[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]

It was just at this instant that most of the women of the
settlement rushed from the court, and spread themselves
within the stockade, Mrs. Willoughby and Beulah being
foremost in the movement. The captain left the gate, too,
and even the men, who were just about to raise the last
leaf, suspended their toil. It was quite apparent some new
cause for uneasiness or alarm had suddenly awoke among
them. Still the stack of arms remained untouched, nor was
there any new demonstration among the Indians. The
major watched everything, with intense attention, through
the glass.

“What is it, dear Bob?” demanded the anxious Maud.
“I see my dearest mother—she seems alarmed.”

“Was it known to her that you were about to quit the
house, when you came out on this walk?”

“I rather think not. She and Beulah were in the nursery
with little Evert, and my father was in the fields. I came
out without speaking to any person, nor did I meet any before
entering the forest.”

“Then you are now first missed. Yes, that is it — and
no wonder, Maud, it creates alarm. Merciful God! How
must they all feel, at a moment like this!”

“Fire your rifle, Bob—that will draw their eyes in this
direction, and I will wave my handkerchief—perhaps that
might be seen. Beulah has received such signals from me,
before.”

“It would never do. No, we must remain concealed,
watching their movements, in order to be able to aid them

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at the proper time. It is painful to endure this suspense,
beyond a doubt; but the pain must be borne in order to
ensure the safety of one who is so very, very precious to
us all.”

Notwithstanding the fearful situation in which she was
placed, Maud felt soothed by these words. The language
of affection, as coming from Robert Willoughby, was very
dear to her at all times, and never more than at a moment
when it appeared that even her life was suspended, as it
might be, by a hair.

“It is as you say,” she answered gently, giving him her
hand with much of her ancient frankness of manner; “we
should be betrayed, and of course lost—but what means the
movement at the Hut?”

There was indeed a movement within the stockade.
Maud's absence was now clearly ascertained, and it is needless
to describe the commotion the circumstance produced.
No one thought any longer of the half of the gate that still
remained to be hung, but every supposable part of the house
and enclosure had been examined in quest of her who was
missing. Our heroine's last remark, however, was produced
by certain indications of an intention to make a descent
from one of the external windows of the common
parlour, a room it will be remembered that stood on the
little cliff, above the rivulet that wound beneath its base.
This cliff was about forty feet high, and though it offered a
formidable obstacle to any attempt to scale it, there was no
great difficulty in an active man's descending, aided by a
rope. The spot, too, was completely concealed from the
view of the party which still remained on the rock, near the
mill, at a distance of quite half a mile from the gates of the
stockade. This fact greatly facilitated the little sortie, since,
once in the bed of the rivulet, which was fringed with bushes,
it would be very practicable, by following its windings, to
gain the forest unseen. The major levelled his glass at the
windows, and immediately saw the truth of all that has here
been mentioned.

“They are preparing to send a party out,” he said, “and
doubtless in quest of you, Maud. The thing is very feasible,
provided the savages remain much longer in their present
position. It is matter of surprise to me, that the last have

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not sent a force in the rear of the Hut, where the windows
are at least exposed to fire, and the forest is so close as to
afford a cover to the assailants. In front there is literally
none, but a few low fences, which is the reason I presume
that they keep so much aloof.”

“It is not probable they know the valley. With the exception
of Nick, but few Indians have ever visited us, and
that rarely. Those we have seen have all been of the most
peaceable and friendly tribes; not a true warrior, as my
father says, ever having been found among them. Nick is
the only one of them all that can thus be termed.”

“Is it possible that fellow has led this party? I have never
more than half confided in him, and yet he is too old a friend
of the family, I should think, to be guilty of such an act of
baseness.”

“My father thinks him a knave, but I question if he has
an opinion of him as bad as that. Besides, he knows the
valley, and would have led the Indians round into the rear
of the house, if it be a place so much more favourable for
the attack, as you suppose. These wretches have come by
the common paths, all of which first strike the river, as you
know, below the mills.”

“That is true. I lost my way, a few miles from this, the
path being very blind on the eastern route, which I travelled
as having gone it last with Nick, and thinking it the safest.
Fortunately I recognised the crest of this mountain above
us, by its shape, or I might never have found my way; although
the streams, when struck, are certain guides to the
woodsman. As soon as I hit the cow-paths, I knew they
would lead me to the barns and sheds. See! a man is
actually descending from a window!”

“Oh! Bob, I hope it is not my father! He is too old—it
is risking too much to let him quit the house.”

“I will tell you better when he reaches the ground. Unless
mistaken—ay—it is the Irishman, O'Hearn.”

“Honest Mike! He is always foremost in everything,
though he so little knows how anything but digging ought
to be done. Is there not another following him—or am I
deceived?”

“There is—he has just reached the ground, too. This
might be spared, did they know how well you are guarded,

[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]

Maud. By one who would die cheerfully to prevent harm
from reaching you!”

“They little dream of that, Bob,” answered Maud, in a
low tone. “Not a human being in that valley fancies you
nearer to him than the royal armies are, at this moment.
But they do not send a third—I am glad they weaken their
own force no further.”

“It is certainly best they should not. The men had their
rifles slung when they descended, and they are now getting
them ready for service. It is Joel Strides who is with
Mike.”

“I am sorry for it. That is a man I little like, Bob, and
I should be sorry he knew of your being here.”

This was said quickly, and with a degree of feeling that
surprised the major, who questioned Maud earnestly as to
her meaning and its reasons. The latter told him she scarce
knew herself; that she disliked the man's manner, had long
thought his principles bad, and that Mike in his extraordinary
way had said certain things to her, to awaken distrust.

“Mike speaks in hieroglyphics,” said the major, laughing,
in spite of the serious situation in which he and his companion
were placed, “and one must never be too sure of his
meaning. Joel has now been many years with my father,
and he seems to enjoy his confidence.”

“He makes himself useful, and is very guarded in what
he says at the Hut. Still—I wish him not to know of your
being here.”

“It will not be easy to prevent it, Maud. I should have
come boldly into the valley, but for this accidental meeting
with you, trusting that my father has no one about him so
base as to betray his son.”

“Trust not Joel Strides. I'll answer for Mike with my
life; but sorry indeed should I be that Joel Strides knew of
your being among us. It were better, perhaps, that most
of the workmen should not be in the secret. See—the two
men are quitting the foot of the rocks.”

This was true, and Robert Willoughby watched their
movements with the glass. As had been expected, they
first descended into the bed of the rivulet, wading along its
shore, under the cover of the bushes, until they soon became
concealed even from the view of one placed on a height as

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elevated as that occupied by Robert and Maud. It was
sufficiently apparent, however, that their intention was to
reach the forest in this manner, when they would probably
commence their search for the missing young lady. Nor
was it long before Robert and Maud plainly saw the two
adventurers quit the bed of the stream and bury themselves
in the forest. The question now seriously arose as to the
best course for the major and his companion to pursue.
Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been wisest,
perhaps, to descend at once and meet the messengers, who
might soon be found at some of the usual haunts of the girl;
but against this the latter so earnestly protested, and that in
a manner so soothing to the young man's feelings, that he
scarce knew how to oppose her wishes. She implored him
not to confide in Joel Strides too hastily, at least. It might
be time enough, when there was no alternative; until the
true character of the party then in the valley was known,
it would be premature. Nothing was easier than to conceal
himself until it was dark, when he might approach the Hut,
and be admitted without his presence being known to any
but those on whom the family could certainly rely. The
major urged the impossibility of his quitting Maud, until
she was joined by the two men sent in quest of her, and
then it would be too late, as he must be seen. Although he
might escape immediate recognition in his present dress, the
presence of a stranger would excite suspicions, and compel
an explanation. To this Maud replied in the following
manner: Her customary places of resort, when in the
woods, were well known; more especially to Michael, who
was frequently employed in their vicinity. These were a
little water-fall, that was situated a hundred rods up the
rivulet, to which a path had been made expressly, and where
an arbour, seat, and little table had been arranged, for the
purposes of working, reading, or taking refreshments. To
this spot the men would unquestionably proceed first. Then,
there was a deep ravine, some distance farther, that was
often visited for its savage beauty, and whither she more
frequently went, perhaps, than to any other place. Thither
Michael would be certain to lead his companion. These
two places visited, they might infallibly expect to see the
men at the rock, where the two were then seated, as the

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last spot in which Maud might naturally be expected to be
found. It would require an hour to visit the two places first
named, and to examine the surrounding woods; and by that
time, not only would the sun be set, but the twilight would
be disappearing. Until that moment, then, the major might
remain at her side, and on the sound of the approaching
footsteps of the messengers, he had only to retire behind a
projection of the rocks, and afterwards follow towards the
Knoll, at a safe distance.

This plan was too plausible to be rejected; and giving
Robert an hour of uninterrupted discourse with his companion,
it struck him as having more advantages than any
other mentioned. The party near the mills, too, remaining
perfectly quiet, there was less occasion for any change of
their own, than might otherwise have been the case. So
far, indeed, from appearing to entertain any hostile intention,
not a cabin had been injured, if approached, and the
smoke of the conflagration which had been expected to rise
from the mills and the habitations in the glen, did not make
its appearance. If any such ruthless acts as applying the
brand and assaulting the people were in contemplation, they
were at least delayed until night should veil them in a fitting
darkness.

It is always a great relief to the mind, in moments of trial,
to have decided on a course of future action. So the major
and Maud now found; for, taking his seat by her side, he
began to converse with his companion more connectedly,
and with greater calmness than either had yet been able to
achieve. Many questions were asked, and answers given,
concerning the state of the family, that of his father and
mother, and dear Beulah and her infant, the latter being as
yet quite a stranger to the young soldier.

“Is he like his rebel of a father?” asked the royal officer,
smiling, but as his companion fancied, painfully; “or has
he more of the look of the Willoughbys. Beekman is a
good-looking Dutchman; yet, I would rather have the boy
resemble the good old English stock, after all.”

“The sweet little fellow resembles both father and mother;
though the first the most, to Beulah's great delight.
Papa says he is true `Holland's come of,' as they call it,
though neither mamma nor I will allow of any such thing.

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Colonel Beekman is a very worthy man, Bob, and a most
affectionate and attentive, husband. Beulah, but for this
war, could not be happier.”

“Then I forgive him one-half of his treason—for the remainder
let him take his luck. Now I am an uncle, my
heart begins to melt a little towards the rebel. And you,
Maud, how do the honours of an aunt sit upon your feelings?
But women are all heart, and would love a rat.”

Maud smiled, but she answered not. Though Beulah's
child were almost as dear to her as one of her own could
have been, she remembered that she was not its aunt, in
fact; and, though she knew not why, in that company, and
even at that grave moment, the obtrusive thought summoned
a bright flush to her cheeks. The major probably did
not notice this change of countenance, since, after a short
pause, he continued the conversation naturally.

“The child is called Evert, is it not, aunt Maud?” he
asked, laying an emphasis on `aunt.'

Maud wished this word had not been used; and yet Robert
Willoughby, could the truth have been known, had
adverted to it with an association in his own mind, that
would have distressed her, just then, still more. Aunt Maud
was the name that others, however, were most fond of adopting,
since the birth of the child; and remembering this, our
heroine smiled.

“That is what Beulah has called me, these six months,”
she said—“or ever since Evert was born. I became an
aunt the day he became a nephew; and dear, good Beulah
has not once called me sister since, I think.”

“These little creatures introduce new ties into families,”
answered the major, thoughtfully. “They take the places
of the generations before them, and edge us out of our hold
on the affections, as in the end they supplant us in our
stations in life. If Beulah love me only as an uncle, however,
she may look to it. I'll be supplanted by no Dutchman's
child that was ever born!”

“You, Bob!” cried Maud, starting. “You are its real
uncle; Beulah must ever remember you, and love you, as
her own brother!”

Maud's voice became suddenly hushed, like one who feared
she had said too much. The major gazed at her intently,

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but he spoke not; nor did his companion see his look, her
own eyes being cast meekly and tremblingly on the earth at
her feet. A considerable pause succeeded, and then the
conversation reverted to what was going on in the valley.

The sun was now set, and the shadows of evening began
to render objects a little indistinct beneath them. Still it
was apparent that much anxiety prevailed in and about the
Hut, doubtless on account of our heroine's absence. So
great was it, indeed, as entirely to supersede the hanging
of the remaining leaf of the gate, which stood in the gap
where it belonged, stayed by pieces of timber, but unhung.
The major thought some disposition had been made, however,
by which the inmates might pass and repass by the
half that was suspended, making a tolerable defence, when
all was closed.

“Hist!” whispered Maud, whose faculties were quickened
by the danger of her companion; “I hear the voice of Michael,
and they approach. No sense of danger can repress
poor O'Hearn's eloquence; his ideas seeming to flow from
his tongue very much as they rise to his thoughts, chance
directing which shall appear first.”

“It is true, dear girl; and as you seem so strongly to
wish it, I will withdraw. Depend on my keeping near you,
and on my presence, should it be required.”

“You will not forget to come beneath the windows, Bob,”
said Maud, anxiously, but in great haste; for the footsteps
of the men drew rapidly near; “at the very spot where the
others descended.”

The major bent forward and kissed a cheek that was
chilled with apprehension, but which the act caused to burn
like fire; then he disappeared behind the projection of rock
he had himself pointed out. As for Maud, she sate in seeming
composure, awaiting the approach of those who drew
near.

“The divil bur-r-n me, and all the Injins in Ameriky
along wid me,” said Mike, scrambling up the ascent by a
short cut, “but I think we'll find the young Missus, here,
or I don't think we'll be finding her the night. It's a
cursed counthry to live in, Misther Strides, where a young
lady of the loveliness and pithiful beauty of Miss Maud can

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be lost in the woods, as it might be a sheep or a stray baste
that was for tasting the neighbour's pastures.”

“You speak too loud, Mike, and you speak foolishness
into the bargain,” returned the wary Joel.

“Is it I, you mane! Och! don't think ye're goin' to set
me a rowin' a boat once more, ag'in my inclinations and
edication, as ye did in ould times. I've rung ye into yer
ma'tin', and out of yer m'atin', too, twenty times too often
to be catched in that same trap twice. It's Miss Maud I
wants, and Miss Maud I'll find, or — Lord bless her
swate face and morals, and her charackter, and all belonging
to her!—isn't that, now, a prathy composure for the
likes of her, and the savages at the mill, and the Missus in
tears, and the masther mighty un'asy, and all of us bothered!
See how she sits on that bit of a sate that I puts there
for her wid my own hands, as a laddy should, looking jist
what she is, the quane of the woods, and the delight of our
eyes!”

Maud was too much accustomed to the rhapsodies of the
county Leitrim-man to think much of this commencement;
but resolute to act her part with discretion, she rose to meet
him, speaking with great apparent self-possession.

“Is it possible you are in quest of me?” she said—“why
has this happened?—I usually return about this hour.”

“Hoors is it! Don't talk of hoors, beauthiful young laddy,
when a single quarther may be too late,” answered Mike,
dogmatically. “It's your own mother that's not happy at
yer being in the woods the night, and yer ould father that
has moore un'asiness than he'll confess; long life to the
church in which confession is held to be right, and dacent,
and accorthing to the gospel of St. Luke, and the whole
calender in the bargain. Ye'll not be frightened, Miss
Maud, but take what I've to tell ye jist as if ye didn't bel'ave
a wo-r-r-d of it; but, divil bur-r-n me, if there arn't Injins
enough on the rocks, forenent the mill, to scalp a whole
province, and a county along wid it, if ye'll give 'em time
and knives enough.”

“I understand you, Michael, but am not in the least
alarmed,” answered Maud, with an air of great steadiness;
such, indeed, as would have delighted the captain. “Something
of what has been passing below have I seen; but, by

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being calm and reasonable, we shall escape the danger.
Tell me only, that all is safe in the Hut—that my dear mother
and sister are well.”

“Is it the Missus? Och, she's as valiant as a peacock,
only strick down and overcome about your own self! As
for Miss Beuly, where's the likes of her to be found, unless
it's on this same bit of a rock? And it's agraable to see
the captain, looking for all the wor-r-ld like a commander-in-chaif
of six or eight rijiments, ordering one this-a-way,
and another that-a-way—By St. Patrick, young laddy, I
only hopes them vagabonds will come on as soon as yourself
is inside the sticks, jist to give the ould jontleman a
better occasion to play souldier on 'em. Should they happen
to climb over the sticks, I've got the prattiest bit of a shillaleh
ready that mortal eyes iver adorned! 'Twould break
a head and niver a hat harmed — a thousand's the pities
them chaps wears no hats. Howsever, we'll see.”

“Thank you, Mike, for the courage you show, and the
interest you take in all our welfares—Is it not too soon to
venture down upon the flats, Joel? I must trust to you as a
guide.”

“I think Miss Maud would do full as well if she did.
Mike must be told, too, not to talk so much, and above all,
not to speak so loud. He may be heard, sometimes, a dozen
rods.”

“Tould!” exclaimed the county Leitrim-man, in heat —
“And isn't tould I've been twenty times already, by your
own smooth conversation? Where's the occasion to tell a
thing over and over ag'in, when a man is not wanting in
ears. It's the likes of you that loves to convarse.”

“Well, Mike, for my sake, you will be silent, I hope,”
said Maud. “Remember, I am not fitted for a battle, and
the first thing is to get safely into the house. The sooner
we are down the hill, perhaps, the better it may be. Lead
the way, then, Joel, and I will follow. Michael will go next
to you, in readiness for any enemy, and I will bring up the
rear. It will be better for all to keep a dead silence, until it
be necessary to speak.”

This arrangement was made, and the party proceeded,
Maud remaining a little behind, in order that the major
might catch glimpses of her person, in the sombre light of

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the hour and the forest, and not miss the road. A few
minutes brought them all upon the level land, where, Joel,
instead of entering the open fields, inclined more into the
woods, always keeping one of the many paths. His object
was to cross the rivulet under cover, a suitable place offering
a short distance from the point where the stream glided
out of the forest. Towards this spot Joel quietly held his
way, occasionally stopping to listen if any movement of importance
had occurred on the flats. As for Maud, her eyes
were frequently cast behind her, for she was fearful Robert
Willoughby might miss the path, having so little acquaintance
with the thousand sinuosities he encountered. She
caught glimpses of his person, however, in the distance, and
saw that he was on the right track. Her chief concern,
therefore, soon became an anxiety that he should not be
seen by her companions. As they kept a little in advance,
and the underbrush was somewhat thick, she had strong
hopes that this evil would be avoided.

The path being very circuitous, it took some time to reach
the spot Joel sought. Here he, Mike, and Maud, crossed
the rivulet on a tree that had been felled expressly to answer
the purposes of a rustic foot-bridge; a common expedient
of the American forest. As our heroine had often performed
this exploit when alone, she required no assistance, and she
felt as if half the danger of her critical situation had vanished,
when she found herself on the same side of the stream
as the Hut. Joel, nothing suspecting, and keeping all his
faculties on the sounds and sights that might occur in front,
led the way diligently, and soon reached the verge of the
woods. Here he paused for his companions to join him.

Twilight had, by this time, nearly disappeared. Still,
enough remained to enable Maud to perceive that many
were watching for her, either at the windows above the
cliff, or through different parts of the stockades. The distance
was so small, that it might have been possible, by raising
the voice, even to converse; but this would be an experiment
too hazardous, as some hostile scouts, at that hour,
might very well be fearfully near.

“I see nothing, Miss Maud,” observed Joel, after taking a
good look around him. “By keeping the path that follows
the edge of the brook, though it is so crooked, we shall be

[figure description] Page 193.[end figure description]

certain of good walking, and shall be half hid by the bushes.
It's best to walk quick, and to be silent.”

Maud bade him go on, waiting herself behind a tree, to
let the two men precede her a short distance. This was
done, and the major stole up to her side unseen. A few
words of explanation passed, when the young lady ran after
her guides, leaving Robert Willoughby seated on a log. It
was a breathless moment to Maud, that in which she was
passing this bit of open land. But the distance was so short,
that it was soon gotten over; and the three found themselves
beneath the cliff. Here they passed the spring, and following
a path which led from it, turned the edge of the rocks,
and ascended to the foot of the stockades. It remained to
turn these also, in order to reach the so recently suspended
gates. As Maud passed swiftly along, almost brushing the
timbers with her dress, she saw, in the dim light, fifty faces
looking at her, and thrust between the timbers; but she
paused not, spoke not — scarcely breathed. A profound
stillness reigned on the Knoll; but when Joel arrived at the
gate, it was instantly opened, and he glided in. Not so
with Mike, who stopped and waited until she he had been
in quest of entered before him, and was in safety.

Maud found herself in her mother's arms, the instant the
gate was passed. Mrs. Willoughby had been at the angle
of the cliff, had followed her child, in her swift progress
round the stockade, and was ready to receive her, the moment
she entered. Beulah came next, and then the captain
embraced, kissed, wept over, and scolded his little favourite.

“No reproaches now, Hugh”—said the more considerate
wife, and gentle woman—“Maud has done no more than
has long been her custom, and no one could have foreseen
what has happened.”

“Mother—father”—said Maud, almost gasping for breath—
“let us bless God for my safety, and for the safety of all
that are dear to us—thank you, dear Mr. Woods—there is
a kiss, to thank you—now let us go into the house; I have
much to tell you—come dear sir—come dearest mother, do
not lose a moment; let us all go to the library.”

As this was the room in which the family devotions were
usually held, the auditors fancied the excited girl wished to
return her thanks in that mode, one not unfrequent in that

[figure description] Page 194.[end figure description]

regulated family, and all followed her, who dared, with
tender sympathy in her feelings, and profoundly grateful
for her safety. As soon as in the room, Maud carefully
shut the door, and went from one to another, in order to
ascertain who were present. Finding none but her father,
mother, sister, and the chaplain, she instantly related all
that had passed, and pointed out the spot where the major
was, at that moment, waiting for the signal to approach. It
is unnecessary to dwell on the astonishment and delight,
mingled with concern, that this intelligence produced.

Maud then rapidly recounted her plan, and implored her
father to see it executed. The captain had none of her apprehensions
on the subject of his people's fidelity, but he
yielded to the girl's earnest entreaties. Mrs. Willoughby
was so agitated with all the unlooked-for events of the day,
that she joined her daughter in the request, and Maud was
told to proceed with the affair, in her own way.

A lamp was brought, and placed by Maud in a pantry
that was lighted by a single, long, narrow, external window,
at the angle of the building next the offices, and the door
was closed on it. This lamp was the signal for the major to
approach, and with beating hearts the females bent forward
from the windows, secure of not being seen in the night,
which had now fairly closed on the valley, to listen to his
approaching footsteps beneath. They did not wait long ere
he was not only heard, but dimly seen, though totally out
of the line of sight from all in the Hut, with the exception
of those above his head. Captain Willoughby had prepared
a rope, one end of which was dropped, and fastened by the
major, himself, around his body. A jerk let those above
know when he was ready.

“What shall we do next?” asked the captain, in a sort
of despair. “Woods and I can never drag that tall, heavy
fellow up such a distance. He is six feet, and weighs a
hundred and eighty, if he weighs a pound.”

“Peace,” half-whispered Maud, from a window. “All
will be right in a moment.” Then drawing in her body,
the pale but earnest girl begged her father to have patience.
“I have thought of all. Mike and the blacks may be trusted
with our lives—I will call them.”

[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]

This was done, and the county Leitrim-man and the two
Plinys were soon in the room.

“O'Hearn,” said Maud, inquiringly—“I think you are
my friend?”

“Am I my own!—Is it yees, is the question? Well, jist
wish for a tooth, and ye may take all in my head for the
asking. Och, I'd be a baste, else! I'd ate the remainder
of my days wid not'ing but a spoon to obleege ye.”

“As for you, Pliny, and your son here, you have known
us from children. Not a word must pass the lips of either,
as to what you see—now pull, but with great care, lest the
rope break.”

The men did as ordered, raising their load from the ground,
a foot or two at a time. In this manner the burthen approached,
yard after yard, until it was evidently drawing near the
window.

“It's the captain hoisting up the big baste of a hog, for
provisioning the hoose, ag'in a saige,” whispered Mike to
the negroes, who grinned as they tugged; “and when the
cr'atur squails, see to it, that ye do not squail yerselves.”

At that moment the head and shoulders of a man appeared
at the window. Mike let go the rope, seized a chair, and
was about to knock the intruder on the head; but the captain
arrested the blow.

“It's one of the vagabond Injins that has undermined the
hog, and come up in its stead,” roared Mike.”

“It's my son”—answered the captain, mildly—“see that
you are silent, and secret.”

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