in a bear-trap, and the log will \nsoon be on your back: with this baby fancy, shameful and \ndishonourable, you are gulling yourself into perdition.\"\n\n\"Oran,\" cried the young man, throwing himself upon the wild man's \nmercy, \"this poor girl is betrothed against her will; and if no \nfriend stands by her, there will be another broken heart laid by the \nside of Jessie. Do not scoff at me, or reproach me: she saved my \nlife, she has treated me with a sister's kindness and trust; and if \nshe will suffer me to aid her, I will rescue her from her misery, \nthough I die for it.\"\n\n\"Do what you will,\" said Oran, with a gloomy frown: \"though you had \nher heart and love, what will she say to you, when this cunning \ndaughter of a villain, that sent yonder Parker to the rope, ferrets \nout your secret, and shows you to be a son of the Gilberts? Nay, what \nwill others say to you? It is better to die as a soldier, than a \nspy!\"\n\n\"I am no spy,\" said Hyland; \"and when the time comes for disclosure, \nI will not fear to acknowledge my name.\"\n\n\"It will soon come,\" said the refugee. \"Go,\" he added, sternly; \"you \nare rushing upon destruction. Save yourself as you can, till \nmidnight; and then take the commission, or be lost. Begone from this \nplace; it will be soon full of soldiers--I have sent for them; and \nalready they are coming.--Brother,\" he said, relenting, as the young \nman turned to depart: he strode after him and took him by the hand: \n\"What have you or I to do with the love of woman? This is but a \nfolly.--You have no friend or kinsman left to advise or help \nyou.--Well, if the girl be willing to fly, why, put her upon a fleet \nhorse, and to-morrow she shall be beyond the reach of a Falconer. It \nshall not be said, I deserted you, even in your folly.\"\n\nHow much further the wild and flinty outlaw might have been softened \nby the distress he saw pictured on his brother's face, cannot be \ntold. The gentler feeling of affection beginning to yearn in his \nbosom, was chased away by a sudden sound like the flourish of a \ndistant trumpet, which came trembling over the forest-leaves.\n\n\"Away,\" he cried hastily; \"the curs are coming, and the troop with \nthem. Dive into the swamp, and meet them on the road. To-night you \nshall see me.\"\n\nSo saying, he bounded down the hill with the activity of a \nmountain-buck, and was almost instantly lost to sight. The brother, \ncrossing the swamp and brook, made his way to the road, some distance \nabove the spot where he had dismounted.\n\n\nEND OF VOL. I.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HAWKS OF HAWK-HOLLOW.\n\nA TRADITION OF PENNSYLVANIA.\n\n\nBY THE AUTHOR OF \"CALAVAR,\" AND \"THE INFIDEL.\"\n\n\n\n\n  Where dwellest thou?----\n  Under the canopy,--i' the city of kites and crows.\n                                              _Coriolanus_.\n\n\n\n\nIN TWO VOLUMES.\n\nVOL. II.\n\n\n\n\n_Philadelphia_:\n\nCAREY, LEA, & BLANCHARD.\n\n1835.\n\n\n\n\nEntered according to the act of Congress, in the year 1835, by CAREY, \nLEA, & BLANCHARD, in the clerk's office of the district court for the \neastern district of Pennsylvania.\n\n\n\n\n_I. Ashmead & Co. Printers_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HAWKS OF HAWK-HOLLOW.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n  I will discover such a horrid treason,\n  As, when you hear't, and understand how long\n  You've been abused, will run you mad with fury.\n          BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER--_The Prophetess_.\n\n\nIt has been seen how the rejoicings at the promontory were \ninterrupted in their very beginning, by the sudden discovery of the \nrefugee, so\n\n  Drad for his derring-doe and bloody deed,\n\nthat his mere name had thrown all present into confusion. The \ncrowning climax was put to the general panic, when some of the late \npursuers were seen returning, early in the afternoon, whipping and \nspurring with all the zeal of fear, and scattering such intelligence \nalong the way as put to flight the last resolution of the jubilants. \nThe news immediately spread, that Oran Gilbert had burst into \nexistence, not alone, but with a countless host of armed men at his \nheels; that he had attacked and routed the pursuers, hanging all whom \nhe took alive, especially the soldiers; and that he was now, in the \nfrenzy of triumph, marching against the devoted Hillborough, with the \nresolution of burning it to the ground. Such dreadful intelligence \nwas enough to complete the terror of the revellers; they fled \namain--and long before night, the flag waved, and the little piece of \nordnance frowned in utter solitude on the top of the deserted \nhead-land. It is true that there came, by and by, couriers with \nhappier news, but too late to arrest the fugitives; and as these \nriders made their way towards the village, expressing some anxiety \nlest it should be attacked, they rather confirmed than dispelled the \nfears of the few inhabitants of the valley. From one of the coolest \nand boldest, Captain Loring, who fastened on him at the park-gate, \nlearned that there had been no action indeed, and that the fugitive \nhad made his escape; but, on the other hand, it appeared that there \n_were_ refugees in the land,--that they had hanged a soldier named \nParker, and made good their retreat from the place of execution--that \nthe greatest doubt existed among the pursuers in relation to the \nroute they had taken and the objects they had in view, some \nbelieving, on the evidence of a certain quaker, who had been their \nprisoner, that they were marching by secret paths against the \nvillage, while others insisted that this was a feint designed only to \nthrow the hunters off the scent, and to secure their escape,--that, \nin consequence, the party had divided, pursuing the search in all \ndirections, in the hope of discovering their route,--and, finally, \nthat it was now certain, the band, whose number was supposed to be \nvery considerable, was really commanded by the notorious Oran \nGilbert. From this man also, Captain Loring learned a few vague \nparticulars in relation to the two greatest objects of his interest, \nnamely Henry Falconer and the young painter, who had fallen into a \nquarrel in consequence of some misunderstanding about their horses, \nthe officer having used harsh language not only in regard to the \nunceremonious seizure by Herman of his own steed, but in reference to \na similar liberty the refugee had previously taken with the \npainter's, which, Falconer averred, was an evidence of intimacy and \nintercourse betwixt Mr. Hunter and the outlaw it behooved the former \nto explain, before thrusting himself into the company of honest men \nand gentlemen. This quarrel, it seemed, had been allayed by the \ninterference of Falconer's brother officers; and the informant had \nheard something said of a proposal to drown the feud in a bowl. As \nfor the man of peace, Ephraim, it appeared, that his spirited \nassistance during the chase, and especially his success in exposing \nthe secret haunt of the tories in the Terrapin Hole, the scene of \nParker's execution, had not only removed all suspicion in relation to \nhis character, but had highly recommended him to the favour of his \nlate captors.\n\nWith such news, the Captain strode back to his mansion, and awaited, \nwith his daughter and kinswoman, the return of the officers to the \nHollow, and their appearance at the hall, which he doubted not, they \nwould instantly make, after returning. He waited, however, for a long \ntime, in vain; and by falling sound asleep, as he watched the sun \ncreeping beneath the western hills, escaped the intelligence, which \nwas soon after brought to the house, that the officers had returned \nto the Hollow, and instead of reporting themselves forthwith under \nhis hospitable roof, had made their way to the widow's inn, where \nthey were carousing with a zeal commensurate with the spirit they had \nexhibited during the troubles of the day.\n\nThis unexpected termination of a day of heroism--a termination that \nsurprised and irritated Miss Falconer as much as it perhaps secretly \npleased the Captain's daughter--was a consequence of the late \nquarrel, or rather a mode of burying it in oblivion, devised by \ncaptain Caliver, who had contracted an esteem for the painter, and \npreferred 'his ease in his inn' to all the delights and blandishments \nthat might be expected in the society of Gilbert's Folly. As the \nsuperior officer, he had taken the command into his own hands, and \nbesides arranging his forces so as to watch all the approaches to the \nvalley, and despatching lieutenant Brooks to the village, to \ncommunicate with the authorities there, he declared his resolution to \nerect his head-quarters in the Hollow, at a place like the \nTraveller's Rest, where, while still commanding the road, he would be \nnear enough to protect the females and non-combatants in the \nCaptain's house. \"And besides,\" he added facetiously, while riding up \nto the little inn, \"as we men of the sword are protectors of widows \nas well as orphans, we will thus protect a forlorn old woman from \nmischief, and put a penny into her pocket, and drink our wine at our \nease--for you remember, Falconer, my young brother, you swore by all \nthe gods you would have some of the wherewithal smuggled up to this \nidentical old woman's whiskey-house!\"\n\n\"I swore it 'by the eternal Jupiter,'\" said Falconer, with a grin; \n\"and, by the eternal Jupiter, I am as ready for a blow-up now as \nanother time; only that we must blow fast, so as to run up to Hal, to \nbe scolded before bed-time, as soon as Brooks comes: and as for Mr. \nHunter here, why he and I can blow out one another's brains in the \nmorning.\"\n\n\"If thee talks in this evil-minded, blood-thirsty manner,\" said \nEphraim Patch, indignantly, \"I give thee warning, I will have nothing \nto do with thy wholesome wines and thy goodly brandies, whereof thee \nhas spoken, and whereof much good may be said, in regard of them that \nare faint and weary. If thee will eat, drink, and be merry, all in a \ncivil, Christian way, without drawing any weapons more dreadful than \ncorks, pulling only at the bottle instead of the pistol, and neither \nswearing profanely nor drinking foolish irreligious healths, thee \nshall have me in company to give thee good counsel, whereof thee has \nconsiderable much need, as well as thy long-nosed friend here, (not \nmeaning any offence,) which thee calls captain, and the youth also, \nfriend Hunter. Verily, I am both hungry and thirsty, and will sooner \nenjoy the creature comforts in this quiet hovel, than even the \nsatisfaction of bringing the breaker of laws into the hands of \njustice. Verily, the thought of these goodly wines doth make my mouth \nwater; and I shall rejoice, even to the bottom of my spirit, if they \nhave already reached the house of the widow.\"\n\nWe do not design to relate the joys of the banquet shared by the four \nworthies, and some two or three young men of the county, who had \nshown themselves men of spirit, and remained bravely by the side of \nthe officers, resolved, as they said, to contribute their aid to the \ndefence of the Hollow. It is only worthy of remark, first, that the \nill blood between young Falconer and the painter gradually wore away, \nand was succeeded, on the part of the former, by a sudden friendship, \nwhich bade fair to ripen into fondness, and on that of Hyland, by \nwhat was at least a show of reciprocity; secondly, that honest \nEphraim, gradually displayed as much spirit in the feast as he had \nbefore manifested in the fray, and became, to the surprise of all, \nthe soul of mirth and drollery, so that young Falconer, clapping him \non the back, swore, with the favourite oath of his friend Caliver, he \n'had never seen a jollier old broad-brim;' and thirdly, that this \ncapricious young gentleman grew so enamoured of his company, that he \nceased to talk, as he did at first, of the necessity he was under of \npaying his sister and friends a visit at the Folly, until he was \nroused to recollection by the sudden retreat of his new friend from \nthe cottage. The painter was detected in the very act of stealing, or \nas they chose to call it, sneaking from the apartment; and Mr. \nFalconer, uttering a loud 'Hillo! halt, deserter!' volunteered to \nbring him back to the punishment immediately ordered by the captain \nof cavalry, of a glass of salt and water. He rushed from the room, \nand plainly beheld the youth, in the light that flashed from the \nwindow, spring from the porch, and dive into the midnight shadows of \nthe oak trees--for it was now completely dark. As he retreated, he \nstumbled over some obstruction in the path; but instantly recovering \nhimself, he leaped over the little brook, and was soon out of sight.\n\n\"Hillo, Hunter, my boy!\" cried the lieutenant. \"Why zounds! there he \ngoes up the road like a light-horseman! Why, gad, here the fool has \ndropped his handkerchief;--no, gad's my life, 'tis a paper. Hillo, \npainter! you've dropped something! A letter, as I'm \nalive!--Ehem--hiccup!--a very handsome constellation that Great Bear! \nnever saw the Pointers shine so brightly in my life.--Gad's my life, \nand adzooks, as Captain Loring says, 'tis the lights in the Folly, \nafter all! and here am I, carousing like an ass, instead of playing \noff the Romeo to Catherine by starlight. Now Hal will scold like \ntwenty housekeepers, Catherine will look sulky, and as for the \nCaptain, why I suppose he will fall into one of his patriarchal \nrages. Gad, but I feel rather warmish and particular; but this cool \nnight air is a good thing for settling one's nerves. I warrant me, \nthat rascal Hunter has gone up there before me. A very handsome, well \nbehaved dog, and I like him immensely!\"\n\nWith such expressions as these, the young man, whose brain, never one \nof the strongest, was at present whirling in confusion, began to make \nhis way towards the Folly, without troubling himself to think what \namazement or affliction his absence might cause his friends. Indeed, \nhe was fast verging towards that happy state in which man shows his \nloftiest contempt of the world and the world's ways, and his \ndisregard of all those restraints and encumbrances which society has \nimposed upon the free-born lord of creation. He had left the hovel \nwithout his hat; but what cared he for such a superfluity, of a fine \nsummer night, even although beginning a walk over hill and hollow, of \nfull a mile in extent? Had he left it even without his boots, it is \nquestionable whether he would have noticed the deficiency, until \nrecalled to his senses by the roughness of the road. In a word, the \nwine he had already swallowed, had made serious inroads upon a brain \nthat was always 'very poor and unhappy for drinking;' and, as it \nfrequently happens in such cases, the exercise of walking more than \ncounteracted the effects of the cooling air; so that, by the time he \nhad trudged half the distance towards the paddock, the young \ngentleman was in the happiest spirits imaginable, wholly insensible \nof his condition, and almost unconscious of the purpose that had \ndrawn him so far. He even began to sing along the road, and by the \ntime he had reached the gate, was trolling a song, of a character \nludicrous enough to come from his lips, but which, perhaps caught \noriginally from those of some wag or philosopher of the camp, was now \nsuggested by the spirit of happy indifference it breathed to all \nsublunary concerns, and was therefore in excellent harmony with his \nown feelings. It was the song of _Poor Joe_, and was sung with \nwondrous emphasis and gusto.\n\nI.\n\n  Poor Joe! I've no wealth but content at command,\n    I am otherwise poor as a rat;\n  But while the world covets one's houses and land,\n    I'm sure 'twill not rob me of that,\n      Poor Joe!\n    I'm sure 'twill not rob me of that.\n\nII.\n\n  I've no money, no money to squander in wine,\n    To aid me in soft'ning my lot:\n  But then, if the shame of a poor man be mine,\n    The shame of a scoundrel shall not,\n      Poor Joe!\n    The shame of a scoundrel shall not.\n\nIII.\n\n  No sweetheart to flatter, no wife to applaud,--\n    Poor Joe! he may house him or roam;\n  But, sure, if he meets with no angel abroad,\n    He'll hap on no devil at home,\n      Poor Joe!\n    He'll hap on no devil at home.\n\nIV.\n\n  Poor Joe! I've no friends, as, if richer, I might,\n    But for that I'll not bitterly grieve;\n  If there's none, with the gabble of love, to delight,\n    Why then there are none to deceive,\n      Poor Joe!\n    Why then there are none to deceive.\n\nV.\n\n  Poor Joe! I am ragged, my hat is grown old,\n    My elbows peep out to the storm;\n  But why should I fear for the wet and the cold,\n    When content and a blanket can warm,\n      Poor Joe!\n    When content and a blanket can warm!\n\nApparently, he found the madrigal just one stanza too short, at least \nfor his present mood; for which reason, so soon as he had finished \nthe last of all, he began to repeat it, with even more expression \nthan before, and had just reached the second line,--\n\n  \"My elbows peep out to the storm,\"--\n\nwhen one of his own elbows was suddenly seized upon, and a voice, \nbitterly reproachful, muttered in his ear,\n\n\"Are you mad? Are you mad, brother? are you mad?\"\n\n\"What! Hal? sister? is that you? Gad's my life, I knew you would \nscold me; but if you would only consider----But, now I think of it, \negad, what brings you out here of a dark night, singing Poor Joe, \nlike an old soldier? Adzooks, as the Captain says, I am quite \nastonished!\"\n\n\"Brother, you are----Oh, that you should be so insensible to \ninterest, if not to shame!\" cried Miss Falconer, with deep feeling. \n\"Brother, brother, you\"----\n\n\"If I have, may I be shot!\" cried the young officer, hastily, as if \nthe instinct of long habit had taught him what his sister intended to \nsay; \"that is, Harry, my dear, nothing to speak of; and it is all on \naccount of Caliver, who, betwixt you and me, is so deuced \nsoft-headed,--he is, egad,--one must always sit by, to take care of \nhim. As for me, Hal, why I can drink a hogshead of any such wishwashy \nstuff as these French wines; I can, by the eternal Jupiter, as \nCaliver says; and at the present moment I am\"----\n\n\"Ruined, irretrievably ruined!\" cried his sister; \"and by your own \nfolly--by your own miserable, infatuated dissipation. You have lost \nCatherine Loring.\"\n\n\"Lost Catherine Loring? _my_ Catherine Loring?\" cried the young man, \nin alarm. \"Have the Hawks carried her off?\"\n\n\"What if I say _yes_?\" replied Harriet; and then added, with a tone \nthat brought the youth still farther to his senses, \"and I must add, \nthat even a base and renegade Gilbert is worthier of her than \n_you_,--my brother,--the son of Richard Falconer! Oh, shame upon you, \nbrother! shame upon you!\"\n\n\"Harry, you are joking with me!\" cried Falconer, with a voice \nsomewhat quavering and querulous. \"We've driven the dogs the lord \nknows whither; and as for that story of the village, why that's all a \nfib: so as to carrying Catherine off, I don't believe a word of it.\"\n\n\"And yet you have lost her,--lost her, perhaps, beyond all \nredemption. Oh Harry, brother Harry, were you but enough in your \nsenses to understand me!\"\n\n\"I am, sister, I am,\" cried Falconer; and indeed the devil, \ndrunkenness, was fast giving place to the devil, fear: \"I _have_ been \ndrinking; but I swear to heaven.\"\n\n\"Swear no more: you have done so a dozen times already.\"\n\n\"I have done so, sister; but I swear again, and I call heaven to \nwitness, that if you have spoken the truth, and Catherine be really \nlost, I will never drink more till I have recovered or revenged her. \nBut for pity's sake, speak; what is the matter?--I am sober now. What \nhas brought you out here in the dark? Where is Catherine? What is the \nmatter?\"\n\n\"You shall hear,\" cried Miss Falconer, hurriedly: \"perhaps it is not \nyet too late. You have a rival, brother, a dangerous rival!\"\n\n\"Oh, gad now, sister! lord, is that all?\" exclaimed the young man, \nbursting into a laugh: \"why, you don't think I shall go jealous, \nbecause I have a rival? Gad, Harry, you're the most absurd sister in \nthe world.--I wonder what the deuce has become of my hat?--A rival, \nHal? One of these village clotpolls! A dozen of 'em, if you like: the \nmore the merrier. I'll invite 'em all to my wedding.\"\n\n\"You are mad!\" cried Harriet. \"Wedding, indeed! Perhaps you will \nnever be married. What think you of a rival that has her heart?\"\n\n\"Her heart? Catherine's heart?\" exclaimed the gay-brained soldier; \n\"why, it has been mine these two years!\"\n\n\"And now,\" said Harriet, \"it is another's.--Brother! rouse from your \ndream of confidence and security. It is as true as that the stars are \nabove us: Catherine Loring loves another.\"\n\n\"Harriet!\"----\n\n\"It is true--she confessed it with her own lips.\"\n\n\"Confessed it, sister!\" said the young man; and then added, with a \nspirit that surprised her, \"If that be so, why then good luck to her: \nshe shall have her freedom. I don't think I shall break my heart; \nand, certainly, I shan't force her to marry me. But, Hal,--look you, \nsister Hal,--I did not think she would cozen me. She confessed it, \ndid she? Why, that's enough. I'm an honourable man; but after being \ncheated and jilted, I don't care much----But if I don't kill the \nscoundrel, Hal!--I say if I don't kill him, you may have leave to \ncall me a fool and chicken twice over!--Confess it!\"\n\nIf this display of spirit surprised Miss Falconer, the manifest \ndistress with which her brother spoke, incredible as it may seem, \ngreatly gratified her. His greatest fault in her eyes,--that is, \naside from his dissipated habits,--was that easy indifference of \ndisposition, or indolence of feeling, which kept him reckless and \npassive when she would have had him ardent and energetic. She knew \nhim to be insensible of the full value of that prize it was her \nambition to secure him; and had he been any but her brother, she \nwould have hated him for what seemed the feebleness of his affection, \nas indicated by the little pains he took to secure that of Catherine. \nIt was obvious, from this homely burst, in which magnanimity, pride, \nindignation, anger, and distress, were all so characteristically \njumbled together, that the young gentleman had really feeling enough \nat bottom, and that, in a great measure, of the right kind; and the \ndiscovery brought a ray of hope into her mind.\n\n\"Brother,\" said she, \"if you really love Catherine, you may yet save \nher.\"\n\n\"What! after confessing she loves another?\" cried he, sulkily. \"Now, \nHal, for all your wisdom, you don't know me--I won't have her. \nConfess, indeed!\"\n\n\"No--she did not confess--I will explain. Perhaps 'twas only a \ndream;--it was in her sleep.\"\n\n\"In her sleep!\" cried Falconer, and then burst again into a roar of \nlaughter. \"In her sleep!\" he ejaculated, giving way to a second peal. \n\"Well! you have scared me with a vengeance!--But I forgive you--you \nhave brought me to. Of all the cunning doctors in the world, give me \nyourself, Harry; you are infallible. And so she confessed in her \nsleep, poor soul, did she? Oh, Hal! Hal! Hal!\" And here the \ncapricious youth gave full swing to his merriment.\n\n\"Thus it is,\" said his sister, impatiently; \"one extreme or the \nother, ever. Listen, brother; for I am serious. Your wild habits have \ngreatly weakened Catherine's affections. Another comes, in the \nmeanwhile, with attractions, I will not say superior to your own, but \nperhaps every way equal, who ceases not, neither by day nor by night, \nto influence her imagination and engage her heart. Judge of his \nsuccess, when you know that she has admitted him to intimacy, nay, to \nconfidence; judge, when I tell you that she trembles at the sound of \nhis voice, turns pale at the echo of his footsteps, blushes when he \nspeaks, looks glad when he is by her, and weeps when he is \nabsent,--and, finally, who hides the secret from her own waking \nthoughts, yet babbles his name over in her dreams, and sheds tears, \nand smiles with her tears, when she murmurs it. Is not such a \nman,--the object of such emotions, himself so passionately enamoured, \nthat his visage betrays the thought of his bosom, even when he knows \nhe is suspected and watched,--is not such a man a dangerous rival?\"\n\n\"Sister, you know better than myself,\" said Falconer, uneasily; \"if \n_you_ think so\"----\n\n\"I do, brother; I believe, that, this moment, without knowing it \nherself, Catherine's mind is dwelling upon your rival; and if he be \nnot driven away, you will lose her.\"\n\n\"Point him out to me, sister Harriet, and then, by\"----\n\n\"No fighting! no fighting, brother!\" cried Harriet, in some alarm, \nand speaking with eagerness. \"Not a hair of the young man's head must \nbe harmed; we have done him injury enough among us, perhaps, already. \nWe must frighten him away: if I know him, we can legally expel him \nfrom the valley. Arrest, imprison him, banish him;--do any thing; but \nharm him not--that is, do him no harm with your own hands. If he have \nforfeited his life to the law, let the law take it. Now, brother, \nknow your rival--it is the youngest brother of this dreadful Oran \nGilbert.\"\n\n\"Saints and devils!\" cried Falconer, with vivacity, \"a Hawk of the \nHollow! and dare to love Catherine Loring?\"\n\n\"I could be sworn to it,\" said Harriet. \"The circumstances that \npointed out the assassin of my father, were but clews of thistle-down \nto the chains of evidence that led me to the knowledge of this \nskulking raven's character. The first circumstance was as strong as \nthe last; an idle, thoughtless, nay, an accidental, pencil mark on a \ndrawing opened my eyes in an instant; and heaven's light immediately \nstreamed through them. But think him not the coarse cut-throat his \nname would indicate; he has had a gentleman's breeding, and such is \nhis bearing. I doubt not that he is a confederate of his brother, \nperhaps even a spy; and, I am persuaded, it was he who counteracted \nour scheme of seizing the reprobates, and brought the poor soldier, \nParker, to the gibbet. He must be arrested and examined. He knows he \nis suspected--he knows that I suspect him; but will, in his audacity, \nremain, in the assurance that no real proof can be brought against \nhim.--That man, that painter, brother,--that Hunter? where did you \nleave him?\"\n\n\"Leave him?\" cried Falconer: \"why, is he not here? Sure, he led the \nway hither; and sure I followed after him. A rare fellow, sister! I \nwas going to blow his brains out; but, egad, I know him better, and, \ngad, I am coming on fast to adore him. Adzooks, as the Captain says, \nI picked up his letter, and\"----\n\n\"His letter?\" cried Harriet, eagerly; \"where is it?\"\n\n\"Here,\" said the lieutenant, drawing it from his pocket, wherein he \nhad safely bestowed it.\n\n\"To the light! to the light!\" cried the maiden, snatching it out of \nhis hands, and running with the speed of a frighted deer towards the \nmansion, followed by her bewildered brother. A candle blazed in one \nof the windows that opened on the porch, and in the chamber it \nlighted, had she been disposed to look, Miss Falconer might have seen \nthe gallant Captain Loring sitting upright in his arm-chair, but fast \nasleep, and filling half the house with the melody of his nostrils. \nTo this window ran Miss Falconer, and hither she was followed by her \nbrother; who, to his amazement and indignation, found her devouring \nthe contents of the paper with the avidity of a malefactor poring \nover his own respite from a death of ignominy.\n\n\"Gad's my life, sister Hal!\" cried the incensed soldier, \"you have \ndisgraced me for ever! What, reading the young fellow's letter?\"\n\n\"Reading _my_ letter!\" cried Harriet, turning upon him a look \ninexpressibly fierce and triumphant. \"Was not this suspicion as \nprophetic as the other? The dead Parker speaks to me, and from his \ngrave affords me proof even stronger than I sought. Oh, villain! \nvillain! audacious, inconceivably audacious, villain! Their \nlieutenant? His intimacy with, his designs upon Catherine Loring, \nrevealed even to his ribald companions? and made their theme of \nspeech! their jest! Oh, what a rival have you suffered to approach \nyour betrothed wife, Harry Falconer! _This_ convicts, doubly convicts \nhim.--What ho, uncle! Captain Loring, awake! Where is Catherine? \nUncle! uncle!\"\n\n\"Devils!\" cried Falconer, \"do you mean to say that Hunter is the man? \nWhy he's a gentleman!\"--\n\n\"Adzooks, and adsbobs, what's the matter? Send out scouts to beat the \nbushes: tree 'em, my boys, tree 'em; never show an inch of Adam's \nleather to an Indian.--Adzooks, is that you, Harry my dear?\" were the \nwords of Captain Loring, roused as suddenly from his slumbers as he \nhad often been in his early woodland campaigns. \"What's the matter? \nHave you caught that scoundrel Oran, or any of his gang?\"\n\nThe answer to this question astounded the old soldier; and while Miss \nFalconer poured into his ears the story of the transformation of his \nbeloved Herman the painter into Hyland Gilbert, a brother and leader \namong the Hawks of Hawk-Hollow, he seemed for a moment, like the \ndevotee, rapt in a holier passion, to have\n\n  Forgot himself to marble.\n\nIn the meanwhile the unlucky author of this commotion had brought his \ndestinies to a crisis in another quarter, and with another \nindividual.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n  \"Not all the wealth of Eastern kings;\" said she,\n  \"Has power to part my plighted love and me.\"\n                                             DRYDEN.\n\n\nThe painter had long since made his way to Gilbert's Folly. As he \nhurried through the park, he discerned the figure of Miss Falconer; \nand notwithstanding the obscurity of the hour, he knew her at once, \nand avoided her. There was a moon in the sky, but new, and low in the \nwest; and, besides, it was struggling with clouds that robbed it of \nhalf its lustre; yet it cast ever and anon light enough to enable a \ngood eye to distinguish objects on the more open portions of the \nlawn.\n\nNot a little pleased at the prospect, thus offered, of enjoying a \n_t\u00eate \u00e0 t\u00eate_ with the Captain's daughter, though it might be only \nfor a moment, he entered the house and the little saloon in which he \nhad spent so many happy moments. It was empty, but the door leading \nto the garden was open, and the broad gravel-walk, fringed with low \nshrubs and roses, was lighted by the taper in the apartment. As he \nstepped out, his eye fell upon Catherine Loring, who was that moment \napproaching from the garden, her step hurried, and her countenance \ndisplaying agitation, which was increased the moment she beheld him.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Hunter!\" she cried, running eagerly towards him, \"I am very \nglad to see you, and I am glad we are alone. We are all going mad \nhere at the Folly, and it is right you should know it. You have--I am \nashamed to say it, for I know you have not deserved her dislike--made \nan enemy of my cousin Harriet; the strangest suspicions have entered \nher head; and she may offend you, unless you are put on your guard. \nYou must forgive her: by and by, you will laugh at her folly, and so \nwill she; but at present she seems half-distracted by the events of \nthe day, the disasters of her father, and her fears for the future. \nDid you not meet her? Alas, she will be here in a moment!\"\n\n\"Fear not,\" said the young man, in hurried and altered tones, but \nwith an effort to be jocose; \"she is down by the park-gate, studying \nthe stars, and reading my own foolish history among them. Miss \nCatherine,--Miss Loring,--I am aware of your friend's dislike. I am \nnot surprised--she will tolerate your having no friend less \ninterested than herself.\"\n\n\"You must not speak thus, Mr. Hunter,\" cried Catherine, but in too \nmuch hurry of spirits to rebuke. \"I did wrong to show you her letter: \n_that_, I fear, is the chief cause of her anger; and your being a \nstranger, and so great a favourite with my father--oh, and a thousand \nreasons more she has found, or fancied, for supposing you are--that \nis, that you have deceived us, and that\"----\n\n\"That I am--an impostor,\" said Hyland, hesitating an instant at the \nword, but pronouncing it at last firmly.\n\n\"Such is indeed her strange aberration,\" cried Catherine, apparently \noverjoyed that the idea so repugnant to herself, had been conceived \nby the suspected person, and without distress or anger; \n\"and,--and--but this is the maddest and most insulting suspicion of \nall, (yet you must not be offended:)--she thinks, you--really, I \ncould laugh, but that she has frightened me half out of my wits--she \nthinks, you are even a tory in disguise!--a refugee,--(ah, now I have \nsaid it!)--a comrade of these wild and lawless men, come to spy upon \nus, and murder us--(is it not too ludicrous?)--a spy, an enemy, a \ntraitor--nay, even a Gilbert--a Hawk of the Hollow! I _can_ laugh, \nnow that I have said it. And now, too, I am sure you will not be \noffended, the suspicion is so very ridiculous: yes, I am sure you \nwill forgive her.\"\n\n\"I do,\" said the young man, sadly and falteringly, \"for her suspicion \nis just,--at least, it is just in part--I _am_ an impostor.\"\n\n\"Heavens!\" cried Catherine, \"what do you tell me?\"\n\n\"That I have deceived and imposed upon you--at least in name. I am \nneither spy nor refugee, indeed, neither cut-throat nor \nbetrayer,--but I am Hyland Gilbert, a son of him who built this \nhouse, and a brother of those whose name fills it with horror. Miss \nLoring, Miss Loring!\" he cried, impetuously, seeing that Catherine \nrecoiled from him with terror, \"is the name so dreadful even to you? \nIn nothing else am I criminal--do you think I would do you a hurt?\"\n\n\"Surely not, surely not,\" cried Catherine, gasping almost for breath, \nand speaking she scarce knew what: \"I do not think you would hurt me. \nNo, oh no! I have done you no harm, and my father has been good to \nyou.\"\n\n\"For God's sake, Miss Loring--Catherine--compose yourself,\" cried the \nyoung man, both amazed and shocked at the impression his words had \nproduced on a mind almost unhinged by long and brooding sorrow. \n\"What, _I_ harm you? I would die to protect you from the least evil.\"\n\n\"And you are a Gilbert, then? a foe to the land of your birth, a \ndisguised enemy, an associate of thieves and murderers?\" cried the \nmaiden, with sudden energy, and in a passion of tears; \"oh, Mr. \nHunter, I thought better of you!\"\n\n\"Think better of me yet,\" he exclaimed, catching her by the hand, \n\"for as there is a heaven above us, I have done nothing to deserve \nyour hatred. All that I have done--and it is nothing but \nconcealment--was to do you service, and to obtain your friendship.\"\n\n\"Go--stay no longer here--you must come no more,\" cried Catherine, \nweeping bitterly; \"and would you had never come, for I thought you \nwere my friend--my friend, and my poor father's. I don't believe you \nare a bad man, or that you will do a wrong to any one; but you must \ngo. Yes, go,\" she added, wildly, \"for you are in danger. They will \narrest you; and then what will become of you? It was Harriet's \ntalking of this,--of arresting you,--that made me tell you, that you \nmight show her how much she was deceived. Go, go! and never return \nmore. A moment, and the officers will be here: Harriet has sent for \nthem. Go, Mr. Hunter, go!\"\n\n\"I will not, Catherine,\" cried the youth, giving way to the most \nvehement emotion: \"I know that they are sacrificing you; and I will \nremain till you are rescued, come what will. You hate this young \nFalconer; you do, Catherine,--you cannot conceal it: he is unworthy \nof you--he shall never marry you.\"\n\n\"You will drive me mad! For heaven's sake, Mr. Hunter--is this the \nway to show your friendship?\"\n\n\"My love, Catherine, call it my love. I love you, Catherine Loring, \nand I will save you, even against your will. Say that you hate Henry \nFalconer, the wretched son of a still more wretched father--say \nthat--nay, place but your hand on mine, and you shall\"----\n\n\"Never!\" cried Catherine, wildly; \"I love you not--I hate you! \nRelease me. Is this the way you repay my father's good deeds? Go, Mr. \nHunter: you have made me more unhappy than before.\"\n\n\"I will make you happy, Catherine. I have wealth--nay, and \nreputation, Gilbert though I be. I will go to your father, I will \ndemand you at his hands\"----\n\n\"Kill me, first--kill me, rather than speak to me thus!\" cried the \nunhappy maiden, in unspeakable agitation. \"Is this the way to talk to \nme? You should know better, for I am to be given to another. Oh, that \nyou had never come to our house! Go--I forgive you--I will tell \nnobody. If they find you, they will kill you: Harriet has shown me \nthey can take your life. Hark! they are coming! I hear their voices! \nI hear my father's! I forgive you, Mr. Hunter; yes, I forgive \nyou--but I will never see you more! no, never!\"\n\n\"Catherine!\"----\n\n\"Never! I swear it--never, never! I am vowed and betrothed. If you \nstay longer, I shall die! Oh, have pity on me, and go: have pity on \nme, for my father's sake,--pity, pity!\"\n\nThese wild and hysterical expressions were concluded by a shriek; for \nat that moment the ill-fated girl, who had been all the while \nstruggling, though feebly, to make her way into the little saloon, \nbeheld Miss Falconer, followed by her father and the young \nlieutenant, rush into it. As she screamed, she burst from the grasp \nof the impassioned lover, and, running forwards, threw herself into \nthe Captain's arms.\n\n\"Oh, the hound! the villain!\" cried the veteran; \"he has been killing \nher! Shoot him down, run him through, knock him on the head! Here, \nyou Aunt Rachel! Phoebe! Daphne! Dick! Soph! and the squad of you! Oh \nlord, Harry, my dear, the dog has murdered her!\"\n\n\"No, father, no, no, no!\" cried the maiden, clinging, almost in \nconvulsions, to his neck; \"I am very well, father,--a bat flew in my \nface,--a snake came into the garden, and I don't know what! But it is \nvery foolish, father,--I am always very foolish!\" And with these \nincoherent expressions, in which even the whirl and tumult of a \nsuffering heart could not repress an instinctive effort to distract \nnotice from the young man in the garden, she fell into a state of \npitiable prostration, which engaged the whole attention of her father \nand kinswoman.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n               Will you walk out, sir?\n  And if I do not beat thee presently\n  Into as sound belief as sense can give thee,\n  Brick me into the wall there for a chimney-piece,\n  And say,--I was one o' th' C\u00e6sars, done by a seal-cutter.\n                       RULE A WIFE AND HAVE A WIFE.\n\n\nIn the meanwhile, Herman,--or Hyland Gilbert, as he must now be \ncalled,--(so soon as he beheld the maiden, wooed so wildly and \nvainly, fly to her parent for refuge,) turned from the illuminated \npath, and taking advantage of his previous knowledge of the garden, \nsoon succeeded in making his way out of it, and, as he thought, \nwithout being observed. He hurried through the park, torn by a \ntempest of passions, and had almost reached the gate, when he was \nsuddenly roused by a tap on the shoulder, which brought him to a \nstand. The moon had set, and the light of the stars, breaking through \nragged clouds, was not sufficient to make him acquainted with the \nvisage of the intruder; but the first word of the salutation that \naccompanied the touch, told him he was now confronted with his rival.\n\n\"An excellent good night to you, my fine hail-fellow-well-met!\" cried \nHarry Falconer; \"you'll be jogging, will you? A word in your ear: \nthere's star-light enough to be civil by, soft moist grass for \nsleeping on, and, gad's my life, as good barren clay at your feet as \never gentleman rotted under. Now you may be surprised to hear it, but \nI have the prettiest pair of pistols in my pocket that were ever made \nfor a lady's finger; somewhat dwarfish, to be sure--but, egad, as \ngood, at six paces, for blowing one's brains out, as a battering \npiece at point-blank distance. So douse kit, as the cobbler says, and \nlet's begin.--Harkee, sir, no skulking! Don't put me to the painful \nnecessity of calling hard names. No sneaking!\"\n\n\"You are a fool,\" said Hyland, sternly. \"If you will renew your \nquarrel, come to me in the morning.\"\n\n\"By your leave, no,\" said the lieutenant, laying hand on his collar. \n\"As to being a fool, adzooks, as the Captain says, I am, or _was_, \nfor supposing you an honest, respectable sort of a vagabond young \nman; whereas, on the contrary\"----\n\n\"Remove your hand, or----Well, sir,\" cried the young Gilbert, \"what \nwill you have? Must I cut your throat? Trust me, my fingers have been \nitching to do it all day; and, at this moment, they are hotter than \never. Begone, therefore, while you may, and while the devil is yet \nbehind me. This is no time nor place for quarrelling.\"\n\n\"The best in the world,\" said the officer; \"and to end your scruples \nat once, know that I give you choice only of two alternatives. Being \na cursed Hawk-Hollow Gilbert\"----\n\n\"Hah!\"\n\n\"You have a certain claim to the gallows; but being also an \nexceedingly well-behaved, genteel, handsome young dog, who have done \nme the honour to court my sweetheart, you have an equal claim to die \nin a gentlemanly way. So take your choice--a pistol, six paces, and a \nshot at _one-two-three_; or yield yourself a prisoner, and die by a \ndrum-head court-martial.\"\n\n\"What if I say,--Neither?\" replied Gilbert. \"Away, molest me not.\" \nAnd he turned again to depart, but was again arrested by the hot \nsoldier.\n\n\"Oh, gad,\" cried this worthy, \"one thing you _must_ say.\"\n\n\"Look you, Mr. Henry Falconer,\" said Hyland, with a trembling voice, \n\"I have never yet harmed a human creature, and I would not willingly \nhurt even you, though I have a double cause to wish you ill. Provoke \nme no farther. You have been drinking, and are now beside yourself.\"\n\n\"Never think it,\" said the lieutenant, dropping his tone of \nbagatelle, but speaking with characteristic impetuosity. \"You have \npresumed to be impertinent to a certain lady, who shall be nameless; \nfor which reason I will forget that you are a low and contemptible \nscoundrel, worthy only\"----\n\n\"Give me the pistol,\" said Hyland, \"and your blood be on your own \nhead. I will abide no more from the son of your father.\"\n\n\"Spoken like a man,\" cried Falconer, instantly stepping off six paces \non the grass, and counting them aloud as he stepped. Then turning, he \nadded, with a furious voice, as if giving way to his passions, \"Now, \nyou rascal, prepare to fire as soon as you hear me count three; and \nif I don't teach you manners, you gallows dog, may I never more smell \ngunpowder. Ready, you rogue! fire! One,--two,--three!\"\n\nThe instant the last word escaped his lips, he fired his own pistol, \nand Hyland staggered backwards, as if the shot had taken effect. \nImmediately recovering himself, however, he cried, with an agitated \nvoice, \"Let that satisfy you--I will not hurt you,\" and threw his own \nundischarged weapon away. The act of generosity was not appreciated \nby his rival, who, inflamed by a rage to which he seemed now to have \ngiven himself up, uttered an oath, and whipping out the sword he \nalways carried at his side, rushed upon him, crying, \"Villain, you \ndon't escape me so easily!\"\n\nThus attacked, and with a fury that seemed to aim at nothing short of \nhis life, Hyland, who was entirely without arms, avoided the lunge \naimed at his heart, and immediately closing with his adversary, they \nfell together to the ground.\n\nIn the meanwhile, the pistol-shot had reached the ears of the captain \nof cavalry, and one or two of the late banqueters, who were, at that \nmoment, making their way to Gilbert's Folly, in obedience to a \nsummons from Miss Falconer, which, although meant only for her \nbrother, the domestic entrusted with it, had communicated, in his \nabsence, to captain Caliver. It found that worthy gentleman, as well \nas all others present, somewhat incapable of understanding it; but as \nit related to the Hawks of the Hollow, and seemed to require the \npresence of the lieutenant or his friends at the mansion, it was \nobeyed by all, not even excepting the gallant Ephraim; although, as \nit afterwards appeared, this mysterious individual had, after setting \nout, separated from the party, which was now but three in number.\n\n\"By the eternal Jupiter!\" cried Caliver, toiling and stumbling up an \nascent that led to the park-gate, as the sudden explosion, followed \nimmediately after by angry voices, broke the solemn silence of the \nnight,--\"by the eternal Jupiter, halt!--there's the tories! They're \nbeating up the old cock's quarters!\"\n\n\"Let us retreat,\" cried one of his attendants, \"and get our horses.\"\n\n\"Halt--hark!\" exclaimed the soldier, \"there's Harry Falconer's voice! \nthe dogs are murdering him! Prepare to charge, and hold your \ntongues.--Now follow me, and I'll have a whole regiment on \nthem.--Halloo!\" he cried at the top of his voice, as if really \ncalling upon a competent force of both horse and foot; \"Make bayonet \nwork of it, you light-infantry dogs! Horsemen, over the fence, and \nsurround the vagabonds!--No quarter!--Double quick-step, march! \nCharge the villains!\" And with this valiant stratagem, the officer \nran boldly up the hill, followed by his two companions,--though not \nuntil they had heard behind them, or fancied they heard, the clatter \nas of a party of horsemen descending the hill they had already left.\n\nAs Caliver rushed into the park, he again heard the voice of his \nfriend, and rushing up, beheld, to his great amazement, the band of \ntories dwindled into a single individual, lying across Falconer's \nbreast, and in the very act of transfixing him with his own weapon.\n\n\"By the eternal Jupiter! what means all this?\" he cried, dragging \nHyland off his prey. \"What! my jolly gentleman-volunteer, hah! What \nmeans this, you absurd young cut-throats?\"\n\n\"It means,\" cried Falconer, rising and darting at his foe with \nunexampled fury, \"that I've nabbed a tory lieutenant, and I'll have \nhis blood!\"\n\nHe took his adversary at a disadvantage, for Hyland was still held by \nthe captain; and before this bewildered peace-maker could interfere, \nthe combatants were again rolling together upon the ground, only that \ntheir positions were reversed, for Falconer was now uppermost, and \narmed with Caliver's sword, which he had snatched out of the \ncaptain's hand, not knowing, nor indeed caring, what had become of \nhis own.\n\nAt this juncture, a new feature was given to the battle-field. \n\"Enemies!\" cried Caliver's two attendants; and the cry was echoed by \na fierce yell, like the war-whoop of a savage, coming from the gate, \nthrough which galloped they knew not how many dusky figures, looking \nto the eyes of the revellers like the fiends of darkness themselves. \nThe astounded captain, deserted in a moment by his attendants, looked \nup, and beheld with still greater amazement, the apparition, as it \nseemed, of Ephraim Patch astride his gallant gray; only that this \nimpression was put to flight by the spectre urging the steed right \nupon him, crying at the same time in a voice of thunder, \"Down with \nthe rebel dogs! trample them to death!\" and the next moment, the \nunlucky officer was struck to the ground by the blow of a hoof, and \nthere lay insensible.\n\n\"Victory!\" cried the valiant rider, springing from his steed, and \ncheering his companion (for he had but one,) who was at that moment \ndashing after the two volunteers. \"Victory!\" he exclaimed, rushing \ntowards the original combatants, and immediately proceeding to knock \nyoung Falconer on the head with the butt of a pistol, crying at the \nsame time to Hyland, whom he assisted to rise, \"Up, brother actor and \nHawk of the Hollow,--'my name is Harry Percy!' 'The trumpet sounds \nretreat, the day is ours!'\"\n\n\"Good God!\" cried young Gilbert, bending over his adversary, \"you \nhave killed him!\"\n\n\"Quarter!\" murmured the lieutenant, faintly, \"quarter, if you be \nChristian men!\"\n\n\"Hell and furies!\" cried Ephraim, thrusting the pistol into his face, \n\"you die, were you the king's son!\" and he would have killed the \nunlucky youth on the spot, had it not been for Hyland, who dashed the \nweapon out of his hand, exclaiming, \"Touch him not, on your \nperil!--What! can you stand?\" he added, addressing Falconer: \n\"Away--you are safe. You would have taken my life--I give you yours. \nBut, remember, Henry Falconer,\" he whispered in his ear, as he led \nhim a little way, \"remember _this_: you are seeking Catherine Loring \nagainst her will. If you persist, it were better for you had you \nnever been born. Away with you, ere those come who will not be so \nmerciful.\"\n\nThe young officer, confused by the blow he had received, and perhaps \nterrified by the appearance of enemies so unexpected and of a \ncharacter so incomprehensible, stole away and concealed himself among \nsome neighbouring bushes. He heard the crash of hoofs over the \navenue, as if he who had chased away the volunteers, were now \nreturning to his unknown companions, then a murmur of voices, and \nfinally a renewed sound of horses' feet, whereby he perceived that \nthe midnight assailants had left the paddock. He then crept from his \nconcealment, and made his way towards the mansion, to which, as was \nevident from the flashing of lights in the windows and on the porch, \nthe alarm had been already communicated.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nAnd I remember the chief, said the king of woody Morven: I met him, \none day, on the hill; his cheek was pale; his eye was dark; the sigh \nwas frequent in his breast; his steps were towards the desert.\n                                                    CARRIC-THURA.\n\n\nA month swept over the valley, and found it restored to its pristine \nquiet and loneliness. The confusion resulting from the developements \nof the eventful 4th had subsided, and men began to remember the \noccurrences of that day almost as a dream. Had the refugees really \nbeen in the Hollow? The discovery of Parker's body,--the recovery of \nhis last letter, which had remained in Hyland's hands in the hurry of \nseparation from his brother, to be, by a natural fatality, converted \ninto testimony against himself,--the nocturnal scuffle in the park, \nfrom which captain Caliver and the junior officer had come off with \ninjuries, though not serious ones,--and, finally, the sudden \ndisappearance of the painter and the eccentric Ephraim,--were the \nonly evidence to establish the truth of such a visitation. No outrage \nhad been perpetrated either upon life or property; nor could the \nkeenest search of the county volunteers, assisted by several \ndetachments from the lines, sent to scour the whole country, detect a \nsingle vestige of the audacious outlaws. That they had fled was \nmanifest enough, but how and whither no man could tell. It appeared \nfrom the letters of Parker, that the chief object of Gilbert's return \nto his native valley was the rescue of young captain Asgill, of whom \nwe have before spoken, out of the hands of his jailers; and it is now \nwell known, that, among the devices to secure the life of this \nunfortunate captive, 'a plan was, in case of the worst, arranged for \nhis escape,' and secretly persisted in, until it became evident that \nthe humanity of the American Commander-in-chief was his truest \nsafeguard. There remained, therefore, no longer occasion for the \nservices of Oran Gilbert, to whom an exploit of this nature, \nrequiring a man of crafty and daring spirit, had been so properly \nentrusted; and it was at first hoped, and then confidently believed, \nthat he had withdrawn entirely from the neighbourhood, and, after \ndisbanding his followers, returned, in spite of the vigilance of his \nfoes, to New York; and, indeed, certain secret intelligence was \nreceived from that city, that he had been long since ordered to \nreturn, the project of rescue being now as unnecessary as it was \nhopeless of success. That he had committed no outrage upon the \nunprotected inhabitants of the county was supposed to be owing not \nmore to the necessity of avoiding all acts that might give the alarm, \nand so draw attention towards him, than the positive commands of the \nBritish Commander, whose course in the present conjuncture of \naffairs, was to the full as forbearing as that of his enemy.\n\nThese considerations restored confidence to the county; and nothing \nremained for the good citizens but to weave the chain of mysterious \ncircumstances attending the visitation into a web of wonderful \nhistory, and to speculate upon the character and fate of the painter \nand honest Ephraim. As for the latter, ingenuity was for a long time \nat fault, until the story of Mr. Leonidas Sterling became generally \nknown; when an opinion, hazarded at first almost in jest, grew into a \nsettled belief,--namely, that these twain were one and the same \nperson, and that he who had deceived so well as the ranting preacher, \nhad deceived still better in the semblance of the zealous quaker. The \nsuccessful _fourberies_ of this modern Scapin obtained for him a \nhigher degree of credit than he had ever won, while contracting his \ngenius into the representation of the kings of fiction; and he was \nremembered and spoken of with a degree of good humour, that perhaps \nexplained the unwillingness of his city friends to proceed rigorously \nagainst him, when his treasonable practices were discovered.\n\nAs for the young Hunter, or Gilbert, as he was now universally \ncalled, he was remembered with no such favour. To be a scion of the \ntory family, was enough to condemn him, even although (as had been \nthe case) he might have passed his days afar from the contamination \nof his brothers' example, and shared neither in their acts nor their \nhostile spirit. But to be an associate,--an officer of the very gang \ncommanded by Oran,--was a sin of inexpiable die, to which a double \nblackness was given by his dissimulation and audacity. He had resided \namong them as a friend and brother, and yet was all the time playing \nthe part of a spy and betrayer; and he had capped the climax of \neffrontery by taking part in the jubilee of liberty, and even \nprofaning with hypocritical lips the sacred manifesto of \nIndependence,--or so, at least, he would have done, but for the \ninterruption caused by Oran's appearance. This seemed to them little \nshort of impiety, a sacrilegious mockery, indicative as much of his \ncontemptuous disregard of the holy instrument as of his daring \ncharacter. In this spirit of indignation they proceeded to canvass \nhis whole history, raking up every little act that could be \nremembered, and perverting each into a manifestation of villany; the \nworst of which was his attempt to carry off Captain Loring's \ndaughter,--for so much they made of his parting interview with the \nyoung lady,--and then, being baffled in the base attempt, waylaying \nand attempting to murder her affianced husband. In a word, he was \nproved to be a monster of treason, perfidy, and ingratitude; and few \nhad the courage, fewer still the disposition, to say a word in his \ndefence. It must be confessed that Dr. Merribody once, in a fit of \nunusual generosity, declared to a whole throng of raging villagers, \n'that the scoundrel was an honest man and a gentleman after all, for \nhe had faithfully paid his bill, and even asked for it, before it was \npresented;' but this impulse of magnanimous friendship vanished when \nhe came to remember how much he had been imposed upon in relation to \nthe youth's true character, by some deception Elsie Bell thought fit \nto play upon him, under colour of admitting him to the secret. The \npoet also, who, in the loss of Hyland, wept that of his warmest \nadmirer, contended 'that he sang better, and had a more refined \nliterary taste, than any body he ever knew.' Nay, even Captain \nLoring, who had begun to esteem him as the apple of his eye, was \nconverted into a furious foe, which was owing, in a great measure, to \nthe discovery of the young man's political inclinings, though his \nanger was sharpened and augmented by Miss Falconer, who took \noccasion, for a purpose of her own, to reveal what the Captain had \nnever dreamed of himself. She gave him to understand, what was indeed \nnothing more than true, that his ungrateful proteg\u00e9 had endeavoured \nto detach Catherine's affections from her brother, and divert them \nupon himself,--an assurance that infuriated the old soldier, whose \nwrath was not much mollified when Miss Falconer succeeded in making \nhim aware how much his own extravagant patronage of the impostor \nmight have been construed into almost positive encouragement of his \npresumption. But bitter as was the worthy veteran's anger, it was as \ncapricious as his love had been. Whenever he laid his eyes upon the \nunfinished painting, which he commonly did a dozen times a day, he \nwould begin to bewail and admire together, and swear 'that his young \nHaman What-did-ye-call-it, for all of his roguery, was the finest \npainter that was ever known; and, adzooks, he thought there must be \nsome mistake about his being a tory and a Gilbert.'\n\nThe occurrence of these incidents had naturally made the poor widow \nan object of suspicion, as having connived at the presence, and aided \nin the concealment and flight, of the outlaws; and she was even \nthreatened with the vengeance of the law, until Harry Falconer, to \nthe surprise of every body, stepped forward as her champion, and made \nsuch interest for her as left her again in her lonely and quiet \ndesolation. Whether this display of generosity was prompted by his \nown erratic feelings, or was derived from the secret influence of the \nCaptain's daughter, Elsie knew not. Catherine visited her no more; \nand within a week after the explosion of the 4th, she left \nHawk-Hollow with her friend Harriet, and was absent for a \nconsiderable period. Elsie saw her, as the carriage rolled by; her \nface was very pale and haggard, as if she had been suffering from \nsickness. When she returned, young Falconer and a brother officer, \nboth mounted, pranced along at her side. She looked from the carriage \nas she passed, and kissed her hand to the widow, while her eye \nsparkled as with its former fire. But Elsie beheld her not; as she \nlooked up, her eye caught the outlines of a dark and stern \ncountenance behind that of Catherine, on which were the traces of age \nand broken health.\n\nShe started from her seat, and gazed eagerly after the rolling \nvehicle, but it was soon swept out of sight. She remained upon her \nfeet, until she had seen it enter the park, and draw up before \nCaptain Loring's door, when she again sunk upon her chair, muttering \nto herself:\n\n\"I saw him last a black-eyed boy, with a cheek like the rose-leaf, \nand hair like the wing of a crow; and now he comes with a cheek as \nwithered even as mine, and locks frosted still whiter. So let it be \nwith the villain; honour may fall on the snowy head, but what lies in \nthe bosom? And can he walk over the knolls where Jessie walked, and \nsmile on those around him? There is thunder yet in heaven, and a long \nreckoning yet to settle. Ah well, ah well, we shall see what we shall \nsee, and I shall live to see it; for she cursed him in her \ndeath-gasp; and I cursed too, and I prayed God I might live to see \nthe two curses light upon him together; and together they will light, \nand I alive to see it!\" And muttering thus in one of those occasional \nmoods of darkness which had, perhaps more than any thing else, served \nto fix the stigma of the sibyl upon her, Elsie gathered up her wheel \nand spindle, and retreated from her favourite seat on the porch, to \nwhich she returned no more during the day.\n\nThe person upon whom she invoked this malediction was the father of \nMiss Falconer, who, with Catherine and himself, made up the contents \nof the carriage. As he stepped upon the porch of Gilbert's Folly, \nfrom the vehicle, and received the rough welcome of Captain Loring, \nit was with a firmer bearing than would have been expected from his \napparent age and infirm health. He was of tall stature, and, although \ngreatly wasted, preserved an erect military bearing. His countenance, \nthough hollow, withered, and of the sallowest hue, was, even yet, \nstrikingly handsome, and his eye was of remarkable brilliancy, though \nof a stern and saturnine expression. His brow was very lofty, though \nnot ample, and his mouth singularly well sculptured, and indicative \nof decision. On the whole, his appearance was at once commanding and \nvenerable; and even those who were freest to whisper the tale of \nearly profligacy and maturer corruption, could not deny him the \ndeference due to his gentlemanly air and deportment. A close \ninspection of his countenance would have revealed no traces of the \nworkings of an unquiet spirit. The first glance showed him to be of a \ntemper thoughtful, reserved--nay, severe and moody; but the second \ncould discover no more. A perfect self-command, a mastery not merely \nof his countenance, but of his spirit, lifted him above the ken of \npetty scrutiny; and if he wore a mask in his commerce with men, it \nwas like that iron one of the Bastile, which when put on, was put on \nfor life, and was, at the same time, of iron. He was a man upon whom \neven his children looked with fear,--not that fear indeed which lives \nin constant expectation of the outbreaking of a violent spirit, but \nthe awe that is begotten by a consciousness of the inflexible \nresolution of the spirit that rules us. This inflexibility is power, \nand power is ever an object of secret dread, even with those who love \nits possessor.\n\nThe austerity of his mind was not accompanied by rigid manners, nor \neven coldness of feeling. No one could be more courteous, and, at \ntimes, even agreeable, than Colonel Falconer. He received the \nwelcomes of his kinsman with much apparent pleasure, and himself \nassisted Catherine from the carriage, and conducted her into the \nmansion, congratulating her, with gentleness and kindness, upon her \nreturn. \"Yet you must grant,\" he added, \"that even the smoke of a \ncity can sometimes renew the health, when the air of the country \nfails. I would I might profit by these mountain breezes, as I know \nyou will, when you have once recovered from your fatigue. But let me \nsee you but happy with my graceless Harry, I shall not complain of my \nown infirmities.\"--\n\nOn the third day after the arrival of Colonel Falconer, the solitude \nof Hawk-Hollow began to be broken by the appearance of divers \ncarriages, filled with gay and well dressed people, the destination \nof all whom appeared to be Gilbert's Folly. A few individuals, the \nmore favoured of the villagers, were seen mingling their equipages \noccasionally with the others; but it was plain that the majority of \nvisiters were strangers, and had come from a distance.\n\nThe object of such an unusual convocation of guests at Gilbert's \nFolly, could not long remain a mystery; and indeed it was known, \nseveral days before, that it was to do honour to the nuptials of \nHenry Falconer with the daughter of Captain Loring. The wealth and \nstanding of the bridegroom's father were sufficient to secure him the \nmeans of giving _\u00e9clat_ to the ceremony, at a day when that ceremony \nwas always one of festivity; and accordingly there appeared guests \nenough, and of sufficient figure, long before night, at the mansion, \nto convince those who took note of such circumstances, that it would \nbe such a wedding as had never before been known in all that \ncounty.--And such indeed it proved; though not even the most \nimaginative could have foreseen from what unusual circumstances it \nwas to owe its claim to be remembered.\n\nUpon that day, while all others were laughing and smiling, a deep and \nmoody dejection seized upon the spirits of the bridegroom's father; \nand although he displayed his wonted courtesy in receiving his \nguests, (they should be considered _his_, for the bride was without \nkinsfolk, and her father had invited none to partake of his joy, save \na few villagers,) the task of continuing to trifle with them during \nthe entire day became intolerably irksome, and perhaps the more so \nthat his habits had for so many years accustomed him to solitude and \nprivacy. Worn out at last, he exchanged the noisy apartments of the \nmansion for the shaded garden-walks; until, finally, driven from \nthese by an increase of his melancholy and the presence of a bevy of \nmaidens, seeking flowers to decorate their fair persons, or perhaps \nthat of the bride, he fled from them to the more unfrequented walks \nin the park.\n\n\"Why should _I_ mingle with this mockery?\" he muttered to himself, \n\"and on this unhappy spot? Let me look upon those scenes I have not \nbeheld for twenty-four years, and see if they have yet power to move \nme.--There are none here to miss me; and they will feel the freer and \ngayer, when frightened no more by my death's-head countenance.--I \nwould the silly Captain had spared the poplar-row: and yet I know \nnot,--the old white-oak, where----Faugh! that should be forgotten.\nThere is something _new_ at least in the forest. The shrubs have \nbecome maple-trees and beeches, the old oaks and sycamores have \nrotted in their places, and nothing is the same save the rocks and \nthe water.--Why should I fear, then, to revisit scenes that have \nchanged like myself? I shall never look on them again, after this \nday.\"\n\nHe composed his countenance into its ordinary expression of severe \nand frowning calm, and directing his steps through the grounds, as \none familiarly acquainted with their most hidden retreats, made his \nway towards the Run, until he had reached the path along its rocky \nborders, previously trodden by Catherine and his daughter. He even \nsat down under the sycamore, where Catherine had begun the story of \nthe wild Gilberts, and his own early adventures; and here, as if \nthere were something in the spot to conjure up such memories, he \nmused long and painfully on the same dark subjects. Perhaps, also, as \nhe looked upon the turbulent water rushing at his feet, he pictured \nto himself the resemblance it bore to the course of his own life,--a \ncurrent, which, although now sunk into the composure of a river just \nlosing itself in the vast ocean, had dashed so long in a channel full \nof rocks and caverns.\n\n   'Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong?\n  Such as my feelings were, and are, thou art;\n    And such as thou art were my passions long.'\n\nThe current of his early life had been indeed as wild, as tortuous, \nas tumultuous, as that before him; and as he looked backwards upon \nits broken course, he saw that the freshes of passion had left as \nmany ruins around it as now deformed the margin of the streamlet.\n\nWhen he rose from his meditations, it was with a brow indicative of a \ndeeply suffering mind; and as he strode onwards, still pursuing the \ncourse of the brook, a spectator looking at him from a concealment, \nmight have detected on his visage the workings even of an agonized \nspirit, though it was observable, that, even in this solitude, where \nthere seemed to be so little fear of observation, he still struggled \nto preserve an air of serenity. The roar of the waterfall fell upon \nhis ear, and perhaps as the voice of an old acquaintance; it did not \nrouse him from his dream of pain, but seemed, although he essayed to \napproach it, to plunge him deeper in gloom; and he would perhaps have \ncrossed the rustic bridge without being conscious of the act, had not \nhis footsteps been suddenly arrested by a figure that started \nsuddenly in the path, and recalled him to his senses. He looked up, \nand beheld a young man, in a hunting suit and leather hat, with the \nrifle and other equipments of a woodman, standing before him. The \ntexture of his garments was coarse, and there was nothing in them to \nindicate any superiority in the wearer above the young rustics of the \ncountry; but he wore them with an air of ease, a _savoir s'habiller_, \nby no means common to the class. His figure was light and handsome, \nand so was his face, though the latter was miserably pale and thin, \nand marked with the traces of grief, and the former considerably \nemaciated. As he stepped into the path, he dropped the butt of his \nrifle upon the earth, as if for the purpose of arousing the \nabstracted comer by the clash; and when the Colonel looked up it was \nnot without some alarm at opposition so unexpected.\n\n\"Fear not,\" said the young man, eyeing him with a mournful, yet \nsteadfast gaze, \"I design you no hurt.\"\n\n\"And why should you?\" cried Colonel Falconer, returning his gaze, \nwith one that seemed meant to rend him through. As he looked, \nhowever, he faltered, turned pale, and thrust his hand into his \nbosom, as if to grasp at a concealed pistol. The act was observed by \nthe stranger, and he instantly repeated his words,--\n\n\"Fear nothing,--at least fear nothing from _me_: I desire to serve \nyou, not injure.--Accident, or Providence, has given me the means. \nYou are Colonel Falconer?\"\n\n\"And you?\" cried the gentleman, with an agitated voice.\n\n\"I--what matters it what _I_ am?\" said the youth; \"I am neither \nfootpad nor assassin,--let that satisfy you. What do you in this \nplace? Cannot even conscience make you wiser? Methinks, there is not \na rock or a bush in this dark den,--there should not be a rustle of \nthe leaf or a clash of the waters, but should tell you what you \nshould expect, when treading the soil of a Gilbert.\"\n\n\"If you meditate violence, young man,\" cried Falconer, whose \nagitation visibly increased, the more he regarded the figure before \nhim, and who now spoke with an emotion amounting almost to terror, \n\"heaven forgive you. But heaven will _not_--there is no pardon in \nstore for the young man who assails the gray hairs of the old.\"\n\n\"False, Colonel, false!\" cried the youth, with a laugh of singular \nbitterness, \"or surely you had never lived to tell me so. There was a \nman of gray hairs, Colonel Falconer, who once lived among these \nwoods, and very happily, too; but a young man struck him, and struck \nhim to the heart, Colonel; and the young man lived to have a head as \nwhite and reverend as he whom he slew! Yet fear not; again I say, \nfear not: I came to save, not to kill. Hear me, and then away. Begone \nfrom this place, and begone with such speed as becomes a man flying \nfrom a loosed panther. Mount your horse and away,--away instantly; \nand in return for the good deed of one who has perhaps saved your \nlife, speak not a word to any human being of what you have heard and \nseen in this place.\"\n\n\"Stay,\" cried Colonel Falconer, recovering from his terror, yet \nspeaking with a choking voice, \"I owe this caution to a\"----\n\n\"To an enemy,\" cried the other, turning from him.\n\n\"Stay, I charge you,--I command you,\"--and as the Colonel spoke, in a \nsudden revulsion of feeling, he grasped the arm of the youth, who had \nalready placed his foot upon the fallen sycamore, for the purpose of \ncrossing the stream. To the surprise of Colonel Falconer, he \ndiscovered that even the strength of his aged arm was superior to \nthat of the young man, who seemed to have been enfeebled by long \nsickness. He struggled to release himself, but not succeeding, he \nturned upon his captor, and shedding tears, said,\n\n\"If you will seize me, I have no strength to resist, nor any means of \ndefence but this--and I will not use it.\" As he spoke, he cast his \nrifle to the earth. \"You have but to will it, to complete the ruin \nyou have begun.\"\n\n\"Alas, young man, unhappy young man,\" said Colonel Falconer, \"I know \nyou, and would recompense your humanity, if such it really be. _You_ \nshould not, at least, perish like the rest of your mad and infatuated \nbrothers, and yet you are rushing upon the same destruction; you have \nnot been gently nurtured, to live the life of a bravo and outcast. I \nhave heard of you, of your generous acts--of at least one,--nay, two; \nfor Henry Falconer confessed you had both spared and saved his life. \nI can save you, young man,--I can and will;--and,--think of me as you \nplease,--I will do it for your father's sake. You were not meant for \nthis dreadful life, on which you are embarking.\"\n\n\"Such as it is,\" said Hyland Gilbert, picking up his rifle, for the \nColonel had withdrawn his hand, \"I am driven to it by you and yours. \nNow, Colonel Falconer,\" he added, leaping on the tree, \"mock me no \nmore with a sympathy I despise as much as I hate him who offers it. I \nam not your prisoner, and I will not be. I am weak and almost \nhelpless--thank your son for that, and the skill that was exercised \nat the expense of one who had scarce ever fired a pistol in his \nlife--I am weak, but I am armed and desperate. Follow me no further, \nfor I trust you not. Follow me not, or be it at your peril.\"\n\nHe made his way across the bridge, but slowly and painfully; and \nColonel Falconer observed more clearly than he had done before, that \nall his motions were laborious and feeble, and that, notwithstanding \nthe arms he carried, he was entirely at the mercy of any one who \nchose to assail him. A thousand different feelings took possession of \nhis breast, and among them pity for the unhappy condition of one, \nwho, if he had inherited a deep hatred for himself, was not without a \nclaim upon his feelings, and feelings deeper even than gratitude. He \nhad been, of course, made acquainted with the extraordinary \ndevelopements effected by the cunning, or perhaps the good fortune, \nof his daughter; and he was especially interested in the account of \nthe discovery of the youngest Gilbert in the person of a young man, \nwho, until that discovery was made, had so recommended himself even \nto strangers by the gentleness of his manners, and the apparent \nblamelessness of his life. Partaking little in the suspiciousness of \nhis daughter, he judged the actions and character of the youth with \nmore leniency and justice than others, though he kept his inferences \nlocked up in his own breast; and, happily perhaps for Hyland, Miss \nFalconer had not thought fit to apprize him of what she deemed the \npresumption of the youth in becoming the rival of her brother. He saw \nin him, therefore, a young man in no wise resembling his fierce \nbrothers, from whom he had been separated in early infancy, and one \nwhom perhaps a mere desire to revisit the scenes of his childhood had \ndrawn to Hawk-Hollow; and he thought, with justice, that nothing but \nthe revealment of a name universally detested, by exposing him to \nsudden danger, had driven the young man to seek refuge among men of \nblood, whom he would otherwise have avoided. The confession of Henry \nFalconer, (whose jealousy was rather wrath at the presumption of his \nrival than any unworthy suspicion of his mistress,) that he had \nfought a duel with the 'confounded tory lieutenant,' as he always \ncalled him,--that his antagonist had endured his fire, and although \nhurt, as he believed, had refused to return it,--and, finally, that \nhe had very generously interfered to save him from one of the gang, \nwho was on the point of blowing his brains out,--was additional proof \nto Colonel Falconer that this orphan son of a man he had deeply \ninjured was not by choice among the refugees, but forced among them \nby the ill will and violence of his own children. The wrong he had \ndone to one member of Gilbert's family had, indirectly at least, \nproduced the destruction of all but this one; and _he_ was now on the \npoint of sinking into the abyss which had swallowed the rest, though \nworthy of a better destiny, unless a hand were stretched forth to \nsave him.\n\nThese considerations,--a memory of the wrongs he had done and the \nreparation he should make, together with the present prospect of the \npoor youth in a state that might make him the prey of any enemy who \nmight meet him, and some sense of the generosity of the warning he \nhad just given--excited Colonel Falconer's feelings, and moved him \nwith an impulse, which caused him at once to cross the brook, \npursuing the fugitive, and intreating him to stay. Whether it was \nthat his motive was misunderstood, and that the young man, in the \nagitation of his spirits, supposed that he was followed merely for \nthe purpose of being arrested, or whether it was because he found \nhimself in a spot peculiarly calculated to arouse his most vengeful \nfeelings, it is certain that he became excited to anger by a pursuit \ndesigned only in kindness. He clambered up to the little enclosure of \nthe grave, and was about making his way through the narrow passage \nbetwixt the two rocks; when, hearing the pursuer close at his heels, \nhe turned round, displaying a countenance so fierce and intimidating, \nthat it instantly brought the Colonel to a stand.\n\n\"Villain!\" he cried, throwing aside his rifle, and drawing his knife, \n\"God has sent you to your fate--you are treading on Jessie Gilbert's \ngrave!\"\n\nIf the words had been thunder-bolts, they could not have sooner \nunmanned his pursuer. He started, shivering from head to foot, and \nlooking down, beheld the dreary hollow, from which some pious hand, \nperhaps that of Hyland himself, had plucked away the weeds, leaving \nthe stalk of the rose-bush flourishing alone at its head.\n\n\"Oh, holy Heaven!\" cried Colonel Falconer, dropping upon his knees, \nand wringing his hands, while he gazed with an eye of horror upon the \ncouch of his victim, \"the grave of Jessie Gilbert!\"\n\n\"Of the mother and the babe!\" cried the young man, advancing towards \nhim, with looks of vindictive fury; \"and here, gray-headed though you \nbe, you deserve to die. To this place of shame, man of ingratitude! \nyou consigned the victim of your villany; and here it is fitting she \nshould have her revenge.\"\n\nBut if Hyland Gilbert was a moment disposed to play the part of the \navenger, it was only for a moment. His wrath was instantly disarmed \nby a burst of grief from the wronger, so overpowering, so agonizing, \nthat he at once forgot his dreadful purpose, and felt himself melting \nwith commiseration.\n\n\"She has had--she has had her revenge,\" cried the wretched man; \n\"death had been too cheap a retribution, and therefore it has been \nordained in a life of misery,--and _such_ misery, oh heaven! Would to \nGod I had died in her place, though it had been with a world hooting \nme to the scaffold. Yes, Jessie, I _am_ a villain, and thou knowest, \nhow much greater and viler than ever was thought, even by thee. But \nthou shalt have justice,\" he added, beating his breast, \"yes, thou \nand thy murdered babe, though I give up my children to be sacrificed \nto thy memory.\"\n\n\"My father was right,\" muttered Hyland, as the foe of his family \npoured forth the wild expressions of a remorseful spirit; \"he charged \nme to leave the destroyer of his peace to God and his fate; and God \nhas made his fate an existence of retribution.--Arise, Colonel \nFalconer,\" he added, sternly; \"profane this holy resting-place no \nlonger with the mockery of repentance. Fly, and secure your wretched \nlife for further remorse; for here it is in a danger of which you do \nnot dream. Begone, and remember what I charged you----Hah! do you \nhear?\" he cried, as a whistle as of a bird came from the forest \nbehind and below the rocks. \"Up for God's sake!\" he cried, seizing \nthe penitent by the arm, as if fear had supplied him with new \nstrength, and hurrying him across the brook. \"Begone, or you are a \ndead man. To the bushes, quick--to your horse, too, or your carriage. \nDally not a moment, but begone. Say nothing of what you have seen or \nheard; and fear not for your children or friends--no harm is designed \nany of them. Away--save your own life, for no other is in danger.\"\n\nWith these charges, pronounced in the greatest haste, he took his \nleave, recrossing the brook, while Colonel Falconer, torn now as much \nby fear as he had been a moment before by anguish, fled through the \nwood, and over the hill, until he had reached the mansion. Here \ncalling for his servant, and ordering a horse to be saddled instantly \nfor himself, and another for the attendant, he prepared to leave the \nhouse, which he did in a few moments, and almost without being \nobserved, the wedding-guests having retreated to the garden and the \npleasant walks behind it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n  The bridegroom's doors are open'd wide,\n    And I am next of kin;\n  The guests are met, the feast is set,\n    May'st hear the merry din!\n                     COLERIDGE--_Ancient Mariner_.\n\n\nThe Colonel galloped through the park and down the hill, until he had \napproached nigh enough to Elsie's cottage to see that its porch was \ndarkened by the bodies of several men, moving about in what seemed to \nhim extraordinary commotion. He grew pale, and finally, drawing up \nhis horse, beckoned to his servant, a young and active mulatto, with \nan exceedingly bold and free visage, to approach:\n\n\"Give me the larger pistols, Reuben,\" he cried, \"and do you take the \nsmaller holsters----'Pshaw, they are fiddling and dancing! It is \nnothing.--Follow.\"\n\nHe resumed his course, and drawing nigher to the little inn, saw that \nthe group, which he at first eyed with trepidation, consisted of his \nown son, and two or three young gentlemen of the bridal party, with a \nman of strange and even ludicrous appearance, from whom they appeared \nto be extracting no little diversion. He was a tall man, with a \nFrench military coat of white cloth, faced with green, and on his \nhead a chapeau-de-bras, which was, at that time, though the common \ncap of the Gallic auxiliaries, esteemed quite a curiosity in the \nconfederacy. Instead of a white underdress, however, he had on \nbreeches of broad blue and white stripes, which, being very tight, \ngave a pair of legs more remarkable for brawn than beauty, an \nappearance quite comical, and the more especially that they were \ndecked off at the extremities with rose-coloured shoes, and were kept \nmoving about as briskly as those of a house-fly or a monkey. In the \nparticular of shoes, as well his silver-fringed rich waistcoat, and a \ncane with a head half as big as his own, he bore no little \nresemblance to the valet-messenger of a French field-officer,--a sort \nof humble aid, whose business was to fetch and carry written orders \nin a review, but who was sometimes mistaken by our simple-minded \nancestors for a general-in-chief, in consequence of the splendour and \ngravity of his appearance; and such a menial Colonel Falconer \nsupposed him to be, discarded by his late master, or driven from \nservice by that sudden spirit of independence so apt to appear in \nforeign servants, when brought to the land of liberty. Besides his \ncane, he had a fiddle and bow in his hand; and from these, as well as \nthe prodigious grace, restlessness, and activity of his motions, it \nwas judged that he had betaken himself, in his distresses, to that \nhonourable profession, to which three-fourths of the wanderers of the \nGrande Nation seem to have been born,--in other words, to that of the \ndancing-master. It did not seem, however, that he had yet profited \nmuch by the change of profession, for his attire was in somewhat a \ndilapidated condition, and his cheeks pinched and hollow. Such as he \nwas, however, he seemed to be the happiest creature in existence; and \nas Colonel Falconer drew nigh, he saw that he was one while engaged \nflourishing his bow, the next his leg, and ever and anon his \ntongue,--the last with intense volubility,--as if in spirits \nirrepressibly buoyant and exuberant. The unruly member was hard at \nwork, as the Colonel approached, and had it not been for the clatter \nof his horse's feet, he might have heard him deliver the following \nhighly flattering account of himself:\n\n\"Yes, Missare Ou-at-you-call-it, and jentlemans, I am a man of figure \nin mine own land; and you laughs, par de deb'l! I come invite myself \nto de marriage, _n\u00e9anmoins_, juste like M\u00e9n\u00e9las in l'Iliade d'Hom\u00e8re, \n_mort de diable, parce qu'il etait_ jentleman. You are soldiare! _Et \nmoi_, by mine _honneur_, and so am I; for _autre fois, jadis_, (ou-at \nde deb'l you call him?) I use de sword for de violon, ride de horse, \ncharg\u00e9 _sur mon ennemi_, in ou-at you' Shakaspeare call de 'war \nglorieuse.'--\n\n  'Ah! cruel souvenir de ma gloire pass\u00e9e!\n   OEuvre de tant de jours en un jour effac\u00e9e!'\n\nYes, missares, I am jentleman-soldiare, ou-id fiddle. How de deb'l \nyou make mariage wi'sout de fiddle, _l'aimable violon, l'instrument \ndes amours? Ecoutez!_ you s'all hear. How de ladies and jentlemans \ns'all dance when dey hears, '_Qu'elle est grande, qu'elle est \nbelle!_'\"--And, in a rapture, he forthwith began sawing his \ninstrument, and singing, with a voice exceedingly cracked and \nenthusiastic, the words of the old chorus of shepherds,\n\n   'Ah! qu'elle douce nouvelle!\n    Qu'elle est grande! qu'elle est belle!\n  Que de plaisirs! que de ris! que de jeux!'\n\nnor did he cease, even when the merriment of his auditors became as \nuproarious as his own harmony.\n\nIn the midst of the chorus and the laughter, young Falconer looked \nup, and beheld his father, who had suddenly checked his horse at the \nentrance of the little oak-yard, and was looking towards him. He was \nstruck with the unusual agitation of his parent's countenance, and \nran towards him; but before he could speak, the Colonel demanded \nquickly, as if with an effort to change the current of his own \nthoughts,\n\n\"What do you here, Henry! Is this a place, is this a sport for a \nbridegroom?\"\n\n\"'Pon my soul, pa,\" said the hopeful son, \"I find it more agreeable \nthan up among the tabbies. This fellow, this Monsieur Tiqueraque, as \nhe calls himself, is decidedly the most agreeable person I have seen \nto-day,--a gentleman fiddler, who swears by all the gods of a \nFrenchman, he has trudged twenty miles on foot, to have the honour of \ndancing at my funeral--that is, my wedding; but the lord knows, pa, \nyou look as solemn as if to-day was to be the end of me. Pray, sir, \nwhat is the matter? I hope you are not offended? Egad, sir, I am \nacting under orders,--under Harry's, who has taken as much command of \nme as if she were my wife, instead of my sister. She ordered me away, \nto be out of Catherine's sight,--the lord knows why, but women are \nall mad, and I think Catherine is growing as whimsical and absurd as \nthe rest.\"\n\n\"Get you back to her, notwithstanding,\" said the father; \"a maiden is \nprivileged to be capricious on her wedding-day. Get you back; your \nabsence is improper. And hark you, Henry, my son--delay not the \nceremony on my account: the clergyman must be now on the way, and \nwill soon arrive. Wait not a moment for me. A sudden affair, not to \nbe deferred even to the nuptial rite, calls me to Hillborough:--Say \nthus much to Captain Loring and the rest; say that I will be back \nwithin a few hours; and add, that I charge them not to delay the \nceremony a moment for me. God bless you, my son--I must away.\"\n\nSo saying, he put spurs to his horse, and followed by Reuben, was \nsoon out of sight.\n\n\"Well done, dad!\" cried the young soldier, staring after him; \"I \nwonder what's in the wind now? He has seen one of his spectres, I \nwarrant me.--Adzooks, as the Captain says, if one were to believe \nthat Reuben and black Joe, they are thicker in our house, about two \nin the morning, than is comfortable,--especially in dad's chamber. \nWon't stay to the wedding? why that's comical, egad! But that's his \nway. Well, now for that mad fool, Tiqueraque: he shall have his will, \nwere it only on account of his striped breeches; he shall go among \nthe fiddlers, though, gad's my life, he saws like a knife-grinder. I \nnever saw two such legs before: egad, I beg my pardon, I _did_! \n'List, list, oh list!' Such legs in Hamlet! Well God bless us, and by \nthe eternal Jupiter, as Caliver says, I had no idea it was so stupid \na thing to be married. _Eh bien, monsieur_,\" he added, turning to M. \nTiqueraque, \"I have no doubt you are a gentleman born and bred; so, \ngad's my life, you shall fiddle at the wedding, and get drunk into \nthe bargain; but, by the eternal Jupiter, you must not be in a \nhurry!\"\n\n\"_Si fait, monsieur_,\" cried the wanderer, drawing a note of \nindignation from his instrument; \"_Mort de ma vie_, dronk! I s'all do \nno such sing. But I s'all see de leddees?\" he added, in a transport \nthat quite dispelled his temporary wrath. \"Ah, Missare \nOu-at-you-call-him, I s'all be very happy now! I love de leddees, \n_particuli\u00e8rement_ de leddees of figure, and not the contree \n_pauvrettes_, wis big feet and te'es like de old horse.--_Ah \u00e7a_, I \ns'all be very happy, and I s'all sharge only two dollare.\"\n\n\"Bring him along Tom, fiddle and all,\" cried the bridegroom,--\"and, \nyou Ned Cascable-nose, if you love me, gad, steal somebody's horse, \nride down the road, and see what the deuce has become of the parson. \nWe can get married very well without dad; but, adzooks, as the \nCaptain says, a parson is quite essential. I swear, gad's my life, \n'tis a very ludicrous thing, one's wedding-day.\"\n\nAnd thus, as the party bent their steps towards the mansion, rattled \nthe bridegroom, a youth of the lightest heart and emptiest head in \nall Pennsylvania, of a mind entirely too contracted for eccentricity, \nyet full of those foibles of character which commonly pass for \nsuch,--incapable of any stretch of sentiment or elevated emotion, and \nindeed rude, boisterous, and unreasonable of manners,--yet with a \ncertain native good-humour and spirit prevailing through all his acts \nand conversation, that recommended him to the favour of such as were \nnot choice in their friendships, and preserved him the affection of \nthose whom the ties of relationship compelled to love. Such was the \nman whom Colonel Falconer, or rather his daughter, (for she was the \nguiding and ruling spirit throughout the whole attempt to unite such \nadverse elements together,) had chosen as the husband of Catherine \nLoring; and the inhumanity of the choice was rendered excusable only \nby the natural desire she had to contribute to his happiness, and the \nundue importance she attached to those good qualities he really \npossessed. Still the attempt was cruel, for it set at naught the \ndisinclination of one whom feebleness of character, a sense of \ndestitution, operating, however, only through the person of a \nbereaved parent, a knowledge of _his_ desires, and a consciousness \nperhaps that it was too late for escape, had put into her power. It \nis not to be supposed that Miss Falconer saw, that in effecting her \nbrother's happiness she was destroying that of her friend; or that \nseeing it, she would have persisted in her object. On the contrary \nshe was sincerely attached to Catherine, and fully believed she was \nconsulting her welfare, though at the price of some temporary pain. \nIt was her peculiar disposition to pursue every object with an \navidity and resolution that became the stronger for every interposing \nobstacle; and she willingly blinded her eyes to such difficulties as \nshe was not forced to see. She turned her looks, therefore, from her \nfriend's distresses, and soon ceased to believe that they existed. \nBut the match was one not made in heaven, nor destined to be \naccomplished; and fate, in frustrating the whole ill-advised scheme, \nwas preparing a heavy retribution for all who had laboured to promote \nit.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n  I come not for your welcome, I expect none;\n  I bring no joys to bless the bed withal,\n  Nor songs, nor masques, to glorify the nuptials.\n    BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER--_The Elder Brother_.\n\n\nIt was late in the afternoon when Colonel Falconer rode by the \nTraveller's Rest; and his disappearance, though accounted for in the \napology he had commissioned his son to deliver, was considered the \nmore remarkable, as within an hour's time the presence of the \nclergyman was expected, for whom captain Caliver and lieutenant \nBrooks, as two of the principal attendants on the bridegroom, had \ngone in great state. There were many conjectures secretly hazarded as \nto the true cause of the Colonel's desertion, when the delay of an \nhour might have enabled him to discharge his duties to his son and \ndestined daughter; and had Captain Loring been favoured with any \njealous kinsmen, alive to the honour of his family, or been himself \nof a suspicious and cavilling mood, it is quite possible a defection \nso extraordinary might have caused some unpleasant feelings, and even \nan interruption of the ceremonies in hand. But such was not the case, \nand the matter was left to be canvassed by the friends and connexions \nof the bridegroom alone; who, after satisfying themselves that the \nColonel had been summoned away by no sudden messenger, and that, if a \nnecessity had really existed for his departure, it must have existed \nlong enough previously to allow him time to make his own explanations \nin person, agreed to attribute the proceeding to one of those fits of \nmoody eccentricity, by which, it appeared, he was often affected.\n\nBy the time this subject of wonder was exhausted there arose another, \nwhich produced, in the end, still greater surprise and discussion \nthan the other. This was the non-appearance of the clergyman at the \nappointed hour; and indeed the sun set, before any tidings were had \neither of him or of the officers, and then not until messengers had \nbeen sent off with led horses, on the vague presumption that some \naccident might have happened to the carriage on the way.\n\nAnother subject of discussion was the conduct of the youthful bride, \nwho, although during the greater part of the day exhibiting uncommon \nspirits, and running over the grounds with other frolicsome maidens, \nherself the most frolicsome of all, yet displayed, on one or two \noccasions, a disposition to wander by herself, and even stray into \nthe woods; and once, when she had strayed further than usual, and was \npursued and arrested, she shed tears, though none could tell for what \nreason. As the time drew nigh when the clergyman was expected, she \nmanifested a great unwillingness to be withdrawn by her bridemaids, \naccording to custom, but insisted she would walk in the garden, and \nthat so obstinately, that it required all the influence Miss Falconer \nhad over her to induce her to retire to her chamber; and here she \nwept so bitterly as to amaze and even alarm her youthful attendants. \nHer parent, however, being summoned to the chamber, she embraced him, \ndried her eyes, smiled, laughed, suffered a garland of snowy \nrose-bays, the latest of the season, to be fastened in her hair, and, \nso long as he remained in her sight, betrayed no other symptom of \ndistress or agitation; for which reason her late tears were \nremembered without surprise, as being natural to the occasion.\n\nIt was not until after nightfall that the clergyman made his \nappearance, with the officers. Accidents of a common nature, but \nunusual in number and fatality, had detained them on the way. First, \nthey had broken down, before reaching the village, in consequence of \nthe loss of a linchpin, or some other essential atom in the economy \nof the coach; then, after attempting to return, it was discovered \nthat a horse had lost a shoe, and that some portion of the harness \nhad given way. In short, their difficulties were of such a nature, \nthat they were on the point of abandoning the carriage altogether, to \nseek some other conveyance among the neighbouring farms, when 'a very \nexcellent, contriving blockhead,' as lieutenant Brooks called him, \ncame to their assistance, and inspired them with new hopes of \naccomplishing their journey. This was no less a personage than honest \nDancy, of the Traveller's Rest, who chanced to be returning from the \nvillage on foot, and was glad to offer his services, on condition of \nbeing allowed to ride home on the box with the venerable Richard. \nNay, not content with again setting the vehicle in motion, he even \nvolunteered, in the warmth of his gratitude, to divide with Richard \nthe labour of driving,--a proposal highly acceptable to the latter, \nwho had much of his master's affection for an afternoon nap, and \ncould take it as well upon a coach box as in the chimney corner. The \nonly ill consequence of this exchange was, that, before they had \nproceeded a mile further, the zealous Jehu interrupted an exceedingly \ninteresting account captain Caliver was giving the clergyman of his \nmidnight encounter with the Hawks of the Hollow, by suddenly \noverturning the coach into a gully, whence all thought themselves \nfortunate in escaping without broken bones. But now arose a greater \ndifficulty, or rather a series of difficulties, than before; for, \nfirst, it was questionable whether their force was sufficient to \nraise the unlucky vehicle, or whether, being raised, it was in a \ncondition to carry them further; and, secondly, the reverend \nfunctionary, frightened and resolved to trust his neck no longer to a \nstructure so ill-fated, declared, that, whatever might be the event, \nhe would enter it no more, but would rather finish the remaining four \nor five miles on foot. In a word, they were reduced to the necessity \nof applying at a neighbouring farm-house for assistance; and getting \nhorses and saddles as they could, they continued, and at last \nconcluded, the journey, but in such plight as caused no little \nsurprise and merriment among the expectant guests.\n\nIn the meanwhile, the tedium that might have been produced by these \nunforeseen circumstances, was put to flight by the appearance and \nactivity of the French dancing-master, who, although carried to the \nhouse only for a whim, was soon found to be the most efficient \nadversary of ennui that could have been found. He was no sooner in \nthe house than he snuffed his way, with the unerring accuracy of a \nsetter-dog, to the kitchen, where he fell upon the ruins of the \ndinner table with the zeal of the hungriest of that species; and \nthen, having succeeded in first gaining possession of a flagon of \nwine, or some stronger liquor, he threw aside his cane, clapped his \nhat under his arm, and seizing upon his fiddle, bounded with a hop \nand a skip first into one apartment, then another, and finally into \nthe porch, in all of which were gathered some of the guests, and in \nall, as he entered, drawing a savage note from his instrument, and \nexclaiming,--\n\n\"_Attendez_, jentlemans and leddees! now we s'all dance; ou-y for no \nwe no dance? Now for de Contre-danse and de Menuet!--Each jentlemans \nand his leddee--Mon Dieu! de jentlemans and leddees will be very well \ncontent. _Attendez_; I am de _ma\u00eetre de bal_, and I know ou-at is de \n_mati\u00e9res de mode_, begar, ou-at you calls fashionable.\"\n\nThe appearance of the man was itself diverting, but was rendered \nstill more so by his sudden assumption of the character and authority \nof master of ceremonies, to which he seemed to consider he had the \nbest right in the world, and which he was, in the end, suffered to \nexercise, for no better reason than that there was no other person \nappointed to such an honour. He evidently held, that the chief \nceremony and pleasure of a wedding lay in the practice of his own \nart; and he addressed himself to the task of marshalling and \nanimating the dancers with such zeal and enthusiasm, that several \nforgot they were beginning the ball at the wrong end, seized upon \npartners as forgetful, or as waggish, as themselves, and set Monsieur \nTiqueraque's heart in a blaze of rapture, by dancing outright. What \nwas begun in jest, came at last to be practised in earnest; and when \nthe clergyman with the military groomsmen rode up to the door, they \nhad some reason to fear lest their ill fate had deprived them of the \nmost impressive portion of the ceremony.\n\nTheir appearance was hailed with the greatest joy, and the more \nespecially when they declared they had met Colonel Falconer, and \nreceived from him the same charges he had delivered to his \nson,--namely, that the rites and rejoicings should not be delayed on \nhis account, even for a minute. They retired for a little space to \nrefit their disordered attire, and a few moments afterwards \nreappeared, conducting, with the other attendants, the youthful pair \nwhose destinies were now to be united. The bride was very pale, her \neyes red with weeping, and her brows contracted into that expression \nof imploring distress so frequent on her countenance; her lips \nquivered incessantly; and ever and anon her frame was agitated by \nthat shuddering sob which remains as the last convulsion of tears. \nYet she walked into the room without faltering, and suffered herself \nto be placed beside the lover, and surrounded by the guests, without \nbetraying any agitation sufficient to excite remark. All that was \nobserved was, that she kept rolling her eyes about her a little \nwildly, as if in part bewildered by the sudden transition from her \nquiet chamber to an apartment full of lights and human beings. At \nlast, her eyes fell upon the clergyman, and she surveyed him with a \ngaze so fixed, so peculiar, so strongly indicative, as he thought, of \na troubled and unhappy spirit, that his own feelings became \ndisturbed, and he began the rites with an agitated voice.\n\nIn the meanwhile, the wedding guests pressed closer around, and the \ndomestics, thronging at the doors of the apartment, began to steal \nreverentially in; and among them, it was noticed that there were \nseveral strange faces not before observed. One of these, however, was \nrecognised by Captain Loring as belonging to a young farmer residing \nnear the valley, and he did not doubt that the other intruders were \npeople of the same class, who had stolen softly into his house, \nattracted by the opportunity of witnessing a ceremony so much more \nsplendid than any ever before seen in the neighbourhood of \nHawk-Hollow. Such intrusions are indeed not unusual in certain \nsequestered parts of the country.\n\nWith her eyes still fastened upon the clergyman, Catherine listened \nto the words of the ceremony, until the usual demand was made, \"Dost \nthou take this man to be thy husband?\" She opened her lips to reply, \nbut, though they moved as if in speech, and every sound was hushed as \nin the silence of death, not a word, not even the whisper of an \naccent, came from them. The demand was repeated, and with as little \neffect; she spoke not a word, but she rolled her eyes around the \ncircle with double wildness; and Miss Falconer, throwing an arm \naround her waist, murmured, in hurried tones,\n\n\"She is ill--the ceremony cannot go on.\"\n\n\"Kate, my dear, adzooks!\" cried Captain Loring, \"what's the matter? \nAre you ill, my girl? What, can't you speak? can't you say _Yes_ to \nthe parson? Ah, adzooks, that's a girl! that's my Kate Loring! You \nhear her, parson? She says, yes!\"\n\n\"Patience, sir,\" said the clergyman, surveying the bride, who at the \nsound of her father's voice, seemed to recall her powers, and opened \nher lips, as if to speak. \"Be not precipitate, young lady,\" he added, \ndirecting his discourse to Catherine, and speaking with a kindly \nvoice: \"this is a question too solemn to be answered lightly,--a \nprofession embracing too much of the sacrament of an oath to be made \nexcept with deliberation. Take, therefore, your own time, and answer \naccording to your heart and your reason----'Dost thou take this man\nto be thy husband?'\"\n\nThe words of reply were almost upon Catherine's lip, when a whistle, \nsounding loudly from an open window, and startling the whole company, \nwas echoed by a sudden cry from the room itself; and at the same \nmoment, the bridemaids starting away in affright, a young man, pallid \nin visage, and roughly clad, rushed into the circle, and displayed to \nthe eyes of the bride the features of the younger Gilbert. She \nuttered a scream, and to the confusion of every body present, flung \nherself immediately into his arms, crying with tones as wild and \nimploring as his own, \"Oh, Herman, save me!\" and fell into a swoon.\n\n\"Death and furies!\" cried the bridegroom, recognising his rival at a \nglance, and springing at him like a tiger.\n\n\"Kill the villain!\" exclaimed his sister, in a transport of \nindignation, endeavouring to tear her friend from the embraces of the \nintruder. But the efforts of the brother and sister were counteracted \nby a new and unexpected enemy. The French dancing-master, who, \nnotwithstanding the violent enthusiasm with which he entered into his \nproper duties of fiddling and animating the guests, had yet wisdom \nenough to conduct himself with proper decorum, the moment his \nreverend colleague appeared, and had been for the last few moments \nentirely lost sight of, now darted with a hop and a pirouette to the \nbridegroom's side, and roaring with a voice loud enough to add to the \nterror, \"_Sacre!_ ou-at! marry a leddie against her ou-ill!\" he \nstruck his violin over young Falconer's head with an energy of \napplication that brought him to the floor, and dashed his instrument \ninto a thousand pieces. \"_Sacre!_\" he continued, triumphantly--\"I \ns'all help myself to the most beaut'ful leddee here!\" And, as he \nspoke, he snatched up the astounded Harriet, and vanished from the \napartment.\n\nIn the meanwhile, the outrage, of a character so extraordinary, had \nnot been confined to the persons of the wedding pair and the \nbridegroom's sister. At the very moment when Hyland Gilbert darted \ninto the circle, many of the guests, hearing the whistle that seemed \nto have conjured up the spectre, turned to the window, and beheld \nthree or four savage-looking men spring through it into the room, \nwhile as many others, remaining in the open air, thrust long carbines \nand rifles among the guests, as if upon the point of firing on them. \nAt the same time, others made their appearance at the door, armed in \nthe same way; and, to crown all, the little six-pounder, which had \nremained in the Hollow ever since the eventful 4th of July, and stood \nupon the lawn near the house, charged by Captain Loring's own hand, \nand ready to be fired the moment the ceremony was over, was suddenly \nlet off by some unknown hand, rattling the glass in the windows, and \nshaking the house to its foundation. These circumstances were enough \nto inspire all with dread; which was still further increased when the \nassailants, singling out the few military officers present, rushed \nupon them before they could betake themselves to their arms, and beat \nthem all to the floor, with the exception of the captain of cavalry, \nwho sprang from a window on the opposite side of the apartment, \nuttering a single ejaculation of surprise,--that is to say, 'By the \neternal Jupiter!'--and was seen no more until the assault was over, \nand the actors in the outrage had vanished. The whole scene, though \none of unexampled confusion and terror, was over in a few moments; \nand such was the panic, that scarce a being present remembered, or \nindeed conceived, the true nature, or had noted all the circumstances \nattending the assault. That wild men with arms in their hands, had \nbeen among them,--had struck down several persons present, then \nrushed over the whole house, as if in search of some object of prey \nwhom they expected, but found not, among the guests below, and then \nhad betaken themselves to flight, without doing further mischief--was \nall that was at first known; and it was not until a distant yell at \nthe park-gate, followed by the faint sound of hoofs, proclaimed the \ndeparture of the enemy, that the gentlemen present were able to tear \nthemselves from the grasp of the frighted women, and examine into the \neffects of such a visitation. It was soon found that the officers, \nwho had endured the brunt of the attack, had owed this distinction \nless to the animosity than the fears of the assailants, who, seeming \nto apprehend resistance from no others, had made it a point to seize \nthem, before adventuring upon the main objects of the outrage. They \nwere but little hurt, the assailants having studiously avoided all \nbloodshed; and even the bridegroom, though stunned and a little \ndisfigured by the blow so heartily bestowed upon him by Monsieur \nTiqueraque, soon recovered his wits, and joined the rest in eager \nsearch after the bride. She had vanished, as well as his sister; and \nby and by, when the distraction caused by such a discovery, and the \nravings and lamentations of Captain Loring, had a little subsided, it \nwas found that the girl Phoebe had also disappeared.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n  \"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;\n  They'll have fleet steeds that follow,\" quoth young Lochinvar.\n                                                    MARMION.\n\n\nIn the meanwhile, and almost before her disappearance had been \nnoticed by a single person, so great was the confusion at the moment \nthe outlaws burst into the room, Hyland Gilbert had borne the \ninsensible Catherine into the porch, and strove to carry her from the \nhouse. His strength was scarce fitted to sustain such an exertion; \nfor, in truth, although none of the dwellers of Hawk-Hollow were \napprised of his mishap, until he revealed the secret to Colonel \nFalconer a few hours before, the bullet of his rival, in their \nencounter on the night of the fourth, had taken effect, and he was \nyet labouring under the effects of an unhealed wound. He was now, \nhowever, animated by a new feeling; for as he clasped the burthen to \nhis heart, he remembered that the outrage had been sanctioned not \nmerely by passive acquiescence on Catherine's part, but had been \npreceded by a direct appeal, as it seemed, to his affection, though \nwrung almost by frenzy from the unhappy girl, in the moment of her \ngreatest need. \"Heaven be thanked!\" he muttered to himself--\"I am not \na villain; and this deed of violence has preserved her happiness, as \nwell as my own miserable life.\"\n\n\"What! brother?\" cried a harsh voice in his ear, as he attempted to \nstagger forward, and found himself arrested by the hand of Oran: \n\"What, man, am I not both doctor and brother?--a good doctor, too? \nYou shall look up now, and be healed in a day--heart-whole, \nbody-whole! I knew what it was was killing you.\"\n\nFierce and abrupt were the accents of the refugee; but there was \nmingled with them a tone singularly expressive of affection.--\"And \nwere you not a fool to doubt,\" he added, \"when you had the love of \nthe maiden? But come, Hyland; this duty is not for you--give her here \nto Staples\"--\n\n\"Never, Oran, never!\"\n\n\"Foolish boy, you are sinking under her weight. You must ride \nunburthened, or be captured. When the fresh air opens her eyes, and \nshe can sit a horse herself, you shall ride at her side. Quick! and \nget you after her to the horses.\"\n\nWith these words, and without regarding the opposition of the feeble \nlover, he drew the lady from his arms, and putting her into charge of \nanother, bade him 'see to her, and the rest,' and then immediately \ndarted back to the house.\n\n\"Perhaps it is better,\" muttered Hyland, conscious of his inability \nmuch longer to support his precious freight, yet resolved she should \nnot be long sustained in the arms of another. \"I have saved her,--I \nhave saved myself; ay, and I have prevented murder, too. Go, Oran; \nthe victim is beyond your reach. Ah! Catherine, thou hadst been \ndearly purchased, had it been with blood,--even with the blood of a \nFalconer!\"\n\nHe was still pursuing after his mistress, and had nearly reached the \npark-gate, when his ear was saluted by a piercing scream from behind, \nand the voice of Miss Falconer, which he instantly recognised, \ncalling for help. He ran back, and discovered her struggling in the \narms of Monsieur Tiqueraque, who was bearing her along at a great \npace, and all the time uttering, with a volubility not a little \ninflamed by his frequent visits to the bottle, in which he had quite \ndistinguished himself, a thousand exhortations to the lady to be \npacified, with as many eccentric commendations of her beauty and his \nown good qualities.\n\n\"_Tuchou! taisez vous_, ou-at de deb'l! _mon ange, ma petite, ma \nma\u00eetresse, avec les yeux noirs d'un diablotin!_\" he heard him cry, \n\"ou-y for you fear? _comment diantre_, ou-y for you squeak? You are \nthe mos' fine leddee of all, and I am the mos' excellent jentlemans, \nand I s'all love you, begar, mos' extremely. _Fi donc!_ you mus' \nknow, I am jentlemans in disguise, and have you love 'is sis mon's, \nand s'all make you very good lovare. O ciel, begar, I do so sink you \nver' beaut'ful, and I s'all give you on' douzaine kiss extreme fine, \n_mon dieu_, if you s'all no squeak no more.\"\n\n\"What, Sterling, are you mad!\" cried Hyland, seizing this \nincorrigible adventurer and exemplary wooer by the arm. \"Release the \nlady instantly--you have made a mistake.\"\n\n\"_Diablezot!_ none in the world,\" said the man of many coats, \nchanging character with the facility of an 'old stager.'--The sudden \ntransformation operated even more effectually than the voice of the \ndetested Gilbert, in frightening Miss Falconer into silence. \"And \nharkee, Mr. Lieutenant Hawk,\" he went on, with great equanimity, \n\"stick to your own prizes,--follow your own Blowselinda.\"\n\n\"Rogue, do you resist me?--Come, sir, you have been drinking!\"\n\n\"Drinking in your teeth!\" said Sterling, in whom 'the good familiar \ncreature' had the effect of rather sharpening than changing any of \nhis characteristics. \"'Back and syde, go bare, go bare,'\" as old \nGummer Gurton says:\n\n  'Now let them drynke till they nod and winke,\n     Even as good felowes shoulde doe;\n   They shall not mysse to have the blisse\n     Good ale doth bringe men to.'\n\n\"But 'this is my right hand, and this is my left'; what more would \nyou have? Do you think I am to be kept on your cursed Adam's ale of \nthe mountains for ever? 'Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, \nthere shall be no more cakes and ale?' And finally, Mr. Lieutenant \nChicken-hawk, dost thou opine thou shalt have thy bottle and thy \nwench, and I\"----\n\n\"In a word, scoundrel,\" said Hyland, clapping a pistol to his head, \nand thus bringing the madman to his senses, \"unhand the lady, or I \nwill blow your brains out.\"\n\n\"Zounds, sir,\"----\n\n\"No words, sir. Get you to the horses; and thank your stars I do not \nreport your villanous conduct to the Captain.\"\n\nThe volunteer, who had indeed made freer with one item of the bridal \ncheer than became a man, who, as he had hinted, had been confined to \na beverage of the mountain brook, since his association with the \nband, grumbled a drunken oath or two betwixt his teeth, and \nimmediately slunk away, leaving his captive to be disposed of by the \nsubaltern.\n\n\"You are free, Miss Falconer,\" said the young man, speaking with a \nsmothered voice. \"The evil you have done me I forgive you; the \ncruelty you meditated and practised against another, I leave to be \njudged by heaven and your own conscience.--False friend! treacherous \nkinswoman! your victim is beyond the reach of your inhumanity.\"\n\n\"You are a villain, sir!\" cried Harriet, exasperated out of her \nfear,--\"the worst of villains,--an ungrateful one!\"--\n\nWhat more she might have said and done, on the impulse which restored \nher all her native energy, it is impossible to say; but just at that \nmoment her ears were struck by the wailing of a female voice; and \nlooking round, she saw, obscurely, for the night was very dark with \nclouds, though a new moon was in the sky, a horseman ride by, bearing \na woman across his saddle-bow, and apparently greatly embarrassed by \nher struggles. Her first idea was that she beheld her unlucky friend, \nnot yet snatched beyond her reach; and accordingly she darted \nforward, and with extraordinary intrepidity, seized the bridle-rein \nwith one hand, while with the other she grasped at the captive's \ngarments, bidding her leap down, and crying out loudly for help.\n\n\"You are insane, Miss Falconer!\" said Hyland, endeavouring to draw \nher aside; \"Catherine is safe, and this is but Phoebe, who follows \nher.\"\n\n\"Oh! Miss Harriet!\" cried the serving-maid, with a piteous voice, \n\"don't let 'em murder me; and oh! Mr. Hunter Gilbert! sure you won't \nbe so barbarous! and sure I never did you any harm in my life, and \nsure\"--\n\nBut her words were cut short by her ravisher suddenly spurring his \nhorse, as Harriet, in surprise and disappointment, let go her hold, \nand immediately darting out of the park.\n\nBy this time there was a great flashing of lights on the porch, as if \nthe wedding-guests were recovering from their confusion, and \npreparing to avenge the outrage, before it was yet too late. This \nHarriet saw, and she observed besides that the dusky figures which \nhad, ever and anon, for the last few moments, been flitting by, \ntowards the road, one or two of them being on horseback, and who, she \ndoubted not, belonged to the refugee band, had ceased passing, as if \nthe last had already left the park. It was at this moment that she \nfelt the touch of Hyland Gilbert's hand on her arm, as he endeavoured \nto draw her from Phoebe; and as she jerked away, she became sensible \nhow feeble was the grasp of this detested foe. An idea, worthy of an \nAmazon, entered her mind; and forgetting the act of generosity which \nhad but an instant before relieved her own person from the clutches \nof a drunken and lawless desperado, she laid hands upon her \ndeliverer, thinking only on vengeance. As she seized him, she \nscreamed loudly for assistance, calling upon her brother, Mr. Brooks, \nand others, by name; and had they made their appearance, or any one \nof them, it is certain she would have secured her prisoner. He was \nconfounded by an exhibition of spirit so unexpected; and not knowing \nhow to release himself, unless by such an exertion of his remaining \nstrength as he could scarce think of exercising at the expense of a \nwoman, he was reduced to extremity; when a horseman, coming from the \nhouse, suddenly galloped up, stretched out his hand, and with a \nsingle effort, jerked her from the ground to his saddle-bow.\n\n\"Quick,\" he cried to Hyland; \"why do you tarry? To your horse, and \naway.\"\n\nSo saying he spurred onwards himself. The voice, breathing out the \nharsh accents of the trader,--the refugee, the man to capture whom \nshe had launched so boldly among the billows of stratagem, and almost \nof war,--froze the blood of the maiden, and the sight of his grim \nfeatures, revealed in the glare of distant lamps, completed the \noverthrow of a courage which had supported her in a struggle with one \nso little to be feared as Hyland. Her brain whirled, her senses \nbecame bewildered, as she felt the steed bounding beneath her, and \nknew that every leap, while it separated her still further from her \nfriends, placed her yet more completely in the power of the refugee. \nBut it formed no part of his schemes to add her to the number of his \ncaptives. He checked his steed at the park-gate, dropped her gently \non the grass, and uttering a yell, to draw the attention of another \nhorseman, approaching from the house, galloped through the gate and \nwas soon buried in the darkness. The second horseman, who was no \nother than the captain of cavalry, rode up to the spot, dismounted, \nand uttering many ejaculations of surprise, took the lady in his \narms, and with her returned to the mansion. He found its inmates \nstill in extreme agitation, the women weeping and screaming, the men \nswearing, and bustling, and vociferating for arms and horses, with \nwhich they designed to do they knew not what, and Captain Loring \nroaring like a bedlamite.\n\n\"Mount horses, gentlemen,\" he cried, \"and by the eternal Jupiter, \nwe'll recover the prisoners. A rum one, that Mr. Gentleman-volunteer! \nCome, mount, mount, and keep the chase warm, till a better force can \nfollow us. There's a regiment of foot billeted in the village \nbelow--let some one gallop down for a reinforcement; the rest follow \nme. If we can't fight the vagabonds, why, by the eternal Jupiter, we \ncan dog them.\"\n\nThe proposal of captain Caliver was responded to by such as could \nthink without alarm of following the fierce marauders, by midnight, \ninto their native forests; and in a surprisingly short space of time, \nthey set out, six in number, to pursue on the course of the \nfugitives, and keep them within striking distance, until assistance \nshould arrive. A messenger was immediately despatched to the village, \nand some two or three of those gaping supernumeraries, whose \nintrusion into the house has been already mentioned, volunteered to \ncarry the alarm among the neighbouring settlements, and thus rouse \nthe whole country to pursuit and vengeance.\n\nThe little party of six, headed by young Falconer and Caliver, \nissuing from the park, began the chase by galloping up the road, \nalready made familiar to the leaders by the memorable adventure of \nthe 4th. Assistance was nearer at hand than they thought; and almost \nbefore the trampling of their horses had died on the ear, a large \nparty of mounted men, with Colonel Falconer at their head, halted at \nthe gate. In obeying the counsel of the young refugee to leave \nHawk-Hollow without delay, this individual had not been governed \nalone by fears for his personal safety. The appearance of Hyland \nGilbert so near to the scene of festivity, convinced him, as strongly \nas did his urgent exhortations to fly, that the ferocious band of \nHawks, though supposed long since to have effected its escape, was \nyet lying concealed in the neighbourhood, meditating some deed of \nviolence, though what that was, unless to burn Gilbert's Folly to the \nearth, as the only way of wreaking vengeance upon him, he could not \npretend to divine. It was enough, however, that such an enemy was at \nhand; and, accordingly, when he rode to the village, it was with the \npurpose of summoning such a force to the valley as should protect its \ninhabitants, if it did not effect the still better object of ridding \nit from such visitants for ever. He sought the commander of the \nregiment already spoken of; and his representations, added to the \nweight of his character, were enough to cause that officer to take \ninstant measures for the protection of Hawk-Hollow. A party of sixty \npicked men, mounted for the occasion, was put under his disposal; \nwhile several other companies were ordered to follow on foot. While \non the road, he was met by the messenger sent by the captain of \ncavalry, with the stunning intelligence of the outrage, as it has \nbeen already related. Inflamed by the news, the party put spurs to \ntheir horses, and were soon in the Hollow. They paused at the \npark-gate, just long enough to communicate with the house, and \nascertain that the pursuit was already begun by the bridegroom; and \nthen resuming their route, they were in a few moments beyond the \nswelling ridge that shut in the Hollow to the north.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n  Thought he, 'This is the lucky hour;\n  Wine works, when vines are in the flower.\n  This crisis, then, I'll set my rest on,\n  And put her boldly to the question.'\n                                             BUTLER.\n\n  You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid:\n  You loved, I loved.\n                                 MERCHANT OF VENICE.\n\n\nThe outlaws were, in the meanwhile, proceeding on their course with a \ncelerity that left them little to dread from pursuit; and, indeed, \nall their measures indicated that their plan had been laid with as \nmuch forethought as audacity. The captive maidens, after being borne \nfor the space of a mile or more, in the arms of their captors, were \nplaced upon horses previously in waiting; and then, supported by an \nathletic attendant on each hand, were hurried forward with even \ngreater rapidity than before. Before this arrangement was effected, \nand while they were yet in the neighbourhood of Hawk-Hollow, a change \ncame over the spirit of one of the prizes, not more advantageous to \nherself than it was agreeable to the wild band who were somewhat \nweary of her lamentations. This was Phoebe, whose terrors, instead of \nabating, grew more clamorous, with every bound of the steed that bore \nher; and which, having begun with sobs and piteous ejaculations, \nincreased to something like positive outcries; until, at last, the \nman who carried her, losing all patience, and unlocking lips that \nseemed previously made of stone, muttered, or rather whispered in her \near, but in no very amiable accents,\n\n\"Consarn the woman! what are you squalling a'ter? Hold your foolish \ntongue, Phoebe Jones, or\"--\n\nBut the sound of a threatening voice was by no means fitted to allay \nthe damsel's fear, or paralyze the member it had set so vigorously in \nmotion. She interrupted the menace with a still louder shriek, \nadding, \"Oh lord, good gentleman, pray don't murder me!\"\n\n\"Gentleman!\" cried the other with a kind of snort, evidently designed \nfor a laugh: \"Well, I reckon, I am a sort of, as well as another. But \nwhat's the contraction? Who's talking of murdering? I'm an honest \nfeller, Phoebe Jones, and you know it; and these here refugees are \nall honest fellers, too, as ever you'd wish to see. Now, Phoebe, just \nscratch your nose, and be quiet; for you know I won't hurt you.\"\n\n\"Lord!\" said Phoebe, in surprise, \"don't I know that voice?\"\n\n\"Why, I reckon,\" replied the other, with a more strongly marked \nchuckle than before; \"but, mind you, no talking above breath; for \nthat's agin orders, and captain Gilbert's a screamer.\"\n\n\"Captain Gilbert!\" said Phoebe, in mortal terror. \"Oh Dancy Parkins, \ndon't let him kill me, and I'll never abuse you no more!\"\n\nAs he spoke, she banished so much of her fear as to fling an arm \naround the horseman's neck, as if to insure the protection she \nentreated; and the action, as well as the appeal, went so effectually \nto his heart, that he answered forthwith, \"Well I won't,--I won't let \nhim hurt you, I won't, consarn me!--You see, Phoebe Jones,\" he added, \nwith the same giggle which had marked the manly assurance of \nprotection, \"I'm the man for you, a'ter all: I told you, you'd be \ncoming round, some day or other, for all your saying you despised \nme.\"\n\n\"But an't I to be murdered, Dancy?\" demanded the wench, dolefully: \n\"Oh! that ever I should be among the bloody Hawks! They say, they \nscalp women and children, as if they were no more than great \nIndians!\"\n\n\"They're not half such fellers as people say,\" replied Dancy: \"the \nonly murdering I ever knowed of among them, was that of Andy Parker; \nand that I uphold to be salt for gruel,--fair grist for cheating the \nmiller. He chalked me down like a fool, me and Tom Staples, being all \nold friends, or sort of; and so hanging was good for him. But I tell \nyou what, Phoebe--give us a buss, and _we_'ll be married, as well as \nour betters.\"\n\n\"I won't do no such thing,\" said the damsel, stoutly. \"I don't like \nyou no better than I ever did; for I don't see you're any \nbetter-to-do in the world than you was; and, besides, I won't have no \ntory.\"\n\n\"I reckon,\" said Dancy Parkins, \"I'm no more a tory than the \nlieutenant--that's him you used to suppose was Mr. Hunter, and a poor \npainter; and there's your betters, the Captain's daughter, jumps at \nhim.\"\n\n\"She don't!\" said Phoebe, with indignation; \"and don't you go to say, \nMiss Kitty Loring will have any such vagabondy, poor fellow.\"\n\n\"Poor!\" cried Dancy; \"why he's as rich as a king, and a mighty fine \ngentleman, too, for all he's consorting just now with these here \nrefugees. He's got a grand plantation, as big as all Hawk-Hollow, \nwith a thousand niggurs, where he raises sugar by the ship-load, and \nmolasses beyond all reckoning, and, as I hear, good Jamaiky spirits. \nHe's to make me a sort of I-dunna-what-you-call-it; but I'm to manage \nthe niggurs, and make a fortun'. They say, no man ever sets foot on a \nsugar plantation, without making a fortun' out of it,--that is, \nexcepting the niggurs. So, Phoebe Jones, there's no great use in \ndespising me. It's a fine country, that island of Jamaiky; and \nconsarn the bit of a hard winter they ever hear of there. So now, \nPhoebe, don't be a fool and refuse me no more; for I'm mighty \nwell-to-do in the world.\"\n\nAnd thus the enamoured Dancy pursued his claims to the love of his \nprisoner, who had been hard-hearted enough to frown upon him of old, \nwhile a labourer on Captain Loring's estate, and before the Captain's \ndaughter had, by rewards and promises of further favour, prevailed \nupon him to take charge of the meaner fields of the widow. There was \nsome presumption, at least Phoebe thought so, in his daring to raise \neyes to _her_; for besides being without any personal attractions \nwhatever, he was, to all intents, a gawky and stupid clod-hopper, \nwith but little prospect of ever rising beyond the condition of a \nmere hireling, or, at best, a peasant of the lowest class; and \naccordingly, the damsel repelled him with extreme scorn, as a person \nunworthy to brush the dust from her shoes.\n\nBut the case was now altered, or seemed to be. In the first place, \nthe scornful beauty was in his hands, and had wit enough, though by \nno means overcharged with that brilliant commodity, to perceive that \nhis friendship was better than his enmity; and, in the second, his \nappointment to the important and lucrative office of \nHe-did-not-know-what-to-call-it, on a sugar plantation, where they \nraised molasses by the ship-load, and good Jamaica spirits, was a \ncircumstance to elevate him vastly in her consideration; for her \naffections not being of a romantic or sentimental turn, she ever held \nherself ready to bestow them upon any body who, in her own favourite \nphrase, 'was well enough to-do in the world to make a lady of her.' \nShe listened, therefore, with complacency to his arguments, which he \npressed with as much ardour as he was capable of; and by the time \nthey reached the place where she was to exchange a litter in his arms \nfor a seat on a side-saddle, she had so far recovered from her fears, \nthat she might have told him in the words, and with more than the \nsincerity, of Juliet,\n\n  \"Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.\"\n\nIn the course of his communications, for he became wondrous frank and \nconfiding, as he perceived her grow more favourable to his suit, he \nmade her acquainted with some of the mysterious causes that led to \nthe outrage, and the extent of his own agency in it.\n\nWhen the young Gilbert fled from Hawk-Hollow, it was with a sorrowing \nspirit and a bleeding frame. The wound was, it is true, neither \ndangerous, nor, in fact, very severe; but he was left to endure it \namong woods and rocks, afar from assistance, except such as could be \nrendered by his wild associates, who were themselves reduced to \nextremities, so keen and fierce was the spirit with which they were \nhunted, though unsuccessfully, during the first week after their \nflight.\n\nThe sufferings of the young man were, in consequence, neither light \nnor few; and they were aggravated by anguish of spirit, which became \na withering despair, when Dancy Parkins, the only individual with \nwhom he could communicate in the valley, brought him intelligence \nthat Catherine had been taken away, and, as was currently believed, \nfor the purpose of being united to her affianced lover, afar from the \nreach of danger or opposition. His condition became such that it was \nno longer possible to remove him from the concealment where he lay, \neven when the abatement of all pursuit opened a path of escape to his \ncompanions, and when they looked daily for orders to proceed, or \ndisband,--the removal of the chief object for which they were sent to \nthe district, and the commands imposed upon them to commit no \noutrages, leaving no argument for remaining longer.\n\nWhile he lay in this dangerous condition, the fierce Oran, whose \nbosom yearned over him as the youngest, and, after himself, the last \nof his father's children, read the secrets of his spirit; and, seeing \nno other means of saving his life, he formed, so soon as the sudden \nreturn of Catherine to the valley appeared to render the scheme \nfeasible, the bold resolution of carrying her off, and thus defeating \nthe only scruples in the way of Hyland's happiness. His own heart was \na rock, and he smiled grimly as he thought of the affection of woman; \nbut he had learned to love his brother, and knew that the passion he \nderided was consuming his spirit within him. \"I will give him his \ngew-gaw puppet,\" he muttered, as he sat one night watching by \nHyland's couch--(it was a bed of fern spread on a rock, on the naked \nhills, with only a thatch of hemlock boughs to shelter him from winds \nand dews, and a fire in the open air to light the wretched den:) \"I \nwill give him his wish.--He mutters her name in his sleep, and he \nsobs as he speaks it. Poor fool! he said true--he is unfit for this \nlife of the desert, and his heart is warm to all God's creatures. Why \nshould I seek to make it as fierce and bitter as my own? Let him to \nthe island again, and the girl with him--it will be better: he was \nmade to be happy.\"\n\nWhen he first announced his scheme to Hyland, the youth, to his \nsurprise, strongly and vehemently opposed it, as being a violence and \nwrong not only to Catherine, but to himself: but when the news was \nbrought him that the wedding-day was fixed and nigh at hand, and he \nsaw that he must act now or never, his resolution and feelings \nexperienced a sudden change. He thought over again and again all the \nevidences he had traced of Catherine's aversion to the union, and he \nadded the few and precious revealments of her regard for himself: he \nremembered her wild and broken expressions at that hour of parting \nwhich had made her acquainted with the depth of his love, and perhaps \ntaught her more than she had dreamed before of the condition of her \nown: he pictured her in his imagination, the fair, the beautiful and \nthe good, driven into the arms of one as incapable of appreciating \nher worth as he was undeserving her love: he thought of his peaceful \nisland-home, and the paradise it would become, when she whom he \nadored should sit with him under its arbours of palms, or walk over \nits shelly beaches: he thought these things, and persuaded himself \nthat fate called for, and heaven would sanction, the violence,--that \nhe acted not so much for himself as for her,--and that she would \nforgive the friendly audacity that brought her release and happiness \ntogether.\n\nHe rose from his leafy couch, and in secret and by night crept back \nto the valley. The presence of Colonel Falconer filled him with \naffright and horror; for that had been concealed from him, and he \nknew by the devil of malice that glittered in Oran's eye, that his \nfather's hall was designed to be stained with the blood of his \nfather's foe. Accident gave him the means of preventing this dreadful \ncatastrophe, while wandering over those scenes which reminded him of \nCatherine, and debating in fear and anguish of mind, whether even she \nwas worthy to be purchased at the price of murder. This obstacle \nremoved, there still remained another. Fear and disaffection, \nresulting in a measure from inactivity, had thinned his brother's \nband; and they refused to strike a blow so bold and dangerous by \ndaylight, when the smallness of their number could be seen at a \nglance, and their retreat as easily intercepted as followed. An \neffort was made to delay the ceremony until night, by throwing \ndifficulties in the path of the clergyman; and this duty had been \ncommitted to Dancy, who succeeded beyond the expectations and even \nthe hopes of his employers; while men were stationed in different \nparts of the grounds, to take advantage of any accident which might \ncarry the bride afar from her attendants. At the very moment when \nCatherine wandered farther than usual from her friends, and wept at \nbeing hindered and recalled, she had approached the concealment of \none of the party, and would have been seized on the spot, had not the \nman's heart failed him. It seemed as if destiny were driving her \ntowards a path of escape, of which she had an instinctive perception, \njust at the moment when it was closed against her footsteps.\n\nThese particulars,--or at least the leading outlines,--Dancy \ncommunicated to the object of his own fervent but unromantic \naffections; and Phoebe was astounded with the discovery of her \nmistress's private attachment, if such it was, and still more so when \nDancy, taking _that_ for granted, assured her of his belief that \nCatherine was privy to the whole design. However, she did not trouble \nherself to pursue Catherine's story much farther. She heard enough to \nsatisfy her that Mr. Hunter Hiram Gilbert, as she called him, 'who \npainted such lovely fine pictures, and had a thousand niggurs to \nraise sugar, and molasses, and Jamaica spirits, was as good a husband \nas one might meet of a summer's day; and for her part, she did not \nknow, she could not say, she would not pretend to be certain,--but \nshe was quite sure she never meant to say, that Dancy Parkins was \naltogether despisable.'\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n  Beshrew me but I love her heartily;\n  For she is wise, if I can judge of her;\n  And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true;\n  And true she is, as she has proved herself;\n  And therefore, like herself, wise, fair and true,\n  Shall she be placed in my constant soul.\n                                MERCHANT OF VENICE.\n\n\nWhen Catherine recovered her consciousness, or rather woke from utter \ninsensibility, (for it was long before her mind regained its full \ntone,) she was mounted upon a horse on which she was supported by two \nmen, one riding on each side, who sustained her on the saddle, and \ndirected the steps of her palfrey. She began to speak, but her words \nwere wails, low and faint, and half lost amid the sough of the \nbreeze, and the crash of pebbles under the horses' feet; and, indeed, \nit was soon apparent that she had exchanged a state of dreamless \nlethargy only for one of partial delirium. To this condition she had \nbeen fast verging for several days, during all which time, both \nasleep and awake, her mind had been in a state of constant tension, \nenduring jar after jar, and blow after blow, until its fraying fibres \nwere one by one giving way, and a few narrow threads alone were all \nthat kept it from the snap that ends in madness. Sleeplessness is a \ndisease, which sometimes is prolonged, until insanity or death puts a \nclose to the scene. The mind does not always slumber with the body: \nand in such instances, the spirit consumes amid the visions and \ndreams of night, as fast as amid the torments of day, until it lapses \ninto the oblivion of dissolution or mental derangement. Such had been \nthe case with the Captain's daughter: even slumber had brought no \nrelease to her spirit; and the last shock, combining in effect with a \nlong train of benumbing influences, had reduced it to a condition in \nwhich it hovered between imbecility and distraction.\n\nThough retaining an impression of the scene in which she had lately \nplayed so chief a part, it was faint, vague, and broken by other \nrecollections of other scenes; and though some of her accents \nbetrayed a childish joy at feeling herself in motion through the open \nair, she was apparently incapable of forming any but the most \nimperfect and bewildered conception of where she was, whither going, \nand for what purpose. Occasionally, she murmured words that seemed \nthose of grief and entreaty; and, at such times, her father's name \nwas on her lips, as if she implored those riding at her side to carry \nher to him. By and by, however, her words became fainter and fewer; \nthen she uttered sobs, and those only at intervals; and at last, \nthese ceasing also, she sank again into unconsciousness, and was \nmaintained on her seat only with the greatest difficulty.\n\nIn consequence of this unexpected impediment, the speed of the \nfugitives became gradually less and less; but as they were already at \na considerable distance from the valley, and had no reason to \napprehend immediate pursuit, this circumstance created no alarm, and \nwas, in fact, a cause of no little private satisfaction to many, the \nroad being exceedingly rugged, and the night waxing darker and darker \nas the moon sunk lower in the west. Suddenly, however, as the \nheadmost of the party toiled slowly over the crest of a hill, the \nwind swept from the rear a sound of voices, followed almost instantly \nby the explosion of fire-arms, and these again by loud shouts.\n\n\"'Sessa! let the world slide!'\" cried the voice of Sterling, \"whose \ncow's dead now? So much for not killing the men, and carrying off the \nwomen!\"\n\n\"Peace, parrot!\" said Oran Gilbert, lifting Catherine from her horse, \n(for he was one of those who supported her,) and flinging her into \nthe volunteer's arms. \"Bear her to the top of the hill,--nay, gallop \non till you strike the river, and\"----\n\n\"Figs and furies!\" cried Sterling, with drunken astonishment; \"do you \nmake me a chamber-maid?\"\n\n\"Away, fool! follow the other,--follow Dancy.\"\n\nAnd with that, the refugee, turning his horse, galloped down the hill \ntowards the scene of conflict, leaving Sterling, not yet completely \nsobered, to make his way after Dancy Parkins and Phoebe, who were in \nfull flight, as well as he could, cumbered by the weight of \nCatherine, and perplexed by certain indications which White Surrey \ngave of misliking the additional burthen imposed upon him.\n\n\"'Sessa, let the world slide!'\" he exclaimed, \"here's a coil with a \nwench, dead or half-witted! Ha! she stirs!\n\n  'Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,\n   Who is already sick and pale with grief.'\n\nShame on thee, White Surrey! hast thou no more respect for the \nladies? Now were not this the lieutenant's white-faced \nRosalind----Oons! they are at it! Well, the better part of valour \nshall prevail; and so, fair soul, we'll be jogging. But where's that \nbottle of brown Sherry I clapped into Tiqueraque's pocket? _Paucas \npalabras!_ I will have mercy upon thee--'thou shall taste of my \nbottle; if thou hast never drunk wine afore, it will go near to \nremove thy fit.' 'Slife, I will be merciful, and medicinate thy lips \na little. Marry, I am 'a brave god, and bear celestial liquor.' Now, \nWhite Surrey, my brother, handle thy legs peaceably, or I will knock \nthee over the mazzard.--Fight, Hawks! and sing, Leonidas!\"\n\nThe worthy volunteer, with these words, after having taken a \nbountiful draught from a flagon which was the first thing he laid \nhands on in the moment of assault, and sprinkling, doubtless with a \nhumane and generous motive, some of its contents upon the face and \nlips of the maiden, gave spurs to his horse, and was soon beyond the \nreach of bullets and the sound of shouts.\n\nThe commotion, such as it was, was soon over. The party of Caliver \nand Falconer, urging their horses to the utmost, had suddenly, and \nunexpectedly to themselves, found themselves in contact with the \nstragglers of the tory band; and as these fled the moment they \nobserved the pursuers, the gallant officers fired their pistols and \nrushed forward with renewed ardour, until checked by the opposition \nof the main body. They were met with fury, and, being overpowered, \nwere almost instantly put to flight; after which the retreat of the \noutlaws was resumed.\n\nIn the meanwhile, the shots and yells with which the contest began, \nthe change of position, or perhaps the wine which had been sprinkled \non her lips, woke Catherine from her torpor; and slowly collecting \nher senses, she became at last sensible of her situation. Her \nrecollection of the events of the evening was still confused; but she \nremembered enough of the bridal, and its violent termination, to know \nthat she was afar from her father's roof, and that each moment saw \nher carried still further. She felt, too, that she was grasped in the \narms of some powerful horseman, whose character might be imagined \nfrom the heartless, or drunken, nonchalance with which, while \nsupporting a fainting and almost lifeless female, and hearing the \nuproar of mortal conflict just behind him, he yet trolled to the \nnight-air some further stanzas of that quaint, joyous, and uproarious \nold ballad, of which he had given a specimen before in the paddock.\n\n  'Back and side go bare, go bare,'--\n\nhe sang,--\n\n    'Both foot and hand go cold;\n   But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,\n     Whether it be new or old.\n   I cannot eat but little meat,\n     My stomach is not good;\n   But sure I think that I can drink\n     With him that wears a hood.\n   Though I go bare, take ye no care,\n     I am nothing a-cold,--\n   I stuff my skin so full within\n     Of jolly good ale and old.\n   Back and side go bare,' &c.\n\n  'Now let them drink till they nod and wink,\n     Even as good fellows should do;\n   They shall not miss to have the bliss\n     Good ale doth bring men to:\n   And all poor souls that have scoured bowls,\n     Or have them lustily troll'd,\n   God save the lives of them and their wives,\n     Whether they be young or old!\n   Back and side go bare,' &c.\n\n\"Oh my father, my father!\" cried Catherine, in sudden terror, \"for \nwhat dreadful fate have I given up thy love and protection?\"\n\nHer accents, feeble as they were, reached the ears of Sterling; and \nceasing his song, he looked down upon her face, saying, with a \nludicrous assumption of gravity,\n\n\"How now, fair Titania, queen of moonshine, do you speak? 'Oh, speak \nagain, bright angel!' So much for twenty drops of brown Sherry! these \nasses did nothing but talk about cold water.\"\n\n\"What are you, sir? and why--why do you thus hold me?\"\n\n\"Egad, for no very good reason I know, seeing that I could not hold \nmy own prisoner, and am but a milk-livered loon to hold the game of \nyoung Sparrow-Hawk. Thousand devils! knew I but where to turn White \nSurrey's snout, I should _exit_ by side door, and so vanish, wench \nand all, were it only to give him a Roland for his Oliver.\"\n\n\"I know not what you mean,\" said Catherine, her terror restoring her \nto full consciousness--\"I know not what you mean,\" she repeated, with \nincreasing alarm, as the moon, peeping side-long through a rent in \nthe clouds, threw a level and ghastly ray on the countenance of her \nsupporter, revealing features which her fears converted into those of \nan evil being;--\"but, oh sir! I conjure you to free me. Do me no \nharm,--suffer me to escape,--let me dismount, though it should be but \nto die on the way-side.\"\n\nUnfortunately,--not for her prayer, for no idea of granting that \ncould have ever entered the volunteer's brain,--but unfortunately for \nthe maiden herself, the same ray which revealed his visage to her \ngaze fell brightly upon her own, which, although pallid as death, yet \ndisplayed a pair of eyes to which the excitement of terror gave \nunusual lustre, and which instantly converted the drunken \nindifference of Sterling into admiration. He stared at her for a \nmoment, and then burst out, in the words of Romeo, and with an \nemphasis that preserved, along with his usual dramatic extravagance \nof fervour, some little touch of natural approbation,--\n\n  \"'Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,\n   Having some business, do entreat her eyes\n   To twinkle in their spheres, till they return!'\n\nOho, Master Brook, sweet young Hawk! never trust me if I do not take \nthy minion in fair exchange for my own:--\n\n       'Follow your function, go!\n  And batten on cold bits.'--\n\nSweet and beautiful, and thrice beautiful and as many times \nangelical, fair soul!\" he added, addressing himself to Catherine, \n\"that I have so long remained insensible to thy charms, trust me, it \nwas in part owing to the stupidity which I find growing upon me among \nthe 'ruthless, vast and gloomy woods,' and in part also to the great \ngrief of mind with which I have been mourning the loss of another \nvery tenderly beloved damsel; but chiefly because thine eyes refused \ntheir light, and yonder moon in like manner. But now, 'by yonder \nblessed moon I swear,' I perceive you are ten times handsomer than \nthe other, ass that I was to suppose the contrary; but, however, I \nwas then thinking of the lieutenant and sour grapes.--Sweet, \nangelical soul, you said something about escaping, and doing you \nharm, and so on? Now, as to the harm, rest easy; but look as \nfrightened as you please,--for what's so pretty in a maid as pretty \nfear? But as to escaping,--you would escape, then? go free from these \nvillanous, green-coated, axe-handed, ox-headed, timber-tongued Hawks \nof the Hollow, eh? You would give them the slip, eh?\"\n\n\"Assist me but to escape,--nay, only permit me to fly; heaven will \nbless you for ever, and my father--oh, my father!--he will never \nthink he has sufficiently rewarded you.\"\n\nSuch were Catherine's eager expressions,--for although frighted at \nthe strange, and, to her, inexplicable apologies and commendations of \nthe man, she caught at his closing words as at those of a friend. \nWhat, therefore, was her terror, when the drunken ruffian, \nexclaiming, \"Why then, '_Sessa_, let the world slide!' we will give \nMonsieur the Hawk Junior the go-by, and roam the world together,\" \nadded other words to make yet more plain the sudden design he had \nformed of carrying her off for his own exclusive benefit, and \nconcluded by attempting to draw his arms more closely around her.\n\n\"Yes, thou adorable, delectable creature!\" he cried, overflowing with \naffection, \"I am tired of these rude vagabonds, who give one nothing \nto drink but brook-water, with which trout, eels, sunfish, terrapins, \nand other vermin, have been making free the lord knows how long; and \nbeds of leaves on a rock, where one may feel snakes creeping under \nhim all night long. Wherefore I will decamp, and thou shalt decamp \nwith me, and be my love; and I will love thee to thy heart's content; \nand we shall lead the merriest, drollest moonlight life of it under a \nbush, that was ever dreamed of in romance or enacted in tragedy. We \nwill laugh and play, and drink and dance--\n\n  'Nor will we miss to have the bliss\n     Good ale doth bring men to'--\n\nand will be the most loving turtles that ever cooed in a greenwood.\"\n\nAs he spoke, he again attempted (for White Surrey, charmed with the \nmelody of his master's tongue, and knowing well, when it was running, \nhe might take such a liberty, had changed a jog-trot into a \ncontemplative walk,) to cast his arms round the maid, who, now awake \nto the wretchedness of her situation, uttered a shriek, and making a \nsudden effort, succeeded in throwing herself to the ground; after \nwhich, she fled away with all her speed. The object of her terror was \nnot slow to follow; he uttered an oath and a laugh, and leaping down, \npursued her with such vigour that he was soon at her side; for the \nground was rough with rocks and bushes, and her strength almost \nimmediately failed her.\n\nIt is not certain that the wretch meditated any purpose beyond the \nmere recovery of his prize; for, however rude and familiar his \nnew-born admiration, he had hitherto betrayed no inclination to carry \nit to the point of absolute rudeness. On the contrary, he seemed \nrather to be enacting a part, according to his constant custom, only \nthat the wine he had drunk rendered him in all things more \nextravagant than usual.\n\nBut harmless or not as his intentions might have been, it is certain \nthat the fear of them drove the unhappy Catherine to desperation, and \nfilled another, now fast approaching, with the most dreadful alarm. \nThis was Hyland Gilbert, who, hearing her cries from afar, came \nrushing up in time to see her, in the dull light of the moon, drop on \nher knees before the volunteer, beseeching him, in tones that might \nhave melted a heart of stone, to have pity on her.\n\n\"Villain! you die!\" cried Hyland; and leaping from his horse, and \nrushing forward, he clapped a pistol to his ear, and drew the \ntrigger. It flashed in the pan; but before Sterling could take \nadvantage of the failure, the young man dashed it in his face, and \ndrew another.\n\n\"Hell and darkness!\" cried Sterling, furiously, \"young malapert, I \nwill twist your neck.\" And seizing him by the throat, he cast him \nviolently to the earth. Of a joyous, and even good-humoured \ntemperament, there was yet a spice of devilish vindictiveness in the \nman's breast; and while boiling under the indignity of the blow, and \nsmarting with rage at such high-handed interference in his humours by \na pragmatic boy, he did not fail to remember that this was not the \nfirst time he had been baffled by him during the night. Besides, he \nwas inflamed with liquor, which was enough of itself to goad him into \nany act of vengeance.\n\nBut he was not destined, that night, to shed the blood of Hyland \nGilbert. The shrieks of Catherine had been heard by others as well as \nher unhappy lover, and the flash of the pistol hastened them to the \nspot, where he lay struggling in the grasp of Sterling. A hand more \nmighty than his own was soon laid upon Sterling's neck, and as he was \nlifted aloft, and then tossed among the flints, like some mean but \nvicious beast, which the hunter disdains to kill with a weapon, he \nheard the voice of the tory captain exclaim,\n\n\"What, you dog! touch your officer, and a sick man!--What means all \nthis, Hyland? What! has he harmed the girl? If he have but touched\nher with a finger----Paugh!--Away with you, men! why stand you here \ngaping? On, and quickly.\"\n\nThe party rode on, leaving, however, besides the group already in \nfront, one man who led the horse on which Catherine had been mounted \nbefore. The refugee cast a look to the maiden,--she was sobbing in \nthe arms of his brother. He strode to Sterling and assisted him to \nrise, not however without saying, with the sternest accents of a \nvoice always savage,\n\n\"But that heaven, or some other power, has made me to-night cold to \nblood, I should strike you, villain, where you stand!\"\n\n\"You may do it,\" said the other, with great tranquillity. \"Take your \nfill to-night; we will run up the reckoning at another time.\"\n\n\"How, drunken fool! do you threaten me!\"\n\n\"Faith, not I. Henceforth, I am a man of peace--that is, when we have \nplayed the play out. You're a hard manager--but, now I remember, we \nare not on the boards! We will forget and forgive.\"\n\n\"Forgive, rogue! you struck him that was feebler than a child; and \nyou----By heaven! if you have touched that girl but rudely, you were \nbetter fling you into the river, than await the thanks in store for \nyou.\"\n\n\"A pest upon girls, and the devil take the whole sex!\" said Sterling, \ndevoutly.\n\n\"Peace! and get you to your horse.\"\n\n\"Ay, presently,\" replied Sterling; and as Oran leaped on his own \nblack steed, Catherine having been already lifted to the saddle, he \npulled a pistol from his bosom, and aimed it at the unsuspecting \noutlaw. Oran Gilbert bounded forward, and Sterling lowered his hand.\n\n\"A miss were certain death,\" he muttered, \"and the shadow was on the \nmoon. '_Sessa_, let the world slide'--to-morrow comes after to-day, \nand the longer we fast the richer the feast.\n\n  'Nor shall we miss to have the bliss\n     Good ale'----\n\nGood ale? good devils!----\n\n  'Nor shall we miss to have the bliss\n     Good _blood_ doth bring men to!'--\n\nNow were White Surrey but visible, I should know what to do: but the \nbeast lifted up his heels, and was gone a-larking the moment I \ndismounted.----And these dogs have left me to shift for myself, \nwithout even a horse to help me! Wisdom is at as low an ebb among \nthem as gratitude. Necessity and vengeance harp on the same string. \nFare thee well, Oran the Hawk; but fly as high and as wildly as thou \nwilt, I see the little bee-bird that shall bring thee to the ground, \nbleeding.\"\n\nWith these words, he sat down upon a stone, and there remained until \nthe tramp of the retreating horsemen was no longer brought to his \near.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n  If you have ears that will be pierced, or eyes\n  That can be open'd, a heart that may be touch'd,\n  Or any part that yet sounds man about you;\n  If you have touch of holy saints or heaven,\n  Do me the grace to let me 'scape: If not,\n  Be bountiful, and kill me. You do know,\n  I am a creature hither ill betray'd\n  By one whose shame I would forget it were.\n                  BEN JONSON--_Volpone, or the Fox_.\n\n\nCatherine was now so far recovered as to be able to comprehend her \nsituation in full; and although Hyland Gilbert rode at her side, thus \nassuring her of protection from all further rudeness, her terrors \nincreased, and were mingled with the most insupportable anguish of \nspirit. It was in vain that he conjured her to be composed, and \nvainer yet when he sought to pacify her by expressions indicative of \naffection and tenderness.\n\n\"Take me to my father, Herman,\" she cried, clasping her hands, and \neven endeavouring to grasp his own. \"Oh, take me but back, and I will \nforgive you--I will forgive all!\"\n\n\"Be composed, Catherine, I entreat you\"---- But her only answer was, \n\"My father! my poor father!\"\n\n\"You shall see him, Catherine. I take you not from him, but from \nHenry Falconer.\"\n\n\"I will never marry him,\" cried the unhappy girl: \"take me but back \nand I will tell them all, and it shall go no further. Take me but \nback, and I will forget all,--I will forgive all. Take me but back, \nand let me die.\"\n\nIn this manner, her mind overcome by but one thought and one feeling, \nshe murmured prayer after prayer, and adjuration after adjuration, \nuntil her entreaties became almost frenzied, and Hyland, alarmed and \nshocked, half repented the act which had brought her to such a pass. \nHer agitation was not diminished, when Oran, who rode at the other \nside, and had for a long time maintained a stern silence, and \napparent disregard of what passed between them, at last uttered an \ninterjection of impatience, and bade Hyland ride away, and leave her \nto him.\n\n\"The folly but grows upon her in your presence,\" he said: \"it must be \nchecked.\"\n\n\"Leave me not, Herman!\" she cried, starting so wildly from the rude \nOran, that, had he not arrested the effort, she would have leaped \nfrom the horse, in the effort to reach him whom she felt to be her \ntruest protector: \"leave me not, Herman, for the sake of the mother \nwho bore you!--leave me not in the hands of any of these rude men!\"\n\n\"Fear not,\" said Hyland, and he conjured Oran himself to depart. \"Let \nthe girl come to her,\" he added; \"perhaps Phoebe's appearance may \nrelieve her.\"\n\nBut even the presence of Phoebe, now quite content with captivity, \n(so successful had been the arguments of her wooer,) failed to banish \nher agitation; and at last, bewildered and in despair, incapable of \ndevising any other means to give her comfort, Hyland checked his \nhorse and hers, and assisted her to dismount.\n\n\"Do with me what you will, Catherine Loring,\" he said--\"I am a fool, \na wretch, perhaps a villain.\"\n\n\"Oh no, no!\" said the maiden; \"only take me back, and all will again \nbe well--all will be forgotten.\"\n\n\"Nothing again will be well with me,\" said the young man, \"and \nnothing, I fear me, with you. Catherine, there is but a moment to \ndecide. In snatching you from the altar, I did the only thing in my \npower to secure happiness to both,--or at least, to secure us from \nthe misery that was falling on us like a mountain. You hated Henry \nFalconer\"----\n\n\"I did--No, no! not _hate_; it was not hate,\" murmured the Captain's \ndaughter.\n\n\"You hated him, Catherine, and--why should I fear to speak it?--you \nloved another--you loved _me_, Catherine--By heaven, it is true! I \nfelt it, and I knew it; else how could I have done this thing? It is \ntrue--and hide it not from yourself, since your own weal, as well as \nmine, depends upon your resolution this moment.\"\n\n\"Speak not to me so, oh, for heaven's sake do not,\" cried Catherine, \nweeping--\"I never gave you cause. Take me only to my father.\"\n\n\"To wed with Henry Falconer, and pronounce a vow your heart \nforswears?\"\n\n\"I will never marry him--never, never!\" said Catherine, with \nvehemence: \"I would have told him so, only that my father stood by, \nand I knew it would kill him.\"\n\n\"Catherine, hear me--I am neither traitor nor outlaw, and though \nassociated with such for a moment, it is for your sake only.--I have \nwealth, Catherine,--substance enough and a fair name. Share these \nwith me.\"--\n\n\"No, no! oh speak not so,\" said Catherine; \"speak to me only of my \nfather, and take me to him. He loved you well, Mr. Hunter, and you \nhave not well repaid him.\"\n\n\"Choose, Catherine,\" said Hyland, gloomily; \"if you will return to \nhim, it shall be so:--I am not the ruffian to force you a step \nfurther against your will.\"\n\n\"Heaven for ever bless you!\" cried the maiden. \"Oh be quick, lest it \nbe too late--Take me back, take me back!\"\n\n\"Yes, take us back, take us back!\" cried Phoebe, whose weak mind, \nyielding with facility to the contagion of Catherine's example, was \nnow as full of terror as before.\n\n\"Think once more, Catherine,\" said the young Gilbert, with a \nfaltering voice--\"Of myself I speak not--I will not think what your \nreturn may cause me; but think of what wretchedness it must \ninevitably bring to you.--Catherine, there is sunshine for us in the \nisland.--Say but the word--you will fly with me!\"\n\n\"Never!--Oh my father! take me, Herman, to my father!\"\n\n\"It is well,\" said the youth, sullenly; but motioning as if to assist \nher to the saddle, \"you shall return to him.\"\n\n\"What fool's play is this? and why do you loiter?\" cried Oran \nGilbert, riding back to the group, who had been left by their sudden \npause far behind: \"To horse and to the river!\"\n\n\"It cannot be,\" said Hyland: \"we have erred,--we have done a great \nwrong, and must repair it. Brother, this maiden must be returned to \nher friends.\"\n\n\"Madman! what do you say? Have her silly, girlish whimsies so \nfrightened you? Away with you to the front, and I will fetch her!\"\n\n\"I have said it, Oran,\" rejoined Hyland, in a firm, though deeply \ndejected voice. \"I have agreed to take her back, and I will do so. If \nyou will allow me a guard, I will not delay the band a moment; and \nwill answer for the lives of those entrusted to me.\"\n\n\"Fool and madman!\" exclaimed the brother, in a fury, \"must I force \nyou to your senses? What ho, there, Hawks! two of you return; and \nDancy Parkins, lift that girl to the saddle, and bear her off.\"\n\n\"Fear not,\" said Hyland to Catherine, who, with woman's \ninconsistency, threw herself into his arms, the moment she heard the \ndreaded order.--\"You but frighten her, brother!--Make me not more \nwretched than I am, by forcing me to shed the blood of any of your \npeople.--I will shoot any one who touches her.\"--\n\n\"Myself, boy?\" cried his savage brother, leaping from his horse. Then \npausing, for at his approach, Hyland lowered the weapon he had raised \nto make good his words, he said sternly,\n\n\"Choose for yourself.--Bear her along, and be rewarded by smiles in \nthe morning; take her back and die, like a mad wolf, in the trap that \nhas before maimed you. Mount horse, Dancy Parkins, and begone; and \nyou, Hyland Gilbert, mount and follow, or stay where you are and \nperish.--Will you on?\" he added, with inexpressible fierceness.\n\n\"When I have put this lady in safety, but not before,\" replied \nHyland.\n\n\"Die then for a fool, or help yourself as you may,\" said the elder \nbrother; and mounting his horse, he instantly galloped out of sight.\n\nNone now remained with Hyland save the two maidens; for even Dancy, \nawed by the voice of the refugee, had deserted the once-willing \nPhoebe. He turned his eyes towards the retreating figures, as if \ndoubting whether they could wholly desert him; but he heard the tramp \nof the steeds ring farther and fainter each moment, and it was plain \nthat the incensed Oran had abandoned him to his fate. He assisted \nCatherine to mount, and Phoebe likewise; then taking Catherine's \nbridle in his hand, he turned the horse's head, and began to retrace \nhis steps without uttering a word. A moody silence possessed him, and \neven Catherine's voice, now sobbing out her broken gratitude, failed \nto draw from him more than a few sullen monosyllables.\n\n\"It shall be as you will,\" he said; \"but let us speak no more.--What \nmatters it now to utter vain words?\"\n\nThe dejection, nay the despair, of spirit conveyed by every tone, \nsmote Catherine to the heart; and had he possessed the art, or the \nwill, to take advantage of the feeling which his evident desolation \nproduced in her bosom, he might yet have won her to his purpose, and \nborne her afar from parent and friend. But he had neither; he heard \nher trembling attempts at kindly utterance, (for it was now her part \nto play the soother,) with apparent indifference; and even when she \nturned her weeping face towards him, and, in the impulse of real \naffection, laid her hand upon his, he drew away as with scorn or \nanger.\n\nTheir flight had carried them almost to the base of the mountain; \nand, obscure as was the night, it was plainly distinguishable at that \nspot where the convulsions of chaotic ages have riven it from the \nsummit to the base, thus hollowing a pathway for a broad river under \nthe shade of its majestic crags. As they turned from it, a pale light \nglistened among the pines and oaks of the eastern hill, but so faint \nand dim that one could scarce pronounce it the peep of day-spring. \nSuch, however, it was; fast as had been the flight, it had been over \na road where absolute rapidity is, even at this day, rather to be \ndesired than expected; and, had she continued with the wild band, \nCatherine would have seen the sun steal into the sky, ere they had \nburied her in the savage recesses where they found their own cities \nof refuge.\n\nAs the day dawned, however, and long before the sun was yet seen, \nwreaths of mist began to curl along the mountain top, and even to \ncreep over the river; and before they had ridden much more than a \nmile, it was seen rolling along these lesser uplands that give such \nbeauty to the whole district, and settling upon the moist woodlands.\n\nThis was a circumstance which one in Hyland's situation might have \ndeemed providential, if desirous of avoiding observation. But it is \nquestionable whether, while brooding over his melancholy thoughts, he \ngave much reflection to the peril that might attend his return to the \nhaunts of men. Peril should, at least, have been anticipated; for \nwhatever had been the check given by the band of outlaws to the first \npursuers, it was not a moment to be doubted, from the audacity of the \npursuit, as well as the greatness of the outrage, that the chase \nwould be resumed the moment the pursuers could add to their numbers. \nBut dejected as was his spirit, he was not yet reduced to such a \nstate of stupor as to be wholly unmindful of his safety; and of this \nhe gave proof by suddenly halting upon a naked hill, strown over with \nrocks, and wholly desolate, though breathing into the mist a world of \nrich odour. It was, in fact, covered with a growth of sweet-fern,--a \nshrub around which the early thoughts of affection had shed an \ninterest not to be attached even to the rose or violet, though \nhenceforth that interest was to be of a melancholy and painful \ncharacter. It was the hill on whose summit he had, scarce an hour \nbefore, preserved her from the grasp of a villain; though this she \nknew not, for the mists concealed objects from the eye, and it was \nnot yet sunrise.\n\nAs he paused, he bent forward to listen, and drew a pistol from his \nsaddle-bow, but instantly returned it, muttering, \"It is no \nmatter--if they take me, let it be without bloodshed.\"\n\n\"Herman,--Mr. Hunter, what is it?\" cried Catherine. \"You will not \npause now?\"\n\n\"Now I must, or never,\" he said. \"You are safe,--your friends are at \nthe bottom of the hill; and unless you would have them murder me in \nyour sight, I must begone. Farewell, Catherine Loring: if you can be \nhappy, God grant that you may be so. I have done you a great wrong; \nbut I bear that in my bosom which will avenge you. Farewell, \nCatherine,--farewell, and for ever.\"\n\n\"Herman, Herman!\" murmured the maiden, turning upon him a countenance \nof death, and gasping for utterance.\n\n\"Farewell, Catherine,\" he said, wringing her hand; \"they are upon us. \nGod bless you--farewell.\"\n\nHe rode away--it was but a step: the trample of a body of horse was \nnow plainly heard--he looked back upon her--his countenance was \nbathed in tears. She stretched forth her arms, and murmuring, in a \nbroken voice, \"I will go with you--take me, Herman, take me!\"--was in \na moment locked in his own embrace. He snatched her from the saddle, \nand, as she clung to his neck, dashed the spurs into his good roan \nsteed. Had the words been pronounced a moment earlier, nay, but an \ninstant, he might have made his escape, and borne her off in safety. \nBut the decision was as late as it proved to be fatal. Phoebe had \nalready heard the trampling of the approaching horsemen, and Hyland \nhad called them friends. She could scarce repress a cry of delight; \nbut when, catching Catherine's last words, she looked round and \nbeheld her, as she thought, in the act of being again snatched away, \nshe raised her voice in a scream that was heard by the most distant \nof the approaching party, and was echoed by a shout coming from fifty \nvoices.\n\nAgain Hyland struck the spurs into his horse, and the fire sparkled \nfrom his hoofs as he dashed down the hill; but fire flashed \nimmediately after from the hoofs of twenty others, fresher and \nperhaps fleeter.\n\n\"Shoot not, or you will kill the lady!\" roared a voice in his ear.\n\n\"Surrender, dog, or die!\" shouted another, who was indeed no other \nthan Henry Falconer; and almost in the same instant, as three or four \nclosed upon the unfortunate fugitive, a strong arm snatched the \nfainting Catherine from his grasp, and a pistol, held by Falconer, \nwas thrust into his face.\n\nThe young Gilbert was weak with wounds and sickness, and worn out \nwith toil, watching, and grief; his native spirit was thus in a \nmanner crushed and prostrated; and he would perhaps have yielded \nhimself passively up, if not too bitterly goaded by the taunts and \nviolence of his captors. Such was the opinion of two of them, who, \nsupposing he had already yielded, withdrew their hands, that they \nmight give assistance to the fainting Catherine, whom captain Caliver \nhad so fortunately redeemed from the midst of the fray. But Gilbert \nhad not yet rendered himself. The sight of his rival, exulting in his \ncapture, and menacing him with voice and weapon, inflamed his dying \npassions. He turned with sudden fierceness, checked and spurred his \nsteed at the same time, and thus caused him to vault into the air \nwith a violence which would have speedily released him from \nFalconer's grasp, had not his purpose been rather to attack than fly. \nAs he executed this feat, he presented his own pistol, and drew the \ntrigger. The explosion of two pistols at once was followed by the \nrush of a dozen men to separate the combatants; and the next moment \nboth were seen rolling upon the ground, Falconer lying clear of the \nmel\u00e9e, and Hyland in the hands of the vengeful Sterling, whose horse, \nWhite Surrey, had overthrown the youth, together with his roan steed.\n\n\"'Sessa! let the world slide!'\" cried the renegade, with a voice of \nthunder, but a countenance ashy pale. \"Here's work for the hangman--I \nhave him fast enough._ Victoria!_\"----\n\nBut at this moment, a sudden alarm was sounded, and all who could \nstarting up, they heard a wild yell sound from the base of the hill \nto the north, and the words, pronounced by a voice strong and clear \nas a trumpet, \"Royal Refugees! charge! and bear them to the ground!\"\n\n\"Huzza!\" shouted the captain of cavalry, \"here's the rat running at \nthe lion! Now open your mouths and swallow 'em! By the eternal \nJupiter, we are five to their one; and more fools they for not \nknowing it. Sweep them from the earth! charge them! on!\"\n\nThe refugee had relented; the sound of the pistols had quickened his \nsteps; but he dreamed not of the force now arrayed betwixt him and \nhis abandoned brother. A sheet of fire from twenty pistols blazed \nthrough the mist, as twice as many enemies rushed against his little \nband. They broke at the first fire, and the sounds of pursuit, both \nhot and fierce, were soon lost in the distance.--It was not until \nmany hours had elapsed that the result of the contest, although it \ncould be easily imagined, was fully known. Two of the refugees had \nbeen killed, and one was taken prisoner; while the others, abandoning \ntheir horses, which were worn out, and hence easily captured, \nsucceeded in making their escape to the woods.\n\nIn the meanwhile, those who remained upon the hill busied themselves \nin securing the unfortunate Hyland, who was unhurt save by the fall \nof his horse, aiding the maidens, and raising young Falconer from the \nearth. This unlucky youth muttered a few words as they lifted him, \nbut, to their horror, almost instantly expired. A pistol bullet had \npenetrated his throat, dividing the great jugular, and even \nshattering the spine. His battles were fought, and his dream of folly \nover.\n\nIn the recovery of Catherine and the serving-maid, the company of \npursuers had effected the chief object of the expedition; but it was \nstill felt to be a matter of great importance to destroy the relics \nof the refugee band which had haunted the county so long. The greater \nnumber of the pursuers, accordingly, devoted themselves to this \nobject, while enough remained on the hill to take charge of the \nrescued females, the prisoners, and the dead.\n\nThe life of Hyland Gilbert, whom his captors, exasperated by the \nmurder, as they called it, of Falconer, were at one time on the point \nof tearing to pieces, was saved through the firmness of lieutenant \nBrooks; but he was treated with much indignity, and even cruelty, \nbeing straightway bound both hand and foot to his horse, and thus \ncarried away like the meanest and most desperate of felons. A pair of \nrude litters were hastily constructed, in one of which was carried \nthe Captain's daughter, while the other supported the clayey corpse \nof the bridegroom.\n\nThese things effected, and the honest Mr. Sterling assuming the \nstation assigned him in the centre of the party, where, although \nenjoying all appearance of liberty, he was yet esteemed a kind of \nhonourable--or, as the phrase should be, dishonourable--prisoner, the \nmelancholy cavalcade pursued its way back to Hawk-Hollow, within a \nfew miles of which, its leaders stumbled upon Captain Loring and a \nparty of footmen, over whom he had assumed the command. It consisted \nof no less, indeed, than that identical company of volunteers who had \nwon such immortal distinction on the fourth of July, by their valiant \nattack, with empty muskets, upon the flying Oran. The reappearance of \ntheir enemy was enough to recall them to the field of battle, though \nthey came somewhat of the latest; and uniting themselves with a party \nof countrymen and domestics whom Captain Loring had previously \nassembled, and whom he was now gallantly leading to the field of \nhonour, they yielded to his energy the obedience he seemed to \nconsider a matter of right, and thus constituted him \ncommander-in-chief, without much regard to the claims of their own \nelected officers.\n\nThe morning was still misty, so that lieutenant Brooks and his party \nstumbled upon this formidable detachment without seeing it, or \nsuspecting its existence; and had it not been for the sharpness of \nhis ears in detecting the tones of Captain Loring's voice upon a hill \nhe was just ascending, it is highly probable the magnanimous \nvolunteers would have wiped out the disgrace of their flight before a \nsingle enemy, by pouring a warm and well-directed fire into a \nsuperior body of friends.\n\nHe paused a little,--for he rode at some distance in front of his \nparty,--and distinctly heard Captain Loring's voice giving the \nfollowing orders to his volunteers:--\n\n\"Hark!\" said the veteran; \"adzooks, you may hear their horse now as \nplain as the cocking of a sentinel's musket at midnight. Halt, ye \nvagabonds, and prepare for action. When I say _prepare_, I mean, \nadzooks, be ready to swinge 'em. You, Dan Potts, John Small, and \nPeter Dobbs, detach yourselves to the right, six rods from the road, \nand lay by to flank 'em: Dick Sturgem, Sam King, and Absalom Short, \nwheel to the left, and do the same thing--and mind you, you \nscoundrels, don't any of you be frightened; for, adzooks, I despise a \ncoward above all created things. And harkee, you scoundrels, no \ngabbling; hold your tongues like soldiers, and talk with your \nmuskets: that's what old general Spitfire used to tell us--'Sons,' \nsaid he, 'a soldier should always keep his tongue in his musket.' So \nbe off, and stand fast, flanks; and bang away as soon as you see any \nthing to bang at. Centre, attend: as soon as you hear the flanks at \nit, you are to crack away, and give no quarter--no quarter, you \nscoundrels, do you hear!\"\n\nAt any other moment, the young lieutenant would have been amused at \nthe enthusiasm and tactics of the veteran of the Indian wars; but \nthis was not a moment for jest. He rode forward, hailing the Captain \nby name; and the old soldier soon forgot his rage and his followers \ntogether, to weep in the arms of his recovered child.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n  _2d Clown_. But is this law?\n  _1st Clown_. Ay, marry is 't; crowner's-quest law.\n                                              HAMLET.\n\n\nWe draw a curtain over the scene of distress displayed in Gilbert's \nFolly, when the body of Henry Falconer, late the gayest of its \ninmates, was laid at the feet of his father and sister; and pass to \nthat which followed, when a justice of the peace, acting in the place \nof a coroner, assembled a jury of inquest around the bloody couch, to \ndetermine from the melancholy story of the dead, the fatal \nresponsibility of the living. The official was a personage who \nexercised, along with the duties of a magistrate, the equally \ndignified functions of mine host of the Green Tree Tavern; and was, \nindeed, no less a man than that rival of Elsie Bell, whose formidable \nopposition, many years before, had completed the downfall of the \nTraveller's Rest. He was now a man of substance, portly in person, \nand inflated by the dignity of office into a certain dignity of \nmanner; his step was like the roll of a ship, and when he breathed, \nit was with a forcible and majestic expiration of breath, like the \nsnort of a war-horse. He had been noticed, as he advanced in the \nworld, for the independence,--or, to speak more strictly, the tyranny \nwith which he conducted himself among his guests; not, indeed, that \nhe ever beat, or even committed them, as, in virtue of his office, he \nmight have done; but because, as he said, he heartily 'despised peing \npottered mit 'em.' He was not austere or quarrelsome of disposition, \nbut he was a lover of his ease in his inn; and his despotism was \nshown less in violent opposition than in contemptuous indifference of \nall humours save his own. He abhorred all fault-finding, but as he \nequally detested the trouble of reprehending it, he devised a scheme \nby which discontent was either nipped in the bud, or severely \nreproved as soon as made manifest, and all without any labour on his \nown part. He caused to be painted on his sign-board, having daubed \noff the green tree to make room for it, the following cabalistic \nlegend,--\n\n  _Der ist gl\u00fccklich, welcher zufrieden ist._\n\nwhich he was accustomed to translate, _viva voce_, to all incapable \nof understanding it, in a quaternion as remarkable for its expressive \nsimplicity as for its philosophic comprehensiveness:\n\n  He vich is vise\n  Neffer grumples nor cries;\n  He vich is neither vise nor ciffil\n  May go to the diffil.\n\nThis,--that is to say, the original morceau,--as he justly conceived, \ncontained a standing answer for all grumblers, and by being in such a \nconspicuous situation, served as a warning to them beforehand; while, \nat the same time, if a guest chanced to forget its existence, it only \nneeded the philosophic Schlachtenschlager (for that was the \ndignitary's name,) to point to it with his finger, and demand, 'Fat \ndoes that mean?' to bring him to reason. At all events, his \ntranslation was always at hand, in case of extremity, and was of such \nsupreme efficacy in laying all evil spirits by the heels, that he \nused to declare with triumph, 'It fas neffer needs to say it twice.'\n\nSuch was the functionary who now introduced his assistants into the \nchamber of death, exulting in his own importance and his success in \ncompleting the number against all the difficulties resulting from the \nconfusion into which the county had been thrown by the second \nappearance of the refugees.\n\n\"I do afer, on my faith, gentlemen,\" he said, wiping his brows, as he \nentered, \"I had more trouple making you up than is goodt for nothing. \nAs for that Jake Sheeps fat run afay, I fill commit him, the \nfillain.\"\n\n\"Ay, Squire, when you catch him,\" said one of the party, who, \nalthough as coarse in appearance as the others, (all being, save \nhimself, ordinary farmers and ignoramuses, such as could be picked up \nin a hurry,) but who soon proved himself possessed of more brain than \nall the others together,--\"when you catch him, Squire. But harkee, \nSchlachtenschlager; concerning this forcing _me_ on a jury of \ninquest,--'tis a sort of a breach of privilege. As an attorney at \nlaw, I should be considered exempt; for if there's no statute for \nexemption, why there's custom, my old boy, and I'll mulct you in \ndamages. Botheration, Squire, you should know enough law to steer \nclear of a lawyer.\"\n\n\"T'at for your law!\" said the magistrate, \"and your lawyer too: I \nknows my pusiness. And if you grumples and calls me 'old poy,' it \nvill pe vorse for you; for old poy means the tyfel, and if you calls \nme tyfel, mine friend Affidafy\"----\n\n\"Tush,\" said the lawyer, \"it means no such thing. But as you have \nnabbed me, why make haste with this stupid business, and be done. \nLook at the body, guess your guess out, and let me be gone.\"\n\n  \"'He vich is vise,'\"--\n\nmuttered the justice; but was interrupted by Mr. Affidavy crying, \nbluffly,\n\n\"The devil take your verses. Come, let's to business. Now, Squire, \nyou 'know your business,'--you never, I reckon, held an inquest \nbefore in your life;--how do you begin?\"\n\n\"How do I pegin?\" said the official, scratching his head; \"fy, I \nreckons, ve must have a talk apout it, and then say, the man vas \nmurdtered.\"\n\n\"The deuce you must? Why that's prejudging the case altogether. How \ndo you know the man was murdered? where's your witnesses?\"\n\n\"Vitnesses!\" said Schlachtenschlager; \"fy, I reckons the case is \nclear enough mitout 'em.\"\n\n\"Ah, I thought you'd say so,\" cried the other; \"but that won't do. \nWhere's the murderer?\"\n\n\"Vy, I committed him.\"\n\n\"Where's the prisoner, Dancy Parkins?\"\n\n\"Vy, I committed him along mit the other.\"\n\n\"Where's the informant, that vagabond--(I reckon, he'll be a witness \nfor the Commonwealth)--that stripe-coat fellow, \nStirk--Stick,--no,--Sterling's his name?\"\n\n\"Vy, I committed him, too.\"\n\n\"The devil you did? Well, where are the officers, the soldiers, the \nvolunteers, and all the rest that were present?\"\n\n\"Vy, chasing the refugees, to pe sure.\"\n\n\"Well, so I thought. Now, I'll tell you what you'll have to do: just \nsend off as fast as you can for that fellow Sterling, and Dancy, and \nhalf a dozen others, and adjourn till they come; which will give me \ntime to run down to the Traveller's Rest, and administer on old Elsie \nBell's estate, or see what there is to administer on.\"\n\n\"Administer on old Elsie? fat the tyfel! is the old fitch teadt?\"\n\n\"As dead as a herring,\" said Affidavy; \"and there's another job for \nyou. They say, some one told her, the defunct here, Colonel \nFalconer's son, was shot by young Gilbert; and the harridan \nscreeched, and fell dead with fright.\"\n\n\"Mine soul!\" said the justice, \"they're all tying. There's the \nCaptain's daughter here,--they say she's tying too. I vant to take \nher teposition; but Dr. Muller says she can n'ither speak nor hear.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the attorney, \"you see there's nothing to be done here \nat present. So, adjourn's the word, and down to hold an inquest on \nold Elsie. She has been looking up in the world lately, and they say \nshe'll leave something. I intend therefore to administer, or see \nabout it--and by the way, Squire, we may discover something there in \nrelation to the murderer. He lived in her house; and, there's no \ndoubt, the tories made it a place of rendezvous. We can come up here \nand finish afterwards.\"\n\n\"Fell, I don't know,\" said Schlachtenschlager; \"it's all vone, except \nfor the trouple of going and coming. But fere's Jake Musser?\" he \nadded, in sudden alarm; \"I declare ve're not all here!--Fy, Jake, \nfere have you peen?\" he continued, as the individual, whose absence \nhe had just discovered, entered the apartment.\n\n\"Vy, at Elsie Pell's;--I stopped a moment to get a trink; but old \nElsie vas sick, and the plack girl vas in a fear, and\"----\n\n\"Sick!\" cried Affidavy, \"a'n't the old goose dead? 'Pshaw! why then \nwe'll go on with the inquest, and say no more about it. I thought \nthere was a job there for somebody; but, it seems, it is only for the \ndoctor. Well, Squire, are you ready?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the official; \"but now, Mr. Affidafy, fat shall we do for \nwitnesses?\"\n\n\"Tush,\" said the man of law, \"that's neither here nor there.\"\n\n\"Fy, you said, it wouldn't do mitout 'em!\"\n\n\"Oh, that's according to circumstances, and here we have \ncircumstances enough to hang the whole county.\"\n\n\"Fell, then,\" said the magistrate, \"we'll pring it in a case of \nmurder. Are you all agreedt? Fat says you, Peter Pork?\"\n\n\"Why, I dunna,\" said Peter, \"but I reckon so.\"\n\n\"Fat says you, Thomas Pork?\"\n\n\"Why, I dunna; but I go with Peter.\"\n\n\"Fat says you, Jacob Musser?\"\n\n\"Fy, the same: but I reckon the Captain mought send us up something \nto dtrink.--It's a very pretty pody.\"\n\n\"Never mind the pody, Jacob. Fat says you, Jack Darpy?\"\n\n\"Why, I'm no so clear in the matter;--I'm ag'in' all hanging.\"\n\n\"Fy, that's none on your pusiness,\" said the magistrate, assuming an \nair of dignity; \"for you see, John, the coroner's jury is not the \nhanging jury.\"\n\n\"Well, Squire,\" said the nonconformist, \"I reckon I know that as well \nas any body. But, you see, I've had a talk with the quakers on this \nmatter, and I'm coming to think it's ag'in' the law of scriptur' to \nbring a man to the gallows. And you see, the matter all rests on our \nshoulders; for if we say murder for our 'quest, why then the grand \njury sings the same song for their indictment, and the petty jury \njust follows suit. It's just like sticking three bricks on an end; if \nyou kick one, why down goes the second, and clack goes t'other. And \nmoresomover, what Squire Affidavy says I stick to: I don't know the \nman's murdered, not an iota, without some one to swear on black and \nwhite.\"\n\n\"Fy, take a look at him, John,\" said the Squire in a heat; \"he's \ndeadt, a'n't he? and he has a pig hole in his neck, ha'n't he? and \nfat more fould you haff? You're always preeding trouble, John Darpy!\"\n\n\"Well, I dunna,\" said John; \"the man mought ha' shot himself; for \nthey say he was a peeler at the bottle, for such a young un; and when \nfolks drinks, there's no saying what'll come of it: it's just as much \nas saying, 'Clear the course, here goes for the devil!--Squire \nAffidavy, what do you say to that?\"\n\n\"Hem\"--replied the man of law, looking at his elbows, which were \nsomewhat of the whitest, with an attempt at humour, that faded in a \nmoment before a look of sullenness and anger, \"I say, that you're a \nfool, though you stumble upon wisdom now and then by accident. But \nnone of your sly winks and blinks: we all know you have not brain \nenough for drinking. But stop; we've carried this joke far enough, \nand the fun is over. Send down stairs for the girl Phoebe Jones: she \nwas on the ground when the shot was fired, and we must take her \ntestimony.\"\n\n\"Fy, now I remember, so she fas,\" muttered the magistrate; but added, \nwith a sigh like the sough of north-wester, \"Put it is a great \ntrouple to swear a voman.\"\n\nThe testimony of Phoebe was, however, by no means so satisfactory as \nwas expected. It is true, she professed herself able to swear that \nMr. Hunter Hiram Gilbert shot Mr. Falconer; but it soon appeared she \nwas as ready to swear he had shot herself, and some dozen other \nunfortunate persons into the bargain. In truth, the dreadful \nconclusion of an adventure which she had been brought, at one moment, \nalmost to consider an innocent and agreeable frolic,--the condition \nof her mistress, from whose bed-side she had been summoned,--and the \nspectacle of the ghastly corse of the bridegroom before her eyes, \nmore than half turned her brain. She answered therefore by yea and \nnay, and just as the question indicated the reply; until Mr. \nAffidavy, a man of some little tact in his profession, although low \nand debauched habits had ruined his prospects and reputation \ntogether, thought fit to interfere, and by a little management, made \nit obvious, even to the dull brain of Schlachtenschlager, that the \ngirl, although an actor in the tragedy, knew no more of its details \nfrom her own observation, than they themselves.\n\nThey were relieved from their dilemma, however, by the sudden \nappearance of lieutenant Brooks, who delivered a brief and clear \naccount of the catastrophe, as far as he had witnessed it himself; \nand his testimony left it no longer to be doubted that the \nunfortunate defunct had fallen in consequence of a pistol-shot fired \nfrom a weapon in the hands of Hyland Gilbert. He produced the \ninstrument, which, as well as the pistol discharged by the deceased, \nhe had picked from the ground, and now delivered, along with their \nfellows, and a pair taken from Sterling, to the magistrate, averring \nthat they were in the condition in which he had found them.\n\n\"A very pretty pistol,\" said the official; \"but how is this Mr. \nLieutenant? did the young fellow fire them all?\"\n\nThe soldier stared his honour in the face, and smiled; but his eye \nfell on the body of his friend, and the flash of humour faded into \nclouds.\n\n\"This weapon,\" said he, touching one, \"I presume to be that by which \nMr. Falconer was slain. It was picked from the ground by Mr. \nGilbert's side; the fellow to it, was found in the holsters attached \nto Gilbert's saddle. This,\" he added, pointing to another, \"belonged \nto my unfortunate friend, and was that with which he shot at the \nprisoner.\"\n\n\"Fat!\" cried the official, \"did _he_ shoot, too?\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly: I plainly distinguished two explosions, the one \nimmediately after the other.\"\n\n\"Fy then, mine Gott!\" said Schlachtenschlager, looking round upon his \nassistants with an air of unutterable sagacity, \"this, mine friends, \ndoes ferry much alter the case. It vas not murder, but a fight. Who \nfires the pistol first?\"\n\n\"Sir, that is impossible to say. But allow me to suggest a doubt \nwhether that is necessary to be inquired into. With deference, I \nshould suppose the object of this inquest would be simply to \ndetermine who shot the pistol that killed the deceased; leaving all \nother questions to be determined by other tribunals.\"\n\n\"'Pshaw!\" said Affidavy, who seemed to derive no little private \namusement from the ignorance of the magistrate, when suffered to run \nits own course; \"you have spoiled the sport. The young gentleman is, \nhowever, right, Squire, and\"--\n\n\"Holdt your tongue, Mr. Affidafy, and let me mindt mine own \npusiness,\" said the magistrate, in some wrath; \"sure I know fat I am \nabout! And hark ye, Mr. Witness, you are a very goodt young man, and \nan officer, and a gentleman; put you must not tell me fat I am to do, \nnor fat I am not to do.\"\n\n\"Surely not,\" replied the witness; \"I will not be so presumptuous.\"\n\n\"Right; you are a very goodt young man, and an officer, and a \ngentleman; and you have very goodt sense.--Fat do you think I must \nsay in this case? for, mine Gott, it puzzles me! Mine own opinion is, \nthat somepody shot this young man.\"\n\n\"It cannot be doubted, sir.\"\n\n\"And that that somepody fas him fat shot the pistol fat fas _not_ \nshot by the young man fat fas shot.\"\n\n\"Very true, sir.\"\n\n\"Ferry fell, sir,\" continued the official, with dignity; \"now show me \nthe man, and you shall hear fat I have to say for mine inquest in no \ntime.\"\n\n\"The man you speak of is by this time lodged in the county prison \nunder a warrant issued by yourself. There were two pistols \ndischarged, one by the deceased, the other, as I can swear to the \nbest of my belief, by the prisoner; and I can bear witness in like \nmanner, that my unfortunate friend owes his death to the pistol \ndischarged by the prisoner.\"\n\n\"Fy then, the case is clear enough, and I vonder you couldn't say so \nmuch before. Do you swear to all this?\"\n\n\"I do.\"\n\n\"Fell now, come;--fat fas the reason of all this running afay, and \nmurdering?\"\n\n\"That, I beg leave to suggest, is a question entirely irrelevant.\"\n\n\"Is it? Fell then, fy don't you answer it?\"\n\n\"'Pshaw!\" mumbled Affidavy, who was perhaps wearying of a sport he \ndid not himself direct. \"Squire, you may discharge the witness: we \nhave laid our heads together and agreed upon a finding.\"\n\n\"Fat! mitout me?\"\n\n\"Certainly. You don't think _you_ are to make the verdict?--The \nwitness will be pleased to retire,\" he added, and the lieutenant, \nlooking once more on the dead, immediately withdrew.\n\n\"We find, Squire,\" the attorney went on, \"that the deceased came to \nhis death in consequence of a pistol-bullet shot into his neck by \nHyland Gilbert, otherwise called Herman Hunter. If you want to be \nlearned about jugulars, carotids, parotids, and so on, we will call \nin Dr. Muller, and have him examine the wound.\"\n\n\"Fy, I don't know any thing about them things; put I don't see that \nyou say any thing apout murder?\"\n\n\"Not a word: as you said yourself to Jack Darby here, the coroner's \njury is not the hanging jury.\"\n\n\"Fell now, the matter's finished, and I am ferry glad. I suppose it \nis all right?\"\n\n\"Entirely--the young Hawk is as dead as a chicken.\"\n\n\"It is a clear case then, Mr. Affidafy,\" said the dignitary, with a \nlong and tempestuous breath, indicating the satisfaction he felt at \nbeing released from labours so overpowering, \"they fill hang the \nyoung fillain?\"\n\n\"Why that depends upon circumstances, Squire.\"\n\n\"Oh the tyfel! it is all 'upon circumstances' mit a lawyer?\"\n\n\"It is a good case on either side,\" said Affidavy; \"and not so bad on \nthe prisoner's as might be supposed,--that is, if he had but money to \nmake it an object to take up his cause.\"\n\n\"Mine Gott, he has money! There fas his fatch; 'twas goldt, and worth \nforty pound.\"\n\n\"Eh! indeed? has he a gold watch?\"\n\n\"And there fas a purse of guineas\"----\n\n\"Of guineas!\"\n\n\"And there fas a--fat you call it?--a pill of exchange on New York, \nand a letter of credit,--mine Gott, it fas mitout limit, except time; \nput I toubt me, it fas not goodt.\"\n\n\"Botheration!\" cried the man of law, in a fervour, \"who'll lend me a \nhorse to ride to town? I remember now, there was a story that the \nyoungest son of the Gilberts had a rich aunt in Jamaica.\"\n\n\"Fell, if he had?\"\n\n\"Why then, I'll certainly volunteer him the aid of my professional \nskill; and, murder or no murder, I'll bring him off.\"\n\n\"You don't say so, Mr. Affidavy?\"\n\n\"Botheration, I do. A letter of credit without limit? Who has it? did \nyou save it?\"\n\n\"No; I gave it pack to him; put I took an inventory of all in his \npockets.\"\n\n\"Well, Squire, you're an honour to the profession. Lend me a horse.\"\n\n\"Fy, if I had you put down to the Creen Tree, and you fould promise \nto keep soper\"----\n\n\"Tush, I will. But let's be off, and in a hurry. You are a merciful \nman, Squire Schlachtenschlager--It is a pity this poor friendless \nyoung fellow should be hanged for nothing.\"\n\n\"That is, mitout paying nothing to the lawyer? Ho, ho!----Put it \ntoesn't do to laugh by a teadt pody, fen his fader, and moder, and \nall his friends is feeping and crying. Fat is to pe done mit these \nHawks? Can't nopody catch pig Oran? I fill give one pound of mine own \nmoney for refard; for, I do afer, he toes give me much trouple. Fell, \ngentlemen, all is right. Now fill ve all go to the Creen Tree, and ve \nshall have some prandy to dtrink. Fere is some pody to light mine \npipe? A fery padt piece of pusiness, and fery pottersome. I vonder \nfere they fill pury the young man? Fell, gentlemen, let us pegone.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n  Your mountain Sack, your Frontignac,\n    Tokay, and twenty more, sir,\n  Your Sherry and Perry, that make men merry,\n    Are deities I adore, sir;\n      And well may Port\n      Our praise extort,\n    When from his palace forth he comes,\n    And glucks and gurgles, fumes and foams.\n      Gluck, gluck,\n        Hickup, gurgle and gluck.\n                                       OLD SONG.\n\n\nIf one were to judge the traits of the vulgar from the indulgence \nthey exhibit towards certain vices, or certain instances of their \noccurrence, it would be easy to show that man is, at bottom, a \ngood-natured animal. It is certain that he betrays an extraordinary \nleniency in the case of a vice which all unite, in the abstract, to \ncondemn; and that many men derive an importance from the sacrifice of \nreputation and mind to the Imp of the Bottle, which they might have \nfailed to purchase by a life of wisdom and sobriety. It is not \nuncommon to find, in some rural districts, men of gross and degraded \nhabits, whom a rational creature would spurn from him with contempt, \nand who are indeed the butts of ridicule or objects of commiseration, \neven among their own immediate neighbours; but who, strange to say, \nare regarded with a species of admiration, growing directly out of \ntheir profligacy. Such, we are sorry to say, are some of the rustic \nprofessors of law and physic, who, possessing a little talent, but no \nindustry, prefer whiling the period of probationary idleness at the \ndoor, or in the bar-room, of the village tavern, to devoting it in \nthe closet to that labour which is the only stepping-stone to \ndistinction and fortune; and thus contracting a love for something \nmore than idleness, and slipping, little by little, towards the \nbottom of the hill, are seen at last, downdraughts, with swollen \nvisages and seedy garments, mingling among the coarse and base, \nthemselves perhaps the coarsest and basest. You will see such a man \ngibed and laughed at by the lowest of his companions, as something \nthat even they can despise; for whatever may be the hatred with which \nthe humble regard the more lofty, they are the first to appreciate \nthe degradation of a downfall; but the next moment you will hear them \ntalk of him with praise. Is it 'the poor doctor at the Cross-Roads?' \n'Oh, he is a ruined man, to be sure, and a sot; but he cures, when \nanother man fails; somewhat dangerous now and then, when too \"far in \nfor it,\" but a marvellous hand at \"rheumatisms and the fever.\"' Is it \n'crusty Ned Jones, the lawyer?' 'Drinks like a fish, but with more \nsharp stuff in his brain than all the bar beside; a devil of a fellow \nto corner a witness, break a will, pick a flaw in an indictment, and \nset a jury a-sobbing: great pity he drinks,--but he's a tremendous \norator, and all the better for a glass or two, in a hard case.' We \nhave heard of a lawyer, a lover of his glass, who reformed his \nhabits, and lost his practice.\n\nThe worthy Affidavy, who played so prominent a part in the jury of \ninquest, was one of this unfortunate class of beings, although he had \ncommenced the world with as fair prospects as could be derived from a \nmoderate share of talent, and some native energy of character, and \nwas yet in the prime of his years. He had sunk into poverty and \nneglect, was any man's fellow, and every man's scorn; yet the lower \nhe sunk, the loftier became men's opinions of his natural parts and \nhis professional knowledge; and Squire Schlachtenschlager was wont to \nsay, 'he pelieved Affidafy mate petter speeches now than he tidt \nafore, fen he fas a soper man.' While such generous opinions \nprevailed, the lawyer had still 'something to do' in the way of his \nprofession; but the sad condition of his outward man showed that this \nwas far from being profitable. Indeed, if the truth must be told, his \nadmirers, though of humours sufficiently litigious, were oftener \ninclined to employ than able to pay; and those of better estates, \nhowever they marvelled at the sagacity, and applauded the speeches of \nthe man of buckram, were rather shy of applying to him for \nassistance, until they felt their cases to be growing desperate. The \nconsequence of this state of things was, that Mr. Theophilus Affidavy \nwas compelled to resort to many shifts to obtain a subsistence, that \nadded little to his reputation; and would indeed have been hooted \nfrom the county, had he not been protected by the armour of imputed \ngenius, which his habits seemed to fasten around him.\n\nThe account he received of the wealth of the unfortunate Hyland \nproduced a strong effect upon his acquisitive propensities; and he \nsaw at a glance, that if his counsel could be of no benefit to the \nprisoner, it might undoubtedly be of some to himself. \"He is a Hawk \nof the Hollow,\" he muttered to himself, \"and so every one will be \nagainst him. Good! There will be much apparent merit therefore in \nundertaking his defence. His case is bad,--awful bad--better! To \nvolunteer in such a case, will infer at once the possession of \nextraordinary skill, worthy of extraordinary reward. He has \nmoney--excellent! But, botheration, the other Jack-brains will find \nthat out, and dive at him before me. Must have Schlachtenschlager's \nhorse, if I have to steal him--nobody else will lend me one. An old \nass; but can twist him round my thumb as easily as a tape of \ntobacco.\"\n\nSuch were the reflections of the attorney, as with his brother \njurors, one of whom had given him a seat in his little Jersey wagon, \nhe followed Schlachtenschlager, to share the feast this worthy had \nprepared for his associates at the Green Tree.\n\nThe soliloquy of the lawyer seemed to infer a doubt of the \nperformance of the promise Schlachtenschlager had so generously made \nof lending him a horse. This doubt was engendered by a sudden change \nin the sky, which, from having been perfectly clear and placid, \nsuddenly began to be covered with clouds, and these of an appearance \nso gloomy and menacing that full half the jurors became alarmed, and, \nexcusing themselves from accepting the proffered hospitality, hurried \nto their homes, leaving the revels to be shared by those who dwelt in \nthe Squire's immediate neighbourhood. The attorney, wonderful to be \nsaid, had as strong an impulse to be gone as others, although fully \nsensible of the excellence of the magistrate's potables, and of the \npainful sacrifice he should make in tearing himself away; but on the \nother hand, he perceived that a violent thunderstorm was brewing, and \nhe knew the Squire to be a prudent man, who loved his beast as he \nloved his wife, and indeed a great deal better, and would be loath to \nlend him after the storm had once set in. For this reason, as soon as \nhe had reached the inn, he reminded the Squire of his promise, swore \nhe would drink but a single glass, and then be off, without waiting \nfor the rain.\n\nThe Squire scratched his head, and replied,\n\n\"Vy, Mr. Affidafy, I don't know. The veather vill be padt, and I \ndon't like it: it vill pe padt on the horse. So, Affidafy, ve vill \nvait a little and see; and, pesides, my poy,\" added the dignitary, \nclapping him on the shoulder, as if to atone by condescension for the \ndisappointment he inflicted, \"ve fill not forget the dtrinking, and \nthe jolly-making. Py mine heart, my poy, ve fill have petter fun for \nyou than trampling about in the rain mit a stumpling horse. Fat, man, \nfy we're all Deutschers put you! Here's Jake Musser, and Hans \nFackeltrager, and Alberick Klappermuhle, and Franz Beschwerlich, and \nSimson Kleiber, and mineself; and then there's you. Mine Gott, ve \nfill be jolly; for I will proach a parrel of Nierensteiner,--mine \nsoul! it is as goodt as any in the whole Rheingau! and I do keep it \nfor mineself. And ve fill dtrink and ve fill sing, as if ve fas all \nin the Rheingau itself; for my voman, Gott pless her, she is cone to \nthe fillage, and the poys is out a looking after the ploodty Hawks. \nAha, Affidafy, my poy! you shall see fat it is to dtrink Rhine wine, \nmit six goodt Deutschers to help you. Fat do you say, poys? can you \nsing the Rheinweinlied in a t'under-storm? Aha, you see, Affidafy! \nFell, if ve are few, vy ve fill be merry.\"\n\nIt was in vain to pursue his desire, at such a moment; and indeed the \nattorney's blood tingled with joy at the thought of the flowing \nbowls, offered in such an oration. \"Very well, you old fool,\" he \nmuttered to himself, \"I will drink till your cursed sour old cider \ntrash, that you call Rhine wine, has opened your heart; and then, \nbotheration, I will bubble you out of the best horse in your stable. \nWell, it is well it's no worse: it _will_ rain, and that cats and \ndogs.\"\n\nThe indications of the weather were not falsified by the event. In \nless than half an hour after all were safely housed, the heavens were \ncovered with pitchy clouds, from which were discharged dazzling \nthunderbolts. Then came a terrific blast of wind, rending boughs from \nthe trees, and making the chimneys rock on the housetop; and this \nagain was followed by a furious driving rain, falling in such \ntorrents as promised in a few hours to swell the smallest brooks into \nimpassable rivers. This continued until nightfall, and was then only \nterminated to be succeeded by deceitful intervals of calm, broken in \nupon, even when least expected, by violent gusts of wind and rain.\n\nIt is not our design to pursue the conversation, nor to describe the \nrevels of the six Deutschers and their American companion, under the \nroof of the Herr Schlachtenschlager. Secure from the tempest, they \ndefied its rage, and made even the roar of the thunder and the plash \nof the rain contribute to their enjoyment. Armstrong has described, \nin a few lines that find a responsive chord in every bosom, the \nluxurious addition to the comfort of a warm bed, produced by the \ntumult of a midnight tempest:\n\n  \"Oh! when the growling winds contend, and all\n   The sounding forest fluctuates in the storm,\n   To sink in warm repose, and hear the din\n   Howl o'er the steady battlements, delights\n   Beyond the luxury of vulgar sleep.\"\n\nThe same cause is said by those who are philosophic in such matters, \nto add peculiar zest to the hissing of the tea-kettle, and the rattle \nof the punch-bowl. Perhaps, then, it was the violence of the storm, \nrather than the excellence of the liquor, which betrayed the worthy \nSchlachtenschlager and his guests into a degree of conviviality \nsomewhat inconsistent with the melancholy duties they had just \nrendered to the commonwealth and the dead. But whatever was the \ncause, it is very certain they forgot the dead and the commonwealth \ntogether, and by nightfall were seven of the happiest men in all the \nrebellious colonies of America. By that time Affidavy was as \nglorified in his spirit as the rest; and suddenly starting up in the \nmidst of a crashing peal of thunder, he hiccuped, and then roared,\n\n\"Success to the Rhine wine, sweet or sour! and the devil take him \nthat won't sing its praises as loudly as e'er a rascal of the \nRheingau itself! So up, you German pigs, and let's sing! up, you \nHanz, Franz, Alberick, Jake, and Simson! up, you old rogue \nSchlachtenschlager, for you can sing like a cherubim! and up, you \njolly dog, Teff Affidavy, who is up already, and can sing as well as \nthe best! join hands, bring flowers, crown the cup, and sing the \nRheinweinlied like seven angels--the Rheinweinlied, you hard-headed, \njolly dogs, in broad Deutsch! and after that, we'll sing it in my own \ntranslation, botheration, which is better than the original, for all \nthat ass, Jingleum, says _he_ made it. Are you ready?\"\n\n\"Ready!\" responded the happy six; and in an instant every man was \nsinging, at the top of his voice, the famous Rheinweinlied--a song of \nsuch noble and heart-stirring capacity, at least so far as the music \nis concerned, that if it be objected to it, that it has sometimes set \na singer beside himself, it may be wondered how any one can hear it \nand keep sober at all. The winds blew, the rain fell, and the \nlightning flashed, while this jolly company rose round the table, and \nsang in concert the praises of old father Rhine.\n\nTHE RHEINWEINLIED.\n\nI.\n\n  Bekr\u00e4nzt mit Laub den lieben vollen Becher,\n    Und trinkt ihn fr\u00f6hlich leer.\n  In ganz Europia, Ihr Herren Zecher!\n    Ist solch ein Wein nicht mehr.\n\nII.\n\n  Ihn bringt das Vaterland ans seiner F\u00fclle:\n    Wie w\u00e4r er sonst so gut?\n  Wie w\u00e4r er sonst so edel, w\u00e4re stille\n    Un doch voll Krafft und Muth?\n\nIII.\n\n  Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsre Reben;\n    Gesegnet sei der Rhein!\n  Da wachsen sie am ufer hin, und geben\n    Uns diesen Labewein.\n\nIV.\n\n  So trinkt ihn denn, und lasst uns alle Wege\n    Uns freum und fr\u00f6hlich seyn!\n  Und w\u00fcsster wir wo iemand traurig l\u00e4ge,\n    Wir g\u00e4ben ihm den Wein.\n\n\"Bravo! bravissimo! bravississimo!\" cried Affidavy. \"Here's to you, \nyou dogs--'_Ihr Herren Zecher!_' And now for _my_ paraphrase. All you \nthat don't know it, why you may sing the German lingo over again: the \ntwo will go very well together.\"\n\nSo saying, he burst forth on the following _rifacimento_ of the \noriginal; the others, in general, holding fast to their own more \nsonorous expressions; the effect of which Babel-like intermixture of \nlanguages was to increase the noise, if it did not add to the spirit \nof the author.\n\nI.\n\n  The right Rhine wine!\n    We'll crown the cup with roses,\n      And quaff about, and laugh about,\n        Till all eyes wink!\n  Such joys divine\n    Sure mother Nature owes us:\n      So laugh about, and quaff about,--\n        Come, drink, boys, drink!\n\nII.\n\n  Our Father-land!\n    'Tis that the vine produces:\n      How else should be this jolly wine\n        So good, so good?\n  Long as we stand,\n    We'll put it to its uses:\n      So laugh about, and quaff about,\n        As true souls should!\n\nIII.\n\n  Oh Rhine! old Rhine,\n    With milk and honey flowing!\n      There grows the tree so well love we,\n        The Vine, the Vine!\n  There clusters shine\n    On branches ever growing:\n      So laugh about, and quaff about\n        The good Rhine wine!\n\nIV.\n\n  Come, drink, ha! ha!\n    And, sure, we'll all be merry;\n      Come, drink, ha, ha! come, laugh, ha, ha!\n        Oh! ha, ha, ha!\n  As full are we\n    As e'er a Rhine-wine berry:\n      So laugh about, and quaff about,--\n        Oh! ha, ha, ha!\n\nIt may be supposed that Affidavy had long since, in the joy of \nrevelry, discharged from his mind all memory of the case which had so \ninflamed his fancy, and was content to leave it to be snapped up by a \nmore fortunate rival. How far this was from the truth may be inferred \nfrom a phenomenon that presented itself about an hour after \nnightfall, at which period he appeared on the porch, followed by \nSchlachtenschlager and the rest, all singing with as much zeal as \nbefore, but vastly out of time and tune. A saddled horse stood at the \ndoor, on whose back some assisted the attorney to clamber, while \nothers were seen holding by railing and pillar, and venting much good \ncounsel with a deal of bad music. The Squire himself stood embracing \na pillar, now poking forth his bare noddle to the drops trickling \nfrom the porch-roof, and now withdrawing it, to utter divers \n'teufels!' and 'donners!' as the cold element profaned his visage of \ndignity, yet still maintaining his stand, and expatiating on the \nmerit of the service he was rendering his guest.\n\n\"You see, Affidafy, man,\" he cried, \"I'm a goodt-natured fellow: put \nthere's my horse, my pest horse, and it's a padt night; and, \nAffidafy, man, you're as dtrunk as a chudge, poor man. But ho, ho! \nthat's no matter, for ve're all so:\n\n  'As full are ve\n   As ever vas a Rhine-fine perry:'\n\nVery goodt that, Affidafy!--Fell, ve're all mortal sinners; and, mine \nGott, there is but little left in mine parrel, and Nierensteiner \ncosts money. Fell! goodt pye, Affidafy, my poy, goodt night. Take \ngoodt care of the horse, for he's my pest horse, Affidafy, for I'm a \ngoodt-natured fellow as ever it vas. Goodt night, Affidafy!\"----And \n\"Goodt night, Affidafy!\" muttered all, as the attorney, fetching a \ndesperate reel in the saddle, waved a graceful adieu, and turned to \ndepart. Instead of replying, however, to the farewell, he burst out \nagain with\n\n  'The right Rhine wine!'\n\nand the others obeying the invitation, again opened their lips, and \nchanted _Bekr\u00e4nzt mit Laub_, till he was out of sight. Then they \nstaggered back into the house, to continue their orgies; where we \nwill leave them, to follow the course of the attorney.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nIf thou beest a man, show thyself in thy likeness: if thou beest a \ndevil, take 't as thou list.\n                                                   TEMPEST.\n\n\nThe violence of the storm was over, but the ferment in the elements \nwas not yet allayed. The clouds had broken, and ever and anon, \nthrough their ragged gaps, the eye might trace fields of blue sky, \nstudded with stars, which were as suddenly swept out of sight, as \ngusts came roaring from the tops of distant hills, discharging brief \nbut furious showers.\n\nOn such occasions, it was not easy to pick a way along the road, \nwhich was washed into gullies and scattered over with the riven \nbranches of trees, besides being, in the hollow places, converted \ninto pools; so that it might have been considered difficult to \nproceed, even by the light of day.\n\nIt was fortunate, perhaps, for Affidavy, that he was in no condition \nto be daunted, either by difficulties or dangers, of which, indeed, \nit is most probable he remained profoundly unconscious, from the \nbeginning of his ride to the end. He set forth on his dark journey, \ntrolling at the top of his voice some snatches of the jolly chorus, \nin which he had borne no mean part, and plying his heels about the \nribs of his horse in such a way as to drum out a kind of barrel-head \naccompaniment, as agreeable to himself as it was perhaps advantageous \nto the animal;--for this, instead of being Schlachtenschlager's best \nhorse, as he had said, was a drowsy, lazy, pacific, and somewhat \nworthless beast, which the Squire's man, supposing that any one might \nserve the lawyer's turn on such an occasion, had considerately \nsubstituted for the better one which his master really designed to \nprovide. On this animal, then, Affidavy departed, bidding defiance to \nstorm and peril, and singing as he went. Sometimes, however, he \nlaunched into harangues, as if declaiming before a court and jury, \nespecially when, as was sometimes the case, the beast he bestrode \ntook advantage of his abstraction, to pause before some gully or pool \nof water, and even, now and then, to stand stock-still in the middle \nof the road, where there was no obstruction whatever. Nay, he once or \ntwice, relying upon the indifference of his rider, took the liberty \nof turning his head, and jogging backwards; and how the manoeuvre was \ndetected and counteracted by one in Affidavy's happy condition, we \nare wholly unable to say. But counteracted it was, and by \nmidnight,--that is to say, after a ride of three hours, the attorney \nfound that his steed had borne him the full distance of two and a \nhalf miles from his master's house; at which rate of travel, it was \nquite evident, he might expect to reach the village, perhaps three or \nfour miles further, some time before noon of the following day. At \nmidnight, however, the horse was brought to a stand by an unforeseen \ndifficulty. It was in a hollow place or glen, thickly wooded, that \nwas crossed by the road at right angles; at the bottom of it flowed a \nwater-course, small and shallow on all ordinary occasions, but which \nthe violent rains, assisted by certain accidental obstructions, had \nnow swelled into a broad and formidable pool. The trunks and branches \nof trees, swept down by the earlier wash of the flood, and lodged \namong rocks and the standing stems of other trees on the lower side \nof the road, had made a sort of dam, through which the waters could \nnot escape so rapidly as they collected; and, in consequence, they \nhad swelled so high, as to be already heard falling over it like a \ncataract.\n\nWhen Affidavy arrived at the brink of this flood, his steed came to a \nsudden halt, of which the rider took no notice for a considerable \ntime, his mind being wrapped up in the remembrance of the joyous \npotations from which nothing on earth, save the prospect of a good \ncase, could have drawn him, and his ears still tingling with the \nuproar of the Rheinweinlied. This he trolled over with great fervour, \nand in the midst of it, plying his heels as usual, the horse, after \none or two snorts by way of remonstrance, took heart of grace, and \ncrept into the water.\n\n\"Botheration,\" cried the attorney, as he felt the cold element \nsweeping over his legs, \"will it never have done raining? H--h--hip, \nDurgan.--Gentlemen of the jury, I appeal, not to your hearts, for I \ndisdain taking advantage of,--of your weakness,--nor to your heads, \nfor--for--who the devil ever supposed a juryman had \none?--Botheration, it rains cats and dogs all round, and my legs are \ngrowing marvellous cold. That old Schlachtenschlager! he, he! a great \nold ass, and his Nierensteiner nothing but sour old crab-cider.--A \ngold watch worth forty pounds,--a purse of guineas--bills of \nexchange--long credits.--Dispute the jurisdiction of the \ncourt--Hillo! what's all that smashing in the court? I insist upon \norder--Who says I am out of order? Drunk! I despise the thing! Hillo, \nSchlachtenschlager! what's the matter? Never mind the rain--strike \nup: let it blow its worst,--strike up, old boy.\n\n  'Come, drink, ha, ha!\n     And, sure, we'll all be merry;\n       Come, drink, ha, ha! come laugh, ha, ha!'--\n\nBotheration!\"----\n\nIn the midst of the attorney's song, and just when he had reached the \nmiddle of the pool, there happened a catastrophe, which might have \nfrightened any other man out of his propriety. This was nothing less \nthan the sudden giving way of the dam of logs, the disruption of \nwhich was followed by the escape of the whole accumulated body of \nwaters, and that with a fury that nothing could resist. In an instant \nthe attorney was swept from his horse, soused head over ears in the \nflood, and would have been drowned had he not been luckily dashed \ninto the crotch of a low and twisted buttonwood, and there left \nastride a horizontal bough, by the retreating waters. The whole thing \nwas effected in a trice, indeed with such magical celerity, that he \nfailed to notice the main point of the casualty, which was the loss \nof his horse; and supposing himself still at ease in the saddle, he \nplied his heels with their accustomed vigour against the regardless \ntrunk, wondering somewhat at the immobility of his charger, and the \nrush of the current at his feet.\n\n\"Botheration,\" he cried; \"hip, Durgan, get up; dzick! dzick! That's a \nfine fellow! Will it never be done raining?\n\n  'Come, drink, ha, ha! come laugh, ha, ha!\n   Oh, ha!'----\n\nHip, horsey, hip!\" And thus he went on, now spurring the timber \nflanks of his charger, and now trolling forth the drunken chorus, in \nthe midst of the stream, where he would perhaps have remained until \nmorning, or until sleep had caused him to relax his hold, had not his \nextraordinary outcries reached the ears of a traveller, who rode to \nhis assistance, the water being already reduced to its ordinary \nlevel, and finding him incapable of helping himself, pulled him from \nhis seat, and dragged him to the other side of the stream.\n\n\"Botheration, what's the matter?\" cried the attorney, who seemed to \nrecover his senses a little, upon finding himself on his feet; \n\"where's Durgan? Sure, o' my life, I did'nt come here on foot! Odds \nbodikins! where's Schlachtenschlager?--Hillo, there! botheration, you \nsir! what are you doing with my horse?\"\n\n\"_Your_ horse!\" exclaimed the traveller. \"Are you drunk yet?\"\n\n\"Drunk! I defy the insinuation,\" cried Affidavy, \"and demand \nprotection of the court.--Down, you rogue, or I'll indict you for \nhorse-thieving. A pretty prank to play upon an honest man, riding for \nlife and death! Botheration, Sir Sauce-box, whoever you are, give me \nmy horse, or I shall lose the best case was ever entrusted to a \nlawyer--a gold watch worth forty pounds--bills of exchange--letters \nof credit--and a purse of guineas!\"\n\n\"Now were you not drunk,\" said the traveller, \"and more of a beast \nthan the animal that bore you, I could tell you of a case much more \nto your interest to be engaged in.\"\n\n\"Hah! a case? what sort of a case? Odds bodikins, I'm your man!\"\n\n\"You are drunken Tef Affidavy?\"\n\n\"Drunken! That's actionable. Tef! _Tef_ Affidavy! Theophilus \nAffidavy, Esq.--_Esquire_, do you hear?\"\n\n\"Ay, it is all one. Theophilus Affidavy, sober, might be the man for \nmy money, with twenty guineas to begin upon; but Theophilus Affidavy, \ndrunk\"--\n\n\"Twenty guineas!\" cried the lawyer: \"God bless all our souls! twenty \nguineas for a retaining fee! Why then I'll be Theophilus Affidavy, \nsober, or Tef Affidavy, drunk, or any thing else that can be wished \nof man or angel. Out with your money, and state the case.\"\n\n\"Ay,--when you are sober.\"\n\n\"Sober! Twenty guineas would fetch me to, if I had been swimming in \nSchlachtenschlager's whiskey-barrel for two weeks on a stretch. \nBotheration, I'll take another dip in the slough there, and come out \nas clean as a peeled orange. But are you sure that a'n't my horse?\"\n\n\"Quite; and if your beast belongs to the Squire, you may make your \nmind easy that he is now safe in his master's stables. I saw a \nsaddled horse on the road, galloping as if a wild-cat was on the back \nof him.\"\n\n\"Good!\" cried the attorney at law; \"if I had drowned him, there would \nhave been the devil to pay with old Schlachtenschlager. Hold fast, \ntill I duck the devil out of me.\" And without waiting to say another \nword, he ran into the brook, where he began to splash about him with \ngreat spirit, the stranger, all the time, sitting by and observing \nhim in silence.\n\nThere is, in all cases of drunkenness, a certain degree of voluntary \nintoxication, as it may be called, in which the mind yields itself a \nprisoner, before it is entirely overcome by the strength of the \nenemy. This is evinced by the rapidity with which many good souls, in \njovial company, work themselves into frenzy; but still more by the \nfacility with which they shake it off, when there is any special call \nfor sobriety. In half the instances, even where the conduct is most \nextravagant, the individual retains a consciousness, more or less \nperfect, of his absurd acts, is aware that they proceed from a \nmadness partly simulated, and sensible of some power in himself of \ncontrolling them, though not easily disposed to the labour of \nexercising it. We will not pretend to say that Mr. Affidavy, while he \nsat bestraddling the sycamore, was altogether conscious of his \nsituation; but it is quite certain, he retained so much power of \ncuring his folly, even in that extremity, that a less counter \nstimulus than the offer of a twenty-guinea fee would have sufficed to \nbring him to his senses. He frisked about in the water for a few \nminutes, dipped his head under two or three times, and came out, not \nentirely sober indeed, but, as he said himself, 'as fit for business \nas he ever was.'\n\n\"If you doubt, stranger, whoever you are,\" he said, \"I'll sing you a \nsong, or--No, hang it, we've had enough of _that_,--I'll make you a \nspeech to court and jury extempore, and right to the point. But come \nnow, jingle your money, and let's begin: or, if it's all one to you, \nwe'll jog back to Schlachtenschlager's and borrow a dry shirt, and so \ngive counsel like a gentleman.\"\n\nTo this proposal the traveller demurred, and requesting the lawyer to \nfollow him, rode up to the brow of the hill, where he dismounted, and \nsuffered his horse to range at will through the bushes, he himself \ntaking a seat on a stone, and inviting Affidavy to do the same.\n\n\"A botheration strange fancy this, of yours, certainly,\" said the \nlawyer: \"are we to sit here, like two stray ducks, and be soaked for \nnothing?\"\n\n\"Look over your head,\" said the stranger: \"there is not a cloud left \nin the heaven. No, not one,\" he muttered as if to himself; \"and come \nweal or wo, come death or come life, the sun will shine to-morrow as \nbright as ever.\"\n\n\"Tush, you're right; the storm has given us the go-by,\" said the \nlawyer. \"But concerning the case, and that twenty-guinea \nfee----What's your name?\"\n\n\"Guineas,\" said the other, rattling a purse apparently well filled \nwith his namesakes, upon the stone.\n\n\"Excellent!\" said the lawyer; \"but that won't do for a jury. Come, \nsir, your cognomination, compellation, and so forth? your _proprium \nvocamen_, style and title,--Tom, Dick, or Harry, as the case may be? \nand then for _the_ case! _Quisnam homo est? unde et quo?_ No man is \ndrunk who can quote Latin, for it is cursed hard stuff to remember. \nIn the king's lingo, who are you? and what's the case in question?\"\n\n\"Who I am, we will pass,\" said the traveller, \"that having nothing to \ndo with the case. As for the case itself, I am told, it is one of \nmurder.\"\n\n\"The devil it is!\" cried Affidavy. \"Why here's hanging work \nthickening in the county! But what are the circumstances? Who's \nkilled? and who is the killer?\"\n\n\"The first was a young man, named Henry Falconer,--the second another \nyoung man, called Hyland Gilbert\"----\n\n\"Hah! why, that's _my_ case, that I've been labouring after all \nnight! and I assure you----But God bless our two souls!\" he added \nsuddenly, springing to his feet as if in alarm, \"who are _you_ sir? \nAn honest man, sir? I hope, an honest man, sir, and no bloody-minded \nHawk, sir! for if you are, sir, I give you warning, sir, if you make \nan attack upon me, sir, that I carry pistols, sir, and, sir\"----\n\n\"Peace, fool,\" said the other, with a stern voice. \"Sit down, and \nfear nothing. If you had twenty pistols, what care I for them?--I,\" \nhe added, with a laugh both jocose and bitter, \"that am armed with \ntwenty--guineas?\"\n\n\"Right, sir; but if you are a tory, sir--I don't mean to insult you, \nsir,--but as to aiding and abetting a gentleman of the tory party, \nsir: why, sir, I am a man of principle, sir, and I must have time to \nreflect.\"\n\n\"Go to the brook and wallow again: you shall have five minutes to \nreflect, or rather to sober, for you are not yet in your senses. Why, \nfool, do you think I will hurt you? or hark! is there a tory bullet \nin the clink of an English guinea? Come, sit down, and listen. You \nhave nothing to do with tories, save to take their money.--There is \none lying in prison in yonder village below, who needs the help of a \nlawyer. Yourself then, Affidavy, or another.\"\n\n\"Oh, if there be no treason in the matter,\" said the attorney, \"why \nthen----that is, if you will take that cursed tomahawk away, for I \ndare say you've got one about you, Mr.----that is to say, \ncaptain----Zounds, Mr. Oran Gilbert! I know you very well; and I hope \nyou won't murder me, or do me any mischief, if it were even for old \ntimes' sake; for we were very good friends in old times.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said the refugee; \"and for that reason, I have offered you \ntwenty guineas, and employment on a business that may bring you as \nmany--perhaps five times as many more, which any one else will be as \nhappy to accept.\"\n\n\"Botheration, there is no occasion,\" said Affidavy, creeping \ntimorously back. \"I see what it is; I'm not afraid of you, but you \nhave a cursed bad name. I don't agree with you in principles, that \nis, in politics; but it sha'nt be said, I refused my professional \nservices to an old friend in distress\"----\n\n\"With twenty guineas in his hand,\" said the tory.\n\n\"Ay; and with as many, or five times as many at the back of them\"----\n\n\"In case of success.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, certainly. I understand the case now: your brother, \ncaptain\"----\n\n\"We will drop all titles,--brother, captain, and every one else,\" \nsaid the tory. \"The young man, Hyland Gilbert, is a prisoner.\"\n\n\"Ay; and\"----\n\n\"Was he hurt?\"\n\n\"A bruise or so.\"\n\n\"And he shot Henry Falconer?\"\n\n\"As dead as a herring: I sat on the body myself.\"\n\n\"And he will be tried for that, as for a murder?\"\n\n\"Ay, faith, and hanged too, unless\"----\n\n\"Unless _what_?\"\n\n\"Unless we can prove him innocent, or establish a legal \nirresponsibility.\"\n\n\"Or snatch him out of his den, some such bright midnight as this?\"\n\n\"Tush,\" said the lawyer, waxing in courage, \"I have nothing to do \nwith that. But cheer up. There's a way of managing these cases, and I \nhave thought of it already. But concerning that bill of exchange and \nletter of credit? They say, the younker has money enough--a rich \nestate in the Islands?\"\n\n\"Fear not for your reward,\" said Oran Gilbert. \"Do what's expected of \nyou, and you shall have gold enough to content you.\"\n\n\"Here then is the state of the case,\" said Affidavy: \"if the young \nman be tried in this county, were it but for killing a farmer's dog, \nhe will die. The name--saving your presence--the name of Gilbert will \nbe hanging matter with any jury. But I'll be short--he bears the \nking's commission, does he not? the commission of a lieutenant among \nthe royal refugees?\"\n\n\"And what then?\"? said Oran.\n\n\"Why then, he must dispute the jurisdiction of the civil tribunal, \nand claim to be considered a prisoner of war. The attack upon the \nFolly is somewhat of a civil offence, to be sure; but he was taken, \nas we may say, in battle; and, in battle, he killed the man for whose \nmurder he will be certainly arraigned, if proceedings are not quashed \nin the beginning. As a commissioned officer of the crown, \nhowever\"----\n\n\"And what if he be _not_ a commissioned officer,\" said the refugee, \nwith a low voice.\n\n\"Why then,\" replied Affidavy, \"I have to say, gentlemen of the \njury----Pshaw! that is,--hemp seed and a white shirt--you understand \nme? But with the commission--we will produce that, and then\"----\n\n\"You shall have it,\" said the refugee; but added,--\"It will do no \ngood. A court civil or a court martial,--how should a Gilbert look \nfor mercy from either? What turn would the king's commission serve \n_me_, if a prisoner? Look you, Affidavy, there are better ways of \nending the matter. An hundred guineas are clinking in the bag these \ncame from: it is but the opening of a jail-door to earn it.\"\n\n\"Ay! are you there, Truepenny?--Sir, I'm a lawyer and a gentleman; \nand as to aiding and abetting in any jail-breaking--zounds, sir! for \nwhat do you take me?\"\n\n\"For a wiser man than you would have your neighbours believe,--for a \nman _too_ wise to boggle long at a choice betwixt a hundred guineas \nheld in comfort at home, and empty pockets, with hands and heels tied \ntogether, in a cave of the mountains.\"\n\n\"God bless our two souls,\" said Affidavy, \"what do you mean?\"\n\n\"To have your help, or take good care no one else has it,\" said Oran, \nlaughing. Then, laying his hand upon the lawyer's arm, he added, with \nthe same untimely accompaniment to accents full of sternness, \"Look \nye, Affidavy, you have heard too much for your own comfort, unless \nyou are ready to hear all. You are a friend, or--a prisoner.\"\n\nAt these words, the lawyer was filled with dismay, and indeed struck \ndumb. The terror that beset him, when he first conceived with whom he \nwas confronted on the dark and lonely hill, recurred with double \nviolence; he thought of nothing less than being tomahawked and \nscalped on the spot, and would have taken to his heels without \nfurther ceremony, had his strength availed him to shake off the grasp \nof his companion.\n\n\"Fear naught,\" said Oran, detaining him on his seat, and speaking \ndecisively: \"We were old friends once, as you say, Affidavy: I \nremember, you robbed Elsie Bell's strawberry-patch, when you were a \nboy, and I thumped you for it. So, fear nothing.--Why, man, am I a \nsnake, or a beast, that I should hurt such a creature as _you_? Know \nme better.\"\n\n\"Well, I will,\" said the attorney, still trembling. \"But, \nbotheration, sir, this is a strange way of stating a case to a \nlawyer! As to opening jail-doors, Mr. Oran Gilbert, why I won't \noppose: if you were to bribe Bob Lingo, the jailer, why, I say, I'm \nmum. But what more can you expect? Botheration, sir, I'm no turnkey! \nI'll be mum, sir; but as to joining you in any such prank, God bless \nour two souls, why that would ruin me! And why should you think of \nsuch a thing? 'Tis needless, sir,--as needless as dangerous. The \nking's commission is our pillar of safety: with that in his hand, the \nprisoner can demand, ay, and force his claim to be admitted, to be \ntreated as a prisoner of war; and then, sir, if the matter comes to a \ncourt-martial\"----\n\n\"When it comes to that,\" said Oran, \"what is to save him from being \ntried and condemned as a spy?\"\n\n\"What?\" said the lawyer; \"why a very simple thing. We will hire some \none to swear he did not receive the commission until after his flight \nfrom Hawk-Hollow: and as for the change of name, intentions, and all \nthat, why we shall have time to coin any lies that may serve our \npurpose. As to treason, we escape all arraignment there, his domicile \nbeing clearly within a foreign jurisdiction.\"\n\n\"In a word,\" said Oran Gilbert, \"and to end your scheme at once, he \nis _not_ a commissioned officer. Fool that he was,\" continued the \nbrother, bitterly, \"he refused, and to the last, the warrant that \nwould have been his best friend.\"\n\n\"Whew!\" said Affidavy, \"this alters the case with a vengeance. \nRefused the commission?\"\n\n\"Ay; and it is now in my own hands.\"\n\n\"Oho, is it? Why then, all's one. We'll clap it into his hands,--fill \nup the blanks, if it needs, produce it in court, and who is the \nwiser?\n\n\"You can, at least, try him with it,\" said the refugee; \"but I know \nwhat it will end in. You will see him refuse it, even in prison.\"\n\n\"Why then,\" said Affidavy,--\"Hum, ha--we won't be particular. \nJail-doors _will_ open sometimes; and in case of an hundred guineas \ndown on the nail--(a dangerous business, captain!)--and something \nmore in prospect--(you understand, captain?)--Reputation, captain, \nreputation! 'T may bring me by the heels, captain.--Another hundred \ntherefore, (say, to be paid at New York; for I don't care if I turn \ntory along with you, provided I am not set to fighting:) an hundred \non the nail, and another at York city, and I don't care if I close \nwith you. And then, we must have fifty or so for Bob Lingo; (no \nmanaging such an affair without money.) A deused dull county this, \nand business all worn out. So, captain, an hundred on the nail, \nand\"----\n\n\"It is enough,\" said the refugee; \"you talk now like a man of sense; \nand here are the twenty for earnest. Let us proceed; I have more to \ntell you.\"\n\nThen rising, and whistling to his horse, which obeyed the summons, \nand followed him with great docility, he led the way with Affidavy \nalong the road, exchanging counsels with this precious limb of the \nlaw, on the subject that had drawn him so near to the head quarters \nof his foes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n  What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies,\n  Whom thou, in terms so bloody, and so dear,\n  Hast made thine enemies?----\n  Therefore, by law thou art condemn'd to die.\n                                       SHAKSPEARE.\n\n\nOn the following morning, Affidavy presented himself at the prison, \nand demanded access to his client.\n\n\"Client!\" said the jailer, with a stare. \"Why now, Affidavy, man, \n(begging your pardon for being familiar,) there's none of your birds \nroosting in my hen-house.\"\n\n\"A smaller on that, Lingo,--come, what will you lay?\" said the man of \nlaw, seizing upon the official's hand, and shaking it with great \napparent friendship. \"Come, stir about, Lingo; clink, clink, stir \nbolt, clash key, and open. It's long since we've had a crack \ntogether; but we'll have a jolly rouse yet. Ah! that knotty old \nSchlachtenschlager! my head is in a reel yet; must have something to \nsteady my nerves.\"\n\n\"Well, squire,\" said Lingo, a coarse-featured, shag-headed personage, \nwith a fist like the butt of an oak-tree, and altogether a low and \nmean look which might have been supposed to sink him below the notice \nof the attorney, had not Affidavy's habits made him long since a \nfitting associate for even a meaner man; \"Well, squire,\" he said, \nwith an air as if even he regarded his visiter with some little \ncontempt, \"I don't care if I treat you to a drop; though my whiskey's \nnone of the smoothest, neither.\"\n\n\"Curse your whiskey!\" said the man of law, pulling a guinea from his \npocket. \"Do you see this yellow boy, my lad of knuckles? Botheration \nupon you, I came here to spend the day with you, and I intend to \ntreat you royally. So, call your boy, Hanschen, and let him fetch me \na quart of cognac from old Brauntweinpunsch's, for he keeps the best \nin all Hillborough. And do you take care of the change for me, and \nhelp yourself, if you like, while I am holding counsel with the \nprisoner.\"\n\n\"Icod,\" said Lingo, balancing the coin in his hand, \"I never stick at \na good offer; but I should like to know where this little feller came \nfrom. Howsomever, 'tis none of my business; and so Hans shall go. \nBut, who's your client, squire? I'm glad you've got a job, for you're \na devil of a feller at a speech,--I always said that for you. Which \nprisoner do you wish to see?\"\n\n\"Why, the young Hawk of the Hollow, to be sure.\"\n\n\"Odds bobs, squire,\" said Lingo, scratching his head, \"you're too \nlate for that cock-robin, I'm thinking.\"\n\n\"Too late! He ha'n't broke jail already!\" tried the alarmed attorney.\n\n\"Broke jail _already_!\" echoed Lingo, with a grin. \"I dunna what you \nmean by that; but if he breaks jail at any time, while I'm king of \nthe ring, you may call me Jack Robinson. No, the matter's not so bad \nas that: but he sent yesterday for young Pepperel\"----\n\n\"God bless our two souls!\" ejaculated the lawyer.\n\n\"And they say,\" continued Lingo, \"he is to have old Timberkin \nlikewise; for, it seems, the younker has money.\"\n\n\"What! old Long-tongue Timberkin? Zounds, we'll have the whole \ncrow's-nest at the picking! Oons, man, let me in to him.\"\n\n\"Well, I dunna,\" muttered Lingo, leading the way, however, to the \nprisoner's cell; \"I reckon, 'twere as well to save his money for \nsomething else; for it's a clear case with him, eh, squire?\" And as \nhe spoke, he made a gesture with his finger around his throat, the \nmeaning of which was not to be mistaken. \"Howsomever, here you are. \nWhen you're done with him, just knock at the door, and I'll let you \nout.\"\n\nThe next moment, Affidavy found himself alone with the prisoner. He \nsat, apparently half stupified, on a low bed, beneath a grated \nwindow, from which a silvery light fell upon the crown of his head, \nhis shoulders, his knees, and his hands that were clasped upon them, \nwhile his visage, and nearly all his person, were lost in dusky \nshadow. A little table with food and water was at his side, but both \nwere left apparently untouched. His limbs were unfettered; and this \ncircumstance Affidavy might have referred to the humanity of the \njailer, had he not perceived at a glance how unnecessary was such a \nprecaution with one whose bodily powers were as much enfeebled as \nthose of his spirit. Indeed, there was a look of such utter \nwretchedness about the unfortunate youth as might have softened a \nharder heart than the jailer's; and even Affidavy began to survey him \nwith a touch of pity. He raised his eyes, when the door was opened, \nbut cast them again on the floor; for indeed there was so little in \nAffidavy's appearance to excite attention, that he supposed him to be \nsome assistant of the jailer, or perhaps a common officer, come on \nsome errand of duty, with which he would be soon made acquainted. \nThis suspicion was dispelled by the attorney; who no sooner heard the \nbolt shoot back into the stone door-post, than he advanced, declaring \nhis name and character.\n\n\"Affidavy?\" muttered the youth, with a dejected voice: \"I thought it \nwas Mr. Timberkin, that Mr. Pepperel was to bring me.\"\n\n\"Pshaw, botheration,\" said the lawyer, \"you were a goose to send for \nsuch ninnies; we can do better without them. And what can these \nfellows do for you? Where will you find them riding about of a stormy \nnight, picking up evidence, laying plans, and so on? However, we can \nfind them something to do: I'll sort them; I know what they are \nfitted for. You stare at me--Very well; I understand what you mean. I \ncome from your friends, sir, and\"--\n\n\"From my friends?\" cried Hyland, starting up, wildly: \"from whom? I \nhave no friends here--none, at least, but _one_; and, oh God of \nheaven! they tell me I have killed her too!\"\n\n\"Oh, you mean old Elsie,\" said the attorney: \"hang her, (that is, \npoor old soul!) she's not dead yet.\"\n\n\"But Catherine?--Miss Loring?--Captain Loring's daughter?\" cried the \nyouth, with a voice and countenance of despair; \"what news of her?\"\n\n\"Aha! I understand,\" muttered Affidavy. \"But don't be alarmed; \nthere's no death there.--A little fright and grief, sir,--that's all; \nthey never kill one.\" Hyland clasped his hands, and buried his face \nbetween them; and the lawyer continued,--\n\n\"Quite a small matter, I assure you, and will blow by, when we get \nyou safely off.\"\n\n\"Get me off!\" cried Hyland, again starting to his feet, in the \ngreatest agitation. \"Is there any hope of that? No, there is none!\" \nhe exclaimed, vehemently: \"I am a blood-stained man, I have taken \nlife, I am a murderer\"--\n\n\"Tush and botheration, hush!\" said Affidavy, clapping his hand over \nthe prisoner's mouth; \"why need you be blabbing? That was confession \nenough to end the matter, without plea or witness: 'tis just a charge \nto the jury, a verdict in the box, and then a long face and the \nhangman.\"\n\n\"Misery! misery!\" cried the unhappy youth: \"and to this I have \nbrought myself! the death, the ignominy, of a felon! I know it, I see \nit very clearly,\" he added with indescribable emotion, \"I see how it \nmust end--good God, upon the gallows! But it shall not be; I will die \nfirst--thank heaven, I am dying already! Put but the trial off--they \nsay the court opens this day!--put it off but a week; you shall have \nan hundred guineas, five hundred, a thousand, all that I have!--only \nput off the trial a week, that I may die before they drag me into the \nlight again! I deserve to die, I am willing to die, but not, oh \nheaven! not upon a gibbet!\"\n\n\"Zounds!\" cried Affidavy, who strove in vain to interrupt this burst \nof frenzied feelings, \"you are taking the best way to reach a gibbet, \nnotwithstanding. You are mad, I believe; botheration, sir, if you \ntalk this way, there will be no saving you\"--\n\n\"Saving me! Can I be saved? that is, not from death, but from \nignominious death? Hark you, sir,--they have taken away my money, but \nI have enough more. Get me a knife, a pistol, a rope, a dose of \npoison\"----\n\n\"Tush; if you do not cease this mad raving, and let me speak, I will \nbe gone; you are making the case desperate. Be silent, and listen. \nYour case is bad, sir, very bad, I must confess, sir. But you have \nfriends, sir; and you may hope; yes, you may hope--if you are wise, \nsir, you may hope.--You have----Now don't start, or cry out, or I'll\nleave you--Ehem, sir, I must whisper--you have relations,--a brother, \nsir\"--\n\n\"Oran!\" cried the prisoner, who would have again started up, had he \nnot been held in his seat by Affidavy: \"oh, heaven be thanked! he has \nnot deserted me! Have you seen him? where is he? what can he do for \nme? will he rescue me?\"\n\n\"Tush, you must be quiet. If you will speak, let it be in a whisper. \nAs for the trial, why we will stop that if we can. A British officer, \nwith a king's commission in his hand, taken in arms, cannot be \nshuffled into a cart by a civil tribunal, for following his vocation, \nand slitting a throat or two. Now, Mr. Lieutenant Gilbert, you \nunderstand me? You have a commission.\"\n\n\"No, by heaven! I refused it: I am no officer, and this will not \navail me. I am no officer, I was none; nor was I so much even as a \nvolunteer. I refused the commission up to the last moment, and this \nis the end of it: I would not be the enemy of what was my native \ncountry,--of my countrymen; and now they are all enemies of mine! I \nwas not a member of the band; I never acted with it,--never save that \nfatal once, and then I went not to make war,--no, not even upon the \npoor wretch I killed--Would to God the pistol had been turned against \nmy own breast!\"\n\n\"Tush,\" said Affidavy, interrupting what bade fair to end in another \nviolent paroxysm, \"that's wide of the question. The band looked upon \nyou as officer; and unless that fellow, Sterling\"--\n\n\"The villain! it is he has ruined me!\"\n\n\"Unless he can swear to the contrary, which he can't, (and, \nbotheration, there's a way of stopping his mouth altogether;) who \nwill be the wiser? Now if we could get Dancy Parkins admitted, along \nwith Sterling, as evidence for the commonwealth--However, we can't; \nand we'll say no more about it: the prosecuting attorney swears he'll \nhang him. His mouth is, at all events, sealed. We are safe enough. \nHere is the commission: Now, sir, you will put a bold face on the \nmatter, insist upon your privilege, and\"----\n\n\"Perjure myself with a lie? avow myself the enemy of my native land? \nand so die worse and more degraded than I am? Never! Duplicity has \nmade me what I am; a deception that I thought innocent and harmless, \nhas brought me to this pass. Had I come without concealment, then I \nhad left without disgrace, without crime. Oh fool, fool that I was! \nTalk of this no more: it was on this ground Mr. Pepperel thought of \ndefending me; but on this ground I will not be defended.\"\n\n\"Oho! and young ninny has been before me there, too?\" muttered the \nlawyer. \"Well, botheration,\" he continued, falling into a deep study, \nin which he held counsel only with himself,--\"there is but the one \nshift in which the rascals won't join me,--but one path in which I \ncan walk this goose-head off alone. Well now, all depends upon Lingo: \nthe rogue has a head as thick as a mountain, and a considerable deal \nharder. 'Twere a shame to waste gold upon such a clod-headed pig. \nGive him fifty guineas! God bless our two souls! it were a mere \ncasting of pearls before swine, and, in some sort, a robbing of my \nown pockets. A shilling's worth of laudanum were a better fee, \nbesides being cheaper. But we'll see.\"\n\nHaving concluded his meditations, he turned to the prisoner, who sat \nsurveying him with an anxious countenance, as if expecting some \nbetter comfort from his thoughts, and then said,--\n\n\"Well, botheration, we'll have to think of another thing. It is well \nyou are not fettered.\"----\n\nThe young man writhed as if struck with a lash; but before he could \nspeak, Affidavy continued, though with an emphatic gesture for \nsilence,--\"For that saves us all the vexation and danger of sawing. \nYou see this little instrument?\" he said, displaying a file. \"Now, be \nquiet on your life, sir. You will understand from this, that there is \nsomething in the wind boding you good. You are sick and wasted--you \nwere hurt in the scuffle, too; but put you beyond these stone walls, \nwith a saddled horse under you, could you ride him?--Why, \nbotheration, what makes you tremble so?\"\n\n\"Oh heaven!\" cried Hyland, \"do not mock me! Nay, I will whisper. Give \nme the file: I will cut the grating through.\"\n\n\"It does not need,\" said Affidavy, \"and I have no notion of running \nany risk by leaving it in your hands. But you must understand, sir, \n(hold your ear close,) that this is a very ugly piece of business, \nespecially for _me_: if discovered, sir, I am a ruined man; the \npenalty, sir, is the very next thing to hanging; ay, sir, and in my \nestimation, somewhat worse; but that's according as we think of it. \nNow, sir\"----\n\n\"I understand you,\" muttered Hyland. \"You shall name your own \nreward--half of my estate, if you will; nay, all--_all_, so you get \nme but to the woods, where I can die in peace, and undishonoured!\"\n\n\"Tush, we'll not think of death: you'll live and be happy. Then as \nfor reward, why, sir, I would not have you think me extortionate, or \ncapable of taking advantage of your distress. No, sir, by no means; I \nam a lawyer, sir, but an honest man.\"\n\n\"For God's sake, take what you will. Say nothing more; you shall have \nyour wish.\"\n\n\"Oh, sir,\" said Affidavy, \"there is no hurry. As for taking all your \nestate, or even half of it, sir,--sir, do not believe I will think of \nthat! No, sir; I am neither a buzzard nor a niggur's dog. But I must \nbe indemnified for losses: I ruin myself, sir,--I must sacrifice an \nexcellent practice, sir,--my reputation, sir, and my prospects. In a \nword, sir, I must e'en take to my heels along with you; for after \nsuch a prank as a jail-breaking, the county will be too hot to hold \nme. Sir, I remember your father: he was a wronged man, sir; and my \nfeelings will not suffer me to see his youngest son too severely \nhandled. I once knew your brothers, sir, and I always thought they \nwere badly treated. Sir, I feel much grieved to see poor old Mr. \nGilbert's son brought to such a pass. Sir, my regard for your \ndeceased parent makes me do what I do; and, (not to whip the devil \nround the stump any longer, sir,) I must confess, sir, that what I do \nis a very scoundrelly piece of business, sir; which if any body had \nproposed to me in behalf of any other person in the world, I should \ncertainly, sir, have knocked the proposer over the mazzard,--I would, \nsir, botheration.\"\n\n\"What needs more words?\" said Hyland, too much agitated to think of \nweighing the motives of his new ally in the balance of conscience or \ninterest. \"Make your demand, and have it.\"\n\n\"Ah! sir,\" said Affidavy, with a snuffle through the nose, \"it is a \nsorrowful thing to be driven from home and friends, to wander an \nexile over the earth! There's my poor Mrs. Affidavy,--the thing will \nbreak her heart. However,\" he added, for the prisoner began to wax \nfrantic with impatience, \"I don't believe in breaking hearts, after \nall,--especially Mrs. Affidavy's. Sir, you are a rich man, and a \nyoung man, and a man without family or cares. I will not sell my \nhumanity, sir; no, botheration, I'm above that; but I will accept of \nyour superfluity what will indemnify me for the losses I endure in \nyour service. Your case is very bad, sir; and indeed, if you were \neven a commissioned officer, it could not be much better. The \nindictment is already framed, and will this day, or at furthest \nto-morrow, be returned a true bill by the grand jury. You are a rich \nman, sir--had I pleaded your cause and saved your life, I should have \nexpected a fee of five hundred guineas, (a small sum for a rich man's \nlife;) and there's old Long-tongue and Pepperel would have demanded \nas much more, each. But, sir, I'll save you five hundred guineas; and \nleave these fellows to whistle. We'll say a thousand guineas, then, \nand\"----\n\n\"All, I tell you, all, all!\" cried the unhappy prisoner. \"Take any \nthing, take every thing\"----\n\n\"God forbid!\" cried Affidavy, devoutly; \"I will not prey upon you. If \nyou, from your own generosity, should think of adding five hundred \nmore to the fifteen hundred, why sir, I should thankfully receive \nthem. But I leave that to yourself, sir. At present, sir, I shall be \ncontent with what I have named; and will take your note of hand for \nthe amount. You see, sir,\" he added, drawing from a huge and well \nthumbed pocket-wallet, a slip of paper, which with an ink-horn, he \nimmediately deposited on the table, \"I have drawn this entirely in \nyour favour, payment not to be demanded unless upon the successful \ncompletion of a certain service not mentioned, and then in such way \nas will suit your convenience. If I fail, sir, I am ruined, sir, and \nyet receive nothing. Allow me to fill the blanks, sir, and then, sir, \nyou can sign. I will fill them first, sir, in order that you may see \nI take no advantage of you, sir. Two thousand guineas, sir, is a \nsmall sum, a very small sum, when one thinks of a gallows.--Sir, be \nnot alarmed--your hand trembles, sir; but I trust to your honour to \nrecognise the signature--yes, sir, I prefer your honour to twenty \nwitnesses, sir. You shall escape, sir; or damn it, sir,\" added the \nharpy, in the enthusiasm of gratitude, \"I will hang along with you!\"\n\nIt was fortunate the worthy Affidavy had some bowels of compassion; \nfor had he filled up the blanks of his villanous contract with an \namount comprehending the whole worldly wealth of the poor prisoner, \nit would have been subscribed with equal alacrity. What was gold in \nthe balance with life? what price could be held dear that procured a \nremission from ignominy? Hyland clutched at the pen as at the bolt of \nhis prison-door; and, in the same frenzy, subscribed, in addition, an \norder committing his good roan horse to the disposition of his \ncounsel, which Affidavy declared to be necessary, Hyland neither \nasked or sought to know how, to the success of the enterprise. This \naccomplished, and the papers safely deposited away in the wallet, the \nattorney wrung his client by the hand, and that somewhat wildly, \ngiving him to understand that he was to hold himself in readiness \nthat very night to escape, and recommending him to sleep a little \nduring the day, the better to support the toil of flight. He charged \nhim, twenty times over, to be silent and wary, to look as wo-begone \nand despairing as possible, and above all things to hold no \nconversation that could be avoided, with his other counsel. Then \nwringing his hand again, with the most convulsive sympathy, he \nknocked at the cell-door, was let out, and would have run into the \nopen air without uttering a word, so big was his mind with the \nconception of his vast fee, had he not been arrested by the \nastonished jailer.\n\n\"Ods bobs!\" said Lingo, \"have you forgot the brandy, squire?\"\n\n\"Botheration!\" cried Affidavy, with a wild stare.\n\n\"Ods bobs!\" re-echoed Lingo, \"is the man mad? Why, Affidavy, what \nails you? You look as white and wild as the prisoner!\"\n\n\"Oh! ah! ay! the prisoner? yes, the prisoner,\" said the attorney, \nrubbing his nose and chin with great zeal, and recovering his wits. \n\"Oh, ay, I remember: the prisoner, poor fellow! Ah, Lingo, Lingo! \n'tis a hard case, a sorrowful case, a heart-aching case. I declare, \nLingo, I could sit down and blubber; I could, botheration, I could!\" \nand here the sympathetic counsel, to Lingo's amazement, burst into a \nloud uproarious laugh, such as he had never been known to give vent \nto before.\n\n\"The devil's in the man, sure enough,\" said Lingo. \"But I see, I \nsee,\" he muttered, surveying Affidavy sagaciously, \"he has been \nblowing it a little too hard, and now he's getting a touch of the \n_Horrors_. Well, well, brandy's the best cure for that; and he shall \nhave a snap at his own medicine.\"\n\nSo saying, the jailer poured out a glass of cognac, the rich odour of \nwhich had no sooner reached Affidavy's nostrils than his spirits \nbecame composed, he stretched forth his hand, and the smacking of his \nlips proclaimed the fervour of his satisfaction.\n\n\"Old Brauntweinpunsch for ever!\" he cried. \"Ah, Lingo, you dog! you \nknow what's what! Ehem, sir, botheration and tush! God bless our two \nsouls, but I'm monstrous sleepy! Out all last night, Lingo, in the \nrain; was upset in the brook up at old Schlachtenschlager's, and half \ndrowned, and hadn't a wink of sleep. I believe, I was dreaming all \nthe time the poor fellow up there was telling his story. Must go home \nand nap a little--But no, I can't! Will finish the jug there, Lingo, \nbefore the day's out, ehem. Can give us a bed, here, Lingo, man, in \ncase of necessity? What d'ye say? Rather full at Mrs. Affidavy's, and \na wash-day, too. Oh, you dog, botheration, we'll have a rouse under \nlock and key to-night, won't we? Have something to tell you, and must \nbe near the prisoner. But mum, boy, mum's the word! We'll have a \nrouse to the health of my client.\"\n\nWith that, the attorney made another long face, fell into a second \nroar of merriment, and went flying from the prison.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n                             If this should fail,\n  And that our drift look through our bad performance,\n  'Twere better not essay'd: therefore this project\n  Should have a back, or second, that might hold,\n  If this should blast in proof.\n                                                HAMLET.\n\n\nIt was night before Affidavy returned again to the prison; a \ncircumstance that might be supposed to puzzle the brain of the jailer \nnot a little, whenever he happened to cast his eyes upon the bottle \nprovided at the lawyer's own expense, and considered the notorious \ndegree of attraction existing between the material spirits of the \none, and the immaterial spirit of the other. Before he had yet \ndetermined whether the phenomenon should be attributed to the \ndisorder of mind he was first disposed to suspect on the part of \nAffidavy, or to some uncommon display of his zeal on the prisoner's \nbehalf, Affidavy made his appearance, and notwithstanding the \nlateness of the hour, was immediately admitted,--not so much, \nhowever, as a man of law visiting his client, as an old friend and \ncrony, whom Lingo introduced for his own private satisfaction. The \nattorney, nevertheless, after squeezing the jailer's hand, and giving \nway to a grin of extraordinary friendship, averred he must see his \nclient, before indulging a moment in pleasure; and assuring Lingo, \nwith uncommon spirit and generosity, that he designed treating him \nlike a prince, bade him, out of the funds he had placed in his hands, \nlay in a store of all drinkables he could devise, with pipes and \ntobacco, and so forth, so that they might have a jolly time of it \ntogether. Then, after remaining half an hour with the prisoner, he \nreturned to the jailer's private quarters, snapped his fingers, as if \nexulting at being delivered from toil and restraint, swore he was the \nbusiest dog that ever slaved at a case, but would take his comfort \nand his ease, without troubling himself farther for the night, were \nall the gallows-dogs in the world calling on him for assistance. \n\"Drink, Lingo, you rogue,\" said he; \"give me a pipe, and snuff the \ncandle; for I abhor taking the first whiff out of a greasy old \ncotton-wick. Drink, you big-fisted, honest old sly-boots; and I'll \ntell you all about the case.\"\n\n\"Well, squire, I'm for you,\" said Lingo, swallowing a draught that \nshowed him to be serious; \"but I reckon I know all about the case; \nand it's a clear hanging matter, as you must own.\"\n\n\"If I do, botheration on me!\" said the lawyer. \"There's two sides to \nevery case; and all killing a'n't murder, nor manslaughter neither, \nfor the matter of that.\"\n\n\"Well, it's well to keep a good heart--I always said you had good \npluck, Affidavy, especially in desperate cases: but there was old \nTimberkin here this afternoon, who went off with a long face; and \nthere was Pepperel, who as much as confessed there was no hope for \nthe young one. And why should there be? For my part, I don't reckon \nit any great matter to have plumped a bullet into one of the Falconer \nkidney; but when it comes to a bloody refugee playing such outdacious \ntricks, why there, Affidavy, I stick; it's clear ag'in all principle; \nand there's ne'er a man of any jury you can pack in the county, but \nwill say--_Hang!_\"\n\n\"Tush, drink--here's to you. You've been gabbling with Pepperel and \nTimberkin--numskulls, Lingo--between you and me, numskulls. What do \nthey know about the case? what have they been doing to study it? Here \nhave they been all day laying their fool's pates together over it, \nlike two owls at mid-day over a dead bull-frog, not knowing what to \nmake of it. Drink, you rascal. Now had you but been at old \nSchlachtenschlager's last night! Ah!--However, that's neither here \nnor there. Now, I, my boy, botheration, I study my cases in another \nmanner, and I have been studying this hard all day. But how? Ay, \nthere's the question, tush. Riding about, hunting witnesses from post \nto pillar, serving _subpoenas_, and all that, and smelling out the \nintents of the prosecution.\"\n\n\"What witnesses do you want?\" said Lingo: \"it's a clear case, and the \nyounker owns to it. I'm to swear myself, that he admitted the murder: \nhe made no denial\"----\n\n\"He's an ass,\" said Affidavy; \"a fool and a madman, who would knock \nhis head against a post, sooner than go round it, were his skull no \nthicker even than a pumpkin-shell.\"\n\n\"Oh, ay!\" said Lingo, nodding over his glass, \"I see what you're at: \nyou'll make it out a _non cumpuss_ case? But that won't do, squire; I \nswear ag'in' you there: there's no mad in him; there's more in some \nof the witnesses. But I suppose you have been raking up for witnesses \nabout old Elsie Bell's? The lad begged I would send for her; but, \nthey say, she is in a dying way?\"\n\n\"Bad enough, bad enough,\" said the lawyer: \"and a good witness, too; \nbut we can do without her.\"\n\n\"Well, I reckon you'll want all you have,\" said the jailer; \"for \nthey're strong for the commonwealth. There's Dancy Parkins, they've \ntaken him for state's evidence, along with this here gallivanting \nfellow, Sterling, that came in for quarter, and a power of others \nbeside. I dunna why they're so easy on Dancy; but they say, he's not \ndeep in for't; and the prosecution's ag'in' hanging him. They say, \nColonel Falconer has sworn he will have the youngster's blood, if it \ncosts him the price of Hawk-Hollow twice over.\"\n\n\"Tush, what care we? The devil take Falconer, and the witnesses \ntoo,--as undoubtedly the devil will. As for your Sterling, I can \nsmash his testimony as I would a rotten apple. Botheration, the man \nhas a neck of his own.\"\n\n\"Oh, ay, in the matter of the spying?\" said Lingo: \"but they say, \nthey will wink and let him off, if Colonel Falconer be so minded; and \nthey say, too, he was promised protection by the soldiers, and a \nclear pardon, on condition he fetched 'em into all Oran Gilbert's \nhiding-places. I don't see, for my part, how a soldier can promise \nany such thing, seeing that a soldier is neither a judge nor a \ngovernor. And moresomover, there's the matter of the attempt to do \nmurder on Colonel Falconer; for, I reckon, that can be proved on him; \nand how he is to get clear of that, if the Colonel pushes him, I \ndon't know. Howsomever, his case is bad--the man has a bad \nconscience; though, perhaps, 'tis only a small touch of the \nhorrors,--for he has been drinking hard ever since he has been in \nprison.\"\n\n\"Oh, the devil take him, base turncoat and betrayer,\" said Affidavy: \n\"I hold honour among thieves to be as good a rule as honesty between \nfriends. And between you and me, Lingo, he has served the Hawks a \nturn they will not forget. You know how they hanged that soldier, \nParker? Well now, two pigs to a pound of butter, as the saying is, \nyou'll hear of this fellow swinging in a swamp, some time before \ndoomsday.\"\n\n\"Ay; when they get him,\" said Lingo, \"and with all my heart. But, you \nsee, there's no talk of proceeding against him; and when the trial's \nover, I reckon he'll show the county a clean pair of heels--that is, \nif he ever gets over his hurts; for, you must know, there's something \nof the staggers about him,--a sort of horrors, as I said,--but I \ndon't know; and if you stay here long enough, you'll hear him squeal \nout in his sleep, like a choking dog. Ods bobs! he made a squeak last \nnight, and I thought the devil had him: so I runs into his room, and \nthere I sees him sitting on his bed-side, all of a shiver, and as \nwhite as a sheet, singing out, as if he was talking to old Nicodemus,\n\n  'Shake not your jolly locks at me,'\n\nor something of that natur', I dunna what, but it was about locks and \nbolts, and the lord knows what; but I fetched him a box on the ear; \nand that brought him to, and he fell to groaning. And now, Affidavy, \nhere's to you; and I don't care if I do you a bit of a service, \nthough I don't see what good can come of it. If it will do your cause \nany service, to knock this here testimony on the head, why a hint's \nas good as a long sermon, as the saying is. Just 'validate him on the \np'int of his upper story, and call me and Hanschen to swear to his \ndoings and sayings; for I reckon, he's a clearer _non cumpuss_ case \nthan the prisoner. Howsomever, that can't do no good; for I'm clear \nin for swearing to the youngster's admitting he killed the deceased, \nwhich is quite a settler of the whole hash.\"\n\n\"Tush,\" said Affidavy, \"let him swear, and swear his best. There is \ntestimony enough to do the business, if we trust to that. The devil \ntake the case; I won't bother my brains with it any further. However, \nLingo, my boy, it was a queer thing of yours, that letting the \nprisoner go clear of gloves and garters. He might break jail,--eh, my \nboy!\"\n\n\"As how?\" said Lingo. \"No, squire, you don't come over me there. I \nclapped the irons on him at first; but, you see, poor fellow, I saw \nhe was sick, and just as weak and heavy-hearted as a pipped poult, \nand no more fear of dodging in him than an old horse: so I knocked \nthe clinkers off, and let him have the swing of the room, poor \nfellow; and there he's safe enough. Moresomover, I never heard tell \nof his being much of a Hawk, only in blood and name; and I have a \nsort of pity on him.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" said Affidavy, with a melancholy stare; \"if you were to \nhear his story, Lingo, it would melt your heart; for you have a soft \nheart, Lingo, a merciful heart, Lingo; and it will go well with you, \nLingo; for there's something said in the Bible about the merciful.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Lingo, \"I don't set up for much of that, nor for much \nreligion neither; but I never beats a prisoner, except when he's \ncontrary; and this here youngster seems much of a gentleman; and I \nhave a notion, if he's well treated, he may leave me something; for \nhe has a gold watch, (howsomever, the Sheriff's got it;) and, they \nsay, he's well-to-do in the world.--But, squire, drink on; it's \ngetting late.\"\n\n\"Let it,\" said Affidavy; \"here am I fixed for the night; for how do I \nknow but that you may be in trouble before morning, and may want a \nfriend to help you?\"\n\n\"Trouble! and help!\" said Lingo, looking up with surprise. \"If you \nmean that Sterling and his squeaking, why, ods bobs, it only needs a \ncuff or two to bring him about. Ods bobs, Affidavy,\" he added, with a \ngrin, \"if you stay, I reckon, it's _you_ may want a friend to help \nyou. I don't say nothing; but he that's got a speech to make before \ncourt and jury to-morrow, should not be too free of the creatur' \nto-night.\"\n\nAffidavy, who had not yet betrayed any strong symptoms of being \naffected by his good cheer, shook his head mysteriously, and then \nreplied,\n\n\"There's no telling what might happen, Lingo. These refugees are \ndevils incarnate, as far as daring goes. The whole regiment here is \nout in chase of them, and all the able-bodied men of the village in \ncompany; so that there's nothing left to keep guard over us but old \nwomen and young ones. Now, Lingo, we'll suppose a case--how many men, \narmed with muskets and axes, would it take to sack your stone jug \nhere, smash open a door, and let out the prisoners?\"\n\n\"Ods bobs!\" said Lingo, \"I don't know: but I reckon I could hold out, \nme and Hanschen, until we had assistance. But, howsomever, that's \nsupposing a case that can't happen.\"\n\n\"Don't be too secure,\" said the attorney, with a solemn voice; \"for \nthere's no saying what may happen, when there's such a man as Oran \nGilbert in the case. I reckon, an axe and a few crowbars, with an \nauger or two, might soon make way through the yard-gate; and then, \nthe back-door would be but a mere joke; and then, Lingo, why \nsurrender, or hard axe and soft head would be the end of it.\"\n\n\"Ods bobs!\" said Lingo, \"what puts such a notion as that into your \nhead? There's ne'er a tory, now, within forty miles of us!\"\n\n\"Ah, Lingo! This is a wicked world, with a good many crooked ways in \nit; and there's a deal of 'em lead to the jail-door. My own notion \nis, that Oran Gilbert is lying where no one would think of disturbing \nhim. Now, Lingo, you and I are friends. You're an honest fellow, \nLingo, but, botheration, you're mortal. And so, Lingo, I shouldn't \ntrust you too far, if Oran Gilbert came to the wall-gate, about the \ntime of cricket-cry, chucked you over a purse with a matter of ten\nguineas or so in it, while you stood peeping at the key-hole.\"\n\n\"Oho!\" said Lingo, staring at the attorney with that sort of \nperplexity which a stupid man betrays when endeavouring to fathom the \npoint of a jest, which he is sensible ought to be laughed at; \"Oho, \nsquire, I see what you are after,--he, he, he!\" he said, beginning to \ngiggle, and lifting a glass as he laughed. \"I'm a mortal man, sure \nenough, and might take a fee, as well as e'er a lawyer in the land. \nBut ten guineas is a small sum, Affidavy; and as for opening a \njail-door for such a small matter, why, Affidavy, that's only--he, \nhe, he! And so you've been retained by the tories? he, he, he! Well, \nI was wondering where the yallow boy came from,--he, he, he!\"\n\n\"Tush! retained by the tories? _I!_\" said the man of law, somewhat \ndisconcerted.\n\n\"Oh, squire, a joke for a joke's all fair; tit for tat, you know,--\n\n           'Tit for tat,\n            Butter for fat,\n  Kick my dog, and I'll kill your cat,'\n\nas the saying is;\" and the worthy Lingo again burst into a peal of \nmirth, which allayed the sudden alarm of his companion. Affidavy \nlooked him in the face, and became satisfied from the air of stupid \nglee which invested the jailer's features, that the liquor was \nsuddenly beginning to fill his noddle; and in this conceit he was \nconfirmed by Lingo adding, after another preliminary giggle,\n\n\"Well now, Affidavy, I'm an honest feller,--as you say, but I scorn \nbeing a fool. I know what's what; and I wish somebody would chuck me \nten guineas over the wall-gate; I wouldn't ask him whether he was a \ntory or true American; for, you see, a guinea's a guinea, and clean \nstuff, no matter what pocket it comes from. But then, squire, as to \nopening the gate for such a small matter, he, he, he! why, I'm too \nhonest for that. I'm a poor man, but, as I said, he, he, he! I scorn \nbeing a fool; and so, he, he, he! as you and me is friends, Affidavy, \nwhy, if the man was to chuck about fifty more to the back of 'em, \nwhy, he, he, he! I don't know what might become of my prisoners.\"\n\n\"Fifty guineas!\" cried Affidavy, grinning in return, but with a sort \nof scorn; \"that's putting your honesty at a higher price than your \nsoul, for which, botheration, I would not give half the money.\"\n\n\"He, he!\" said Lingo, slapping his boon companion on the knee, and \nnodding and winking in a manner meant to be exceedingly significant; \n\"but come now, what'll they give? for I'll stand to reason.\"\n\n\"Give! _who_ give?\" said Affidavy, affecting surprise. \"Oh! the \ntories, you mean. Tush, how do I know? Perhaps you might get twelve \nor thirteen guineas out of them; and that's a good round sum.\"\n\n\"He, he, he!\" said Lingo; \"but what do you get yourself?\"\n\n\"I!\" said Affidavy, again alarmed. His trepidation was however driven \nto flight by another fit of laughter, in which Lingo's honest \ncountenance indicated the most expressive innocence of all suspicion.\n\n\"Ods bobs!\" said he, \"I wouldn't sell a prisoner under fifty pounds; \nand if they'd talk to me about that, he, he, he!\"--and here he could \nscarce proceed for laughing: \"No, no; if you'll strike a bargain for \nme for fifty pounds, in hard money, why then, he, he! they may take \nmy prisoners, and hang them, if they will. But it's all one; there's \nno such luck for poor Bob Lingo: honesty won't fetch any thing worth \nhaving now-a-days. Fifty guineas! a small sum: why one could get more \nfor letting a tory _in_ jail. But, he, he, he! it's all one to Bob \nLingo. I'm 'mazing sleepy, squire! But I know what'll keep me awake, \nhe, he! I've got a barrel of wonderful fine cherry bounce; and, he, \nhe! I'll go fetch a pitcher of it, and we'll make a night of it, I \nwarrant me.\"\n\nWith these words, he left the apartment.\n\n\"Bravissimo!\" said the attorney, as soon as he had departed; \"I'll \ncheat the unconscionable rascal out of every penny. He's as drunk as \na pig already.\"\n\nHe stole to the door, peeped out, and then, satisfied that Lingo was \nbeyond observation, proceeded to pour into a glass, from a little \nvial he drew from his pocket, a goodly dose of laudanum, to which he \nforthwith added sugar and brandy, muttering to himself all the while, \n\"Here's a dose for the dog will make him sleep like a wood-chuck at \nChristmas; but 'twont hurt him. Botheration, I'm sleepy myself, the \nlord knows: but two thousand guineas! Two thousand devils! I'm a made \nman, even if the young ass repents his bargain and makes me 'bate one \nhalf!--Give _him_ fifty guineas! pearls before swine! He'll sleep \nlike a top; and as for Hanschen, why he's fast already----Devils!\nwhat's that?--Oh, the drunken fool has tumbled over a chair, and \nsmashed the pitcher!--Could hear the clink and clatter together. Am \nsomewhat drunk myself; but a little does me good.\"\n\nHaving completed the soporific potion so kindly designed for Lingo, \nand not without producing some clattering of glasses, for he was far \nfrom being sober, he sat down and prepared a second glass as much \nlike the first as possible, except that he took good care not to \nqualify it from the vial, which he restored to his pocket. He then \nbegan to hum, and kick his heels together, wondering what kept the \njailer away so long. \"The town is already fast asleep,\" he grumbled, \n\"and my three jolly tories will be whistling at the gate like seven \nthousand katydids. Poor Mrs. Affidavy! how she will stare and scold \nin the morning! Odd rabbit her, she has a tongue might suit a judge \non the bench; and, botheration, it will be a lucky day for me, when \nI'm well quit of her.\"\n\nWhile he rejoiced over his prospect of deliverance, Lingo re-entered \nthe apartment, bearing a huge pitcher, from which he contrived, at \nevery step, to discharge, so wide and uncertain was his gait, no mean \nquantity of its purple contents. Indeed, if appearances were to be \ntrusted, he was already so far gone in intoxication, that it needed \nbut one glass more to stretch him on the floor; and Affidavy hailed \nhis infirmity as the herald of success.\n\n\"Ods bobs!\" said the jailer, staggering up to the table, and \ndepositing his burthen with so little dexterity that half its \ncontents went splashing over his friend, \"here's stuff for you! But a \njail's a bad place to keep liquor. Ods bobs, I broke my shin over a \nfetter-bolt, and, ods bobs, I broke my new blue pitcher; but, ods \nbobs, who cares for expense?\"\n\n\"Botheration,\" said Affidavy, \"here I've mixed you a brandy \ncock-tail, and you've spilled the bounce into it. However, I warrant, \nit's all the better.\"\n\n\"Ay, I warrant me, old Teff,\" said Lingo, giving him an affectionate \nhug round the neck, \"and we'll drink it, my boy, like a lord and a \ntrue-hearted American. But, ods bobs, my boy, gi' me a chair; for, \nd'ye see, I sprained my leg, and it's weak under me.\"\n\n\"Oh, ay,\" said Affidavy, dragging the jailer's chair round to his own \nend of the table.--\"But stop there, you fool, you've got _my_ glass!\"\n\n\"Hic--cup--where's the difference? he, he!\" said Lingo, yielding, \nhowever, the glass he had taken, and receiving that which Affidavy \nhad so craftily prepared. \"Here's to you, old Teff Affidavy!\"\n\n\"Here's to you!\" said the lawyer; and both raised the glasses to \ntheir lips. The attorney watched his victim with the eyes of a mouser \nintent upon her prey. He saw him swallow one mouthful, and then a \nsecond, and then--the jailer withdrew the vessel from his lips.\n\n\"Botheration!\" murmured Affidavy to himself, \"does the villain taste \nit?\"\n\nHe was soon relieved from his fear. Lingo laid the glass on the \ntable, and turning to Affidavy, burst into a fit of maudlin weeping, \nbetraying, at the same time, a strong disposition to repeat the \nfraternal embrace. As Affidavy felt no inclination to balk this \nfriendly intention, he laid down his own glass, and was instantly \ntaken round the neck by the jailer, who exclaimed, in the most \npathetic manner in the world,\n\n\"Ods bobs, old Teff, I don't know what will become of me!\"\n\n\"Why, what's the matter?\" said Affidavy.\n\n\"Why, ods bobs,\" blubbered the other, \"one day, when I was a little \nboy, I licked my father; and there's no good can come of it.\"\n\n\"Tush, you ass,\" said the attorney, \"you might have trounced your \nmother too, if you had been so minded. But, botheration on you, let \nme go, and drink your cock-tail.\"\n\n\"Well, I will,\" said Lingo; \"but it's a murdering piece of business \nto whip one's father; and I've a notion to give myself up, and let \n'em hang me. But I can't hang without counsel, and I can't spare \nmoney to pay a fee. Now, old Teff, my boy, you're my friend, and if \nyou'll make a speech for me for nothing----I always stuck up for your \nbeing the cutest lawyer in the county, and I'll lick any body that \nsays No to it----now if you'll make me a speech, I reckon I may get \noff for nothing, with a clear 'quittal.\"\n\n\"Drink, you fool,\" said Affidavy; \"I'll take the case, and charge you \nnothing.\"\n\n\"He, he!\" said Lingo, snatching up his glass, \"we'll go 'em, then, \nslick as a snake in a new skin. Here's to you, Teff, my old boy! and \nthe devil eat his liver that don't drink smash down to the bottom! \nHic--cup,--here's to you.\"\n\nHe swallowed his potation, and the attorney, without a moment's \nhesitation, drained his own at a single draught. But scarce had he \nwithdrawn the glass from his lips, before he started up, exclaiming,\n\n\"God bless our two souls! what was in the glass? Ah, Lingo, you fool, \n'twas that cursed bounce you spilled in it! Vile trash, you dog, vile \ntrash!\"\n\n\"What! my bounce?\" cried Lingo, indignantly; \"as good bounce as was \never brewed, and, ods bobs, a good deal better. But now, you jolly \nold Teff, let's sing a song. Don't sit there staring at me, like a \nstarved cat; but sing, you old rascal; let's sing 'Vain Britons.'\"\n\n\"The oddest taste in the world,\" said Affidavy, in obvious \nbewilderment: \"sure there must have been some mistake!\"--And, in \neffect, there was; for at the very moment when the jailer was \nembracing his friend, and beseeching the favour of his counsel, he \nslid one hand behind him to the table, and there kept it until he had \neffected a mutual interchange of places between the two glasses; the \nconsequence of which was, that when the fondling fit was over, and \nthe vessels resumed, he himself got possession of the innocent \ndraught, while Affidavy caught up and swallowed that designed for his \ncompanion. Had Lingo been in any condition but that in which he \nappeared, the attorney would have conceived the trick in a moment; \nbut a look at the jailer's innocent visage was sufficient to banish \nall suspicion of foul play; and in consequence, he could only stare \nabout him in wonder and perplexity, nodding his head up and down in a \nmanner the most ludicrous in the world, while Lingo testified his \nindifference and patriotism together, by lanching out, in a \nquavering, drunken voice, upon a camp-song, said to be then highly \npopular among the continental soldiers.\n\n  'Vain Britons! boast no longer, with insolence and glee,\n   By land your conquering legions, your matchless strength by sea;\n   For lo! at length Americans their sword have girded on,\n   And sung the loud Huzza! huzza! for war and Washington!'\n\n  'Sent forth by North for vengeance, your gallant champions came;\n   With _tea_, with _treason_, and with _George_, their lips were all\n         on flame:\n   Yet, sacrilegious though it seem, we rebels still live on,\n   And laugh to scorn your empty threats, and so does Washington.'\n\n  'Still deaf to mild entreaties, still blind to England's good,\n   Your knaves, for thirty pieces, betrayed your country's blood:\n   Like \u00c6sop's cur, you'll only gain a shadow for a bone,\n   Yet find us dangerous shades, indeed, inspired by Washington.'\n\nThe third stanza of this patriotic roundelay (there are a dozen \nstanzas altogether,) was sung by Lingo with especial emphasis, \nparticularly the second and third line, and might have conveyed to \nthe attorney some inkling of the true state of the question between \nthem, had not his senses been already overpowered. The strength of \nthe draught, aided not a little by the vigilance of the succeeding \nnight, was too much for Affidavy's brain; and before the stanza was \nconcluded, he slipped from his chair to the floor, and there lay like \na log.\n\nThe jailer concluded the song; then springing up, he burst into a \nhearty laugh, exclaiming, \"Ods bobs, I've outlawyered the lawyer! and \nthere he is, as fast as a poker. Now, you old fool,\" he added, \nwithout a vestige of intoxication remaining, (and indeed his \ndrunkenness had been all assumed) \"if there was too much stuff in the \nmixing, why e'en take the consequence, for it was all of your own \nbrewing.\"\n\nThen stooping down, he examined Affidavy's pockets. The first thing \nhe laid hands on, was the vial of laudanum, which he smelt at with \ngreat glee; he then filched out a leathern purse, containing, \naccording to his own verbal inventory, \"sixteen guineas in gold, two \nSpanish dollars, a French crown-piece, and an English shilling--Oho \nold Teff!\" The next thing discovered was the pocket-wallet, from \nwhich he drew to light the note of hand which the cormorant had \ncaused the prisoner to sign in the morning. All these different items \nhe deposited under lock and key, in a closet, from which he also drew \na pair of horse-pistols, and an old horseman's sword, all of which he \nproceeded to buckle round his body.\n\nWhile thus engaged, some one softly approached, tapped at the door, \nand being bidden to enter, disclosed the features of his assistant \nHanschen.\n\n\"Done him up!\" said Lingo, pointing to the prostrate figure; and then \ndemanded, \"All ready?\"\n\n\"Yaw.\"\n\n\"How many?\"\n\n\"Fy, dtare's Sturmhausen, Schnapps, and tree oders, mit guns and \npistols.\"\n\n\"Ods bobs, then, we'll nab 'em; for they can't muster half so many. \nHave you chained the prisoner?\"\n\n\"Yaw; and he turned pale, and fainted afay. Then I put polts on Tancy \nParkins; and now I fill go fix the t'oder, Shterling.\"\n\n\"Never mind him; he's safe. Now, Hans, you must fight like a \nbull-dog, if there's any fighting at all. But not a word about the \nlawyer here. Here's a pistol: take a swig at the bounce, and we'll \ncarry it down to the boys, to warm their hearts a little. If we catch \nthat Oran, ods bobs, I don't know what the reward is, but it will be \nthe making of us.\"\n\n\"Yaw,\" said Hans; and picking up the pitcher, he followed the jailer \ninto the yard. Here they found five stout men, with whom the jailer \nconversed in whispers, and then, after all had drunk of the pitcher, \nhe led them towards the gate, saying, as he bade them lie down on \neither side of it,--\"Now mind ye, men; I hold to the lock, and here's \nmy cue: If any enters, why I claps the gate to behind them, and then \nouts with the key; and then you're to jump up and on 'em, taking 'em \nalive, if you can. But mind ye, you're not to stir, till you hear me \ngive the signal to fall on; and the signal is, _You're welcome, \ngentlemen_. Don't forget it. Now, 'taint sure they'll come; but if \nthey do, ods bobs, we've got 'em!\"\n\nHaving thus received their instructions, the whole party squatted \ndown on the ground, and awaited the issue of their adventure in \nsilence. The village jail was a small, though strong, building of \nstone, and the yard, therefore, on the rear, in which the prisoners \nwere sometimes allowed to air themselves, was of no great extent. It \nwas surrounded, however, by a high and strong wall, the gate to which \nwas of heavy double planking, strengthened with bars of iron; and the \nlock was of weight sufficient to make any prisoner despair of forcing \nit.\n\nIt was perhaps midnight, when these silent guards,--seven in number, \nincluding the jailer and his assistant,--took their places. The night \nwas perfectly clear, and so far unfavourable to the assailants, if \nassailants they really were; of which, it must be confessed, honest \nLingo could not affect to be certain, his whole information amounting \nto no more than the few ambiguous phrases he had caught from \nAffidavy. But then this fellow, under a stupid countenance, concealed \nan astonishing fund of quickness and cunning, of which the attorney \nlittle dreamed; and long before Affidavy had opened his lips on the \nsubject, Lingo had seen and noted enough to give edge to the native \nsuspiciousness of his character. The appearance of Affidavy himself, \nclaiming to be one of the prisoner's counsel, instantly set his wits \nto work; he marvelled who had retained him, since he knew he had not \nyet seen the prisoner. Then the appearance of the guinea, a rare coin \nin such hands, and devoted with such magnificent nonchalance to the \npurpose of doing honour to _him_, was not without its virtue in \nstirring his conjectures, especially when it came to be added to the \ninvitation Affidavy so coolly gave himself to repeat his visit, and \nspend the night in the jail. He ascertained without trouble, that the \nattorney soon after leaving the prisoner, had ridden into the \ncountry, where he remained all day, without once seeking a conference \nwith either of the prisoner's original counsellors; and one or two \nother little circumstances he discovered, which prepared him to \nunderstand, and make the most of what Affidavy afterwards divulged in \nthe form of supposition.\n\nAll his discoveries, however, went no further than to induce a belief \nthat some design for rescuing the young Gilbert was on foot; but \nwhere, and in what manner, the enterprise was to be attempted, he was \nleft to infer as he could. He did not doubt, indeed, that the attempt \nwas expected to be made with his connivance, and that Affidavy had \nbeen bought to bribe him into compliance; though the covetousness of \nthis unworthy and degraded limb of the law had led him upon a device \nfor dispensing with the jailer's services, and so clapping the \nadditional reward into his own pocket. This circumstance convinced \nhim the force of the conspirators could not be very great; and \nbesides, he had good reason to suppose that not more than two or \nthree could succeed, whatever might be their boldness, in making \ntheir way to the village, while the band was so closely beset at a \ndistance. \"At all events,\" he muttered to himself, as he sat by the \ngate, listening for the sound of footsteps, \"if there should come \neven a dozen of them, and there's not so many left in the gang, I can \nlet in just as many as will serve my turn, and then slap the door to \non the rest.--Hist! It sounded like the tramp of a horse; yet 'twas \nonly the splash of the river over the stones. Well now, if they \nshouldn't come, here's so much trouble for nothing, and the lord \nknows how much cherry-bounce. Silence there, you Hanschen! you're \nasleep. Ods bobs, men, don't scratch your heads so hard!\"\n\nHe kept watch for perhaps the space of an hour, without hearing the \nstir of man or beast, or indeed any other sound besides the rush of \nthe river, which rolls down a pebbly declivity hard by, and the \nchirping of numerous field-crickets on the trees of neighbouring \ngardens; when suddenly one of these insects, tired, as it seemed, of \nits dewy perch, which it had exchanged for the dry planks of the \ngate, or perhaps just waked up in the key-hole, began its nocturnal \ncry with a zeal and energy that instantly captivated the jailer's \nattention. It now struck his recollection that the attorney had, in \nsome way or other, drawn these minstrels of the night into his \nsuppositions; and he began to fancy the sound might be a signal made \nby the tories, though he could not imagine how the organs of a human \nbeing could be ever taught to imitate a cry so peculiar. He felt his \nown inability to answer it in the same tone; and not knowing how \notherwise to bring the affair to a point, he replied by a goodly \nwhistle, which his companions supposed to be the signal of the enemy, \nand therefore prepared to start up at a moment's warning. The whistle \nwas instantly followed by a slight tap on the gate, and Lingo, waving \nhis hand to his backers to be silent, boldly turned the key. Then \nslipping the bolt aside, he saw three human figures on the outside, \nready to enter. \"Two to one,\" he muttered to himself, opening the \ngate wide enough to admit one to pass at a time. One actually \nentered, and was moving aside, without speaking, to make way for the \nothers, when Lingo's scheme was defeated by a sudden rattling of \nchains at the window of Hyland's cell, and by a voice crying out, \n\"Beware! beware! you are betrayed!\"--\"Up and on 'em!\" cried \nLingo--\"_Gentlemen, you are welcome!_\" and as he spoke, he made a \ngrasp at the first comer, which was answered so effectually, that he \ninstantly found himself sprawling on his back, with such a blaze of \nlights dancing in his eyes, that he thought his whole brain had been \nconverted into a ball of fire. The next instant, there was a loud cry \nof voices, and a roar of pistols, which, reverberating from wall to \nwall, filled the narrow yard with the most dreadful din; and Lingo \nstarted up just in time to behold a tall figure darting through the \ngate into the open air.\n\n\"Fire and furies!\" he cried, rushing after the fugitive; \"I'll pay \nyou for that touch of the tomahawk, you bloody tory!\" and the next \nmoment coming up with his chase, he struck him a blow with his heavy \nsword, that brought him to the ground. Then pouncing upon him, and \nassisted by another who ran to his assistance, crying that 'all were \ntaken,' he dragged the prisoner into the yard and secured the gate. \n\"Lights, Hanschen!\" he cried, \"Yaw,\" said Hanschen; \"but fat's the \nuse? Here's one teadt, and anoder tying. And here's Sturmhausen has \nhis headt proke; and here's me mit my finkers chopped off by the tamt \n_schelm_ rogues. But I have kilt vone, mine Gott be thank'd! and I \nfill hang the t'oders!\"\n\nBefore Hanschen had wholly delivered himself of his private ills and \ntriumphs, a loud huzza was set up by the others, upon hearing that \nall the three assailants were secured. Lights were instantly brought \ninto the yard, and, sure enough, there lay three men on the ground, \none of whom was stone dead, his head blown to atoms by Hanschen's \npistol, a second writhing to all appearance in the agonies of death, \nand a third--but what were the surprise and mortification of the \njailer, when in this third, the man he had cut down with his own \nhands, he beheld the visage of his prisoner, Sterling.\n\nUpon this discovery being made, all was again confusion; the gate was \na second time thrown open, but only that they might behold the whole \nvillage in commotion, the alarm having been given by the previous \ntumult. It was plain that the third individual, and he perhaps the \nmost important of all, had made his escape. To add to the confusion \nof the scene, the wounded tory, upon hearing some of those who raised \nhim pronounce the name of Sterling, suddenly snatched a pistol from \none, and discharged it at this unlucky personage, with a bitter oath. \nIt was struck from his hands, however, so that it did no hurt to any \none.\n\nThe jailer, now in fear lest the other prisoners might have broken \nfrom their cells, ran to those occupied respectively by Hyland \nGilbert and Dancy Parkins, both of whom he found in fetters, the \nformer, in truth, secured by a bolt to the floor, so that, although \nhe had some freedom of motion, he could not approach the window near \nenough to look out, and must therefore have been led to give the \nalarm to the rescuers by hearing the crash of the bolt in the gate. \nThis was additional evidence of the guilt of Affidavy; but at that \nmoment, the jailer did not trouble himself to think of that \ndiscomfited personage. He stared at the prisoner, heard his \nbeseeching demand, 'Who had been taken? who had been hurt?' answered \nit by a profane oath, and then ran to Parkins's cell. He then stepped \nto that occupied by Sterling, and found that this individual, seduced \nperhaps by the sounds of wassailing below, had employed his time in \nremoving with a knife a hinge from his door, by which means he had \nmade his way into the yard, where he took advantage of the commotion \nso unexpectedly displayed, to make a bold dash for freedom. What had \nseduced this wretch, who was in no immediate peril of death, or even \ntrial, and who had freely rendered himself into the hands of justice, \nto attempt his escape, Lingo could not imagine; and in truth he did \nnot attempt to solve the mystery. He satisfied himself that he had \ngiven him a severe, perhaps a serious cut, betwixt the neck and \nshoulder, and then had him carried into his cell, not without some \nvery hearty curses upon his enterprise, and its effects in robbing \nhim of a more valuable prize. These were borne by the adventurer \nwithout any reply save ghastly looks; and indeed Mr. Sterling was a \ngreatly altered man, presenting an appearance even more wo-begone and \nwretched than that of Hyland, the victim of his anger. As if to mark \nthe jailer's indignation in the strongest way, the wounded refugee \nwas deposited in the same chamber, as well as the body of his \ncomrade.\n\nUpon examining into the condition of the defenders, it was found that \nHanschen had received a cut over the hand, which, as was discovered \nafterwards, had been inflicted not by a foe, but by one of his \nfellow-defenders; and this had deprived him of a finger, and perhaps \nof the service of two others. Another man had been hurt by a bullet \nin the leg, and a third had been stunned, like Lingo, by a stroke on \nthe head. As for Lingo himself, he discovered, with some surprise, \nthat the blow which prostrated him had left a wide and ugly gash on \nhis crown, though not one from which he had cause to apprehend \nserious consequences. The only ill effect it produced was, to sour \nhis temper to an uncommon degree; so that after peace was restored in \nhis dominions, and his aiders and abettors all discharged for the \nnight, he betook himself to the sleeping Affidavy, and bestowed some \nthree or four such kicks upon his ribs, that it was a wonder he left \na sound one in his body. But even these failed to rouse the stupified \nattorney; and at last, calling to Hanschen for assistance, he dragged \nhim up into Sterling's cell, where he deposited him on the floor, \nbetwixt the dead man and the dying.\n\n\"Now here are four bites for the devil together,\" he said; \"and if \nthey all die before morning, it's all one to Bob Lingo.\"\n\nWith these words, he descended to look after his wound, which was \nbleeding freely.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n    _Jaff_. Ha!\n    _Pierre_.    Speak; is't fitting?\n    _Jaff_.                           Fitting!\n    _Pierre_.                                  Yes; is't fitting?\n    _Jaff_. What's to be done?\n    _Pierre_.                  I'd have thee undertake\n  Something that's noble to preserve my memory\n  From the disgrace that's ready to attaint it.\n                                                     OTWAY.\n\n\nThe attorney's sleep was long and sound; and, by and by, \nnotwithstanding the exciting nature of the midnight events, sleep \nvisited the eyes of all others in the prison, even those of the \nhapless Hyland. The misery of his situation was complete. His hopes \nof escape, confirmed almost to certainty by Affidavy in his last \nvisit, in which the whole plan was explained to him by this honest \ngentleman, threw him into a frenzy of joy; and it was with \nunspeakable agitation that he listened to the subdued murmurs below, \nwhich told him the first and most critical scene of the conspiracy \nhad already begun. How the attempt of Affidavy upon the head of the \njailer terminated has been already seen; how the scheme might have \neventuated, had this rapacious wretch followed out the plan he had \nproposed to the others, which was to bribe the jailer into \nconnivance, it is not so easy to say, Lingo being perhaps too much of \na philosopher in his way, to refuse a good price for his honesty. But \nAffidavy, while he held the bone in his mouth, hungered exceedingly \nfor the shadow, or, to speak more strictly, for that smaller morsel \ndestined for the jaws of his friend; and, in consequence, adopted the \nfoolish device of the 'hocussed' cup, in which he encountered so \nsignal a failure. While Hyland sat in his cell, devoured by \nexpectation, the door was opened, and the jailer's assistant entered, \nbearing a heavy set of fetters, which he forthwith proceeded to \nfasten upon his limbs. This was the first moment they were ever thus \ndishonoured; but the unhappy youth thought not of the disgrace; he \nsaw at once that the scheme of flight was defeated, and that his \nhopes had been encouraged, only to be blasted. The agitation of his \nspirits threw him into a swoon; rousing from which, he gave himself \nup to despair, until his thoughts were diverted into a new channel by \nan unexpected commotion below, which was indeed caused by nothing \nless than the entrance into the prison of the five men whom Hanschen \nhad secretly summoned to his assistance. He heard them pass into the \nyard, and inferred at once that the scheme for his escape was \nintended to be turned against his unsuspecting friends. For this \nreason, he gave the alarm, the instant he heard the gate swinging on \nits hinges, and would have done so sooner, had he been able to \napproach the window, so as to look out upon the proceedings of the \njailer. Let his sufferings be imagined, when he heard the sudden din \nof pistols and voices, followed by execrations and groans, without \nknowing aught of the result of the rencounter, except that it had \nbeen fatal to his own hopes. He saw the jailer look into the \napartment, his visage stained with blood, and then depart without \nsatisfying his painful curiosity; and then followed a long period of \nsilence, equally oppressive and distracting. Great as was his \ndistress, however, it contributed in the end to stupify his mind; and \ntowards morning, he fell into an uneasy slumber, to add the tortures \nof the ideal to those of the material world. From this he was aroused \nby a noise, as it seemed, at his window; and starting up, he \ndistinctly heard a voice pronounce his name. It was but a whisper, \nand that fainter than the lowest chirping of the insects; but he \nrecognized at once the tones of Oran; and, scarce repressing a cry of \njoy, he rushed towards the window. The chain was still upon his body, \nand its clash, with the rattling of the ring by which it was attached \nto the floor, told to Oran, as well as to his own spirit, how vain \nwas the effort. The cell which he inhabited was in a corner of the \nbuilding, and the wall of the yard was perhaps within six or seven \nfeet of the window, which was more elevated, and therefore overlooked \nit. It was possible for a man, standing on the top of the wall, and \nof sufficient strength of body to support himself, lizard-like, while \nleaning towards the window, almost to reach it with his arms; and \nHyland, who had noted these circumstances before, easily understood \nthe situation of his visiter, which besides being extremely \ndangerous, was also exposed to observation.\n\n\"I cannot approach, Oran,\" he cried in the same whispering tones; \"I \nam chained to the floor.\"\n\n\"Hold forth your hand,\" muttered the refugee, \"and cast me the end of \nyour neckcloth. You shall have files and aquafortis; and to-morrow \nnight you shall be free. Cast out the neckcloth.\"\n\n\"I cannot,\" replied the prisoner, with a voice of despair; \"I cannot \nreach the bars, even if I had files to cut them. What shall I do? Oh, \nbrother, brother! why did you leave me? Speak, brother, for Heaven's \nsake, speak! Can you help me?\"\n\nThe refugee remained silent, apparently struck dumb, either by the \nreproach of his brother, or by the discovery of his inability to help \nhimself; and Hyland, imagining that his silence was owing to some \nsudden alarm, held his own peace, awaiting the event. In a short \ntime, however, the refugee spoke again: the whisper was as low as \nbefore, but it was broken by some strong tumult of feeling.\n\n\"I can _not_ help you, Hyland,\" he said,--\"unless, unless----But \nhold; I will fling a file through the bars, and you can saw yourself \nfree. Throw your bed on the floor under the window, that it may make \nno noise. Are you ready?\"\n\n\"I am,\" said Hyland; and the next instant he heard the steel \ninstrument strike upon the bars of the grating, whence it fell \nringing among the stones in the yard. A second was cast with better \neffect, and entering the window, fell upon the couch. But as if fate \nnow designed to tantalize the unhappy youth into distraction, he no \nsooner sought to obtain it by dragging the bed towards him, than he \nheard it fall off upon the floor, where it remained beyond his reach, \nand must remain until discovered by the jailer. This mishap being \ncommunicated to Oran, drew from him an exclamation, in which Hyland \nwas made aware of his hopeless situation:\n\n\"God help you!\" he cried, \"I can do no more.\"\n\n\"Yes, Oran, yes!\" exclaimed the prisoner, \"you can help me yet. Throw \nme a knife\"----\n\n\"Hah!\" said Oran, \"and you will use it on the jailer? ay! as he bears \nyou to the court house, in the morning! Strike him in the throat--I \nwill be by, and, perhaps--Well, well, you will at least die like a \nman, not like a dog. Will you kill him?\"\n\n\"No!\" said the youth; \"God pardon me the blood I have shed already: I \nwill never more harm a human being--no, not even to save my wretched \nbody from shame. Yet throw it to me, throw it to me!\"\n\n\"And for what?\" muttered Oran, in tones scarce audible.\n\n\"For what?\" replied the prisoner. \"Oh God, do you ask me, brother?\"\n\n\"For your own bosom then? Ay, can we do no more? And the lawyers, \nthen, can give you no hope, not even for money?\"\n\n\"None, none: I am condemned already--The knife, the knife!\"\n\n\"The dream's out!\" said Oran, with what seemed a laugh. \"When I was a \nlittle boy, and the rest were but babes about me, I dreamed, one \nnight, that there were seven of us together, though there were but \nfour of them born, and that I killed them. And so they say _I have_ \nindeed! Well, boy, I have killed you, as well as the rest, and now I \nam alone. You shall have the knife--yet be not in a hurry. Something \nmay turn up: Sir Guy may demand a military trial--But no, I am lying \nto my own heart: you must die, Hyland, you must die! for even I \ncannot help you.\"\n\n\"The knife will help me.\"\n\n\"Take it!\" said the refugee, with a voice so loud as to show his \nfeelings had got the better of his caution,--and indeed his accents \nbetrayed the most vehement agitation; \"take it!\" he cried, flinging \nit against the window with a motion so reckless or perturbed, that it \ndid not even strike the bars, but coming in contact with the stone \nframework, it rebounded and fell, like the file, to the ground below. \n\"Ha ha! you see, brother! there is no hope for you,--no, not even in \nthe knife!\"\n\n\"Brother!\" cried Hyland, \"you can help me yet.\"\n\n\"It is false!\" said the other: \"my band is broken, my body bleeding, \nand now, if they would send a boy against me, why a boy might take \nme.\"\n\n\"Listen, brother--it is my dying prayer,\" said Hyland, \"and nothing \nelse can be done. Before midnight of the coming day--perhaps \nearlier--I shall be a doomed man--doomed to death--doomed to the \ngallows? Brother, don't let me die on the gallows! Where is Staples? \nHe can send a bullet through the eye of a leaping buck; I have seen \nhim kill a night-hawk on the wing. Brother, you will be my heir--give \nhim what you will, give him _all_, and let him come to-morrow night \non the square, and when he sees a candle held at this window, let him \nfire at it,--let him aim well,--at the candle, brother, at the \ncandle! Oh heaven! do you not hear me?\"\n\n\"I hear,\" said Oran. \"A wild freak that, but good! ay, boy, good, \ngood, good! But Staples--ha, ha! Choose another: take the whole band; \none will be as ready to serve you as another.\"\n\nHad not the prisoner been prevented by his own feelings from giving \nnote to any thing save the mere words of the refugee, he might have \ndetected the traces of some extraordinary emotion in the unusual \nabruptness of his expressions. He even failed to observe the \nincongruity between Oran's invitation to choose an executioner from \nhis whole band, and the late declaration he had made, that the band \nwas broken up. He repeated the name of Staples, adding, \"Let it be \nStaples, brother, for he is the boldest and truest: he fears nothing, \nand he misses nothing.\"\n\n\"Call him out of the yard then,\" said Oran; \"he lies there cold as a \nstone.\"\n\n\"Ashburn then, Tom Ashburn!\" cried Hyland, after an exclamation of \ndismay at the intelligence; \"he is the next boldest, and a true \nshot.\"\n\n\"Another, another! They fished him out of the river at the Foul Rift, \nyoked fast to the carcass of his horse.\"\n\n\"Bettson, then!\"\n\n\"He lies, with Staples, dead in the yard here.\"\n\n\"Good God! is there none left then to save me from this horror. Oh \nbrother, send any one. Is there not one?\"\n\n\"There is _one_,\" said Oran, and his teeth chattered as he spoke; \n\"there is one, and only one; but he shoots well too, and is as bold \nas any. Farewell, young brother--the streaks are in the sky: we will \nnever see one another more. Reach forth your hand, brother, and let \nme touch it.\"\n\n\"Alas, Oran, I am chained to the floor.\"\n\n\"Ay,--I forget: 'tis all one. Say that you beg God to forgive me, and \nthat you forgive me yourself--let me hear you say it.\"\n\n\"Wherefore, Oran? Alas, wherefore?\"\n\n\"For what I have done to you; for what--But it is nothing. But say \nit, though; say it, or hope for no friend in the thing you speak of.\"\n\n\"God forgive you then, Oran,\" muttered the brother, almost \nmechanically; \"I forgive you myself.\"\n\n\"It is enough,\" said Oran--\"Farewell.\" And these were the last words \nHyland ever heard him utter. He descended from the wall--_how_ the \nprisoner knew no more than how he had climbed it,--and that so \nsuddenly, that although Hyland called to him again, the moment the \nfarewell had past his lips, he was already beyond hearing. Finding \nthat he was really gone, the prisoner fell upon his knees, and strove \nto invoke forgiveness of the act he meditated: for he rightly felt \nthat it must be but a form of self-murder.\n\nHe then threw himself on his couch, looked back upon the events that \nhad marked his existence in the valley, and wept over the misery they \nhad entailed upon one whom his love had wrapped in the same \ndestruction with himself.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n  Convict by many witnesses and proofs,\n  And by thine own confession.\n                               MARINO FALIERO.\n\n\nThe Master of Fiction has compared the course of a supposititious \nhistory to the career of a stone, rolled down the side of a mountain; \nwhich, at first, labouring and stumbling along, in a slow and \nhesitating manner, as if on the point of being arrested by every \npetty obstruction, gathers force as it descends, and at last pitches \nonwards with impetuous leaps, which soon conduct it to the bottom. To \ngive the figure the completeness of an allegory, it may be added, \nthat when the moving body has once acquired a little superfluous \nmomentum of its own, it communicates it to other stones, and these \nagain to others, which, increasing in number as they grow in \nvelocity, are at last seen rattling down to the vale below, in a \nperfect avalanche, as confounding to the senses as it is hurrying to \nthe spirits. In this manner, a single incident begins its weary \ncourse along the declivity of story, stirring up others as it rolls \nonward; until, in the end, there is such a mass in motion, that, if \nall were to be described as fully as at the starting, it would \nrequire a Briareus himself to do them justice. It is, then, difficult \nto keep pace even with the original event, the course of which is as \nviolent as the others; and this can be done only by imitating the \nhurry of the moving body, and marching, in great leaps, to the end.\n\nWe must pass by, with a word, the confusion caused throughout the \nwhole village by the rencounter in the prison-yard; the steps that \nwere taken in consequence to follow the refugee who had escaped; the \nproceedings that were had in relation to the bodies, (for the wounded \nStaples expired within a few hours after his surrender;) and, \nfinally, those that paved the way for the trial of the unfortunate \nHyland.\n\nThe morning broke; the hour of trial approached; the village was \nthronged with the idle and the curious; the court was opened, the \ngrand jury empannelled and charged, and in a short time returned into \ncourt a formal bill of indictment against Hyland Gilbert, with some \ntwo or three _aliases_, for the wilful murder of Henry Falconer.\n\nThe details of the trial it is not our purpose to narrate. There were \nthe usual preliminary flourishes, thrusts, and counter-thrusts, on \nthe part of the counsel, with those applications for postponement and \narguments against it, that weary the patience of the good citizens \nwho come to a tribunal of life and death as to a raree-show, and \nperhaps with some such feelings as conducted the ancient Romans to \nthe amphitheatre. There was even an attempt made by the prisoner's \ncounsel (of whom the unlucky Affidavy was _not_ one--at least, he did \nnot make his appearance,) to oppose the jurisdiction of the court, \nprecisely as Affidavy had boasted he would do, but with so little \nzeal and energy, that it was soon seen the prisoner was to derive no \nbenefit from such a plea. In fact, from the beginning to the end, the \ncounsel for the prisoner conducted the case in so spiritless and \ndesponding a manner, as to convey the most melancholy prognostic to \nthose who judge of the goodness or badness of a cause by the colour \nof a counsellor's complexion. It seemed as if they were themselves \ntoo well satisfied of his guilt to think of contending for his \ninnocence; and it was soon seen that they had good cause to despair; \nfor the prisoner, upon being formally arraigned at the bar, rose up, \nand despite the opposition of his counsel, insisted upon pleading \n_Guilty_ to the indictment.\n\nFrom the consequences of this rashness--a result of mingled remorse \nand despair--the unhappy young man was saved by the humanity of his \njudges, who directed the plea of Not Guilty to be entered, as, we \nbelieve, is usual, or at least frequent, in such cases.\n\nUpon being asked 'How he would be tried?' he answered, with the same \nreadiness, \"By God and my country;\" and the elder of his counsel \nmaking some trivial remark on the latter word, coupled with the hint \nthat his _domicil_ was strictly within a foreign territory, he \nrepeated the word with great vehemence, insisting 'that he was born \nupon the soil on which he stood, and whether he lived or died, and \nwhether it owned the sway of the royal government, or assumed the \nstate of a free Republic, it was still as much _his_ country as \nbefore, since still the land of his birth.'\n\nHe was directed to resume his seat; but the readiness with which he \nseemed to abandon all the little hopes remaining to him softened the \nhearts of his judges, and brought tears into the eyes of many who \ncame to see, in a Gilbert and refugee, some dread-looking monster, \nand beheld only an emaciated youth, evidently nurtured on the lap of \ngentleness. Indeed, there was no little confusion produced on several \noccasions, by the compassion his appearance excited; one instance of \nwhich happened, when Captain Loring, summoned entirely without the \nknowledge of Hyland, along with two or three others, for no \nimaginable purpose, but to testify to the mildness of his disposition \nand the excellence of his previous character, entered the witness's \nbox, and laid eyes on the youth for the first time since his arrest. \nHe no sooner beheld his wretched plight, than forgetting half his own \nwrongs, he began to blubber and stretch out his arms, and declare, \n'after all, adzooks, he didn't believe his young Herman had committed \nthe murder, for all they said of him.' Then being reproved, and \nsomething in the rebuke reminding him of his daughter, he burst into \na rage, reproaching the young man for his deceit and base outrage, \nfrom which he was only diverted by a second rebuke, to begin to \nblubber and defend as before. In short, it was soon found that his \ntestimony was not to be obtained, and as his wits were pretty \ngenerally thought to be infirm, he was directed to be removed. This \nwas, however, at a later stage of the trial, and after the more \nimportant witnesses had been examined. These comprehended those \nindividuals who were present at the scene of blood, the chief of whom \nwere captain Caliver, lieutenant Brooks, and the adventurer Sterling. \nThe evidence of the two former might have been esteemed sufficient of \nitself to convict the prisoner, and there seemed a degree of cruelty \nin bringing into the court, merely to confirm their testimony, a man \nenduring so much bodily suffering as this wretched Sterling. It \nseemed, that he had received some serious injury, when hurled so \nroughly by Oran Gilbert among the rocks; for it was remarked, soon \nafter the cavalcade was formed that conducted the body of young \nFalconer to Hawk-Hollow, that he became wan and troubled, and \noccasionally a little wandering in his behaviour. He had grown worse \nduring the three days he was confined in prison, and had caused no \nlittle trouble by his groans at night. In addition to all this, he \nhad bled freely from the cut he received from the jailer, while \nattempting to escape; that attempt, as he averred on a previous \noccasion, having been made in his sleep, he being occasionally \nafflicted with the infirmity of somnambulism. When he appeared in \ncourt, all were struck with his haggard appearance; the light of \ncunning had departed from his eyes and mouth, being superseded in the \none by a certain wild, yet torpid and smouldering ray, such as might \nbe looked for in the organs of an expiring maniac, while the other \nwas distorted with pain, of which it was hard to say whether it \nexisted most in mind or body. Upon being called upon to declare what \nhe knew in relation to the prisoner and the deceased, he swore, to \nthe surprise of every one, 'that he knew nothing to prove the \nprisoner's guilt, but much that spoke in favour of his innocence.'\n\nEven Hyland, who had leaned his head down in passive despair, was \nstartled at a declaration so unexpected; his counsel became a little \nanimated, and the Deputy Attorney General reminded the witness, 'that \nhe was now in a court of justice, speaking to truth upon oath, and \nnot upon the boards of a theatre, delivering the tricksy paradoxes of \na play-wright.'\n\n\"Very true,\" said Sterling, with a ghastly smile; \"but that day is \nover.\"\n\nUpon being asked what he meant by the last expression, he replied, \n'that he alluded to his original profession of the stage, on which he \nonce had his day, like others.' He then proceeded to state, that \nwhile pursuing his vocation, some years before, in the island of \nJamaica, he had several times seen the prisoner, then a young man of \neighteen or twenty, the heir of a rich widow, his kinswoman, and \noccupying a highly favourable situation in society, and being, as far \nas he knew, of estimable character. He next encountered him in the \nmonth of May, at the tavern of Elsie Bell; although he did not \nimmediately recognise him. The third time he saw him was at the \nTerrapin Hole, among, or near to, the refugees, among whom, as he \ncaused it to appear, he had himself stumbled by accident; the \nconsequence of which was that he was induced to join the band, to \nprotect himself from a peculiar peril in which he was placed. On the \nevening of that day, he accompanied the leader of the band to the \npark of Gilbert's Folly, where the prisoner was found struggling in \nmortal combat with the deceased. A conflict ensuing, of which he \ncould say but little, having spent several hours previously in \ndrinking, he did himself attack the deceased with a pistol, scarce \nknowing, in his intoxication, what he did, and would have killed him, \nhad he not been restrained by the prisoner, who took the pistol from \nhis hand, and assisted the deceased to make his escape; \"and this the \nprisoner did,\" added the witness, with a firm voice, \"although, at \nthat moment, he was bleeding from a pistol-shot, received but a \nmoment before from the deceased, with whom he had fought a duel, and \nby whom he had been treated with some unfairness and much barbarity.\"\n\nHe then continued to state, that the design having been communicated \nto him of carrying off Miss Loring, he himself, esteeming it rather a \nwild frolic than a serious outrage, had obtained permission to \nco-operate in an assumed character; and that what confirmed him in \nthe belief that no wrong was meditated to any one, was his \noverhearing a conversation betwixt the prisoner and Oran Gilbert, in \nwhich the former insisted that no one should be injured, particularly \nnaming the deceased and his father, Colonel Falconer. At the time the \nband broke into the house, he, being again overcome by wine and in a \nmischievous mood, knocked down the deceased with a fiddle; and had \nthe prisoner been moved by any malicious impulse, he could have \neasily killed him at that time. As for the murder itself, all that he \ncould say was, that at the moment the pistols were discharged, he was \nhimself nearer to the prisoner than was any other person on the \nground; and yet he could neither swear upon his knowledge nor to the \nbest of his belief, that the prisoner had fired the pistol that \nterminated the deceased's career. There were several pistols fired, \nhe knew not by whom, nor did he believe any man could say by whom, \nfor the morning was still dark, and all were in confusion. It was as \nlikely that the deceased had been killed by his own (the deceased's) \npistol, as by the prisoner's; for being notoriously an expert shot, \nnothing but accident could have caused him to miss the prisoner, at \nwhom he aimed, and who was so nigh at hand; and the accident that \ndiverted the pistol from the prisoner, might have turned it against \nthe neck of the deceased himself. Finally, he was convinced, that, be \nthe matter as it might, there could have been no malice aforethought \non the prisoner's part, or he would have taken advantage of those \nmoments to execute his purpose when he could have done so without \nrisk or discovery.\n\nThis testimony, which was justly esteemed extraordinary, coming as it \ndid from one who had been admitted as evidence against the prisoner, \nproduced a remarkable effect throughout the whole court and jury, as \nwell as the spectators; and was indeed more like a harangue designed \nfor the prisoner's benefit than any thing else. It was delivered with \npain, but still firmly, and at the close, the witness appearing to be \nexhausted, he was allowed to retire, while the Deputy, saying, 'he \nwas gratified to hear such mitigating circumstances advanced in the \nprisoner's favour,' added that he would summon two witnesses to prove \nthe murder from the prisoner's own voluntary confession, and would \nthen produce two pistols, the only ones discharged, one of which he \nwould prove had been fired by the deceased, the other by the \nprisoner.\n\nThe jailer and his assistant were called, and both swore, that the \nprisoner had repeatedly called himself a murderer.\n\nHonest Schlachtenschlager, who had officiated as coroner, was then \nsummoned, and appeared in court, bearing five pistols, being those \ndelivered to him by Brooks, while sitting on the inquest. These being \nhanded to the latter gentleman, he immediately identified one as the \nweapon discharged by the deceased; the second, he averred, he had \ntaken from the ground at the prisoner's side, and the other, its \nfellow, from his holsters: the remaining pair belonged to Sterling, \nand had been taken from him before or after the murder, he knew not \nwhich, and had been by the witness given into the possession of \nSchlachtenschlager.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Schlachtenschlager, \"that fas fat the young man said. \nT'at pistol mit the colden star on the preech, and the plue parrel, \nfas the ploodty feapon.\"\n\nHere the worthy magistrate was directed to hold his tongue, his \nevidence not having been required, and his commentaries being wholly \nsuperfluous. But he had said enough to give a new and unexpected turn \nto the whole proceedings; for the prisoner, who had been staring from \nthe pistols to the witness, with a sort of passive recklessness, no \nsooner heard the words 'golden star,' and 'blue barrel,' uttered than \nhe started up as if seized with a fit of madness, his eyes staring \nout of his head, his arms outstretched, and his whole figure \ndisplaying the influence of some extraordinary conception.\n\n\"The golden star! the blue barrel!\" he cried, in a voice that \nthrilled every bosom. \"Oh heaven! have I been mad up to this moment? \nHa, ha, ha! what a fool! what a dolt! Give me the pistol!\"\n\n\"Sit down,\" said one of the judges; and even his own counsel \nendeavoured to force him back on his seat.\n\n\"I won't sit down,\" he cried in the same tones. \"The pistol! the \npistol! my life depends upon it! Oh, heaven be thanked! I am an \ninnocent man. The pistol! look at the pistol: there is a shot in the \nvent, and it will not fire! I remember now, it flashed when aimed at \nSterling. Call Dancy Parkins--examine it, look at it, prick it with a \nneedle,--blow in it, pour water in it--it could not harm him! No! \nheaven be thanked! no, no, no!\" And so great became his agitation, \nthat he fell to the floor in a fit of convulsions.\n\nThis singular announcement produced unspeakable agitation. The court \nwas ordered to be cleared, and the prisoner to be withdrawn a moment, \nuntil restored to his senses. Dancy Parkins was then called, and upon \nbeing shown the pistol, swore positively to the effect, that one of \nthem (he knew not which,) had become useless in consequence of a \nleaden shot, or some other substance, getting into the vent; that the \nday before the attempt upon Gilbert's Folly, he had been directed by \nthe prisoner, upon whom he attended, to remove the obstruction; that \nhe had received it for that purpose, but finding the removal more \ndifficult than he anticipated, and being hurried by other \ncircumstances, he returned it to the prisoner's holsters, intending \nto resume the task at another time; and then being separated from \nhim, for the purpose of intercepting the clergyman, had forgotten it \nentirely. He knew not which of the two pistols it was; but if, as he \nsupposed, the prisoner had not attempted to fire both, one would be \nfound charged: the other, that is to say, the one out of order, he \nhad himself taken care to empty of its contents before attempting to \nremove the shot from the vent.\n\nThe pistols were immediately examined, and one found well charged. \nThe other was empty; and, as had been said, and as was hoped by \nalmost every man present, it was discovered that there was some \nforeign body in the vent, which rendered it wholly unserviceable.\n\n\"This is indeed extraordinary!\" said a judge on the bench.\n\n\"With your honour's permission,\" said the Deputy, who had been \nwhispering to one of the under functionaries of justice, and now \nlooked up in some perplexity, \"I will recall the witness Sterling to \nthe stand; though I humbly submit, I know no more than your honour \nwhat he has to say more. Yet he desires to be recalled.\"\n\n\"Ay, let him come,\" said Hyland, clasping his hands with joy. \"He \nremembers the circumstance; for I showed him the pistol, and he told \nme the shot could be only taken out by a drill.\"\n\nAt this moment, the current of feeling was strongly in the prisoner's \nfavour, and the condition of his weapon rendering it impossible that \n_it_ could have discharged the fatal bullet, there was scarce a man \npresent who did not believe him innocent, and believe so with \npleasure, notwithstanding his unhappy connexion with the outlaws. But \nit was destined to be seen upon what a reed they had based their \ncommiseration and belief, when Sterling, appearing again, craved to \nmention a circumstance which was now recalled to his memory by the \nturn of proceedings, and of which his previous forgetfulness should \nbe rightly attributed to illness and disorder of mind. He remembered \nwell the conversation of which the prisoner spoke; he _had_ said, \nthat nothing but a drill would remove the obstruction; _but_--and \nhere he spoke with a degree of agitation that showed his reluctance \nto advance any thing against the prisoner--it happened that the \nconversation terminated in himself offering to remove the difficulty, \nby taking the pistol with him to Elsie Bell's, where some instrument \nmight be found to serve the purpose; that he _had_, accordingly, \ntaken it, leaving one of his own pistols with the prisoner, but had \nfound neither leisure nor opportunity to repair it; that the \ncircumstances of flight had prevented a re-exchange; and finally, \nthat the incident had not been again thought of by him until the \npresent moment. He was not himself disarmed until after Falconer's \ndeath; he had a pistol in his hand at the moment, which he dropped, \nwhile seizing upon the prisoner; and taking it up again (as he \nsupposed) afterwards, it was probable he had then, without observing \nit, regained his own; and _this_ might perhaps be the weapon with \nwhich the unfortunate shot had been fired. He was disarmed a few \nmoments afterwards, and was then seized with indisposition, which \nprevented his examining into the matter, or indeed thinking of it.\n\nThis testimony was as decisive as it was wholly unexpected. It struck \nthe prisoner dumb, and his looks of horror were esteemed the best \nproofs of guilt. It was in vain that he afterwards exclaimed that the \nwitness had sworn falsely; he had no testimony to disprove the story, \nand it was one that all others found apt and true, especially when \nSterling's pistols having been examined, one of them was discovered \nto be empty. No one had dreamed of doubting the prisoner's guilt, \nuntil the moment when his sudden burst of animation at the sight of \nthe weapons, threw all into confusion; and such was the change of \nfeeling produced by Sterling's testimony, that it soon became the \ngeneral impression that the prisoner had been playing a part in first \nacknowledging himself guilty, and then affecting to be surprised into \na belief of his own innocence. Such an opinion as this could not, \nindeed, long prevail; for it was manifest, upon considering the \ncircumstances, that the prisoner must have been as ignorant as others \nof the true condition of the pistols, unless he had previously, as if \nin anticipation of arrest, founded his whole scheme of bloodshed upon \nthe accident of the obstruction; in which case he must have fired the \nother pistol, which was still loaded, or used some third one, which \nhe had cast out of sight, although instantly surrounded by many \ndifferent persons. The testimony of Sterling afforded the only and \nthe best solution of the riddle, as far as it related to the crime; \nwhile in regard to the prisoner himself, all that could be imagined \nto account for his change of deportment, was to suppose that even \n_he_ had forgotten the original exchange of weapons,--that he was \ninspired with the hope of escape, upon the presentation of his own as \nthat by which the murder had been committed,--and that that hope, \nthus accidentally excited, still nerved him to assert his innocence.\n\nThe contest was however over, the hour of grace was past, and the \njury, after being charged in a manner highly unfavourable to him, \nwere sent out to form a verdict, the character of which no one \nthought of doubting. It was even supposed that a few moments would \nsuffice to terminate their deliberations, and that they would shortly \nreturn, to pronounce the word of doom. In this, however, the \nspectators were disappointed: some merciful, or doubting member of \nthe panel had thrown a difficulty in the way of others; and, the \nprisoner being remanded, the court was adjourned until such time as \nthey should be found to have agreed upon a verdict.\n\nIn the meanwhile, expectation was still on the stretch; the \nspectators from a distance still lingered in the village, the \nvillagers themselves wandered up and down, or collected together at \ntheir doors in groups, all awaiting the tap of the bell that should \ncall the court together to receive the verdict, and all agitated by \nthe thousand rumours that were supposed to have made their way from \nthe jury-room. It was twenty times, at least, in the course of the \nnight, reported that the jury had already agreed, and twenty times \nthere was a rush of people towards the court-doors, anxious and eager \nto behold the bearing of the prisoner, while listening to the word \nthat should consign him to the death of a felon; but twenty times \ncuriosity was disappointed; and the morning came without bringing the \njury from their place of deliberation.\n\nBut long before the night had passed away, a new feature was added to \nthe story of Hyland's fate, and new characters mingled in the drama, \nbringing with them new revelations.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\n  Peace: thou hast told a tale, whose every word\n  Threatens eternal slaughter to thy soul.\n  ------Heaven is angry, and, be thou resolved,\n  Thou art a man remark'd to taste of mischief:\n  Look for't; though it come late, it will come sure.\n                                                  FORD.\n\n\nThe appearance of the refugees, with the fierce though unavailing \ncontest they had attempted with the pursuers on the night of the \noutrage, had spread the alarm far and wide; and this was not \ndiminished by the daring assault on the prison, as it was called, the \nreal character of that enterprise not having yet generally \ntranspired. One consequence of the alarm was, to draw to the scene of \ncommotion the governor, or President as he was then called, of the \ncommonwealth, who happened in the neighbourhood upon some tour of \nduty, and arrived after nightfall, so that his person was not \ngenerally known before day. One of the first persons upon whom he \nlaid his eyes, after entering the hotel, was his old and \ndistinguished acquaintance Colonel Falconer, with whose unhappy loss \nhe was already acquainted, as well as with many incidents of the \ntrial. Upon saluting him by name, the Colonel became greatly \nagitated, and besought him not to repeat the word, if he would not \nhave him murdered before his eyes; with other expressions indicative \nof a disordered mind, which the dignitary attributed at once to his \nmelancholy bereavement. He then accompanied him to a private \napartment, where he attempted to soothe him by condoling with him on \nhis loss, but found him incapable of listening to argument or \nentreaty. The death of his son did not seem to affect him so deeply \nas the malice of the murderer, of whom he spoke with a bitterness and \nvindictiveness of feeling that shocked his hearer. It has been seen \nhow his heart softened over this unhappy youth, when he met him at \nthe water-fall, and deemed that he owed a life to his virtue. The \ndeath of his son had, however, converted his feelings into a new \nchannel; and he saw in the humanity that drove him from the Hollow, \nonly the evidence of a cold-blooded design to withdraw him from the \nscene, that his son might perish unaided; and this design he \ncontrasted with his own friendly resolutions. In short, the demon of \nrevenge had entered his spirit, along with that of fear; for, it \nseemed, the repeated discoveries of Oran Gilbert penetrating even to \nthe haunts of his foes, had infected him with terror on his own \naccount. The sight of the governor, in whose hands lay the power of \nlife and death, seemed to throw him into alarm, lest he had come with \nthe design of pardoning the murderer; and he lanched at once into a \nstrain of vehement complaint, in which he mingled denunciations \nagainst the prisoner with personal calls upon the governor for \njustice.\n\nIn the midst of this scene, which the magistrate strove in vain to \nbring to an end, the door of the chamber was thrown open, and the \nfigure of Elsie Bell entered the apartment. She had risen from a bed \nof sickness,--it might have been supposed from a bed of death, for \nher appearance was more like that of a moving corse than a living \nbeing: and as she tottered up to Colonel Falconer, who stood aghast \nat the spectacle, her bloodless cheeks, livid lips, and eyes shining, \nalmost without speculation, through the gray locks that had escaped \nfrom her head-dress, filled even the governor with awe.\n\n\"Where is Richard Falconer?\" she cried, \"I heard his voice but now; \nand it called for justice!\"\n\nHer looks wandered from the governor, upon whom they were first \nfixed, to the object of her inquiry; and it is impossible to describe \nthe expression of mingled triumph and horror with which she surveyed \nhim. She raised her shrivelled hands, and shaking them with a fierce \nbut palsied motion, cried,--\n\n\"Yes, Richard Falconer, you called for justice, and now you have it. \nIt has come, at last, in blood, and in blood richer than that of your \nown bosom. The death-bed curse of a ruined woman will not be \nforgotten,--it curses forever!\"\n\n\"For God's sake, governor,\" cried Falconer, trembling from head to \nfoot, \"leave me, or take the wretched creature away.\"\n\n\"Yes, leave us,\" said the widow: \"let no one look upon him more, let \nno one look upon him now. Away, if you have pity for him who has none \nfor himself.\"\n\nThe governor looked at Falconer, and perceiving that, although \nincapable of utterance, he made earnest gestures to him to depart, he \nleft the chamber without speaking a word, but with a look indicating \namazement and suspicion. He was no sooner gone than Elsie, stepping \nup to Falconer, laid her hand on his arm, now seemingly as palsied as \nher own, and said, with accents that sounded in his ear like the cry \nof a raven,--\n\n\"You asked for justice--ay, I heard the words with my own ears! you \nasked for blood,--the blood of him who has shed that of your son! You \ncalled for justice--it was for justice on your own head! Richard \nFalconer,\" she continued, \"well may you tremble; the curse of Jessie \nGilbert is now upon your soul, and it will be on it for ever.\"\n\n\"Woman,\" said Falconer, endeavouring to shake her off, but in vain, \n\"you will drive me distracted.\"\n\n\"I will do you no such mercy,\" said Elsie: \"Hearken--the last words \nof Jessie Gilbert were a curse,--the curse of a broken-hearted woman \nupon her betrayer: she died cursing you, and now the curse you feel, \nwithout knowing half its dreadfulness. Richard Falconer, you ask for \nthe blood of Henry Falconer's murderer. Miserable man!\" she added, \nrelaxing her grasp, and clasping her hands with horror, \"it is the \nblood of your own son,--the blood of the child of Jessie Gilbert!\"\n\n\"Hah!\" said Falconer,--but said no more. He gazed in the face of the \nspeaker, and read a dreadful confirmation of her words, while she \ncontinued to utter, as in a kind of insane exultation,\n\n\"Is not this revenge for Jessie Gilbert? The brother kills the \nbrother, and the father kills the son!--ay, as he before killed the \nmother! Now, Richard Falconer, repent and die--the victim is avenged! \nIt is true!\"\n\n\"It is false! false as hell!\" said Falconer, recovering speech; \"or \nwhat, oh God of heaven! what am I!\"\n\n\"The avenger of your own black and heartless villany,\" said the \nwoman. \"Hearken, Richard Falconer, and you shall know all. When Oran \nGilbert knew the shame of his sister, he swore its miserable fruit \nshould never see the light; and I knew he would slay it, even out of \nhatred of the father. That night! that night! it was a night of \nhorror. Jessie Gilbert lay dead, with a babe wailing on her bosom; \nand the mother, the broken-hearted step-mother gave to my hands her \nown untimely and still-born offspring--the brothers raved at the \ndoor, calling for the child of shame. I had mercy--mercy on your \nchild,--not because it was yours, but because it was the babe of \nJessie. I laid it in the arms of the step-mother, and it lived. She \nkept the secret, and the father of her you betrayed kept it also, \nthough he sent it afar from his sight. Thus was it saved--thus was \nthe child of sorrow preserved, that he might imbrue his hands in the \nblood of his brother, and then perish at the call of his father!\"\n\n\"Wretch!\" said Falconer, sinking on a seat, \"and this dreadful secret \nyou kept, that _I_ might be made the most miserable of men? And you \nincited on the unhappy Hyland to the murder of his brother?\"\n\n\"I did what I could to save him,--not for your sake, though, Richard \nFalconer, but for the love of Jessie. I warned the boy of his \ndanger--nay, I would have told him of his birth, but that I knew it \nwould kill him; and I loved him for his goodness. Why should I have \nfilled him with shame, staining him who was innocent of his father's \ncrimes, with the disgrace of his birth?\"\n\n\"Elsie Bell,\" said Falconer rising and advancing towards her, \"I am a \nvillain.--My poor Harriet! my poor Harriet!\" he added, and as the \nwidow looked into his face, she was amazed to see it streaming with \ntears. \"But for her, but for _her_,\" he added, \"but for her and my \nwretched Henry--but for my children, Elsie, I might, I _would_ have \ndone justice to Jessie's memory. Oh God! had I but known of this \nthing before! But why, _now_, should it be known? You revenge the \nmurdered Jessie not on me, Elsie, but on my poor Harriet. The stain \nyou feared to cast on the name of Hyland, you fling on the forehead \nof my daughter. Elsie Bell, Elsie Bell,\" he exclaimed, in unspeakable \nagitation, while drops of sweat rolled from his temples and mingled \nwith his tears, \"if I tell you what you know not, though it show me \nto have done worse by Jessie Gilbert than you dream, it will destroy \nmy remaining child. And why should I destroy her? Why fling her \nbefore the world as a creature to be scorned, for the sake of a \nwretched fratricide? I will not do it,--I will say no more--what \n_have_ I said? When they are dead,--when all are dead, then let me \nlay bare my baseness, and think of the memory of Jessie. But this \nchild,--this wretched, this blood-stained Hyland,--I will save his \nlife,--the governor shall grant me his pardon; it cannot be that he \nwill refuse me--But I will never see him, no, never--Hah! hear! what \nis this? They are bringing him forth! Hark! they are shouting aloud \nfor his condemnation!--Oh heaven support me! To this I--I have \nbrought him!\"\n\nBut we have not the courage to pursue further the agonies of the \nwretched father, whom a sudden commotion in the street, with loud \ncries of \"To the court! to the court! the jury have made a verdict!\" \none of twenty false rumours to which expectation gave birth,--threw \ninto new transports of anguish. At last, moved by an irresistible \nimpulse, he started up and ran into the streets, through which he \nmade his way to the prison.\n\nIn the meanwhile, Hyland strode (for though securely fettered, he was \nno longer chained to the floor,) to and fro in his cell, a changed, \nwe might almost say, a happy, man. The sight of his pistols in the \ncourt had introduced a new set of associations, from which he \nperceived clearly, that, although he had so long esteemed himself the \nauthor of Falconer's death, that young man had, in truth, fallen by \nsome other hand. The story told by Sterling of the exchange of \npistols between him and the prisoner, was, as Hyland had pronounced \nit, a sheer fabrication; although he was unable to devise any reason \nSterling could have for swearing falsely; his original testimony \nhaving made it clear, that he was not actuated by motives of malice. \nHe remembered that he had raised a weapon against his rival, which, \nas others were discharged at the same moment, he did not dream had \nfailed to go off; although he now recalled to mind that the same \none--he had taken it from the same side of the saddle--had flashed in \nhis hands, when aimed at the head of Sterling. Remembering these \ncircumstances in connexion with Dancy's declaration that he had \nrestored the pistol, entirely empty, to the holsters, he saw at once, \nhowever others failed to see it, that Providence had interposed to \nsave him from the crime of bloodshed, and that he was therefore, save \nin intent, wholly innocent. This persuasion was enough to banish his \ndespair, which was founded chiefly on remorse; and perhaps, in great \nmeasure, also, his apprehensions; although in a cooler moment, he \nwould have perceived upon how weak a foundation he built his hope of \nescape, so long as the falsehood of Sterling was not exposed.\n\nTwenty times he endeavoured to throw himself upon his knees, to thank \nHeaven for its signal interposition in his favour; but his devotions \nwere checked by the tumult of his mind, which increased at last into \nsuch distraction, that although he received a visit from his jailer, \nwhose errand had no unimportant bearing upon his interests, he failed \nto take any advantage of Lingo's good will, or even to understand the \npurport of his communications. The fact was, the note of hand which \nhe had drawn from Affidavy's pocket, besides affording confirmatory \nevidence of that worthy individual's connexion with the attempted \nrescue, had made a strong impression upon Lingo's cupidity; and his \nobject in the visit was nothing less than to intimate _his_ \nwillingness to serve the prisoner in the same way, and on much more \nreasonable terms. But he found the prisoner in no condition to treat \nwith him on such a delicate subject; and after unmasking his battery, \nand uttering several broad hints in regard to his friendly \nintentions, he was forced to give over in despair, resolving, \nhowever, to open negotiations at a more favourable moment.\n\nIn the meanwhile, Hyland still paced to and fro through his dungeon, \ntill his feeble limbs refused to support him longer. He then threw \nhimself upon his couch, and becoming more collected, pondered \nbitterly over his situation. He heard the rush of the people towards \nthe court-house, which was at no great distance, as well as their \nshouts 'that the jury had descended!' and he felt at once, with a \nthrill of fear, that he still lay hovering on the brink of a \nprecipice. He started up in an agony of mind not to be controlled, \nand throwing himself upon his knees, began to invoke heaven with wild \nexclamations; when the door of his cell was thrown open, a bright \nlamp flashed in his face, and looking up, his eye fell upon that of \nColonel Falconer, who entered the room, followed by the tottering \nElsie. The door was closed behind them, and Falconer stood rooted to \nthe floor, surveying his wretched offspring, who seemed petrified at \nhis appearance, while Elsie stepping up to him, held the lamp to his \nface, and bade the father look upon the features of his son.\n\n\"It is Jessie's face over again,\" she muttered, \"and as pale, as \nghastly, and as distracted as when she cursed her betrayer. She \ncursed him, but do not _you_, Hyland--the curse has fallen upon all. \nNow, Richard Falconer, behold your son, and remember Jessie Gilbert!\"\n\n\"His son!\" cried Hyland, starting to his feet; \"_his_ son! Are you \nmad? Oh, Elsie, I am half distracted myself. Why do you bring that \nman to me?\"\n\n\"Because,\" said Elsie; \"he claims to see his offspring.\"\n\n\"His offspring! Vain old woman!\"\n\n\"Would that you were not,\" said Colonel Falconer, with clasped hands. \n\"I am now punished enough. Alas, wretched boy, you have killed your \nfather's son. Hearken to this woman, and then add to the crime that \nalready stains you, a malediction upon your parent.\"\n\n\"It is true, Hyland, it is true,\" said Elsie. \"As there is a heaven \nabove you, you look upon your own father, and you have killed your \nhalf-brother.\"\n\n\"I have killed nobody,\" said the youth, impetuously; \"and if you \nwould have me still innocent, drive that man away. His son! sooner \nmake me the way-side beggar's--nay, make me believe myself a murderer \nrather. His son!\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said Colonel Falconer, with deep emotion, \"the sinful son of a \nsinful parent.\"\n\n\"Stand away! approach me not!\" said Hyland, for Falconer was \napproaching. \"Your misfortune has turned your brain. Touch me not, \nfor I remember my sister!\"\n\n\"Your mother, boy, your mother!\" said Elsie.\n\n\"Be it my mother, if you will: what then have I but more cause to \ncurse the author of her shame?\"\n\n\"The author of her death, not shame,\" said Falconer, with a smothered \nvoice. \"Murderer of your brother, even for your sake I will take that \nveil of disgrace from your mother's memory that must be hung round \nthe brows of my daughter. Do not curse me, my son--Elsie Bell, I \ndeceived you all, and it was the deceit that killed my poor Jessie. \nThis boy was born in wedlock,--the child of the abandoned and \nbroken-hearted, yet wedded, wife of her destroyer.\"\n\n\"Your wife! gracious heaven, your wife!\" said Elsie, on whom these \nwords produced as strong an effect as upon the bewildered Hyland. \n\"Now, Richard Falconer, if you have spoken the truth, you are indeed \na blacker villain than ever men believed you.\"\n\n\"I am,\" said Falconer; \"for with the lie I killed my wife and laid \nher in a grave of dishonour. You were made to believe it was but a \nmock ceremony that united us: it was a legal and honourable tie, and \nbroken only by the death of Jessie. And for what purpose? You know, \nElsie Bell, you know very well, yes, surely you know,\" he added, with \nmuch agitation, and as if afraid to speak further. But Elsie sternly \naffirming her ignorance of any cause he had for destroying the peace \nand good name of her whom he acknowledged his lawful wife, and Hyland \nnow regarding him with a look of mingled fear and entreaty, he \nessayed to speak; and again the sweat-drops, oozing from his temples, \nbetrayed the anguish and shame of mind with which he exposed an act \nof unexampled duplicity and baseness. His confession was indeed one \nwhich no light remorse could have wrung from his spirit; but it was \nmade, and made without concealment or attempted extenuation, although \nit undoubtedly revealed a strong if not just reason for his failure \nto rescue from shame the memory of his betrayed wife. He had begun \nthe world as a needy adventurer; but was early patronized by a \ngentleman of great wealth, with whose daughter, an only child, he \nsoon presumed to fall deeply in love; the consequence of which was \nthe withdrawal of his patron's favour, and immediate expulsion from \nhis house. It appeared, that he had not failed to make some \nimpression upon the lady's heart; but she was a spoiled child and \ncoquette, and he left her with but little hope of ever deriving any \nadvantage from her tenderness. He betook himself to the army, was \ntransferred, in course of time, to the frontiers, and in less than \ntwo years after his departure, found himself recovering from the \nwounds he had received at the Moravian town, under the roof of \nGilbert's Folly. The youth and beauty of Jessie, his gratitude for \nher kindness, and still more, perhaps, for her affection, which the \nsimple-hearted maiden gave him almost at first sight, and had not the \npower to conceal, touched his imagination, if not his feelings; and \nin a moment of excitement, and folly, he proffered her his hand, and \nwas married. The marriage was secret--it might be added, accidental; \nfor the freedom of manners, at that day, and in that country, \nallowing such license, he often, as he recovered, found himself \ngalloping with the merry maiden on visits among the settlements a \ndozen or more miles distant; and it was upon one of these occasions \nthat he gave his love and faith together to the thoughtless maiden. \nThe knot was, however, no sooner tied, than he was seized with fears \nand regrets: he had already received overtures towards a \nreconciliation by his old patron, and without well conceiving in what \nmanner he could profit by a return of friendship in such quarter, he \npersuaded himself, and his bride also, that his interest demanded \nsome temporary concealment of their union. To this Jessie was easily \ninduced to accede; for having no distrust in her lover, she saw in \nsuch concealment only an additional frolic, such as she esteemed her \nmarriage to be. She feared no censure from her parent, who had indeed \nlong since signified the pleasure with which he would receive so \ngallant a gentleman for his son-in-law; and she looked forward with \nmerry anticipation to the hour when she should present herself to him \nas a bride of a month's standing. She consented therefore, not merely \nwith readiness, but alacrity, to preserve the wedding a strict \nsecret; and in that fatal consent paved the way for her own ruin and \nuntimely end. We will speak the remainder of the mournful story in a \nword. The overtures from the patron were renewed, and were \naccompanied by the smiles of his daughter. Falconer looked upon \nJessie with anger, perhaps with abhorrence,--she stood in the way of \nhis fortune. The old love smiled again, and forgetting that now the \nsmile came too late, he yielded to the intoxication of his original \npassion, threw himself at her feet, and became, even with her \nfather's consent, an accepted lover. The state of his mind can be now \nbetter imagined than described; love, avarice, and ambition together, \nas well as a consciousness that he had involved himself beyond all \nretreat, urged him to persevere in a suit both dishonourable and \ncriminal; and Jessie was now thought of only to be hated. Months \npassed by, and the jest of the frolic was over; yet the marriage was \nnot divulged; the young bride begged to disclose the secret, and \nevery entreaty filled him with new alarm and anger; until the \naccidental death of the regimental chaplain by whom they had been \nunited, and the previous decease of the only witnesses to the \nceremony, put him upon a scheme for relieving himself from his bonds \nworthy rather of a fiend than a human being. His witnesses were two \nsoldiers of his company, whom he had bribed to silence so liberally, \nthat they quarrelled together in their cups, and fought, and that \nwith such fury, that one was killed on the spot, and the other died \nbefore he could be brought to a trial. The chaplain was drowned five \nmonths after in attempting to cross a flooded river. There remained \ntherefore no witness of the union, and the only testimony remaining, \nto wit, the certificate signed by the unfortunate chaplain, was \nalready in Falconer's hands. Opportunity--the devil that seduces \nbeyond all other fiends--destroyed every vestige of honour and \nhumanity in his bosom; he fled from his betrayed wife, leaving her to \nbelieve that the ceremony of marriage between them had been only a \nbrutal mockery, contrived by a villain for her ruin. He left her to \nbelieve this, to madden, and to die; and before she had drawn her \nlast sigh,--nay, upon the morning of that dreadful midnight that saw \nher expire,--he had yielded to the fate he had encouraged, and taken \na second wife to his bosom.\n\n\"I lived, I prospered,\" he cried, when he had brought his dark \nconfession to a close; \"and two fair infants sat upon my knee; but \ntheir looks were curses to me--their birth was _infamous_; and I \nmyself, though men knew it not, was in the eye of God and the law, a \n_felon_!--Now, Hyland, son of the wronged Jessie, I have defended \nyour mother's memory; but I am not less a villain. Expose me to the \nworld, curse me, for I deserve it--yes!\" he added, with wildness, and \neven falling upon his knees before the horror-struck son,--\"expose me \nand curse me, but have pity upon my child,--have mercy upon your \nsister,--the sister of the brother you slew,--my poor, wretched, \ndishonoured Harriet.\"\n\n\"God forgive you, sir,\" said Hyland, with tears. \"Leave me--I cannot \ncall you _father_: but I will not disgrace your daughter. No, I will \nnot--but my mother----And she _was_ my mother then?--my mother's name \nmust rest no longer in infamy. Go, sir; I forgive you--that is, I \nwill not upbraid you; but I cannot, I cannot call you father. I am\ninnocent of Henry's--of my brother's death----Yes, I will call him \nbrother, for surely _he_ never wronged my poor mother. Take this much \ncomfort--_my_ hand never fired the pistol that killed him; and, \nwhether I live or die, it will soon be seen that I am innocent of his \nblood.\"\n\n\"God grant it,\" said Colonel Falconer, but with an accent showing how \nvaguely the thought of Henry now sat on his bosom. \"God grant \nit--but--hark! what is that? They cry again! It is the descent of the \njury! Oh Heaven, I am punished indeed for that act of baseness! \nFarewell, my son: I do not ask you for forgiveness--but touch my \nhand, grasp my hand but once\"----\n\n\"I cannot,\" said Hyland, recoiling with such horror, that the unhappy \nfather bowed his head with shame. He then snatched up the light, \nunconscious of what he did, and moved towards the door, as if to \ndepart; but a louder cry from the street striking his ear, he again \nturned round, and looked Hyland in the face.\n\n\"They are calling for your blood,\" he said, \"but they do not know you \nkilled your brother!--What! not touch my hand? Well, it is but \njustice.--I will not trouble you more.\"\n\nWith these words, he turned to depart, still holding the lamp; but \nhad scarce moved his foot, before there was heard, at a little \ndistance without, the sound, as it seemed, of a rifle, or other small \narms.\n\n\"Oh Heaven! my father!\" cried Hyland, starting up, with a voice that \nthrilled Elsie to the brain,--\"I have killed my father!\"\n\nThe lamp fell from Colonel Falconer's hands, and all was in darkness. \nAs Hyland rushed to where he had stood, his foot struck against a \nprostrate body; and reaching down, he found his hand slipping in a \npuddle of warm blood.\n\n\"Elsie! Elsie!\" cried the distracted youth, \"a light for God's sake! \nIt was meant for _me_, but it has struck my father! Why did I forget? \nOh, I thought not of my folly.--Help me, Elsie--he groans.\"\n\n\"Enough,--let me lie where I am,\" said Falconer, with a voice almost \ninaudible. \"There is retribution for all.\"\n\n\"Call the jailer!--Quick, jailer, quick!\" cried Hyland, as the door \nopened, disclosing the broad and wondering visage of Hanschen: \"help \nme to place him upon the bed; and then, oh for God's sake, quick for \na surgeon!\"\n\nBut Hanschen answered only by slapping to the door, without uttering \na word; and making his way as fast as he could towards the cell of \nSterling, in which was, at that moment, presented a scene of not less \nfearful character than that which had passed before Hyland's eyes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\n  Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow.\n                               KING RICHARD III.\n\n\nIt was not until long after noon of the day of trial that Affidavy \nwoke from the stupefaction into which he was plunged by the cup he \nhad so craftily qualified; and then it was some time before he could \nsummon his recollection, and conceive where he was. He found himself \nin a cell obviously of the prison; for the single window that lighted \nit was strongly grated, and the door fast bolted on the outside. \nThere was a bed hard by, in which, as was apparent from its \ncondition, some one had passed the night; but who that might have \nbeen he knew not, no one being now visible. As for himself, he found \nthat his couch had been nothing better than the hard floor; and close \nby where he lay, he discovered a pool of coagulated blood. He was \nseized with alarm, and finding the door refuse all egress, he ran to \nthe window, and beheld in the yard which it overlooked, a sight that, \nbesides filling him with new terror, conveyed an inkling to his mind \nof his true situation and its cause. This was nothing less than the \ndead bodies of two men, lying stiff and gory upon a bench, without \neven a cloth to conceal them from the light of day.\n\n\"Botheration, and God bless my soul!\" he cried, \"I'm a ruined man!\"\n\n\"Done up,--as clean as a skinned eel,\" said a voice at his back; and, \nlooking round, he beheld his friend, the jailer, enter the cell, with \na grim smile on his visage, which was not much improved in beauty by \na red handkerchief, that swathed it round from jaw to top-knot. \"Done \nup, Teffy, my boy, as slick as a new bolt. Who'll you have for your \ncounsel?--or do you think of pleading your own cause? Ods bobs, you \ncan make a good speech;--I always said that for you.\"\n\n\"Counsel!--cause!--speech!\" echoed the man of law;--\"God bless our \ntwo souls!\"\n\n\"Amen,--or e'er a one of 'em,\" said Lingo, with solemn utterance; \n\"for I'm thinking it will go hard with one of us. Howsomever, I'm \nglad to see you in your senses. Sorry you had so hard a bed of it; \nbut howsomever, when they hang your client up there, I'll give you \nbetter quarters. I reckon, it will be imprisonment for life with you; \nthough some says, they are to try you on the capital charge of aiding \nand 'betting with the tories, which is clean hanging treason.\"\n\n\"God bless our two souls!\" said Affidavy, with an air of wo and \nterror so irresistibly ludicrous, that Lingo, perceiving his \nutterance failed to supply any further expressions, burst into a loud \nlaugh, and threw himself on the vacant bed, where he rolled over and \nover, giving way to mirth and triumph together.\n\n\"Blarney and ods bobs!\" he cried, after he had amused himself awhile \nin this fashion; \"and so you thought to come the humbug over _me_, \nold Teff! Ha, ha, ha! I always said you could make a good speech, and \nso you can; but as to pulling straws with Bob Lingo, why I never said \nno such thing, for I won't lie for no man. How did you like the \ncock-tail, with the cherry-bounce and doctor's stuff in it? Ods bobs, \ndid you think I could go any such liquor as that? But now you see \nwhat you've come to,--clean done up, broke, smashed, pounded into \nhominy, and cribbed under lock and key. So much for not playing fair, \nand making honest snacks of the plunder! Where's them seventeen \nguineas in goold? and the note for two thousand more? Oh, you old \nox-fly! would you have sucked the poor young feller's blood?\"\n\nAt the mention of these valuables, Affidavy, who stood mute with \nsurprise and dismay, clapped his hands into his pockets, first into \none and then the other, and groaned to find them empty. \"You've \nrobbed me, Bob Lingo!\" he said.\n\n\"As clean as ever I curried a horse,\" said the jailer, betaking \nhimself to his own pockets, and displaying both the money and the \ntreacherous note, the latter of which he moved before Affidavy's eyes \nwith peculiar glee, saying,\n\n\"Here's evidence that'll be a smasher; and then the bottle of \nlaudanum! Oh, you old Teff,\" he cried, shaking his fist, but more in \nexultation than anger, \"when you mean to p'ison any of your friends, \ndon't you go for to get the p'ison the same day; lay it up a month \nbefore-hand. Ods bobs, if you wasn't as poor as a rat, I'd have an \naction ag'in you on my own account, for an attempt to murder. But, \nods bobs, I do think now you look like a singed cat,--I do, \nAffidavy!\"\n\nHere he burst into another roar, having indulged which, he rose, and \nsatisfied with the terror he had inflicted, proceeded very coolly to \ninform the discomfited prisoner that his case was not so bad as he \nthought; that he had not 'blowed him' yet; and that he didn't know \nwhether he would, for he was a merciful man in his way. \"I smoked \nyou, Affidavy,\" said he, \"as soon as I heard you talk of _your_ \nclient, and saw you show that 'ere guinea,--'specially when you fell \nso much in love with me of a sudden, and with the jail here. I sent \nHans after you, and he saw you ride out on the prisoner's horse; and, \nods bobs, I thought of sending some so'diers to dog after you; but \nthey was all out in the bushes already. Then I went to the doctor's \nshop, to get some laudanum for an aching tooth, and said he, 'Vy \nthere's Affidafy has peen pying laudanum for an aching tooth, \ntoo!'--Oho! said I; and then, old boy, I was ready for you. And you \nsee the end! while you was lying snorting here like a corn-fed pig, \nwe was knocking the tories on the head at the yard-gate. And then we \nhad the coroner on 'em, and you no wiser; and the magistrates and all \nthe town inquiring into the fuss, and you no wiser; and there, \nindeed, there's your client, poor fellow, they're trying in court as \nhard as they can, the evidence all over, the speeches half done, and \nstill, Affidavy, my boy, you no wiser. Ha, ha! I do think you look \nlike an apple-dumpling that's tumbled out of the pot, and staring up \nout of the ashes!\"\n\n\"Well, Bob,\" said Affidavy, with an attempt at a laugh, that ended in \na groan, \"I knock under to you: you've beat me hollow. But now, if \nyou please, and with many thanks to you for not blabbing, I'll take \nthat wallet, and the guineas; and as for the silver, why I don't care \nif you keep it.\"\n\n\"No, I reckon not,\" said Lingo, with a grin. \"But, I'm thinking, \nyou'll just take the silver yourself, and be thankful I let you off \nso easy. What, man, do you suppose I'll run the risk of defending you \nfrom a prosecution--a criminal prosecution, d'ye see--by holding my \ntongue, for nothing? Don't go to be such a fool.\"\n\n\"Well then,\" said Theophilus, with a groan, \"do as you like, and let \nme out.\"\n\n\"Not so fast, neither,\" said Lingo; and then added, with a nod of the \nhead, \"I reckon there's more of the shiners where these come from?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Affidavy, \"what then?\"\n\n\"Why then,\" said Lingo, \"I don't care if I run a risk with you, and \ngo snacks.\"\n\n\"Will you?\" said Affidavy. \"Then, ehem, humph!--You know what I mean; \nand there's a thousand a-piece on that note!\"\n\n\"The ready, old boy, the ready! hang all your paper promises; I go \nfor the ready.\"\n\n\"Well then, let me out, and I'll state the case to one we know of. \nBut, I fear, the ready's not to be had--We'll take a second note of \nthe prisoner.\"\n\n\"Ods bobs! are you there with your notes still? Now if you come to \nthat, I reckon I can do all that without assistance, and no snacks \nneither. And so good by to you.\"\n\nWith that the jailer, giving the attorney another nod, flung out of \nthe cell, taking good care, however, to lock the door behind him; \nleaving Affidavy to suspect, as he did, that Lingo was resolved to \nmanage the case, and reap the harvest, on his own account.\n\n\"Oh the villain!\" sighed the disconsolate attorney. \"But I'll be even \nwith him yet. Let me see--hum--good! the rascal is already \nimplicated, having concealed my--faugh! So he will not dare to accuse \nme now. Well, I'll see through it by and by. That cursed laudanum! I \ndo think it has turned my brain into a dough-cake--Very well--Was \nthere ever such an ass!--That I should let such a jolterhead get the \nupper hand of me!--I wonder what's the matter with my ribs!--Nothing \nto drink!--no, botheration, nor to eat, neither.--Very well, Bob \nLingo; I'll remember you.\"\n\nHe then sought to relieve the perplexity of his mind by walking \nabout; but the excessive and unnatural debauch had bereft him of \nstrength, so that he was soon compelled to sit down upon the bed, \nwhere he found the stupor, which had not yet entirely deserted his \nfaculties, returning and growing upon him, in spite of all his \nefforts to resist it. In a word, he became again very drowsy, and \nfearing lest some additional evil should befall him if caught again \nnapping, he rose up and looked from the window, to divert his mind \nfrom its lethargy. He saw, from the ruddy hue of the sunshine on the \nneighbouring roofs, and the golden tinge of the floating clouds, that \nthe day was already declining; by which he perceived how long he had \nalready slept, and wondered that, after such a siege of slumber, he \nshould so soon feel any inclination to sleep again. But, while he \nwondered, he found the clouds and house-tops blending their outlines \ntogether on his vision, while the hum of the village grew confused in \nhis ear. He stalked about again, then again sat down on the bed; \nwhen, fearing lest that should seduce him into slumber, and being \nincapable of remaining longer upon his feet, he betook himself to a \ncorner, where he sat down on the floor, pursuing his meditations; and \nthere, after much nodding, musing, and scratching of head, he fell, \nin spite of all efforts to the contrary, fast asleep.\n\nHe slept long and soundly; and the shadows of night had been long \ngathered over the earth, before certain sounds in the narrow \napartment, mingling with his dreams, imparted to them the horrors of \nnightmare, and then suddenly dispelled them. He was awakened by a \nhuman groan, hollow and sepulchral, but so loud that he deemed it was \nbreathed just at his ear; and looking up, he beheld a spectacle that \ncaused his hair to bristle with terror. It was, as he perceived, dark \nnight; but a lamp, standing upon a little table near the bed, poured \na dim and ghastly light over the cell, sufficient to reveal the few \nobjects it contained. Upon the bed sat a tall man, in his night-gear, \nwith a visage of death-like hue, and eyes staring out of his head, \nwhich he rolled now to the right hand and now to the left, as if \ngazing upon objects invisible to the attorney; although Affidavy was \naccustomed to declare afterwards, when good cheer made him \ncommunicative, that he distinctly saw at the right hand of the sick \nman, and not fifteen feet from himself, a figure as of a man swathed \nin a bloody sheet, that stood gazing the other in the face, and \ngradually melted into the obscurity, as he himself surveyed it more \nintently. Be that as it may, there was enough of the ghostly and \nterrific in the appearance and expressions of the sick man, to keep \nthe attorney cowering with fear in his corner, without any addition \nof horrors from the world of spirits; and accordingly, Affidavy sat \nlooking on and listening, without the power to move, or even to rise.\n\nThe sick man continued to roll his eyes, occasionally uttering deep \ngroans, and now and then muttering expressions that showed the horror \nof his mind, without, at first, clearly disclosing the cause.\n\n\"Ay, wave your hand,\" he heard him say, as if addressing some phantom \nrevealed only to his own senses; \"wave your hand, and point to the \nbloody throat: it was well aimed, boy, well aimed, and it was well \ndone. I care not for _you_: it is the other that moves me; for him I \nkilled with a lie, and there he sits smiling! His face is black and \nswollen, yet he smiles; his arms are bound behind, yet he smiles; a \nrope is round his neck, yet he smiles.--Ay, smile, boy, smile! that \nsmile is heavier on my heart than the frown of the soldier!--A smile! \nmen would call that poor revenge; but we, boy, ha, ha! we know \nbetter!\"\n\nHe then fell back upon the bed, and lay for a moment quiet; so that \nAffidavy had leisure to recall his spirits, and penetrate the \nmystery, which had at first so deeply appalled him. His first thought \nwas, that he was enclosed with some wounded refugee, captured in the \ntoils to which he himself had unwittingly brought him; but \nremembering presently that he had seen two bodies stretched in the \nyard below, and had good reason, from Lingo's expressions, to believe \nthe third man had made his escape, he perceived that this must be \nsome prisoner of an earlier date; and he knew that, the night before, \nthere were but three in Lingo's charge. With the person of the \nunfortunate Hyland he was already well acquainted, and Dancy Parkins \nwas, it might be said, his old acquaintance. His thoughts reverted \nimmediately to Sterling, whom he had never seen; and he remembered, \nat the same time, that Lingo had hinted to him the ease with which he \nmight weaken this man's testimony, if that were desirable, by \nconvicting him of insanity. \"Oho, the dog, Lingo!\" said he to \nhimself; \"he has shut me up with a madman then? Now, if he should be \ndangerous, God bless our two souls!--Ha! there, he's rising again! \nGod bless our two souls!\"\n\n\"They are gone then?\" muttered the wretch, in whose sunken features, \nhollow voice, and altered spirit, one would with difficulty have \nrecognised the humorous, bold, and reckless adventurer; \"they are \ngone; but it will not be long. Hah!\" he added, fixing his eye, with a \nfearful stare, upon the vacant wall, \"you come again, and frowning! \nYet I fear not: other men have shed blood, and lived happy. It is not \nfor you, but for the other--him that lies across my feet smiling! \nHah, what!\" he screamed, rather than said, as his eye, wandering \ntowards the foot of the bed, suddenly fell upon the figure of \nAffidavy, in his corner, now cowering low with terror, \"are there \n_three_? Devil! you lie!\" he exclaimed, leaping out of bed, \"there \nwere but two--him that I shot, and him that I killed with false \nwitness. Ha, ha, ha! these are juggling fiends! devils of \nlegerdemain! that make a man worse than he is! You look me in the \nface--Well! I look back:--do you think to fright me? Look at me then, \nand say, if you dare, that _I_ hurt you!\"\n\nAnd with these words, he advanced towards Affidavy, who now perceived \nthat his right arm was swathed in bandages across his breast, as if \nmaimed by some injury. But his left hand he brandished with menacing \ngesticulation, and his countenance was covered with a ghastly frown; \nso that Affidavy feared nothing less than that he should be \nimmediately torn to pieces. From this apprehension, which deprived \nhim of the power of raising a finger in self-defence, he was relieved \nby the sudden appearance of the jailer, who, entering the cell with \nan oath, seized upon the madman, and shook him with violence, until \nhe groaned with pain, suffering himself to be pushed back upon the \nbed.\n\n\"I'll have the law of you, Bob Lingo!\" said the attorney, starting up \nfrom an ecstasy of fear to lanch into a tumult of rage; \"I'll have \nthe law of you, you villain! and what's more, I'll chouse you out of \nyour fees and bribes,--your cheating and tampering with the prisoner, \nHyland Gilbert: he's an innocent man, you rascal, and you know it! \nand here's this man Sterling has avowed the murder himself.\"\n\n\"Ods bobs!\" said Lingo, \"what do you mean?\"\n\n\"I mean what I say,\" cried Affidavy, whom rage, the desire of \nrequiting upon Lingo some of the disappointments he had himself \nendured, and a sudden prospect that seemed to open on him of \nretrieving his lost fortune, had restored to the possession of his \nfaculties. \"I mean, that my client, Hyland Gilbert, whom you cheated \nout of my services, is an innocent man; and that there lies the true \ncriminal. He has confessed the whole matter; murder and \nperjury--murder and perjury, you villain! do you hear that? and I'll \nmake him depose the particulars, you cheating, covetous, conniving \nrapscallion! and so chouse you out of all your expected fees, you \nrascal! botheration, I will!--Harkee, you Sterling!\" he said, now \nadvancing boldly towards the object of his late fears, \"you've \nblabbed all, and so you may as well confess at once. I overheard all \nyou said; and my testimony will settle the matter; so, for the good \nof your soul, confess. You're a dying man; the devil's as good as got \nyou already--you'll not last a day longer; so confess, confess, and \ndon't damn yourself for ever, by hanging an innocent man. What! do \nyou pretend to deny it?\" he continued, adopting a course of \npersuasion founded on what he had witnessed of the prisoner's \nhallucinations--\"do you see that young man there, with the bloody \nthroat, frowning? Look--I know him well--it is young Harry Falconer!\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said Sterling, rolling his eyes to the wall; \"but where is the \nother?\"\n\n\"Why, they are hanging him; and all because you swore falsely against \nhim.\"\n\n\"Is he alive yet?\" muttered Sterling; \"I thought he was dead. Send me \na priest, and I'll confess.\"\n\n\"A priest! A magistrate, you mean.\"\n\n\"It is all one--I am a dying man; there is something wrong \nhere,--_here_,\" he murmured, striking his forehead. \"I will do \nreparation--ask me what you will; but drive Henry Falconer out of the \nroom; ay, and take that young Hawk off my feet--he chills them to the \nmarrow.\"\n\n\"It was _your_ pistol killed Henry Falconer?\" cried the lawyer.\n\n\"Ay; I shot him over Gilbert's shoulder. I fired at both; either \nwould have served me. But who was the _third_ one? Old Falconer did \nnot die!\"\n\n\"A justice of the peace, Lingo! do you hear?\" said Affidavy, grinning \nwith triumph. \"I reckon I'll sort you, you covetous, cheating dog!\"\n\n\"Come, squire, don't be mad,\" whispered the jailer, with two or three \nsignificant winks: \"We'll go snacks yet.\"\n\n\"What, you rascal, do you think to bribe me to keep silence? Oho! you \ncormorant, I've got the play now in my own hands; and we _won't_ go \nsnacks: I work on my own foundation. You've heard the man's words \nhere; deny them if you can. Send for a squire, or refuse at your \nperil: I'll bawl out the window, and raise the town.\"\n\n\"There's no need of being contractious,\" said Lingo, coolly. \"I sent \nHanschen for old Squire Leger an hour ago; for I reckon I was a \nleetle before you! The man asked for him of his own accord, while you \nwas a snoozing in the corner; for it's a gone case with him, and he \nknows it.\"\n\nThe lawyer was petrified at this announcement; it was a new and \nmortal disappointment; for he designed to make profitable use to \nhimself of his discovery; and to complete his confusion, the door was \nopened at that moment, and Hanschen entered, ushering in the worthy \nSchlachtenschlager, whom he had lighted upon by accident, after \nsearching in vain for the other magistrate, after whom he had been \nsent an hour before. The attorney groaned; with one hand he grasped \nthe Squire's extended palm, and the other he shook in the face of \nLingo, who grinned, and winked, and nodded at him, with the most \nprovoking good-humour. But Affidavy was not a man to be disheartened \neven in such an extremity; he no longer dreaded an exposure of his \nextra-professional services on the prisoner's behalf; and he \nperceived that there was still a field, although a narrow one, on \nwhich to display his zeal. Trusting therefore to his skill to make \nhis client sensible of the full merit of his labour, he addressed \nhimself to the task of shriving the discovered felon, with a tact and \nsagacity that were soon perceived to be as useful as they were really \nindispensable.\n\nIt was found that Sterling was in a very critical state, his bodily \npowers being completely wrecked, and his mind so much unhinged that \nhe could scarce answer two consecutive questions without wandering. \nThe causes that had brought him to this condition it was not easy to \nimagine, unless by supposing he had received some fatal internal \ninjury during his struggle with Oran Gilbert; or by referring all at \nonce to the horror of mind with which, it seemed, he had been \naffected from the moment he felt himself a homicide. A homicide he \nwas, as was soon made apparent; for being led on and assisted by the \nquestions of Affidavy, he confessed, without any reluctance or \nattempt at equivocation, that he had sworn falsely in regard to the \nexchange of pistols betwixt himself and Hyland, such exchange never \nhaving taken place; and that he, and no other, had shot the pistol \nthat killed young Falconer. The reasons for this act were but \nimperfectly developed; and the strongest seemed to be a bitter hatred \nhe had conceived against the deceased, in consequence of an indignity \noffered him long since in the theatre, from which he had been hissed, \nchiefly through Falconer's instrumentality. Such a cause for \nvengeance may be understood by those who remember the rivers of blood \npoured out at Lyons, ten years after, to satiate the rankling fury of \na Collot d'Herbois. It will be remembered in what manner he \nvolunteered, while in the swamp with Oran Gilbert, to take the life \nof this unlucky youth; as well as the attempt he made upon it the \nfollowing night, in the park, when he discovered him struggling with \nHyland. It appeared, besides, that after having rendered himself into \nthe hands of the pursuers, and confessed his true name and character, \nthe reckless lieutenant pursued him with divers jests and jeers, \nwhich were the more intolerable that his quarrel with the Gilberts \nhad left his mind in a state of furious passion; and an additional \nincentive was offered by the scuffle between the two rivals, in which \nany execution of vengeance would be so readily imputed to accident, \nif traced to him at all. He succeeded beyond his expectations; the \nobject of his hatred lay a corpse before him--but from that moment \nSterling was another and a changed man. His mind was filled with \nhorror--not remorse, for to the last he testified nothing like \npenitence--but with a nameless and oppressive dread, which was \nincreased tenfold by the reflection that this act had, or would in \nthe end, deprive a second fellow being of life, that second being the \nunfortunate youth whom an extraordinary accident had imbued with a \nbelief that he was himself the murderer. Hence the singular turn of \nhis testimony, and his attempt to throw a doubt upon the prisoner's \nguilt; until the sudden discovery of the damaged pistol struck him \nwith a fear, until then unfelt, for his own safety. He dreaded lest \nhis own weapons, which had been taken from him immediately after the \ncatastrophe, and from which, in the agitation of his spirits, he had \nforgotten to remove the evidences of guilt, should be examined, and \nthus suspicion diverted upon himself. To prevent this, he invented \nthe falsehood concerning the exchange, and thus screened himself from \nsuspicion, at the expense of a second act of murder. But from that \nmoment his horror became insupportable; and after struggling with it \nin vain, and becoming persuaded that his own fate was drawing nigh, \nhe summoned Lingo, made a deliberate confession of his villany, and \ndesired that his deposition might be taken, before his madness, of \nwhose approaches he seemed conscious, should render reparation \nimpossible.\n\nIt was now taken, and with difficulty, but it was conclusive; and so \nintent became all present upon the strange and impressive story, and, \nafter it was concluded, so eager were all to confirm it by inducing \nrepetitions of the most important circumstances, that even the sudden \nsound of fire-arms on the square, followed by the outcries in \nHyland's cell, were unheard and unnoticed, until Hanschen suddenly \nrushed among them, with the intelligence, as he expressed it, 'that \nthere fas murdter going on in the Hawk's room.'\n\nAll started up, leaving Sterling to rave, perhaps to die, alone, and \nmade their way to the prisoner's apartment, where Colonel Falconer \nwas found weltering in blood in the arms of Elsie and his son, a \nrifle-bullet having penetrated his side, and lodged in the body; and \nit was soon gathered, from the remorseful expressions of Hyland, that \nit had been shot by a refugee--the last act of friendship that could \nbe rendered to a helpless and hopeless comrade.\n\n\"It was shot by Oran Gilbert,\" said Elsie Bell, \"for there is none \nleft but him! Yes, Richard Falconer, I said it would come sooner or \nlater! It is well for you, too,--you will not see the death of your \nson's murderer!\"\n\n\"He is innocent!\" said Affidavy, snatching at his client's hand. \n\"Botheration, my boy, we've found the true murderer! He has \nconfessed, and you are an innocent man. The pistol was shot by \nSterling! We'll clear you, or secure a free pardon.\"\n\n\"By Sterling!\" murmured Colonel Falconer. \"Then, oh heaven! then is \nmy son guiltless of his brother's blood!\"\n\n\"I am, father, I am!\" said Hyland; \"but, wretch that I am, my madness \nand folly have killed my father!\"\n\n\"I die content.--I will do you justice, my son--I am not so faint as \nbefore--They shall carry me to--to--I forget--it is no matter--Well, \nwell\"--\n\nWith these words he fell into a swoon, in which he was at first \nesteemed dead; but a surgeon having been sent for, and now entering \nthe cell, he declared, upon a hasty inspection of the wound, that it \nwas by no means mortal, and that there was every reason to \nprognosticate a speedy recovery. The sufferer was then carried to the \ninn, and put to bed; but with no such assurances of life as had been \npronounced in the prison. A consultation was called, the result of \nwhich was a more rational declaration, that his days were already \nnumbered.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\n  Farewell ye dungeons dark and strong,\n    The wretch's destiny;\n  M'Pherson's time will not be long\n    On yonder gallows-tree.\n                         M'PHERSON'S FAREWELL.\n\n\nThe singular discovery of Hyland's innocence was long before morning \nbruited over the village, and besides exciting a double interest in \nhis fate, produced no little curiosity in regard to the movements of \nthe jury, who were still deliberating over the charge, as well as to \nthe course to be pursued by the court, in such a strange conjuncture \nof circumstances.\n\nExpectation was not, however, kept long at stretch. An early and \nformal representation of the discovery being made by the prisoner's \ncounsel to the presiding judge, the court was straightway convened, \nand the jury ordered to be recalled, for the purpose of receiving the \nnew testimony. This, consisting of Sterling's deposition and the \nevidence of witnesses as to its authenticity, it may be supposed, was \nsufficient to terminate their deliberations in a moment. Had the \nconfession been made at a later period, it would undoubtedly have \nsaved the prisoner's life; but it occurred at a time to save his good \nname,--to save it, at least, from the reproach, which, however \nundeserved, must ever follow upon even unjust conviction. His true \nstory and character, and, in fact, his real parentage, were now \nbecoming generally known; new friends, as well as many an old one, \nwere labouring in his service, and all were desirous to see the end \nof a prosecution, that had caused him so much unmerited suffering. \nThe trial was therefore despatched without difficulty; the evidence \nwas given; a few brief and impressive words, indicative of their \ngratification at the defendant's happy escape from his difficulties, \nand their own from a share in wrong-doing, were pronounced by the \nbench; after which the whole matter was submitted to the jury, who, \nwithout leaving their seats, immediately returned a verdict of \nacquittal. The defendant was then discharged, in the ordinary way, by \nproclamation, and shed tears of genuine transport to find himself \nreleased from the ignominy that had before, as strongly almost as his \nremorse, crushed him to the earth. He had scarce stepped from the bar \nbefore he found himself in the arms of Captain Loring, who hugged and \nblubbered, and swore 'adzooks, he always thought him an honest \nfellow, for all of their talking; and adzooks, it was no wonder he \nloved him, since he was of his own blood and bone, though he didn't \nlike his having so much Gilbert blood in him; and if he had only told \nhim as much before, it would have been much better for him, and, \nadzooks, for his poor Kate, and, adzooks, for the picture!'\n\nAt the bed-side of the dying Falconer he found his father's daughter. \nHis sister!--With what strange and contradictory emotions he received \nthe hand of the being, to whose unhappy hostility he owed the long \nseries of sufferings and indignities that had brought him almost to \nthe grave. And she,--with what feelings she must have herself seen in \nthe object of her greatest hate, one to whom nature had given the \nstrongest claims on her love. But the place in which they met called \nfor other than selfish emotions: it was at the death-bed of their \ncommon parent.\n\nIt is not our design to pursue further in detail the history of this \nunfortunate man. The bullet of Oran Gilbert (for it was now known \nthat the shot could have been fired by no other, all the members of \nhis band having been either killed or captured,) had been well aimed, \nthough he who fired it deemed it was speeded against the breast of \nhis own brother. The better victim lingered but a few days, and then \nexpired; so that the same grave which received his unlucky son closed \nover the guilt and sorrow of the parent. He lived long enough to \nremove the veil of shame from the sepulchre of the betrayed wife, and \nto do her reparation in the person of her son; but it was, as he had \nbefore declared, at the expense of his daughter. She never more \nlifted up her head. A sense of her parent's baseness, and the \ndisgrace now attached to her own origin, with perhaps the bitter \nconsciousness that her cruel design upon the happiness of her friend \nhad caused the ruin that surrounded her, weighed her to the earth; \nand two years after her father's death, she was herself borne to the \ngrave, the last victim of the retribution which so often visits the \nsins of the father upon the heads of his children.\n\nIt remains but to reveal the fate of two other prominent persons in \nthe story, before exchanging the gloom pervading the last act of the \ntragedy, for the sunshine that should mark the close.\n\nThe prisoner Sterling, notwithstanding his own expectations of a \nspeedy dissolution, lingered a full month before he expired; and in \nall that time displayed the workings of the hallucination which had \nbeen the consequence of his crime. He saw before him continually--for \nday and night were now alike to him--the ghastly figure of young \nFalconer, frowning at his bed-side; and frequently the phantom of the \nelder brother was added, in imagination, to the terrors of the other. \nHe died in this fearful frame of mind; and thus carried to the \nafter-tribunal the guilt which escaped the punishment of man.\n\nThe fate of Oran Gilbert remained for many months wrapped in \nobscurity. He must have fired the shot that struck a bosom he had so \noften coveted to pierce, from the open square behind the prison; yet \nhe effected his escape from the village without pursuit and almost \nwithout observation, the discharge of the rifle having excited but \nlittle notice at a moment when all the crowded throngs in the streets \nwere rushing towards the court. The alarm, however, being soon given, \nmany men armed themselves and started in pursuit, though without any \nknowledge of the direction in which he had fled, and, indeed, without \nat first being aware whom they followed. The first traces of him were \ndiscovered in the Hollow, at Elsie Bell's cottage, which it seems he \nhad entered before day, and there rested for awhile, to the great \nterror of the little negro girl Margery, who was at that time the \nonly inmate of the hovel, and to whom he appeared little short of a \ndemon, his countenance being wild and dreadful, and his words and \nactions, at least in her opinion, distracted. It was from the \ncircumstances developed here, that the pursuers found they were upon \nthe track of Oran Gilbert himself, now deprived of all followers, and \nflying with the dreadful persuasion at his spirit, that his hand had \nslain the last of his father's children.\n\nIt appeared from little Margery's account, that, after wildly \nsearching the house over, he asked for Elsie, and being told she was \nin the village, sat down upon a chair, whence the girl soon saw blood \nfall upon the floor; and, in fact, upon examination, it was found \nthat a considerable quantity of gore still lay by the chair on which \nhe had rested. He then called for water, and a napkin, the latter of \nwhich he put upon his right side, securing it under a leathern belt; \nafter which he drank freely of the water, and going into Elsie's \nprivate apartment, he took from the wall a little sampler, a relic, \nas it appeared, of his deceased sister, tore it to pieces, and \nscattered it over the floor. He then proceeded to the chamber so long \ninhabited by Hyland, where finding many little sketches, and other \nneglected scraps, he destroyed them in like manner. After this, he \ndescended to the room below, took up his gun, which he charged with \ngreat care, and hunted about until he had found a strong and \nsharp-pointed knife, which he stuck in his belt; and then, drinking \nagain from the pitcher, he left the hovel, without uttering a single \nword, and Margery heard him ride away, apparently towards the \nmountain.\n\nThis was enough for the pursuers, whose numbers had been increased by \nvolunteers along the way; and they instantly resumed the road, though \nwith no great hope of coming up with the fugitive, who had foiled \nthem so many times already. They knew, however, that the land was \nfull of parties still in search of him, none of which had perhaps \nbeen so close upon his track as themselves. They were also inspired \nby a discovery that was made when they came to examine the marks of \nhis horse's feet in the moist earth bordering the runlet in the \noak-yard, and this was, that the animal had cast a shoe; for which \nreason, they supposed, the rider would be soon compelled to abandon \nhim, and seek shelter in some fast place among the woods, where he \nmight be surrounded, and perhaps taken alive. They rode on therefore \nwith new spirit, and coming at an early hour in the morning upon the \nriver bank, led by the tracks of his horse, which did not seem once \nto have left the road, they descried him, or at least a horseman they \nsupposed to be him, riding along the bluff, at a slow gait, \nindicative of the daring or recklessness of his character.\n\nHe rode a black horse, apparently of great native strength and \nspirit; but, it was now obvious, the animal had been of late taxed \nseverely, and beyond his powers; for which reason, it was not \ndoubted, the fugitive could be overtaken, before he reached the \nmountain, which was still distant three or four miles. The party \nproclaimed their discovery and their hopes, by setting up a great \nshout. At this, to their surprise, the refugee checked his wearied \nsteed, and turned round, as if for the purpose of making battle,--a \ndisplay of audacity and resolution that went far to cool the ardour \nof many who had been, a moment before, the bravest of the whole \nparty. They saw him fling the rifle he carried into the hollow of his \nleft arm, and then, with his right hand, remove from his visage the \nlong locks of black hair that had, a moment before, swung wildly in \nthe wind; and they fancied they beheld, even at the distance which \nseparated them from him, a smile writhing over his pallid features, \nlike that of the panther at bay.\n\n\"Well done, old Oran the 'Awk!\" cried one of the party, taking a long \nrifle from his shoulder, and advancing to the head of the others, who \nhad come to an universal halt. He was a man of middle age, with a \nface as bleak and weather-worn as the rocks at the river's edge, tall \nand gaunt of frame, but sinewy, and of a certain bully-like look \nabout the fists and eyes, that showed him to be no inconsiderable man \nin his degree. \"Well done, old Oran the 'Awk!\" he cried; \"I up'old \nyou to be game, chock-full; and so, if you're for a pull ag'in \ncurrent, why, I'm clear for showing fair play. So men, just 'old by, \nlike honest fellers; and, my logs 'gin' his, I'll show him what long \nshots is; for he and me was good friends of old.\"\n\n\"Go it, Dan Potts, the raftsman!\" cried several of his companions, \nhandling their own arms, as if to try their virtues at a distance, \nwhile others cried out, to advance in a body without further delay, \nbut set no example themselves, the appearance of the outlaw being \nuninviting to all save the bold raftsman, who continued to move \nonwards, though slowly and cautiously, as if well aware of the danger \nof a personal contest with one who had been, as he said, his good \nfriend in old times. But the refugee, without regarding the challenge \nof the raftsman, took advantage of the hesitation of his companions \nto change his own plans, and by suddenly turning his horse and \nspurring off with unexpected speed, he gained a considerable space \nbefore they could recover from their surprise and follow. They darted \nafter him, however, with what activity they could; and cheering one \nanother with their voices, they rode on at such a pace that, in a few \nmoments, the whole party was sweeping betwixt the yawning jaws of the \nGap, up the course of which he directed his flight.\n\nThe mountain is here perhaps two thousand feet or more, in elevation. \nIts course is oblique to the river, which itself is bent and twisted \nout of its path by the irregular protrusion and retrogression of \ncliffs and promontories. The right bank of the river, looking to the \neast, is fenced by a dizzy and inaccessible wall of crags; while the \nmountain on the other side, presenting a similar wall to the south, \ndips down, westward, to the water in an angle more practicable to \nhuman daring, though the whole declivity is covered over with loose \nrocks, the remnants of some stony avalanche, tumbled from pinnacles \nabove by the same convulsion that thrust the mountain from the bowels \nof the earth, or shivered it, already uprisen, asunder. A few \nwithered hemlocks are here and there seen springing from between \nthese disjointed fragments, which are, in other places, veiled by \npatches of flowering-raspberry, alder, and other shrubs; though, in \ngeneral, the eye reposes on rocks entirely bald and naked, or, at \nbest, tufted with mosses, lichens, and ferns. It presents a scene of \ndreary sterility and gloom; but its savage wildness can be only \nappreciated by those who clamber up to its summit over those loose \nand ever-precarious rocks, which afford the only footing.\n\nInto the gorge bounded by these frowning limits the refugee was seen \nto urge his steed; when suddenly, to the amazement of the pursuers, \nhe turned from the road, dashed through a wall of rosebays that \nhedged it in, and the next moment plunged into the river, swimming \nhis horse right towards the opposite mountain. The cause of this \nextraordinary step was soon perceived; for the next instant a troop \nof horse in the continental uniform, came dashing down the Gap, \nuttering a wild hurrah, that made the rocks ring. It was one of the \nmany parties of military by whom all the passes of the county were \nguarded; and it seemed the fugitive had rushed almost amongst them, \nbefore he discovered their presence. Nothing remained for him, thus \nchecked in front, and retreat cut off behind, but to fling himself \ninto the river, and seek refuge among the dens of the eastern \nmountain; and this he attempted, though the chances were ten to one \nthat he should be shot from his horse, before he reached the opposite \nbank. In fact, he had scarce swum beyond the middle of the stream, \nbefore the two parties rushed to the water's edge and let fly a \nvolley, which, had it not been fired almost altogether from pistols, \nmust have brought his flight to a bloody close. The water was seen \nbubbling around him, as the bullets pattered like rain-drops over its \nsurface; but he still swam on, as if unhurt, and some dozen or more \nof the boldest riders present spurred their horses into the river to \nfollow.\n\n\"Well done, old Oran the 'Awk!\" cried Dan Potts, waving over his head \nthe long rifle he had not thought fit yet to discharge; \"it's agin my \nconscience to shoot an old friend in the back, 'specially when \nthere's no tree to cover him.\"\n\n\"Bang away, Dan Potts,\" cried others; \"shoot, for the honour of the \ncounty.\"\n\n\"The county be d----d,\" said Dan Potts; \"I shoots from my own raft.\" \nAnd with that, he raised his weapon, and taking deadly aim right \nbetwixt the refugee's shoulders, drew the trigger. But at that \nmoment, the horse, which had until now breasted his way gallantly \nthrough the deep water, flung himself aloft in terror or in agony, \nand rolling backwards, plunged his rider into the water, so that he \nescaped the shot entirely, as perhaps the animal did also, though \nthat could never be known with certainty.\n\n\"I swog! and may I wreck my next raft on the Foul Rift, if I didn't!\" \nsaid Dan Potts, \"but I hit the 'oss on the 'ead, and cuss the bit of \nhis master! Neversomever, I'll try for a spell ag'in, and the next'll \nbe a right-down rusty!\"\n\nWith these words he spurred his horse into the river, with which his \nemployment as a raftsman had doubtless made him familiar; for, \nwhether it proceeded from this circumstance, or some other advantage \nhe possessed over the others, he was soon at the head of the \nswimmers, and leading the pursuit.\n\nIn the meanwhile, Oran Gilbert was seen to spring erect on his \nhorse's back; but the animal never raised his head again from the \nwater, and Oran, abandoning him entirely, trusted to his own courage \nand strength of arm to reach the rocks that were now close at hand. \nIn this attempt he succeeded. He was seen to issue from the water, \nand aim his rifle, which he still retained, at the advancing Potts.\n\n\"Try it ag'in, old 'Awk!\" roared Dan, as he saw the imperfect flash \nexpire, without being followed by any explosion; \"try it ag'in, old \nboy; or out knife and be ready!\"\n\nThe only answer the tory deigned the bravado was, to fling his now \nunserviceable and burdensome piece into the river, and then rush up \nthe mountain with all his speed. He was soon lost sight of among the \nrocks and bushes; a piece of good fortune which he owed to a simple \nexpedient. As he clambered up, he took care to spurn from its \nlodgment every stone that shook under his foot, which rolling down \nthe declivity, became a source of extreme confusion and peril to the \npursuers, (as such are indeed yet to the laggards in a mere party of \npleasure,) who were thus forced to loiter in the ascent, after having \npreviously lost some time in securing their horses at the bottom of \nthe hill, until there remained little hopes of overtaking him. The \nraftsman was the only individual who, in this conjuncture, was able \nto proceed with any spirit. He pressed upward, dodging the descending \nrocks with infinite address and agility, and was soon lost sight of; \nuntil, finally, even his voice, with which he continued to cheer the \nothers, was no longer heard.\n\nThe mountain was, however, climbed at last; but the refugee had \nvanished. The only practicable path conducts you to the summit of the \nhill along the edge of the southern precipices; and the last step is \nfrom a shelf that overhangs the wooded abyss below, whence, peeping \nover the brink of the cliffs at their most tremendous height, the eye \nlooks over many a league of blue hill and misty hollow, of living \nwood and winding river,--a scene whose loveliness is made more \nimpressive by contrast with the savage desolation that reigns around \nthe point of view. A broad table of stone, shelving downwards, and in \npart overhanging the abyss, lies like a parapet upon the extreme \nbrink of the precipice; and it is from this, lying upon his breast, \nclinging with foot and hand to its crevices and the stunted bushes \nthat grow upon its surface, and advancing his head beyond the naked \nverge, that the adventurous spectator looks down into the dizzy gulf \nbelow,--if he have indeed the courage to look.\n\nUpon this platform the raftsman was found reposing, his elbows \nresting upon the parapet stone, and his countenance betraying wonder \nmingled with perplexity. Upon being asked what had become of the \nfugitive, he pointed to certain marks of fresh blood that lay on the \nstones where he stood, hard-by the parapet, which was itself dabbled \nwith blood; and, in addition, the black lichens with which it was \novergrown, were torn up, as by the struggles of some human being \nsliding down its inclined surface towards the horrible abyss beneath; \nand a shrub springing from the verge, was snapped off, as if broken \nby a human hand.\n\n\"I once,\" said the raftsman, \"chased a two-year buck off this here \nvery rock; and I reckon, you may see some of his bones among the \nbushes below. I was hunting with Oran Gilbert; we were boys together; \nand, I remember, he said, 'It was a brave jump for a hard-pushed \nbeast, and a wise one, too.' Now let any man run his nose over the \nrock's edge, and tell me what he sees swinging to a bush some fifty \nor sixty fathoms below; for, to my eyes, it has much the look of a \ngreen hunting-shirt, or a big rag of it. There's a stream of blood \nrunning up along the rocks, and here's the ending of it. There was \nsome old wound bursting out on him afresh, and, to my thought, the \nman was not able to run further; and so he remembered the deer, and \ntook a jump;--and I must say, it was a brave fancy of his, and a wise \none too.\"\n\nTo this conjecture confirmation was given, when one of the party, \nhaving peered over the rock, declared that he saw the flutter of some \ngarment, hanging on a bush many a weary foot below. The stones were \nhunted over again; a track of blood was plainly distinguished, and \nhad been remarked before, staining the rocks for some distance below; \nand on this platform it ended. The closest search could not detect \nany mark to show that the fugitive had proceeded a step further; it \nwas believed at once, that, having reached this spot, and found \nhimself incapable of proceeding further, the pursuers, headed by \nPotts, pressing him close, he had thrown himself from the rocks, \npreferring a death in keeping with his savage career, to falling \nalive into the hands of his foes. There was no other way to account \nfor his disappearance, the presence of blood on the parapet, and the \nwave of the garment below; and, indeed, a second, and then a third \nperson, looking down, they swore they could see, among the bushes at \nthe bottom of the cliffs, something that looked like a human form, as \nthey doubted not it was. It was accordingly resolved to descend the \nmountain without delay, which, after uttering a loud shout of triumph \nthey did, with the single exception of the raftsman; who, declaring \nhimself overcome with fatigue, sat down upon a stone on the platform \nto rest, and was soon lost sight of by the others. As the last man \nleft the shelf, he beckoned to him with his hand, nodded his head, \nand took other means to arrest his attention; but these being \ndisregarded, or perhaps unperceived, he ceased his signals, and \nmuttered half to himself, half aloud,--\n\n\"Well done, Tom Wolf; you're no fox, and a man must ha' said, 'Fifty \nguineas!' aloud, to fetch you. But I was a fool to think on't; no \n'alves and no quarters, is my cry; and a man mought as well take the \nmoney and the credit into his own hands, without sharing; for, I \nreckon, the creatur's clean done up, and can make no more fight than \na 'possum. Neversomever, there's no varmint of the woods or water can \nstand by him for a trick; and so we'll look sharp, Dan Potts, and see \nwhat'll come out of it. I reckon I shall make them 'ere fellers \nstare! They say, the governor has offered five hundred dollars for \nhim, hard money, dead or alive. Five hundred dollars isn't to be \nmade, every day, a-rafting. There's a big hole under that stone; and, \nI remember, he boasted he had been down in it afore; which was like \nenough, for he was always a ventur'ing devil.\"\n\nIt may be gathered from these expressions what cause had prevented \nthe raftsman leaving the shelf with his companions. Immediately \nbeneath the projecting portion of the table-rock, so often mentioned, \nthere is a cavity or niche in the face of the cliff, visible, on a \nclear day, even from the foot of the mountain, and inaccessible from \nthe top only because there are few men in the world of sufficient \nnerve to attempt reaching it, by climbing over the face of the \ncliff,--an exploit the very thought of which is appalling. It \noccurred to the ancient comrade of the refugee, that the latter, \npersuaded he must be captured, unless he could throw his pursuers off \nthe scent, or delay the chase for a time, might have bethought him of \nthe stratagem of causing them to believe he had thrown himself from \nthe rocks, while, all the time, he was lying snugly and safely in the \ncavity beneath the shelving rock, from which he might be expected to \nsally out, the moment the pursuers had descended. This was rather a \nconceit in the raftsman's mind than a positive suspicion; but it was \nsufficient to impel him upon a new course of action, a main incentive \nto which was the prospect it seemed to open to him of securing the \nrewards that had been offered for the apprehension of the noted \noutlaw.\n\nHe sat down therefore upon a stone opposite to the parapet, and \nscarce twenty feet from it, holding his rifle ready cocked upon his \nknee, his knife loosened in the sheath, and his little hunting-axe \nlying at his feet; and he sat thus without fear, knowing that, even \nif the refugee were armed and in the pride of his strength and \ndaring, he could not ascend to the shelf, without being entirely at \nhis mercy. He sat in silence, expecting each moment to see the fierce \neyes of the outcast peering over the rock, or to hear the rattling of \nstones along the face of the cliff, denoting that he had left his \nhiding-place, and was beginning to ascend. He sat watching, however, \na long time in vain;--and was beginning to believe that his suspicion \nwas groundless, and that the desperate Oran had in truth leaped from \nthe cliff, when suddenly there rose beyond the verge of the rock the \napparition of a human head, but so spectral, so pale, so ghastly with \nblood, and so wildly unnatural of expression, that he was seized with \na sudden fear, and beheld the whole body succeed it, and the refugee \nhimself (for it was he) stand erect upon the parapet, before he could \nraise his piece, and charge him to surrender.\n\n\"I have you, Oran, old friend!\" he said, at last; \"so down knife, and \ntake quarter. If you move foot or hand, I'll fire upon you.\"\n\nThe outlaw heard his voice, and beheld the threatening weapon, \nwithout any manifestation of surprise. He bent his eyes upon him with \na stare that curdled the raftsman's blood. \"Fire!\" he said, and \nlaughed; and then suddenly drawing the knife he had taken from \nElsie's cottage, he made a fierce spring from the rock right against \nthe uplifted rifle. The attack was so unexpected and energetic that \nPotts had scarce time to pull the trigger, before the tory lighted on \nthe shelf at his feet. He drew it, however, with the certainty that \nthe next moment the assailant would be lying dead at his foot--he \ndrew it, and not even a flash burst from the treacherous powder; it \nsnapped in his hands; and before he could exchange it for another \nweapon, nay, before he could even draw his knife, he found the blade \nof his opponent glimmering at his breast. He caught at his wrist, the \nonly expedient that saved him from a mortal thrust: and being of \ngreat nerve, he strove, at the same time, to hurl the tory upon the \nrock. But great as was his strength, and feeble as he had supposed \nthe powers of Oran to be, the attempt was foiled, and he began in his \nheart to curse the covetousness, that had deprived him of a helper, \nin such a time of need. As he caught the wrist of Oran in his left \nhand, he sought, with the other, to snatch his own knife from the \nsheath; but the motion was anticipated, and his own right hand \ngrasped in Oran's left; so that the two stood for an instant facing \none another, entangled, as it might be said, like two wild bucks, \nthat have, at the first blow, interlocked their antlers together, and \nthus remain glaring at each other, waging battle only with their \neyes. In that instant, the raftsman beheld enough to make him repent \nthe temerity with which he had sought to bring the refugee to bay. \nInstead of being weakened by loss of blood, or exhausted by the toil \nof ascending the mountain, it seemed as if he was suddenly imbued \nwith new strength, as well as additional fury, by the mere presence \nof a foe; and there was that in his countenance, which expressed, \nalong with a native love of conflict, the malignant ferocity of a \nmaniac. Indeed, his appearance was so fearful, and his ability to \nresist to the uttermost so manifest, that the raftsman felt strongly \nmoved to call for a parley and propose a mutual release; but the \ndesire came too late. The tory perceived the fainting of his heart, \nand laughed:\n\n\"I never did harm to you or yours, Dan Potts,\" he said; \"but you \nshall never say so more. You would sell the blood of a dying man--you \nmust first win it.\"\n\nWith that, he relaxed his grasp on the raftsman's right hand, as if \nfor the purpose of seizing him by the throat; and Potts took instant \nadvantage of the motion, to snatch his knife from its sheath. The \nmotion was a trick of juggling, such as the outlaw had learned among \nthe red associates of his boyhood, and perhaps practised in similar \nencounters before. The next instant, he had thrown the whole weight \nof his body upon the raftsman's breast, and directing the half-drawn \nblade at the same time with his hand, Potts fell upon the rock, his \nown weapon buried to the handle in his side.\n\n\"Go!\" shouted the victor, leaping up, and dragging his victim towards \na corner of the shelf, where no parapet intervened betwixt them and \nthe abyss,--\"to your fellow bloodhounds below!--Something in memory \nof Hyland Gilbert!\"\n\nHe struck the body with his foot,--it rolled crashing over the \nslender twigs and decaying flakes of stone on the brink of the \nprecipice, and then disappeared, with not a sound to indicate its \nfall upon the shivered rocks below. The next moment, the victor ran \nfrom the platform, and was buried among the forests that darken the \nlong and desolate summit of the ridge.\n\nIt was perhaps two hours, or more, before the party of pursuers, \ndescending the mountain to the river, and making their way along the \nlesser elevation of rocks, heaped at the foot of the great southern \nprecipice, from which they have fallen, reached the spot where they \nexpected to find the mangled corse of the outlaw. Their astonishment \nand horror may be conceived, when, instead of that, they lighted upon \nthe body of the raftsman, known by his garments, for scarce a vestige \nof humanity remained, and sought to penetrate the mysterious cause of \nhis fall. The true reason was rather supposed than inferred; but \ntheir suspicions were confirmed when the mountain was re-ascended, \nand his axe and cap found lying on the shelf, as well as a new track \nof blood, leading along the ridge. This was followed, until it led \nthem to a spot, where, it was evident, the fugitive had rested awhile \nand bound up his wounds. But here the trace entirely failed, and was \nnever again recovered. The mountains were hunted over and over for \nweeks, but not the slightest vestige of the refugee rewarded the \nsearch.\n\nIn the course of the ensuing winter, a party of hunters, following a \nwolf, were led to the banks of one of those little lakes, that lie, \nlike dots of sapphire and crystal, along the broken ridges of the \nmountain. In this remote nook, in a hollow, surrounded by jagged \nrocks and hemlock-trees, were found several rude huts, or wigwams, of \nboughs, now in ruins, such as the hunters make, when they 'camp out' \nin the wilderness, with the remains of fires in front of each. This \nplace was supposed to have been one of the chief retreats of the \nrefugees. At some distance from the huts, on the edge of the lake, \nthey fell upon the bones of a human being, scattered about among the \nstones and bushes, as if rent asunder by wild beasts; and near them \nwas discovered a rusted rifle, which, being taken to the valley, was \nrecognised as the weapon of Potts, the raftsman, which had not been \nfound either upon the platform where the party of pursuers had left \nhim, or near his body. This circumstance induced a suspicion that the \nbones were those of Oran Gilbert, who had armed himself with the \nraftsman's piece, before leaving the platform. There remained no \nother memorial of his fate, and no other circumstance was found to \nidentify the skeleton with the man once so much dreaded and detested; \nbut it was not doubted that hither, into the savage wilderness, he \nhad dragged his mangled frame, and perished miserably.\n\nThe close of Hyland's story may be readily imagined. His sufferings \nhe might have considered as being retributive in their nature,--since \nhis return to the land of his birth had no worthier cause than a \ndesire to take part in the conflict against her liberties. This \ndesire had been indeed cooled by personal observation of the feelings \nand principles which supported his countrymen through a long period \nof disaster and suffering; and the last blow was given to the \nunworthy ambition by the love for one of his country's daughters that \nsoon entangled his spirit. The giving way to wrath and the lust of \nblood, though but for a moment, had been followed by the last and \nheaviest of his griefs, not the lightest of which was his temporary \nbelief in his own guilt, and his consequent remorse. But the shadow \nhad now departed from him, and for ever; and it was soon perceived by \nall who chose to ponder over his history, that his greatest crime had \nbeen his affection, and the ill-judged deed of violence into which it \nhad led him.\n\nHis meeting with the Captain's daughter, after his liberation, was \none of mingled joy and grief; but it was the last one marked with \ntears. The bloom returned again to Catherine's cheek, and, in course \nof time, the gay and merry spirit, native to her bosom, revisited its \nformer cell; and if a shadow ever again darkened her countenance, it \nwas only when, sometimes wandering along the brook and by the \nwaterfall, (whence the bones of Jessie had been long since removed, \nto be deposited near those of her step-mother in the village \nchurch-yard,) she remembered the trials of sorrow, and the scenes of \nblood, through which she had been conducted to final happiness. She \nwept, indeed, when Harriet died, for she had forgiven her; but that \nwas the only grief that clouded a long period of peace and sunshine.\n\nOur inquiries after the fate of the less important personages of our \ntradition have never been very satisfactory in results. Americans are \na race of Utilitarians, all busied in the acquisition of profitable \nknowledge, and just as ready, if not as anxious, to forget all lore \nof an useless character. The little anecdotes of a district last but \nfor a generation; the fathers tell them to the children, but the \nchildren find something better to think about, and so forget them. We \nknow nothing of the latter years of Elsie Bell, but can readily \nbelieve they passed in comfort and peace. Her little cottage has long \nsince vanished from the earth, the running of newer and better roads \nin other places having long since diverted all travel from the \nprecincts of Hawk-Hollow.\n\nDancy Parkins, we suppose, under the auspicious patronage of the new \nmaster of the valley, pursued his claims to the love of the fair \nPhoebe; but as that was a matter of much more consequence to him than \nthe reader, we never cared much to inquire his fate.\n\nOur curiosity in relation to the career of the unworthy limb of the \nlaw, Theophilus Affidavy, Esq., has been somewhat stronger; yet we \ncould never find that a single act of his life, or even his name, has \nbeen retained by those who dwell near the scene of his exploits. His \nadventure in the brook, with his ride on the back of the buttonwood \ntree, has, by some strange accident, travelled into an adjacent \ncounty, where it is told as a very good story, though the honour is \nsupposed to attach to an individual of another name and profession. \nBut it is with a strange story as with an old pun; it finds fathers, \nas it travels.\n\nAs for Captain Loring, all we have to say of him is, that he lived \nlong enough to rejoice over the union of his daughter with Hyland \nFalconer as much as he would perhaps have mourned over her early \ngrave, had her destiny wedded her to the unlucky younger brother. He \nlived also to see, with a rapture that lasted to his dying day, the \npainter resume the brush, and put the last finish to 'the grand \npicture of the Battle of Brandywine, and Tom Loring, dying.'\n\n\n\n\nTHE END.","title":"The Hawks of Hawk-Hollow: A Tradition of Pennsylavania","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":152244}